Requested: a quiet reader who's a doctor and they’re married to Brendon Park. The staff tries to figure out who she's with, or set her up, or any situation you come up with. By @jmw87
The first clue should have been the lunches and not because they were extravagant, you didn’t seem like the type for extravagant anything, but because they were consistent. The same way a child’s school lunch is.
Every day around noon, a neatly packed lunch appeared in the break room refrigerator with a small sticky note attached. Everyone saw it, everyone talked about it, yet very few actually knew who placed the lunch you were eating in the fridge.
Don't forget to eat today. -B
Protein. You've skipped breakfast three days in a row. -B
Or everyone's personal favorite: If you trade these vegetables for coffee again, I will find out. -B
"Who writes threatening vegetable notes?" Santos asked one afternoon, holding up the latest message while the rest of the residents crowded around.
"A spouse," Whitaker said confidently.
"An overbearing spouse," Santos corrected, pointing at him.
"An attentive spouse," Javadi argued with a shrug. "Honestly, it's kind of sweet."
Santos narrowed her eyes, “you're only saying that because you've never dated anyone who monitored your diet.”
”Correction Trinity, I have never dated anyone… ever,” Javadi said back, stating the last word quietly as she realized that was not the comeback she initially thought it was.
Santos simply rolled her eyes in response.
Just outside at the nurses station you sat quietly charting, seemingly oblivious to the debate raging on the other side of the break room door. The thing the residents didn’t know is that you were far from oblivious to the situation, you simply chose not to acknowledge it.
Which, according to the well seasoned nurses of the Pitt, only made things more fun.
"It has officially been seven months," Princess announced during a lull in the ER. "Seven months since the new crop of residents arrived, and none of them know who our favorite sweetheart's mystery husband is."
Perlah looked up from stocking supplies and shook her head, “pathetic.”
Dana, sitting at the charge desk, didn't even bother hiding her amusement, she had a smirk that said everything she didn’t.
“It's not pathetic,” Whitaker protested, his tone laced with offense, “she literally never talks about him.”
“Or her,” Santos added, “could be a wife.”
"True," Javadi agreed.
Dana laughed without looking up from the work she was focused on.
“Oh, you think that's funny?" Santos said immediately, “you all know, don't you?"
Dana carefully sipped her coffee, "I know lots of things,” she shrugged, “I’ve been working at this nursing station longer than you’ve been alive.”
"That means yes," Whitaker whispered.
Princess grinned, "Dana's known for years."
"You know?" Santos demanded.
"I might,” Princess shrugged casually.
"Who is it?" Javadi deadpanned.
"Nope,” Perlah and Princess said at the same time.
"Come on!" Santos said with a huff.
"No,” Dana said.
"Please?" Javadi begged with a fake pout.
"Absolutely not,” Dana said.
Whitaker looked betrayed, "I thought we had a mentor-mentee relationship.”
"We do,” she said casually.
"Mentors share information,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
Dana smiled pleasantly, “not other people’s personal information.”
By the end of the week, the betting pool had begun, as it did with every class of residents.
Technically, the experienced nurses had been running it for years. Every new class of residents eventually became obsessed with discovering the identity of your mysterious spouse.
The rules were simple. One guess per resident. No cheating. They had one more week to put in their final guesses, and if there is any cheating, the residents have to buy the nurses dinner.
The winner gets free dinners for a week, courtesy of Dana, Princess, and Perlah.
The catch? Nobody has ever guessed correctly.
"Firefighter," Santos declared confidently with her arms crossed thoughtfully.
"Why?" Javadi asked, pursing her lips.
"Because she's calm in a crisis, organized, and way too good at lifting patients. Firefighter spouses rub off on people,” Santos said matter of factly.
Whitaker frowned, “that's not science. Those are also all qualities of a good trauma doctor."
Santos shrugged again, "it's vibes."
"My guess is professor," Javadi said. "Maybe literature."
Everyone stared at her.
"What?" she asked defensively.
"Why literature?"
"She says things like 'that's an interesting perspective' when she's angry. That's someone married to an academic. Plus she’s super calm and probably likes to read books," Victoria said, defending her thesis.
"Okay," Whitaker said. "I think it's another doctor."
The nurses exchanged looks and Dennis noticed immediately.
"Oh my God,” Dennis said as his eyes widened.
"No," Dana said instantly, shaking her head in indifference.
"Your face did something,” he said pointing towards her.
"My face did not do something,” she deadpanned.
The investigation intensified after that.
Santos began casually asking questions while the two of you sutured a laceration together or when you let her perform certain tests and procedures under your supervision.
"So," she said casually, "what does your husband do?"
You glanced up, "he's actually a surgeon."
Santos nearly dropped the forceps, she mumbled an apology to the patient who was now concerned. "WHAT KIND?" She whisper-yelled over the limb.
You smiled innocently, “surgical."
"That's not an answer,” she said, rolling her eyes.
You shrugged your shoulders, not looking up from the incision in front of you but biting back a smile.
Santos groaned in frustration.
Javadi tried next.
"How long have you been married?" She asked innocently as you held up the X-ray images in front of her.
"Eight years,” you said, keeping your eyes on the broken femur in front of you.
"Children?" She asked innocently.
You nodded, “a dog."
"Name?" She continued, seemingly catching you in one of your chattier moods.
"Lily,” you said sweetly, finally peeling your eyes away from the tablet and looking at her.
"Awww I love dogs, do you have any pictures?” She asked, testing her luck.
You immediately brightened and pulled out your phone, proudly showing off approximately three hundred photos.
To her disappointment, not one included your husband. And she had to sit there and watch you scroll through photos for eight whole minutes and left with no information.
Whitaker resorted to espionage and failed spectacularly.
He happened to be standing beside you at the front desk when your phone rang.
The screen lit up: Husband ❤️
Whitaker practically launched himself sideways trying to see more.
You bit back your laugh and answered anyway.
"Hi, honey."
Pause.
"No, I remembered lunch."
Pause.
"Yes, I actually ate it."
Another pause.
You sighed, "I ate it all."
Whitaker mouthed husband Santos across the department while slyly pointing to where you sat on your phone.
You looked over slowly, moving the phone away from your ear, "Dr. Whitaker."
He froze, "yes?" Trying to cover up his nosiness with a polite smile.
"You know eavesdropping is generally considered rude,” you said simply.
"I wasn't eavesdropping,” he said, still smiling.
"You are basically hanging upside down over the desk,” you pointed out.
He removed himself from the uncomfortable position he hadn’t even realized he had folded himself into while trying to listen. He mumbled an apology, took his chart, and sulked away. Once he was gone, you put the phone back to your ear.
When he approached Trinity she was already bent over laughing, “real smooth.”
Months later, no one was any closer and that made the nurses even more insufferable.
"At this point," Santos complained, "I'm starting to think you all made him up."
You looked genuinely offended, "I assure you my husband exists."
"Prove it,” she quipped back.
You considered it for a moment, even pursing your lips in thought, “no.”
The reveal happened completely by accident. The Pitt was beyond its natural state of chaos. Every room was full, EMS kept rolling in, and you hadn't stopped moving for six straight hours.
The bets were currently in: Whitaker - Doctor names Ben, Santos- undecided named Brian, Javadi - vet named Bobby.
Dana had all her money on Whitaker getting it right, while Princess and Perlah stood firmly on the side of no one getting it.
Dana finally cornered you, “take ten minutes.”
"I'm fine,” you huffed.
"That wasn't a suggestion,” she said.
You sighed, “yes, Mom. If I take ten, you take ten.”
Dana pointed toward the lounge, “go. I’ll meet you in there.”
Five minutes later, a tall orthopedic surgeon walked into the emergency department carrying a takeout bag.
Several heads turned.
Mostly because Dr. Brendon Park from Ortho rarely ventured into the ER unless someone had broken something particularly impressively, and even then he usually sent a resident down to consider whether it was worth his time.
"Hey, Dana," Brendon said, “she around?"
Dana looked up from the desk and a slow smile spread across her face.
"Oh, this should be fun,” she said slyly.
Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi all looked over, but unable to hear Dana amidst all the commotion.
Brendon frowned, but ignored the stares, “heard it’s been rough down here today.”
Dana nodded towards the break room door, “she's in the lounge.”
"Thanks,” he tapped the counter in acknowledgment before heading in your direction.
The residents all followed him with their eyes as he disappeared into the break room.
Whitaker frowned.
Two minutes later, you emerged from the lounge carrying coffee, smiling in a way no one in the department had ever seen before.
Brendon followed behind you, but the catch was… he was almost smiling. The tips of his ears were slightly pink, and he almost looked happy.
You both stopped outside the door and faced one another. Without hesitation, he reached over, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Try to sit down for at least ten minutes," he said.
"I will,” you said.
"You said that yesterday,” he said back with a sigh.
"I mean it this time,” you said quickly.
"You also said that yesterday,” he murmured.
You smiled sheepishly, "I love you."
"Love you too,” he said quietly.
Brendon finally noticed everyone staring. "...Why is everyone looking at us?"
You looked around then, meeting Dana’s eyes and immediately giving her a knowing smirk.
"Dinner's on you three for the next week,” Dana said pointing at all the residents.
Santos looked like she'd been struck by lightning, “how is this cheating? He cam down here.”
Whitaker's mouth had actually fallen open, “I was at least somewhat close. In my defense, I thought his name was Shark.”
Javadi simply whispered, "orthopedic surgery. Of course."
You blinked, "oh."
You looked between everyone, “were you all still trying to figure out who my husband was?"
"STILL?" Santos shrieked.
You looked genuinely confused, "I thought it was obvious."
The nurses dissolved into laughter. Dana wiped tears from her eyes, “tonight I would really like that Chinese place with the eggrolls.”
Then she turned to you. “Sweetheart, you've been married eight years and half this department wasn't convinced he was real. The other half still doesn’t know.”
You considered that, “huh.”
Beside you, Brendon smile, “to be fair, she's very private and quiet.”
"You're one to talk," Dana shot back.
Brendon looked offended, "I talk."
Princess snorted without looking away from the triage board, "you speak exclusively about bones and your wife."
You quietly slipped your hand into his and Brendon immediately relaxed.
"Oh my god," Trinity whispered. "They're adorable."
"Disgustingly so," Dana agreed with a smile.
And somewhere in the distance, Perlah was already planning the next betting pool.
what if you were having a BAD DAY at WORK and then your LESBIAN SITUATIONSHIP said NO FIREWORKS DATE let’s keep it CASUAL and then you got invited to a FURRY CONVENTION
Summary: After a petty fight, Trinity is determined to fix her mistake. Ignored apologies turn into whispered pleas and a desperate need to make things right, until she’s on her knees, proving just how badly she wants your forgiveness.
CW: smut, cunnilingus (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap sex (r!receiving), strap referred to as a cock a couple of times, begging, squirting, multiple orgasms, porn-with-minimal-plot, sex as an apology, light angst in the beginning, Trinity’s kind of a brat.
WC: 5k
A/N: this was supposed to be porn-without-plot but then I wrote 2600 words of build-up. Oops.
⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡
North-3 is the first one you check on, first thing in your shift, an elderly pneumonia-admit. A boarder, waiting on a room upstairs to free up. You check his IV site, adjust the flow rate, and smooth his blanket when you notice him start to shiver.
“Too cold?” you ask.
He nods.
“I’ve got you, sir.”
North-5 is next, a child with a sprained wrist and tear tracks drying on flushed cheeks. You hand her a sticker from your pocket and let her choose the color of the wrap. Purple wins out.
When you step back out of the patient bay, Dana hands you a chart without looking up from her own clipboard.
“You’ve also got 8, 12, and 14 now,” she says. “And drink some water, I haven’t seen you take a sip all shift.”
You accept the chart with a roll of your eyes, though it’s comedically unserious. “Yes, mom.”
Dana makes a noise that’s half-scoff, half-laugh.
Across the nurses’ station, Dr. McKay crouches beside a stretcher, speaking softly to a patient whose hands won’t stop shaking. She has this way about her, with calm radiating from her in a way that seems to steady everyone within reach.
Behind you, a crash cart rattles past.
“Labs for you,” Joy calls, sliding a printout onto the counter before disappearing towards triage where she’s supposed to be stationed for a majority of the day.
“Ogilvie!” Dana barks. “If you lean on that desk any harder it’s gonna start to bend!”
The med student startles upright with a mock-salute.
You hide a smile and keep moving.
North-12’s monitor beeps sharply as you enter. You silence the alarm and reposition the pulse-ox so it doesn’t happen again, and jot down updated vitals in the patient’s chart.
When you step back into the corridor, Dr. Whitaker nearly collides with you, his arms full of supply packs.
“Whoa, sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Have you seen Santos?”
“Saw her at a workstation earlier, charting,” you answer automatically.
He grimaces in sympathy. “She’s been buried in charts all day.”
You bump his shoulder gently as you pass, careful not to knock any of the supplies out of his arms. “It’s emergency medicine, Dennis, we all are.”
He grins at you, already moving again.
At one point, at the furthest workstation from yours, Dr. Langdon flips through a chart with theatrical irritation.
“Why is triage sending me abdominal pain that’s clearly gallbladder?” he mutters. “They need to be admitted to surgery, not here.”
You don’t look up from the vitals you’re logging. “Maybe they just like you and want you to have the easy cases.”
He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile he tries (and fails ) to hide.
The rhythm of the department carries you forward: you reassess, chart, medicate, reassure, and repeat. The choreography is familiar enough to be instinctive by now.
You and Trinity share three patients today.
That’s not unusual. Nothing about the way you work together is unusual. You anticipate her orders before she voices them, she trusts your assessments without question. A glance across the room is enough to coordinate the next step. You’re a well-oiled machine.
Nobody comments on it anymore, they don’t need to. Everyone knows you’re together. You keep it out of the workplace as much as you can, but it slips through the cracks sometimes.
It lives in the extra coffee she brings to you at the nurse’s station, the way you slide protein bars into her pocket between traumas because otherwise she isn’t going to eat her whole shift, the absent brushes of hands when passing charts.
In front of patients, she’s Dr. Santos, but everywhere else, she’s Trinity. The distinction is effortless because of how long you’ve been together.
You finish updating Room 8’s intake and step back into the hallway, scanning for your next task.
Across the department, Trinity stands above a workstation, her shoulders tight and her eyes fixed on the glowing screen with an expression that’s screaming of exhaustion. A half-finished cup of coffee sits abandoned beside her keyboard.
“Dr. Santos?” someone calls from a trauma bay.
A phone rings.
Dr. Whitaker sets a stack of charts beside her elbow. “These need signatures when you -”
“I know,” she says, not looking up from her screen.
Another sound screams for your attention.
You glance at the vitals on your clipboard, then toward her again. Room 8’s blood pressure is down, systolic lower than you’d like. She needs to know.
You make your way into the narrow opening beside her workstation. “Hey,” you say to her quietly. “Room 8’s pressure is trending down, do you want fluids started now or -”
Her hands stop moving on the keyboard and she shoves herself back from the desk with enough force that her coffee cup threatens to tip over.
“Can you just leave me the fuck alone?” she snaps, her voice tight with strain. “I need five seconds without someone bothering me.”
The words echo through the department louder than the surrounding noise, causing multiple people to pause what they’re doing and stare.
No one answers.
Movement starts up again after a moment, keys keep clacking, stretchers rattling past, someone calling for respiratory.
Trinity is already turning back to the screen in front of her, attention swallowed again by one of her many, many unfinished charts. She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t see the way you freeze.
“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”
You step back, pivoting smoothly to avoid Dennis as he rushes past you for the millionth time that day. Your shoes carry you down the corridor with the same steady pace as before, if not a hair faster.
Only when you reach a supply cart as far away from everybody else as possible does your vision begin to blur.
You blink hard, focusing on the printed vitals until the tears clear from your eyes and the numbers sharpen under your eyes.
Room 8 still needs fluids.
You look for Dana instead.
You find her at the nurse’s station, checking inventory of a supply cart against a clipboard that’s balanced on her forearm. She glances up as you approach, her eyes catching yours over her glasses before returning to her list.
“Room 8 needs fluids,” you say. “Pressure’s drifting.”
She nods immediately, logging it on her to-do list. “I’ll get it started.”
As she takes the chart from you, she looks at you again and her expression softens as she turns her full attention to you.
“You okay?” she asks.
You busy your hands straightening empty saline bags that don’t really need straightening.
“Fine,” you say. “Just busy.”
Dana watches you for a bit longer than most people would, studying you. “It’s been like that all day, you know,” she says casually. “She’s drowning in charting and everyone wants a piece of her.”
You swallow, adjusting the edge of a label until it aligns perfectly.
“She didn’t mean you specifically,” Dana continues.
“I know.”
And you do. You know. But that doesn’t stop the hurt that’s settled in your heart.
Dana shifts her weight, nudging a tray closed with her hip.
“Try to give her a little grace today,” she murmurs. “She’s having a hard one.”
You nod because Dana is rarely wrong.
You’ve watched Trinity work herself to exhaustion before, many times. You know the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she forgets to eat, or drink, or sit up straight, the refusal to step away even when she’s running on fumes.
“I know,” you repeat.
Dana studies you for another second before reaching out and patting your arm. Then she turns back to her inventory.
“Go save the world,” she says.
You almost smile.
The department pulls you back into motion before you can linger in your hurt feelings.
North-5 needs discharge instructions, Room 3 needs a blanket warmed. Joy flags you for a redraw, and Ogilvie nearly drops a specimen cup and you catch it before it hits the floor.
The rhythm continues, and you continue with it.
Across the department, Trinity remains at the computer, fielding questions, signing orders, answering patients. Once, she laughs dryly at something Dr. King says, the sound frayed at the edges in a way that suggests she just wants to be left alone but she’s being polite.
You don’t go to her.
When North-12’s family asks for an update, you route the request through Langdon instead. When respiratory needs confirmation, you send the message through the system. When a clarification is needed, you consult McKay.
Each decision is reasonable, efficient, and totally appropriate.
And each one creates a little more distance as your feelings are hurt more and more.
⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡
Trinity watches you from across the department. She knows it was out of line, yelling at you like that, letting her frustration leak out onto the one person she’d never want to hurt. She didn’t mean for her anger to land on you.
It wasn’t even you she was mad at. It was Dr. Al-Hashimi, for threatening to make her repeat her R2 year if she didn’t catch up on her charts by the end of her shift. Every page, every note, every alert feels like it might decide her fate. She was drowning, and you, unknowingly, had walked right into the water with her.
She swallows the guilt that’s thick in her throat. She’ll make it up to you later.
Somehow.
By late morning, Trinity sneaks off to the coffee machine again, desperate for more energy. Her hands shake as she pours the drink, her own too bitter, but she adds sugar and cream to yours the way she knows you like. Carefully, she sets it on your station in front of you.
She watches, half-expecting a grateful smile like normal.
You don’t look up, or say anything. The coffee sits, untouched, exactly where she’d left it, until a janitor clears the counter several hours later.
Later, while slipping into the bathroom to wash her hands, she texts you about dinner.
dinner at that restaurant up the street tonight?
my treat
Huckleberry’s working a double tonight.
She watches as the Delivered notification changes to Read. Then…nothing. No typing bubble, no reaction. You’ve seen it. You’ve ignored it.
Her stomach twists.
By the afternoon, she has no choice but to approach you about a patient. You’re going over charts, clipboard in hand, and she slides up beside you.
“Hey, you said earlier that Room 8’s vitals -” she begins.
You cut her off, your tone clipped and flat.
“Already took care of it, Dr. Santos,” you say without looking at her, your fingers tapping notes into the screen in front of you.
Time freezes for her.
That’s when she realizes: you’re mad.
You’re not tired, you’re not distracted, you’re mad. At her. You never get mad at her, you’re like the sweetest, most mild-tempered person she’s ever met, it’s why your relationship works so well, you balance her out.
She backs away from your station, watching you with a strange look on her face. This is unfamiliar territory for Trinity.
You don’t even look up.
The rest of the shift passes in a blur of charts, vitals, and emergencies. You move from patient to patient, alert and competent, but there’s a permanent-looking frown on your face that wasn’t there this morning.
Trinity notices, of course, she always notices you, and it eats at her every time she catches you intentionally avoiding her gaze, the way you’re keeping your distance from her.
She tries again and again, bringing you back the special pen she always “borrows” from you because it’s better than the shitty department ballpoint ones, even going so far as to try and consult with you about a lab update in person. But every effort is met with the same wall of polite and professional detachment.
Dana gives her one of those looks over your shoulder, knowing in a motherly way, but Trinity can’t bring herself to explain. She can’t admit how badly she screwed up. All she knows is the slow, sinking realization that your feelings are hurt and it’s all her fault.
Finally, the shift ends. Patients are signed out, supplies restocked. You grab your bag and head out towards the hospital parking lot. Trinity follows, hunched under the weight of her own backpack.
You reach your car first, keys already in hand, doors unlocked. You slide inside, already settled behind the wheel, waiting to take her home.
Trinity catches up, pausing once she’s in the passenger seat. Her brow furrows and she sighs heavily.
“Hey…” she begins.
You don’t look at her. You don’t speak, your hands remain on the wheel, fingers flexing around the rim as the car warms up.
She scoffs, incredulous. “You’re really not going to talk to me?”
You remain silent as you pull out of the lot.
“Look,” she says, her voice rattling and a little less confident now. “I - look, I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to talk to you like that, I’ve just been frustrated and it’s been a really busy day for me.”
It’s an excuse.
It was a really busy day for everyone.
Still nothing from you, your eyes focused on the road, your mouth set in a straight line.
You look pissed.
You make it home in record time, eager to be out of the car. You unlock the apartment door and step inside, shrugging off your coat and hanging it next to the door. Trinity follows behind, her expression unreadable. She lingers at the threshold for a moment as if she’s expecting you to speak, but the silence stretches between you.
In the kitchen, you start dinner. Chopping, stirring, plating. The apartment smells like garlic and the roasted vegetables you’d gotten from a grocery delivery the other day, and at one point you’re pretty sure you hear Trinity’s stomach growl, but it doesn’t ease the tension in the air.
When plates are ready, you set hers down in front of her, serving her the way you always do. Silverware aligned, napkins folded in front of you both. You take your own plate and slide into the chair across from her at the table and begin eating.
She picks up her fork and looks at you expectantly, waiting a moment before setting it down again.
Nothing.
The clock ticks loudly somewhere in the apartment, the only sound other than the scraping of your silverware against the plate.
Trinity opens her mouth to speak, and even takes a breath to start, then stops, blinking at you.
You don’t even look up at her. You take another bite, chew, and swallow, then repeat.
Her chest aches and her apologies feel inadequate. She knew she hurt your feelings, but she didn’t realize it was this big of a deal. The silence between you two is a presence, heavy and judging, and she hates it.
After dinner, you dump your plate in the sink and head for the couch. You sink into it, phone in hand, scrolling absently through messages, or social media, or literally anything that will keep you distracted. Your body slouches low, heavy with exhaustion, both the physical and mental kind.
Trinity clears her own plate quietly before coming to join you. She pauses at the edge of the couch before carefully sitting beside you, one leg bent up underneath her, her whole body turned to face you.
You don’t look up at her, but even though your eyes are on your phone, your thumb has stopped scrolling. You might not look like it, but she does have your attention.
She shifts closer to you, hands in her lap.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, leaning into press a kiss to the side of your face, just beside your ear. Her lips linger, a whisper of warmth, an apology she can’t quite articulate.
Then she sees it.
You glance at her out of the corner of your eye.
Still, you say nothing.
You didn’t pull away when she kissed you, so she reaches for your waist, wrapping her arms around your middle and pulling herself closer as she kisses the side of your face again - closer to your jaw this time.
“So sorry,” she mutters, kissing down to the top of your neck beneath your ear.
Even without the physical response she usually draws from you, she focuses on the spot under your ear and just a little further back - the one that she knows always causes a shiver to run up your spine.
“I miss you,” Trinity mumbles against your skin. “I’ve missed you all day, I’m so sorry.” She kisses your neck between words. “Let me fix this, yeah?”
Your phone still sits in your hands but it no longer holds your attention. It hangs loosely from your fingertips, threatening to fall as your eyes close, too focused on the feeling of your girlfriend’s lips against your neck to really care.
Her body leans fully against yours, her hands on your waist gently urging you sideways onto the couch. You let her guide you, your mouth still stubbornly shut, but it’s a win to Trinity all the same. She takes the phone from your hand and sets it on the coffee table before climbing over you, hovering as her knees bracket your thighs. Then she sits back on her heels and ties her hair up and out of the way.
Once she’s satisfied that it won’t get in the way, she bends down to kiss you - but you jerk away far enough that she can’t reach your mouth.
You’re still upset.
You’ve never truly been upset with her before, the two of you almost never fight.
“Guess I’ll have to earn that, huh?” she huffs, a small, breathy laugh leaving her.
You stare up at her with raised eyebrows, challenging her to try.
Trinity shuffles down your legs until she can part them, which she does with ease, receiving no resistance from you. She makes quick work of the tie of your scrub pants before pulling them down and tossing them somewhere onto the floor behind her.
She settles between your legs, placing soft kisses over your bare thighs.
“I fucked up,” she says quietly. “I know better than to talk to you like that.”
Her lips reach the edge of your panties. She runs her tongue along the elastic, and your hips tilt involuntarily toward her mouth. She hides her smirk, knowing that even when you’re stubborn, she still has you. She licks up your slit with a broad, flat tongue over the fabric, and your head falls back against the couch.
You are not a quiet lover. Trinity loves how loud you can get; you’re her favorite sound, especially when your roommate isn’t home. So when the only sounds escaping you are sighs and gasps and even those are stifled, she knows that you’re holding back on purpose because you still haven’t forgiven her.
Impatient, she sits back on her knees once again and hooks her thumbs into your underwear, sliding them down, a satisfied little smirk on her face as a string of wetness clings to them as they peel away. She watches as your thighs twitch, resisting the urge to close.
“Looks like you’re enjoying the apology,” she whispers, her nose wrinkling just a little as she smiles. “Fuck, baby, you’re ready.”
She trails her fingers up your slit, collecting the slick that’s gathered, the pressure of them increasing just a little when she reaches your clit.
When she looks up, you’re watching through half-lidded eyes, your lips parted and breath shallow. She settles in, arms sliding beneath your thighs to hold you open to her.
She spares one more glance up at you. Your eyes lock and she pauses, waiting.
For permission.
That’s how you know this is an apology. Aside from the beginning of your relationship when you didn’t know each other that well, Trinity rarely ever asks for permission. She knows you like the back of her hand, she knows what you’ll say, what you’ll want. She knows she doesn’t have to ask permission, but she is.
Your hand, which had been laying limply at your side, reaches for her. Fingers wrapped around her ponytail tightly, you pull her face to your cunt.
Permission.
Her tongue darts out, sliding against your clit. She groans into you, her own eyes rolling back at your taste, her grip tightening around your thighs like she’s afraid you’ll run from it.
“Ah!” the involuntary whimper echoes through the living room and you clasp your hand over your mouth.
Too late.
The sound spurs Trinity on and she untangles one arm from underneath you, reaching up to blindly smack your hand away from your face. When she’s satisfied that you’re not going to try and muffle your sounds again, she uses that same hand to shove up your scrub top and the long-sleeve you wore under it, followed by your bra, exposing your breasts.
Your stubbornness waivers as she rolls a nipple between her fingers. Cries begin to fall freely from your lips as she refuses to let up on your clit. Her mouth seals around it and her cheeks hollow, pulling a particularly broken moan from you.
Your grip tightens in her hair, trying to pull her closer as your hips rock against her face, demanding more.
Her other hand slips free, sliding under her chin so her fingers can prod at your entrance. You wiggle, trying to grind down onto them. You can feel the smirk on her face as she slips two into you easily, immediately curling against that spot inside you that she knows by heart.
The one that causes you to throw your head back, a guttural moan torn from your throat as you’re shoved over the edge of your orgasm so suddenly it makes your head spin. Trinity’s fingers don’t let up, fucking you through it until you’re shoving her away.
She’s off you in a second, practically jumping to her feet and disappearing into the kitchen. She returns shortly with a water bottle, tossing it onto the couch beside you.
“Drink that,” she says, still a little breathless. “I’m not done apologizing yet.” With that, she disappears into the bedroom.
You’ve barely taken a couple of sips of the water before she returns, her own scrubs discarded, clad in only her sports bra and the familiar harness around her hips. Hanging from the ring is your favorite of all the toys you own: the dark blue one with the curve that hits you just right when you’re on your back or riding her.
Trinity knows it.
“Get your ass in there,” she demands, jerking her head toward the bedroom behind her.
You scramble to stand, flustered as you pass by her just in time to earn a stern smack on your ass.
“On your back,” she says once you reach the bed.
She reaches for you and for a moment you think she’ll pull you closer, but instead she’s pushing you gently onto your back, hand on your sternum guiding you down until you lay exactly where she wants you.
Climbing over you, Trinity bends your knees, sliding her own under your thighs to angle you up toward her cock. You’re still soaked from your orgasm, a fact she doesn’t let you forget as her thumb massages over your clit while the tip of the strap nudges at your entrance.
You huff as she stays there, dragging it up and down your slit but not pushing inside you yet.
“C’mon, quit teasing me.”
Trinity pauses. It’s the first thing you’ve actually said to her. Her eyes flit up to your face, noting the impatient look you now sport. The corners of her mouth lift.
“Yes ma’am,” she mock salutes as she slowly pushes into you.
The stretch is intense, the strap bigger than her fingers but also managing to nudge that same spot over and over as she begins to thrust in and out of you at an annoyingly slow pace. It’s good, it feels good, but it’s not enough, not to get you off.
You wiggle, trying to meet her thrusts, but her hands pin your hips in place.
“Take what I give you,” she mutters, her eyes trained on the blue silicone sliding in and out of you.
You glare at her, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I thought this was supposed to be my apology?”
Again, her gaze lifts and she catches your eyes, amused.
“It’s actually my apology to you, babe,” she says, her thrusts slowing further.
You know what she wants from you, what would get her to do what you want. But she’s being a brat, and you know rewarding this behavior will have you paying for it later. But the need, the desire burning inside you is overriding the thought. You don’t care, you just want her to move.
“Please, Trin,” you plead, your head tipping to one shoulder.
Her hips stutter and her lips part even as her throat goes dry.
You don’t stop there. “Please, please fuck me, Trin,” you start to babble, tears of frustration pricking at your waterline. “I need it, please -”
That does it.
Trinity’s fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as she hoists them up to her shoulders. She lifts on her knees so she’s towering over you as she begins to drill into you at a punishing speed.
The switch up has you crying out so loud you’ll receive an angry note on your apartment door the next morning, alternating between unintelligible sounds and Trinity’s name on repeat.
“T-Trin, too much, s’too much…”
She chuckles above you, the sound airy and breathless from exertion. “It’s not too much, baby. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
You try so hard to not focus on Trinity’s words, making a conscious effort to stop yourself from cumming so fast, but her thumb resumes its circles over your clit and you’re lost to it.
So close.
“Go on, baby,” Trinity goads, leaning further over you, the new angle of her body doing nothing to slow the movement of her hips. “Accept my apology, c’mon, cum on my strap.”
Those words do you in, the white hot fire consuming you from the inside out as your walls spasm around the silicone, your entire body seizing up from the pleasure. But Trinity doesn’t stop her thrusts even as your body goes limp under her, and you whine as overstimulation begins to creep in.
“Trin – Trin, stop, I already came,” you protest weakly.
She doesn’t stop her bruising pace or the swiping of her thumb at your clit, even as sweat causes her hair to stick to her forehead.
“You’ve got another one in there,” she pants. “I know you do.”
She’s not wrong. Almost immediately the pressure is building inside of you, but you know the difference between an orgasm and what she’s trying to do to you.
“I – I can’t, Trin, you have to -” You’re cut off with a loud moan as the hand that hasn’t busied itself with your clit begins to press down on your lower abdomen, right where her cock lands inside you every time her hips meet yours.
Your wails jump an octave as she wrings your third orgasm out of you, bullying your cervix with every thrust. Your whole body convulses as she drags you over the peak, her pace never faltering, almost animalistic in nature.
Your cunt gushes around the strap, soaking not only yourself, but Trinity’s lower abdomen and thighs as well.
“Holy fuck, babe,” Trinity groans, her mouth agape at the sight, at the absolute filth of a mess you’ve created all over both of you. Her hips falter and slow until you’ve stopped shaking, before she slowly withdraws from inside you.
You throw an arm over your eyes.
You’re going to have to wash the sheets.
And shower.
The bedroom is quiet except for your uneven breathing and the creak of the mattress as Trinity stands to unhook the harness and set it aside.
You don’t move, your forearm still draped over your eyes, your body boneless against the sheets.
A warm hand slides over your stomach.
“Hey,” Trinity murmurs from somewhere above you. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up.”
You groan but don’t resist when she slips an arm beneath your shoulders and pulls you to the side of the bed. Your cheek presses against her shoulder as you stand, smelling like sweat and the coconut deodorant she always wears.
She guides you to the bathroom, nudging the door shut with her hip before letting go of you to turn the water on. She tests it with her wrist until steam begins to curl into the air, and then she nudges you in, following after you.
Warm water cascades over both of you, rinsing sweat and salt and the evidence of everything that just happened down the drain. Your muscles loosen under the heat.
Her palm glides down your spine in long, soothing passes.
“I never should’ve snapped at you.”
It’s said so quietly you almost don’t hear it over the sound of the shower.
“No matter how frustrated I was, taking it out on you wasn’t right.”
Water beads along your skin as her arms slide around your waist, holding you from behind.
“It wasn’t about you,” she continues softly. “Al-Hashimi’s been on my ass this week, threatening to make me repeat my R2 year, and I’ve been drowning in charting and trying to prove that I deserve to be here…but that doesn’t excuse it.”
Her grip on you tightens a little. “I’m really, really sorry.”
You tilt your head back just enough that it rests against her.
“Still mad at me?”
You’re quiet just long enough to make her shift nervously behind you.
Then you sigh, sinking back into her chest. “…I’m considering forgiving you.”
A little laugh bursts out of her as she presses her face into your wet shoulder. Her lips brush the back of your neck softly.
Your arms bend, reaching backward to hold her body against yours and you turn your head to kiss her.
trinity santos is a study in fandom misogyny because they gave her all the characteristics fandoms usually salivate for in men, being gruff, quippy and misunderstood with a tragic backstory but a heart of gold beneath it all. they put all this into her AND let her be a lesbian. she's everything you could ever want in a character but she's not a man so half the fandom either hates her or constantly mischaracterizes her as petty, callous and aggressive while doing mental gymnastics to baby the male characters around her
Park the Shark x overprotective trope... i just wanna see him flash his teeth at a patient for being combative with y/n. 'Nobody can bully her except me' shtick hhhnnnggg
( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )
☤ ─ PEARLS BEFORE SWINE
summ. Ortho is paged to the ED. Park the Shark fortifies his fierce reputation.
pairing. brendon 'shark' park / f!resident!Reader
w.count. 2.5k!
a/n. Implied power-imbalance , corrupted mentor/mentee dynamic if you squint , an annoying amount of eldritch maritime motifs . Apologies if Shark is ooc here given he had like 3 minutes of total screentime— I hope y'all enjoy nonetheless! & Thank you @lumissandbox for beta-reading this shipwreck of an imagine 🥀
UNCANNILY SHARP MOLARS are a common sight when Dr. Park snarls out and berates hapless surgical interns amid long procedures.
Anyone who’s ever worked with him— let alone heard of him, is aware of Park the Shark, who’s come around to be some cautionary, fantastical fable.
A mythological creature of PTMC’s Orthopaedics Department— some beastly, thalassic leviathan— who’s all jagged rows of endless teeth and killer instinct; Made out to be a divine, merciless warden of the sea responsible for piecing together centuries old bones buried five fathoms deep into bedrock.
A virtuoso of his field who you owe your knowledge to. Who’d taught you the fearlessness common of surgeons, but also instilled in you the fear of failure that’s needed to temper it.
What is it that Garcia and Walsh like to call you residents under his wing (or fin—), again?
Shark pups.
Left to fend for yourselves most of the time. Sink or swim. A dogfight of devouring each other alive in a desperate attempt to keep your head above water; to make it through this riptide of a Residency and be the best of the best.
Park the Shark stands on a mantlepiece of his own making. A faultless reputation sharp enough to cut, and the stringent attitude to match that’s a given considering his medical prowess and achievements. The other juniors— aw, these your shark pups, Park?— tenderfoot and wet behind the ears, worship the ground he walks on like suck-up remoras.
You admire him, yes. But most of the time you just… try to get by. Keep your head down and stay out of his way.
(Not that you never advocated for yourself, that is. Being a woman in a particularly male-dominated specialty has only drilled into you an extra layer of thick-skin from criticism and inherent misogyny. You don’t fawn to the quote-unquote Ortho-bros, and have enough clever sense to know when to be candid without crossing the line.)
Perhaps that’s why he’d quickly clamped his jaws around you.
Always seen as the ‘favourite’; the ‘Prodigal Daughter/Mentee’, even if it never remotely feels like you’re worth any of Park’s precious time.
Resentful, the other Residents eventually came to the conclusion that competition starts with you:
Always the one personally selected to assist in Park’s odd cases, always the one his shark-like gaze searches for first in a crowd, always the one getting teeth sunken into and then humiliatingly chewed out for the smallest, mindless things because You’re supposed to be the competent one out of all the others, for fuck’s sake.
They spin yarns of boyish rumors. Call you names that stick. Sharkbait, Catch, when they’re feeling particularly bitter. Or the Jewel of the Sea; Park’s prized (Mother-of-)Pearl, when they’re feeling particularly childish.
It’s fine. You can ignore those, and let your work do the talking. Besides, they never do address you that way around Dr. Park, anymore— not after he’d nearly bitten the head off of one of the R3’s after he’d overheard you openly be called Chum-dump in passing.
(“The fuck did you just say?”
“Uh… Nothing. I— It won't happen again. Sorry, Dr. Park.”
“The hell you apologising to me for and not her?”)
You tell yourself it’s just because Park doesn’t want to be associated with the likes of you; that it’s nothing to do with him being chivalrous— he’s just being professional. Doing his due duty as your Senior Attending to browbeat workplace misconduct.
(Don’t think too much of it. He doesn’t care. You’re not of value to him in any way you think.
How does the saying go? Never cast pearls before swine—)
You wonder if he’s aware of how much his implicit bias has you isolated in an already isolating field for a woman. A target on your back. How his apparent unspoken ambition for you and your capabilities alone have become somewhat of an albatross around your neck.
You’ve done the work to get here, you remember him muttering mid-procedure once. I might make a surgeon out of you yet.
Park is utilitarian; he doesn’t waste time on petty endeavours— he couldn’t possibly be doing it on purpose, could he? To keep you orbiting close to him whether you like it or not, lonely from the ostracism you receive from your fellow peers, all for the sake of imparting in you what’s best. Deliberately exploiting his influence into favouritism so you rely on him and only him for company; starved for kinship.
None of which he ever gives you, either way.
Just his stoic, brooding silence. A single hum of assent or curt nod when you answer his questions flawlessly during one of his rare moods of actual teaching (“Hm. You’ll close after I’m done, pup.”); Or his lingering presence over your shoulder in the breakroom when you’re brewing a fresh pot of coffee, shoulders brushing (“I take it black.”).
Feels more like bait, really. Dangling right in front of you; waiting for you to take the bite.
Or have you already bitten?
“ED’s paging. You don’t need me in here,” Park declares, over a traumatic pelvic crush injury slowly coming to its end. He nods to the surgeons in Vascular when they say they’ll finish up the rest of the procedure, and jerks his head at you to degown. “You. With me.”
The elevator sinks both of you all the way down to the bottom-dwellers. Emergency Medicine: a never-ending bustle of nervous energy and raucous commotion of sounds that grates at Park’s ears. When he sails into Trauma Bay 2 with you tailed close behind, medical staff part for him like the Red Sea; shoal of fish dispersing from an apex predator.
Robby greets him calmly despite the patient groaning his lungs out. Garcia is already rattling off an efficient presentation. …Crush injury to foot and ank… Compartment syndro… torn between salvaging the limb t… what do you think?
Meanwhile, a pair of impressionable Med Students observe, rapt, as you glove up and curiously round the writhing patient in the exact same way Dr. Park does— an unconscious habit you’ve picked up from him; circling calculatingly like a shark sniffing out blood in the water. (Do you hear that? quietly nudges one of the Residents, the JAWS theme?)
They watch as you shadow Park, comically insignificant against the hulking brawn of him, scrutinising the X-Ray of the patient’s shattered foot. It’s a unique case, alright: a complex multiple fracture of practically every bone in his foot up to his ankle from a freak accident.
Even Park reacts with a tiny, impressed snort that only you manage to catch by chance proximity.
“Give me something for the fucking pain already!” a voice lashes out, synchronising you and Park into sparing a narrow glance up from the bedside of the patient’s gurney.
“Mr. Aldrich, we’ve already given you more pain meds after the regional block,” soothes one of the ER nurses, “the ketamine will take a minute to kick in—”
“Screw you nurses!” he hisses, thrashing his head pointedly at you as he squirms in place. “Get me a real doctor!”
“You’ve got multiple in one room here to help you, Sir,” Garcia overrides, humorously, “take your pick.”
An exasperated growl. “Fucking, I don’t know, a bone doctor?!”
“Good news! You’ve got Orthopaedics to your left,” she gestures, shooting you an amused look.
Mr. Aldrich glares harshly at you. “Well? Move, bitch, and let me talk to the big guy behind you.”
Across the bay, Robby doesn’t get to snap at the verbal harassment in time. No, it’s—
—Dr. Park, pinning his tenebrous gaze at the patient as he cocks his head ominously.
“You’re gonna wanna speak respectfully to the ‘bone doctors’ responsible for getting you back on your feet, Sir,” he drawls, sangfroid as always before returning his attention completely to Robby.
(You don’t try to pick apart the notable undercurrent of… something in his tone. Chalk it off as non-negotiable decorum. If it isn’t Dr. Park who’d have said something, you’re sure someone else would have.)
Hell of a fracture, you ignore the patient, running a mental map of the potential procedures it’d take and what the prognosis would look like. Dr. Park busies himself with more details regarding the injury: mechanism, labs, drugs. Pokes and prods clinically at the patient’s numbed foot.
“We’re gonna need your consent, Sir,” comes everyone’s eventual finalised conclusion, where you keep your tone as calm as possible in a bid to deescalate the tension, “before we get you prepped for surgery.”
“You better fucking make sure I walk again,” he seethes. “My legs are my livelihood, you know that? Do you know who I am?”
“Mr. Aldrich,” you answer, patiently. “I’m taking that as a yes?”
“Oh, you think you’re fucking funny, do you—?”
An iron-grip stops the patient’s forearm short well before you even register it:
A swing at you. An attempt to snatch at you from the bedside to drag you like an undertow.
Sharks are a predatory species born with sixth sense. An innate electroreception that helps them zero in on the most sensitive of muscle movements within close-range. Top of the food chain. Evolutionarily driven by pure, lethal instinct leading them to their prey.
You wonder, idly, if Dr. Park has it too—
Bloodlust. Untamed animalism prowling somewhere behind his hunter eyes. His scrub sleeves are pulled tight from the flex of his biceps, tension of corded muscles in his forearms taut with brutal force from where he’s canceled out the threat in a whipcrack of a second: shackling the patient’s wrist effortlessly in a dizzyingly lightning-quick reflex.
Your heart stutters at the scene.
“Go on,” Park dares, voice glacially cold and sea-pelagic dark. “Take a swipe at my resident again, and I will break each and every single bone in your hand before resetting all 27 pieces of it back together.”
A beat.
You’d have been able to hear a pin drop in the trauma bay, somehow, from how suspended everything feels.
Akin to witnessing an abyssal leviathan come to breach ashore after being provoked.
It makes something treacherous take flight in your chest.
That for as much as a supercilious asshole Park is sometimes, he still keeps a controlled, watchful eye on those in his wake as a mentor. Utilises that intimidating, ubiquitous command of presence he carries to his unfair advantage when things go leeways into dangerous waters.
It’s not heart, per se. But it’s certainly something rare. Some abstract, omnipresent patina of his that surrounds your being like a levee and safely harbours you. Shoreline rock armour, almost: Feeling like the broad, muscled stonewall that is Dr. Park has become your own living, breathing, metaphorical breakwater.
You find yourself foolishly replaying his words like a broken record in your head.
My resident.
The patient visibly deflates, snatching his weak arm free from Park’s vice-like clutch as he rears back and loses all bravado. “I consent to the surgery,” he grits out, still turning his nose up against everybody. “After that I’ll sue all of you assholes for— for harassment. And you! For threatening me.”
Robby and Garcia bite back a laugh at the irony.
“Looking forward to it,” Park sneers, aggressively snapping his gloves off. He turns back to you and, uncharacteristically, nods at you to sidle past first and make headway towards the exit. “I’ll book an OR.”
Thanks, Shark, Robby calls out, gaze flickering curiously between you two before it lands as a side-eye to Garcia— who also seems to be trying to decipher something nameless as Park hovers close behind you.
The entire ordeal leaves a buzz under your skin.
My resident, you repeat again. His chum. His catch. His coveted pearl; his favourite pup—
The words are muffled in your memory. Underwater. The flash of canine-sharp teeth as he bit the threat out, cavalier, deceivingly calm. The unbidden warmth of safety blooming in your ribcage after he’d put himself between you and danger, and you’d essentially been tucked protectively behind the fabled Shark of PTMC’s Orthopaedics.
You should neither be allured nor girlishly thrilled at the idea of Park showing any semblance of anger at your behest— you’re in a hospital, for christ’s sake, not the cold open of a romance novel— But who doesn’t like to be defended at times? Let alone by the most notoriously unsympathetic surgeon you’ve ever come to know yet?
“Thank you,” you muster the courage, once both of you are taking the silent ride back up to the Ortho-wards, “for earlier.”
He scoffs. It’s delivered, surprisingly, with less bite than you steeled yourself for.
“How about you keep your head on a swivel,” he advises pointedly, glaring down at you with disapproval. “Should’ve just let him grab you. Might’ve learned a lesson or two.”
But you’ve worked alongside him long enough to catch the minutest of tidal shifts in his callous voice— an antsiness; the faux-calm of doldrums out at sea. Something hadal in you knows that had the patient actually managed to snatch you in that riptide grip of his, Park would have ensured the man left the hospital with no functioning hands at all.
Or perhaps it’s just a delusion. Feverish calenture. A self-indulgent desire to have secretly collared the terrifying Park the Shark to be your own proverbial seadog:
Bristling and snapping his serrated teeth at anyone that got too close; orbiting you like a predator possessively guarding their own claimed territory. Exclusively yours.
(“Only I get to call you pup,” he’d said, once upon a time. Out of context, it makes your head reel every time you recall it.)
“Yeah. Sorry,” you say, pathetically. A force of habit; defaulting into deference.
Only—
“Are you?” he narrows, shrewdly.
It feels like something’s buried itself right into its target. Harpoon to a siren’s heart.
“I—I…” you blink. Stumble your words. No, comes the candid instinct. You think of how he’d stepped in, how he’d handled the danger; All for you. I liked it.
“Don’t get used to me playing nice,” he continues at last, looking damningly straight into your soul.
It lights your body aflame. Feel a rush to your cheeks at the unintended (perhaps?) implication of his words. “That’s your nice, Dr. Park?”
The elevator dings through the charged air. He turns back forward lazily.
“For you,” he grunts dismissively. “Yeah.”
You blink. The doors slide open.
Park the Shark stalks off, and you don’t get to answer.
⭐︎ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 6k
⭐︎ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prize—a pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough hands—to a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.
← previous fic | main masterlist
The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.
There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.
It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.
You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.
“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”
Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.
“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”
“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”
“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”
Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”
In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.
You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.
Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.
Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.
The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.
“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”
Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.
Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”
You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.
Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”
The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.
When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.
Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.
“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”
Bucky does not answer the herald.
You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.
“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”
A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.
“This one.”
You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.
Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.
The herald stands confused beside him.
“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”
The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.
Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.
“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”
Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.
“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”
Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.
“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”
“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”
The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.
“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”
But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.
“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.
You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”
Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.
“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”
Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.
Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.
Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.
You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.
He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.
“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”
Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.
As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.
“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”
Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.
“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”
Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.
“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”
With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.
Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.
Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.
But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.
“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”
This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.
Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.
He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.
He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.
“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.
The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.
He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.
“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.
You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”
Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.
The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.
“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Now, you are just as confused as he is.
You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.
“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”
Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.
You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.
“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”
Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.
That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”
You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.
“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”
You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.
“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”
Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”
“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.
You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.
Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.
“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”
He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.
He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.
He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.
“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.
“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”
Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.
A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.
You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.
He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.
You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.
“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”
At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.
You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.
“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”
You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.
“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”
Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.
“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”
He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.
“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.
Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.
One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.
“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”
The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.
Control.
Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.
“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”
A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.
“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”
He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.
“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.
Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.
“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”
Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.
He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.
“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”
Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.
He pauses at the sound.
“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”
His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.
One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.
You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.
“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”
You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.
“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”
So, you do.
You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.
“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.
Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.
He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.
For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.
“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”
His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.
“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.
“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.
After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”
And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.
With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.
“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”
He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.
“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”
“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.
“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”
Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.
His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.
“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.
Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.
He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.
His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.
Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.
“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”
Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.
You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.
“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.
His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.
Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…
“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”
He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.
The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.
“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”
His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.
“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”
“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”
You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.
The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.
Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.
With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.
Finally, you grant him permission.
Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.
He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”
You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.
His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.
“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”
The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.
“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”
You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.
His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”
The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.
“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”
The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.
“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”
Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.
His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.
He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.
Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.
You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.
“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.
He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.
“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”
You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.
Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?
He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.
“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”
You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.
As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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SUMMARY: You wake up feeling your absolute worst when Trinity is at work. In the absence of your personal doctor, you decide that a hot shower must be the best thing for you. The steam gets to you, and your relaxing shower takes a turn for the worse, ending up in an ambulance ride and a hospital visit that you hate every second of despite Trinity’s unwavering presence.
NOTES: Illness + injury, dehydration, fainting, medical anxiety, medical settings, implied non-sexual nudity, established relationship, reader doesn’t know med terms but she’s trying her best.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
The scratch in your throat had been warning you since this morning, but you had brushed it off. By midday, however, the scratch had blossomed into a full-bodied ache, and your stomach had joined the rebellion. You had spent the better part of the afternoon shivering under three blankets, too exhausted to make the trek to the kitchen for water.
When evening finally came, your skin felt dry and hot. Your head pounded with a dull, rhythmic thud that made the setting sun filtering through the blinds feel like a physical assault. You knew you needed to do something to break the feverish haze. A shower, you reasoned, would help. The steam would clear your heavy head, and the water would wash away the cold sweat that made you feel so utterly miserable.
Getting out of bed was a clumsy, agonising process, the floorboards feeling ice-cold beneath your bare feet. You braced your hand against the corridor wall, slowly guiding yourself toward the bathroom, your breathing already shallow and ragged. Once inside, you turned the brass handle of the shower, waiting a few moments until the steam began to fog the mirror. Undressing felt like a monumental chore, your hands shaking violently.
When you finally stepped into the spray, the heat was an instant, overwhelming shock to your system. For a few seconds, it felt like heaven, washing over your aching shoulders and easing the chill in your bones. But your blood pressure, already dangerously low from lack of fluids, reacted poorly to the sudden heat. The blood rushed away from your brain.
A sudden, terrifying wave of dizziness hit you, far worse than any of the wobbles you had experienced in the bedroom. The bathroom began to tilt. The steady hum of the running water grew distant and muffled, replaced by a loud, high-pitched ringing that filled your ears. You reached out blindly for the tiled wall, your wet fingers slipping uselessly against the slick surface.
Your knees buckled beneath you, losing their strength entirely. As you fell, your temple clipped the edge of the heavy ceramic soap dish mounted on the wall before your shoulder slammed into the edge of the tub, and your head bounced hard against the cold porcelain floor.
Above you, the shower continued to spray, washing over your limp form. But as the minutes ticked by, the apartment building's old water heater began to lose its struggle. The soothing steam slowly dissipated, and the water transitioned from a comforting, hot stream to a lukewarm drizzle, and finally to a freezing, relentless downpour.
When the front door of the apartment finally clicked open fifteen minutes later, Trinity was practically vibrating with the residual adrenaline of a grueling twelve-hour shift. She toed her trainers off by the entryway with a heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping as she finally let her professional guard down, looking forward to curling up next to you.
"Hey, babe? You will not believe what shit Langdon tried to pull today," she called out, her voice echoing in the quiet space. She walked further into the flat, her brow furrowing when no one answered. "Babe? Are you asleep?"
The absolute silence of the apartment stopped her short. She noticed your shoes by the door and your keys on the counter. A subtle, instinctual knot tightened in her stomach, the kind of gut feeling she had learned to trust in the trauma bays of the Pitt. As she walked down the hall, she heard the faint, hollow hiss of the shower.
She knocked lightly on the bathroom door, her tone carrying a slightly impatient but fond edge. "Babe, come on, are you planning on saving any hot water for your tired girlfriend?"
There was no response. She knocked again, harder this time, the wood rattling in its frame. "Hey, answer me. You're starting to scare me a bit."
The lack of an answer made her chest tighten. She turned the doorknob, finding it was unlocked. Pushing the door open, she was met not with a wave of warm, comforting steam, but with a damp, frigid draft that made her shiver. What she saw inside made her ER-hardened heart completely stop.
You were lying crumpled on the floor of the tub, your body awkwardly twisted, with the freezing cold shower head mercilessly drenching you. Trinity didn’t even hesitate. She lunged forward, completely ignoring the spray of cold water that immediately soaked through her clothes as she shut the faucet off with a harsh, metallic jerk.
"Fuck! No, no, no," she breathed, dropping to her knees on the wet bathmat. Her hands trembled violently as she reached into the tub to pull your upper body into her lap, cradling you against her chest. "Hey, hey, look at me. Open your eyes for me, sweetheart, please."
Your skin was shockingly cold to the touch, goosebumps covering your arms. She pressed two fingers firmly against the side of your neck, holding her breath until she felt a pulse, but it was rapid, weak, and thready. It was then that she noticed the dark, oozing gash near your hairline.
"Come on, baby, wake up for me," she pleaded, her voice cracking as she gently patted your cheek. She rubbed her warm hands up and down your freezing arms, trying to friction some heat back into your skin. "Please, just open your eyes. You're okay, I've got you. I'm right here."
You groaned, a low, pathetic sound that vibrated in your chest, and your eyelids fluttered weakly. They opened just a crack, unfocused and glazed over, staring blankly past her. Trinity let out a shaky breath, her thumb gently wiping a mixture of water and blood away from your eye so she could get a clear look.
"There you are," she whispered, her voice incredibly tender as she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your uninjured cheek, her tears mixing with the water on your skin. "Stay with me, okay? Keep those pretty eyes open for me."
She leaned in close, her fingers gently prying your eyelids a little wider to inspect your pupils. Even without her penlight, the bathroom light was enough to show her what she feared. Your left pupil was noticeably wider than the right, sluggishly responding to the light, while the other remained constricted.
"Hey, look at my nose, sweetheart. Try to focus on me," she coaxed softly. When your gaze just drifted aimlessly, her clinical brain forced its way through her panic. "Okay, shit... okay, you've hit your head really hard, and you're freezing. I’m calling an ambulance."
"No..." you mumbled, your voice incredibly thick and slurred as you tried to shake your head, only for a sharp spike of agony to make you wince. You clawed weakly at her soaked sleeve, your wet fingers barely holding onto the fabric. "No hospital... Trin, please. No doctors."
"Baby, you have a concussion, and you're severely dehydrated," she explained, her voice a mix of fierce medical authority and deep, aching affection as she pulled you tighter against her warmth. "Your pupils are totally unequal. I can't treat this here. I need to get you to the ER."
"Hate it... hate the lights," you whispered, a tear slipping down your pale face as you buried your nose into the crook of her neck, seeking shelter. "Don't make me go. Just let me stay here with you. Just let me sleep it off, please."
"I know you hate it, I know," she murmured into your wet hair, rocking you gently while her shaking fingers dialled 911 on her phone. "But you're bleeding, and you're in shock. I love you too much to let you stay here like this. I promise I won't leave your side. Not for a single second."
Within minutes, the distant, wailing siren began to echo down the street, growing louder until the flashing lights began to dance across the frosted glass of the bathroom window. You cringed at the noise, the high-pitched squeal feeling like a physical drill boring straight into your damaged brain.
"Shh, I've got you," Trinity whispered, wrapping her arms securely around your head and pressing your face into her chest to muffle the sound. "You're safe. I’ve got you."
When the paramedics finally entered the apartment, the bathroom suddenly felt suffocatingly crowded. Trinity took charge immediately, her voice crisp and authoritative as she rattled off your presentation, her medical shorthand flowing naturally while she still held you tightly against her.
"Syncopal episode, likely from dehydration. Patient was exposed to a cold shower for a short period of time. Visible head trauma with a laceration to the left temple, and they have positive signs of anisocoria," she told them, her hand never ceasing its soothing strokes through your hair.
The paramedics moved efficiently, wrapping you in dry, heavy blankets to combat the hypothermia. The transition from the bathroom floor to the stretcher was a chaotic blur of movement that made your stomach violently heave. You let out a soft, miserable whimper as the motion sent a fresh wave of vertigo spinning through your head.
"I'm right here, sweetheart, squeeze my hand," Trinity insisted, her voice a steady anchor in the chaos as her warm, solid fingers slipped into yours, locking tight. "Don't open your eyes, just listen to my voice. I'm not going anywhere."
She walked alongside the stretcher as they wheeled you out of the apartment and down the hallway. The cold outdoor air hit your face, making you shiver violently under the layers of blankets. The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the loud clinking of the metal tracks scraping against your raw nerves.
The interior of the vehicle was blindingly bright, the harsh fluorescent tubes overhead sending a sharp, stabbing pain directly behind your eyes. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to turn away from the glare. Trinity climbed in right after you, quickly taking her seat on the bench beside the gurney.
"Turn those overheads down, please," Trinity requested of the paramedic in the back, her tone sharp but polite. She immediately leaned over you, using her own body to shield your face from the remaining light. "There we go, baby. Close your eyes. I've got you, you're doing so well for me."
The ambulance ride was a miserable, jarring blur. Every time the vehicle hit a bump in the road, the motion sent a sickening wave of vertigo through your head, making you squeeze Trinity’s hand with everything you had left.
"I know, baby, I know," Trinity whispered, leaning down so her breath brushed against your ear. She kept her free hand firmly over your eyes, creating a dark, safe cocoon against the harsh, vibrating environment. "We’re nearly there. Just breathe through it. You're doing so brilliantly."
When the ambulance finally screeched to a halt, the rear doors flew open, letting in a rush of cool air and the overwhelming, sterile smell of bleach and alcohol. The sound of shouting voices, rolling wheels, and high-pitched monitors hit you like a physical blow. You groaned, trying to shrink away from the noise.
"Keep your eyes shut, sweetheart," Trinity murmured, her voice a steady anchor as the paramedics wheeled you out. She kept pace with the stretcher, refusing to let go of your hand as they pushed through the double doors of the Pitt. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."
The transition into the assessment bay was chaotic. Nurses and doctors swarmed the stretcher, their voices overlapping as they took the handover from the paramedics. The bright overhead fluorescent lights pierced straight through your eyelids, causing a sharp, blinding spike of pain that made you wince and try to turn your head away.
"Can we dim these lights, please? Patient has a significant concussion and severe photophobia," Trinity commanded, her sharp, authoritative doctor voice cutting through the room's chatter. The nurses instantly complied, clicking off the harshest of the overhead rows, plunging the bay into a much softer, shadowed glow.
"Thanks, Trin," one of the attending doctors, Jack Abbot, muttered, recognising her immediately. He stepped forward to look at your unequal pupils. "Let's get an IV started and get a head CT booked just to be safe. We'll get that gash cleaned up and stitched too."
At the mention of needles and scans, panic flared in your chest again. You weakly tried to pull your arm away, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. "No... Trinity, please. No needles. Let's just go home. Please, I want to go home."
"Hey, hey, look at me, baby. Just look at me," she coaxed softly, stepping into your line of sight so her face was the only thing you could see. She gently cupped your face with both hands, her thumbs wiping away a fresh tear. "I know it's scary. But you're severely dehydrated, and your body needs this fluid to help your head stop pounding."
"I hate it," you whimpered, your slurred voice cracking as you stared into her dark, fiercely protective eyes.
"I know you do, sweetheart, and I hate seeing you in pain," Trinity whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, avoiding the bleeding cut. "But I'm going to stay right here. Hold onto me as tight as you need to. Dr. Abbot is amazing, and I won't let him do anything without telling you first."
You slowly nodded, completely exhausted and unable to fight any longer. Trinity shifted to your side, wrapping her fingers tightly around yours as the nurse stepped up with the IV line. When the sharp prick of the needle pierced your skin, you hissed out a breath and squeezed Trinity's hand so hard her knuckles turned white.
"You're okay, you're doing so well for me," Trinity murmured, using her free hand to gently smooth the damp hair back from your forehead. "The worst part is over. Now we just get you warmed up and sorted out."
The next few hours passed in a quiet, hazy rhythm. The warm saline fluids slowly dripping into your vein began to lift the heavy, suffocating fog in your brain, though your head still thudded with a dull, persistent ache. Trinity never left your side, sitting on a plastic chair right next to your gurney.
She carefully cleaned the gash on your temple herself, her movements incredibly gentle and precise as she applied a few stitches to close the wound. Every time you winced, she paused, whispering sweet, quiet praises until you relaxed enough for her to finish.
After your head CT came back clear of any internal bleeding, Jack finally signed off on your discharge papers, agreeing that you could recover at home under Trinity's strict supervision. The taxi ride back to the apartment was infinitely quieter than the ambulance journey, your head resting heavily against Trinity’s shoulder as she kept her arm securely wrapped around you.
When the front door of the apartment finally clicked shut behind you, the familiar, quiet warmth of your own home felt like a massive relief. The bathroom had been entirely cleaned up, Trinity must have done it quickly while the paramedics were loading you into the ambulance, and everything was blissfully dark and silent.
"Come on, let's get you into some proper clothes," Trinity said softly, guiding your shuffling, unsteady steps toward the bedroom.
She helped you sit on the edge of the mattress, carefully pulling a soft, oversized jumper over your head and helping you slide into a pair of thick, comfortable sweatpants. Every movement was slow and deliberate, Trinity constantly checking your face to make sure the dizziness wasn't returning.
Once you were changed, she gently peeled back the heavy duvet, helping you settle down into the pillows. She climbed into the bed right after you, pulling the covers up over both of your shoulders and carefully drawing you back against her chest.
"How's the head feeling now, sweetheart?" she whispered into the dark room, her fingers lightly combing through your hair, avoiding the neat row of stitches at your temple.
"Still hurts," you mumbled, your voice small and muffled against her shirt. You shifted closer, hooking your arm over her waist, soaking in the comforting, familiar scent of her skin. "But it's better. Thank you for coming home when you did. And for... everything."
"You don't ever have to thank me for that," Trinity murmured, her voice thick with sudden emotion as she tightened her grip around you, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck. "When I saw you on that floor, my heart completely stopped. I was so terrified, baby."
"I'm sorry I scared you," you whispered, closing your eyes as the warmth of the bed and the safety of her arms finally began to pull you under.
"Just promise me you won't try to be a hero next time you're ill," she replied, a tiny, familiar hint of her usual sarcasm returning to her tone, though it was drenched in absolute affection. "If you feel faint, you call me. No matter what time it is. Deal?"
"Deal," you breathed, your eyelids growing too heavy to keep open.
"Good. Now go to sleep, sweetheart," Trinity whispered, closing her own eyes and resting her chin gently on top of your head. "I’ve got you. I'll be right here when you wake up."
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you’re quite nice ── trinity santos
trinity santos x fem!resident!reader.
summary: trinity santos is sweeter than she lets on. you find that out when she helps your four-year-old patient.
content warnings: none I can think of. mention of vomit. no use of y/n. fem reader. trinity denying she’s a sweetie. horrible writing. inaccurate medical information. fem reader. lowkey both pinning.
authors notes: I tried. not proof-read. really should have but didn’t. prompted by @/creativepromptsforwriting’s prompt #1287
word count: 2852
You’d been here for four hours already. The day has been relatively okay but patients were beginning to pile in. That’s a typical day in emergency medicine for you. Being a resident wasn’t always awful but it wasn’t great. It had its moments. Especially on the busier days. And by busy, you mean, having no time to breathe. Though, today you could so far. Not that you intended on jinxing that.
You were at the nurses station, checking the results you had just gotten for one of your patients.
“What’s up, buttercup?” Trinity asked sarcastically as she slid beside you, looking up at the patient board. She had started calling you buttercup since you first met on your intern day. You had apparently been far too cheerful being in this place. You’re both R2’s now. You knew she meant it as an insult though, having told you that you’re way too cheerful to be working here. But you’d take it.
“Debating all my life choices.” You said dryly, glancing over at her. You might be a rather joyful person but you’re not immune to utilising sarcasm. “And yourself?”
“Debating life choices?” She quipped sarcastically. She almost seemed amused by the idea. “Didn’t know you were capable of that.”
“Hilarious.” You deadpanned, giving her a sarcastic smile. “Being thrown up on by a gastro patient, however, is not.”
“Gross.” Trin said dryly, giving you a once over as if to make sure you weren’t covered in vomit. You weren’t, you had changed your scrubs when that’d happened.
You hummed in agreement, glancing at her through the corner of your eye. You noticed that her eyes lingered a bit. Not that you were complaining. Though, she quickly looked away when she noticed your glance. Her eyes were now back on the patient board.
“Maybe don’t get thrown up on again.” She said dryly, tapping her hand on the bench before walking away. Likely to busy herself with a patient. You watched as she walked away and out of your sight.
You finished what you were doing and went to check your patient in nine, four year old with a fractured wrist. She’d tripped at the park, landing on her wrist. She wasn’t crying but she seemed to be anxious. Her mum seemed to be on edge. Which is fair. No kid wants to be in a hospital and no parent wants their kid in hospital either. You’d just checked the x-ray results back, so now you just needed to inform them.
“Hi, mum, miss Stella.” You said with a kind and gentle smile, logging onto the computer to get the results up for them. You’re always warm with patients but especially paediatric patients and their families. “Good news, results are back.”
You pulled up the imaging and moved the screen for them to view it. You pointed to where the fracture is on the image as you explained the diagnosis. “See this here? It’s a small fracture. Known as a hairline fracture.”
“She won’t need surgery. So, that means we’ll just have to put a splint on your wrist for a few weeks so it can heal properly.” You continued, looking between the two. Her mum nodded as you spoke, taking in what you were telling her.
“How long would she need the splint for?” Her mother asked, still a little nervous but not as stressed as before. She’s likely relieved it isn’t a break but it still wouldn’t be easy seeing your kid in pain.
“3-4 weeks. But she’ll need to avoid putting pressure on it.” You explained, rather softly. “So, no playgrounds for a while.”
“No playground?” Stella asked with a small pout, clearly sad by the news. Her mum ran a hand over her head, shaking her head gently. “No, honey, not until the splint comes off.”
The four year old looked devastated by the notion. You gathered she must love running around at the playground. “Sorry, kiddo. You want your wrist to feel better, right?”
She looked at you again and nodded, still a little sad at the prospect. You guessed the pain was not great for her, but she’s handling it really well. She stopped crying a while ago and was rather relaxed. Her mum’s presence was likely helping a lot. She was soothing her daughter.
“Then we gotta make sure your wrist doesn’t get hurt. We’ll put a sort of glove on your hand, it’ll keep your wrist safe and in position. It’ll only be for a few weeks. Then you can go back to the playground, okay?” You said to her softly, giving her a small smile. You always tried to explain in a kid-friendly manner, wanting them to understand what’s happening.
“Okay.” Stella said with a small nod, still sad but understanding that it’s important.
“Okay.” You repeated with a small smile. You looked back at her mum as you logged off the computer. “I’ll get everything ready and put the splint on. I’ll be back shortly.”
Her mother nodded with a small smile before putting her attention back on her daughter. You took that as your cue to get things ready. You got everything from the supplies closet before making your way back to the room.
Before you could reach the room, you were stopped. Dana appeared beside you, stepping in front of you. You halted before you could walk into her. You gave her a smile, knowing she stopped you for a reason. “What’s up?”
“Patient in twelve.” She said, holding out a chart for you. Always straight to the point. You like that about her. You took the chart from her, eyes scanning over it. “Says chest pain’s getting worse in her arm now.”
“Shit.” You murmured, eyes scanning over the ECG and blood results. Yeah, you need to deal with this now.
“Um, okay.” You murmured, glancing around. You noticed Trinity, perfect. You thanked Dana and made your way to where Santos was, clearly trying to do her charting. You didn’t *want* to bother her but you really also didn’t want a four year old hanging around needed a splint forever.
“You love me, right?” You asked, albeit rhetorically, with a faux-innocent smile. She looked up at you with a deadpanned expression, clearly not in the mood to talk. But her heart stopped when you said that. It was rhetorical, almost even teasing, but it still caused her heart to freeze.
She knew you were about to ask for a favour. She was busy with her own patients and charting. She didn’t really have the time or energy to help anyone else. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell you to fuck off. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. So she kept up her usual facade, sighing and asked plainly. “What do you want?”
You grinned when she didn’t immediately decline your request before you could ask. You half-expected her to but you weren’t going to complain. “Could you please kindly put on a brace for me? Bed nine, four year old with a hairline fracture, simple.”
“You can’t do it?” She asked with raised eyebrows. She knew you were more than capable of doing such a simple task. You didn’t need to ask her to do it. So there must be a reason. But she wasn’t going to just agree without knowing why, despite the crush she had.
“I can but my patient in twelve has increased chest pains. Results aren’t good.” You explained, silently hoping she’d help you. It’s not her responsibility but you want a kid to be hanging around longer than needed. “I just don’t want this kid to hang around longer than needed, she’s four. Should rest at home.”
Trinity looked at you for a few moments before letting out a small sigh, gesturing for you to hand over the supplies. You let out a relieved breath and handed it over to her, grin softening slightly.
“Thank you, I owe you.” You said hatefully, giving her arm a gentle squeeze before running off to your other patient.
Meanwhile, Trinity had an almost there, small smile tugging at her lips. She shook her head to herself, making her way to the patient you’d asked her to help. Though, she paused when she noticed a sheet of stickers, quickly snatching them up before anyone noticed. With that, she continued her journey.
After you visited the patient in twelve, ordering the tests you needed, you made your way back to room nine. The four year old now had the splint on, her mum sat beside her on the chair. You noticed the splint had stickers all over it, you wondered where they came from. Maybe they had some with them.
“I see we’re all finished and ready to go?” You said with a smile, looking between the two. Stella, the kid, looked at you with a bright smile, proudly displaying her splint. “Look! I made it pretty!”
“You sure did, I love it!” You said, matching her enthusiasm. You might be exhausted from the day so far, but kids' enthusiasm seems to always brighten your day. You don’t think you could work in peds, but still, it's adorable.
“Doctor Santos let me pick!” She beamed, clearly pleased and excited at having gotten to choose some stickers. Her mum softly chuckled with a nod.
“Did she? That’s so sweet!” You said with a smile. Though, internally you’re surprised. Not that she’s unkind, per se, but she seemed to have a distaste for kids. So it was a shocking revelation. One you were sure you’d bring up later.
Stella continued to ramble about the stickers and doctor Santos for a bit, they having provided a distraction from the injury. You nodded as she spoke, listening to what she was saying, responding in kind. When she finished speaking, you gave your attention back to her mother. “I’ll get the discharge paperwork ready and then you’re free to go.”
With that, you gave them a last smile before exiting the room.
After you exited the room, you made your way over to where Trinity is. You grabbed the patient chart from 12 and documented your findings before you prepared the discharge for the kid. Thought you glanced over at her a few times, not quite studying but observing. She’s guarded. Blunt. Sarcastic. But she was good with patients. She had been with that kid. She’d been something almost akin to sweet.
“What?” Trinity asked, looking over at you suspiciously. Her heart rate increasing slightly with your gaze on her, she could practically feel your eyes.
“You're actually quite nice." You lightly teased with a hint of an amused grin tugging at your lips. She would never admit to being a nice person. She’s got a good heart. But she’s not someone who’d let that be known.
“No, I'm not." She scoffed, as if the notion was offensive. To her, it might be. She always kept a wall up, which you can understand. You’re not unguarded but not as much as she is.
“You are.” You insisted, attention now fully on her. You would let it go if it seriously pissed her off but it doesn’t seem to be. Not yet, anyways. “You’re chronically anti-children. But you gave her stickers. Which I didn’t know you had, by the way. And she loved you.”
Trinity scoffed at that, though held no heat. She didn’t want attention drawn to that. You picked up on that quickly. It was almost as if she was embarrassed that she was being, almost soft, with a patient.
“Found them at the desk.” She murmured, as if admitting that it’s true, was painful. She was flustered. She didn’t keep stickers. But she’d found some as she went to the room. Grabbed them just in case they might be helpful. Also because it was something you would do. God, maybe you’re rubbing off on her. She can’t decide if she likes or hates it.
You grinned at that, leaning towards her slightly. You weren’t teasing her now but you were keeping this between you and her. She’d appreciate that, you’re sure of it.
“You’re sweet when you wanna be.” You murmured softly, so only she could hear. “It’s a good thing.”
She’s your co-worker. You consider her a friend. So you never let it past that. But you haven’t really let yourself think of any more, though part of you begs to. She’s gorgeous, kind in her own way and an incredible doctor. What’s not to like? You know she likes girls but that didn’t mean she’d like you that way.
She just stared at you for a few moments, breath hitching almost inaudibly. It was like she was trying to process what you’d said, your proximity. She was never at a loss but she was right now.
You noticed she seemed to be caught off guard, just hearing her breath hitch. You reached a hand over to give hers a gentle squeeze before pulling back. To which, her heart jumped in her chest.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep it to myself.” You said with a soft smile, teasing but sincere. You don’t want to make her uncomfortable, that’s the last thing you want. But you’d said what you knew, how you saw her. Sweet in her own way, when she wants to be.
“Gee, thanks.” She murmured sarcastically, though a small smile began to tug at her lips. She was screwed, wasn’t she? That smile of yours was going to kill her. “You’re a bad influence.”
You looked at her for a few moments, seeing that you’d managed to make her smile. It was small. But it was something. It made your smile widen. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be sarcastic with you.
“Bad influence?” You asked with raised eyebrows, lightly teasing. Trin just rolled her eyes at you, but the small smile was still there.
“Yeah. Bad influence.” She deadpanned but it wasn’t as blunt as she usually is. She didn’t want to admit that you managed to soften her up over the months you’d been working together.
You grinned at her again, enjoying that you’ve managed to break the wall a bit. It’s not much. But it’s something. You looked at her for a few moments, debating if you should say what you’d been thinking. It would be taking a risk. But it’s one you’ve been thinking about taking for a while.
“You know, I said I owed you, right?” You said to her softly, recalling what you’d said to her earlier. You didn’t look away from her. You’d get back to your chart shortly. Right now, you wanted to go through with this. Even though your heart is threatening to burst from anxiety.
Trinity looked at you with her head tilted slightly, giving you a nod. Where you were going with this, she wasn’t sure. But she wasn’t about to assume anything. So she waited for you to continue.
“Well, I was thinking … maybe I could buy you dinner or something.” You said with a small shrug, trying to keep your nerves at bay. You were nervous, no doubt about it. But may as well ask.
“Like … a date?” She asked you, after the initial shock wore off. She didn’t expect that. Did you ask her out? She didn’t want to misinterpret the request. But it had caught her off guard. Sure, she kinda thought the two of you had dry sarcastic flirty banter. Didn’t mean she was going to assume.
“Um, yeah but it doesn’t have to be.” You said, the words spilling out anxiously. You’re worried you’ve just made things weird. She didn’t seem repulsed but she didn’t seem excited. So naturally, your brain went crazy.
She grinned slightly, almost softly, at the way you got nervous. It was cute, she thought. “No, um, yeah. I’d like that.”
You looked at her for a moment before you let out a relieved sigh.
“Okay. Great.” You said with a soft huff of a relieved chuckle. That’s good. Great. Amazing. You were so pleased she agreed but also that you didn’t just make things weird.
Before she or you could say anything else, Robby walked by and noticed the two of you. He’s not blind, he’d picked up on whatever the hell was going on there. But the department is busy.
“Flirt later. Get back to charting.” He said to the two of you, not unkindly but firm, which both your heads snapped over to him. Your eyes widened slightly while Trinity just looked offended by the accusation.
“On it.” You said sheepishly at being caught, straighting back up and going back to charting. While Trinity just shook her head, albeit with a small smile and went back to her notes. He wandered away mumbling something about damn residents.
After he’d left, you looked back over at Trinity with a soft smile. She looked up when she felt your eyes on her. She gave you a rather soft smile in return.
You might not know where this was going. But you were excited to find out.
Summary: Your fellow intern Santos hates you....or does she?
Warnings: miscommunication (or lack there of), rivals to lovers (kind of), wlw, she/her pronouns for reader, pinning, rude patients, workplace tension, kissing, Santos not knowing how to do the whole feeling thing, fluff, happy ending, not proofread, no use of y/n
Word count: 3.1K
a/n: okay so where are all the fics of my girl? Like come on give them to meeeee
She hates you. You’re sure of it. And every time she interacts with you, it only confirms it.
Santos doesn’t speak to you unless she has to, and when she does, it’s always that passive-aggressive, clipped, razor-edged tone. She’s known for teasing the other med students—hell, she makes Dennis turn beet red at least twice a shift—but it’s not like that with you.
With you, it’s… colder. Sharper. Not playful at all.
She doesn’t joke. She doesn’t drop a snarky line just to see if she can make you crack a smile. She doesn’t even give you the raised eyebrow she gives literally everyone else.
No—whatever she has for you, it isn’t sarcasm. It feels like genuine dislike.
You try not to be bothered by it, try to focus on everyone else. But you can always feel her stare on the back of your head — a gaze so intense you’re shocked she hasn’t burned two holes through your skull yet.
And to make matters worse, she’s so eager. So eager to learn, to jump in, to get her hands bloody.
And you’re… not like that.
You’d rather observe first, wait for someone to tell you to go in. You never throw yourself at a procedure unless you’re one hundred percent sure you can do it right. You’re here to learn, sure — but Santos’ speed seems about a thousand times faster than yours.
Santos had made a big impression since day one, and not just on you. Garcia seemed to take a liking to her immediately, Santos’ prickly nature sliding right off the older surgeon like it was nothing.
It stung a little — you had to admit that. The way that even when you were in the room, Garcia would immediately call for Santos to jump in and help her. It was as if you were invisible, and you hated feeling like that.
The others tried to keep your morale high. At the end of your first shift you’d gotten good words from Robby, Samira, and Collins. It made your chest fill with pride, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
But all of it washed away the moment your eyes found the look on Santos’ face.
It wasn’t a scowl, exactly — but it definitely wasn’t a smile.
You thought maybe with time it would get better. You really tried to keep a positive outlook despite every bad interaction. But a week passed, and nothing changed in your dynamic. Santos still hated your guts. And you still had no clue why.
It was starting to take a toll on you. Keeping a positive attitude got harder and harder when nothing good seemed to come from it. It had gotten to the point where if you kept it in any longer, you were going to burst — so when Whitaker least expected it, you practically jumped at him.
His eyes widened as you grabbed his forearm, tugging him closer so you could speak softly.
“You’re close with Santos, right?”
“Uhhh… depends what you mean by close.”
You give him a look that pretty much broadcasts the impatience you’ve been feeling all week, and he swallows dryly before continuing.
“Yeah, I guess you could call us close.”
“Great. Do you know why she hates me?”
Whitaker looks genuinely confused.
“Hates you?” he repeats. “Santos doesn’t hate you.”
“Whitaker,” you say slowly, “she definitely hates me.”
“She— she really doesn’t,” he insists, raising his hands. “I promise.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Totally,” you snap softly. “So she treats literally everyone else the same way she treats me?”
He opens his mouth, but you barrel right over him.
“Does she ignore everyone else when they talk? No? Just me? Great.”
You tick off a finger.
“Does she sigh — loudly, dramatically, like she’s auditioning for a telenovela — every time I’m assigned to the same patient as her? No? Just me? Weird.”
Another finger.
“Does she grab the chart out of your hands before you’ve even finished reading it?”
Finger three.
“Or roll her eyes when I walk in? Or tell me — tell me, Whitaker — ‘maybe next time’ when I ask to practice suturing?”
Whitaker winces. “Okay, that one sounds harsh but—”
“And!” You raise a fourth, triumphant finger. “She glared at me today because I — apparently — breathe too loud.”
Whitaker just stares at you, mouth opening and closing like he’s buffering. He looks like he’s about to say something when Robby’s voice cuts through the room, calling out for Whitaker’s help.
Whitaker jumps like he’s been rescued from a burning building.
“Oh thank God,” he mutters under his breath.
You narrow your eyes at him.
“This conversation is not over.”
He nods quickly, practically fleeing. “Yep! Cool! Totally! We’ll… circle back!”
You watched him go, a tired sigh leaving your lips as you try to get back to work. Of course, that peace lasts… oh, about three seconds.
Because the moment you turn around, you nearly collide with her.
Trinity Santos.
She stops short, eyes flicking up to meet yours — sharp, assessing, and way too intense for someone who supposedly doesn’t hate you. Her jaw ticks once, barely, like your existence has personally delayed her entire schedule.
“Move,” she says quietly, not rude exactly, but clipped enough to make your stomach twist.
You step aside immediately, pulse skittering in your throat.
“Sorry,” you mutter.
She doesn’t respond. She just brushes past you, gloves snapped on, expression unreadable — but not before you catch the way her gaze drags over you for half a second too long. Almost like she was… checking something.
“Right,” you mumble under your breath. “Totally normal. Totally fine. She absolutely doesn’t hate me. Sure.”
At some point McKay seemed to notice that you were overwhelmed. She didn’t even ask you about it—just came up beside you and said something like, “Hey, I could use some help in chairs if you’re up for it.” You’d just nodded, grateful for an excuse to be somewhere else. Somewhere you knew Santos wouldn’t go.
Oh, no—not perfect Santos. She’d never be caught dead working in chairs.
You’re rushing around with McKay, moving in and out of the waiting room as you bring in the patients you can treat. Every time you step outside, someone complains about something, and you try your best to remain professional—explaining for the fiftieth time that yes, the doctors know the wait is long, yes, they are doing everything they can, yes, the triage system is real and actually isn’t a conspiracy designed to personally ruin this one guy’s afternoon.
And then this dude just loses it.
Raises his voice. Gets snappy. Makes some snide comment like,
“Well maybe if you were actually competent, I wouldn’t be sitting here for three hours.”
You swallow it. You try again, patient, professional.
“Sir, I promise we’re—”
“No. Don’t ‘sir’ me. You people don’t care. I’ve seen cashiers put in more effort.”
And that’s the moment you feel it—that little crack right behind your ribcage, where the exhaustion meets the embarrassment meets the frustration you’ve been holding for days.
Your throat tightens. Heat prickles behind your eyes.
McKay notices, stepping a little closer as if ready to intervene but someone else beats her to it.
A voice slices cleanly through the air, cold and razor-sharp:
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
You’d know that voice anywhere.
Santos.
She’s standing there in her black scrubs, gloves still half-crumpled in her hand, chest rising like she sprinted here. Her eyes are locked on the man—flat, hard, absolutely lethal.
“She is qualified,” Santos says, stepping forward with that quiet, controlled fury she usually reserves for assholes. “She’s more than qualified. And she’s been running herself ragged all day trying to keep things moving for everyone in this room.”
The man blinks, taken aback by the intensity aimed directly at him.
Santos doesn’t stop.
“So unless you’re actively dying—which you’re not—sit down, wait your damn turn, and stop taking out your impatience on the staff who are trying to help you.”
The room goes silent. Not frozen—stunned.
McKay’s eyebrows hit her hairline. The man sputters something that vaguely resembles “sorry.”
But you— you just stand there. Because Santos defended you.
You.
The person she supposedly can’t stand.
And even as you stand there, feet glued to the ground, Santos doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes locked on the guy, staring him down until he finally sinks back into his seat. Only then does she turn on her heel and head back into the ED like nothing happened.
Like none of it meant anything at all.
Before you can even fully process what you’re doing, you’re already moving—feet carrying you in purposeful, almost frantic strides as you follow after her. You catch up easily, even though she’s walking faster than she usually does, like she’s trying to outrun the moment.
She doesn’t look back. Just tosses a curt, “Leave it,” over her shoulder, like she can feel you behind her.
“No,” you say, breathless but determined. “No, I’m not leaving it.”
Santos keeps going, weaving through the hall like you’re nothing more than an annoying shadow. You dodge a nurse, a stretcher, a crash cart—all while glued to her heels.
“You don’t need to say thank you,” she snaps without slowing down.
You blink, incredulous. “Do you—what—do you think I’m trying to thank you?”
“Good,” she mutters. “Because I don’t want—”
“Oh my god,” you bite out, speeding up until you’re practically at her shoulder, “I’m not thanking you.”
“Great. Then drop it.”
“No!”
You two keep bickering like that—sharp whispers, clipped retorts—while threading through the ED. Every time she veers left, you’re right there. Every time she tries to outpace you, you match her step for step.
She turns down a quieter hall, clearly trying to shake you off, but you’re done being avoidable. You catch up fully, frustration boiling over.
“Jesus, Santos—will you stop for one second and just—just fucking look at me!”
She halts.
It’s abrupt, like her body short-circuited at the command. Slowly—carefully—she turns around. Her eyes are wide, defensive, like she’s bracing for impact.
You swallow hard, the words rushing out before you can soften them.
“I just… I need to know why you hate me.”
Her brows furrow. Actually, her whole face seems to tense up for a moment. And because you’re standing right in front of her—chest heaving, desperation bleeding through every shaky breath—you catch every micro-shift in her expression.
You watch her go from confused… to irritated… to annoyed… and finally to just—defeated.
She lets out a long, weary sigh, dragging a hand down her face while you continue staring her down. If anyone walked into the hall right now, it would look like the two of you were staging a standoff. Bodies coiled tight, eyes locked—two cowboys waiting to see who’d reach for their gun first.
“I don’t hate you.”
The words are low. Barely audible.
You blink. Once. Twice.
Because that… that is not the answer you were prepared for.
“What?” you breathe.
Santos’ jaw flexes, like she already regrets saying anything at all. Her eyes flick away for half a second—anywhere but you—before snapping back like she can’t help herself.
“I said I don’t hate you,” she repeats, firmer this time. Still quiet. Still rough around the edges. “So stop asking.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you fire back immediately, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Because you act like you can’t stand me! You ignore me, you glare at me, you practically sprint in the opposite direction every time I walk into a room—”
“That’s not—” she starts, but you cut her off.
“And you sigh at me! A lot! I didn’t even know someone could sigh that aggressively.”
Santos presses her lips together in a thin, miserable line. You swear you see the faintest hint of pink touch her ears.
You throw your hands up. “So if you don’t hate me, then what the hell is all of that?”
A beat.
Two.
Her shoulders lift with a shaky inhale, like she’s bracing for impact.
And then—
“It’s because I like you.”
Your brain short-circuits so hard you actually forget how to breathe.
“…What?” you whisper.
This is the first time she’s ever looked truly flustered. Her eyes dart to the wall, to the floor, to anywhere except your face.
“I like you,” she mutters, words tumbling out sharp and fast, like she’s ripping off a bandage. “Okay? I’ve liked you since day one. And I don’t—” She cuts herself off, frustrated. “I don’t do… that. Feelings. So I don’t know how to be around you without sounding like an idiot.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“So yeah,” she finishes, tone flat, like she’s annoyed at herself. “That’s why.”
You just stare at her.
And Santos—Trinity Santos, who stares down furious patients and gory trauma without blinking—looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.
Your brain feels like someone just shook it in a snow globe. Thoughts float around in slow motion, glittery and unreal.
She likes you.
She likes you.
Santos.
Trinity fucking Santos.
You briefly consider whether you’re having some sort of stress-induced hallucination. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve experienced this week. Maybe you finally snapped. Maybe you fell asleep standing up and are currently living out the world’s wildest fever dream.
But then your gaze drifts back to her.
Santos is standing a couple feet away, shoulders tense, eyes flicking anywhere but yours, like she’s ready to bolt. Her posture is stiff, guarded, like she’s waiting for you to laugh at her, or yell at her, or both.
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs.
Something in you shifts.
You take one step toward her.
Her eyes snap to you immediately.
You take another.
She straightens, brows pinching together in that signature Santos way — part concern, part alarm, part why are you walking at me like that?
“Hey,” she starts, voice low, uncertain. “Look, you don’t—”
But she doesn’t get to finish.
Because you reach out, fingers brushing hers first before you grab her hand fully and tug her along. You pull open the nearest door — a supply closet, dim and tiny and absolutely perfect — and tug her inside with you. The door shuts behind you with a soft click.
Santos looks like she’s about to short-circuit. “What are you—”
You kiss her.
Not gently.
Not softly.
Not cautiously.
You kiss her like every bit of confusion, frustration, adrenaline, and want that’s been simmering in you finally snaps and pours out all at once.
Her breath catches against your mouth. For half a second she’s stiff, startled. And then she melts, hand flying up to your waist, the other curling into your hair as she kisses you back just as desperately, just as fiercely, like she’s been holding this in even longer than you have.
Because it turns out she has.
Her mouth is warm against yours, urgent in a way that sends sparks racing up your spine. You’re not sure who moves first, who deepens the kiss, who lets out that quiet, shaky sound — maybe it’s you, maybe it’s her — but suddenly you’re pressed together in the tiny supply closet like gravity dragged you into each other.
Her hand finds your jaw. Yours fists in the fabric of her scrub top. It’s heat and relief and days of unresolved tension snapping all at once.
You don’t know how long you stay like that — seconds, minutes, something in between — but eventually you have to break for air, foreheads brushing as you both pull in quick, uneven breaths.
Santos opens her eyes first. She looks wrecked. And stunned. And stupidly, stupidly soft.
You meet her gaze and something in your chest goes liquid.
Neither of you speaks. You just… look at each other. Breathing the same air. Matching each other’s shaky smiles.
Then — because you’re still full of adrenaline and disbelief and the lingering urge to throttle her half the time — you lift a hand…and punch her in the arm. Not hard, but definitely not gentle.
“Ow— what the hell?” she hisses, jerking back a little, rubbing the spot with wide, betrayed eyes.
“That,” you say, breathless, still dizzy from kissing her, “is for being an asshole.”
You take in her shocked expression before leaning in to press another kiss to her lips. You feel her smile against your mouth, her nose bumping yours as she tries to deepen the kiss again.
But your hand slides up to her chest, pressing lightly as you pull back.
She gives you a questioning look, brows knitting.
“Was that too much? Did I—?”
“No,” you interrupt quickly. “No, nothing like that.”
You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.
“We should just probably get back before someone notices we’re missing.”
Santos nods softly, her hand coming up to cradle your cheek. Her eyes roam your face like she can’t quite believe you’re real — that this is real. She bites her lip, voice soft and steady as she asks:
“One more for the road?”
And who are you to deny her?
You give her one more kiss — slower this time, lingering — before you both finally pull apart. You straighten yourselves out, smoothing scrubs, fixing hair, trying to erase the fact that you just made out in a supply closet.
Santos goes first, cracking the door open and poking her head out like she’s on some kind of stealth mission. When she sees no one in the hall, she glances back at you and gestures for you to follow.
You both head off in opposite directions, doing your absolute best to look normal. Casual. Professional. Totally-not-two-people-who-just-made-out-in-a-closet.
You think you’re nailing it.
Santos seems to think she is, too.
Right up until Whitaker drifts up beside her while she’s admiring you from afar.
He doesn’t say anything at first — just watches with her, eyes tracking the way your face lights up when you glance her way. That soft smile that appears the second your eyes meet. The little wave you give her before heading off to your next patient.
Yeah. He sees all of it.
Santos doesn’t even get the chance to pretend before he lets out a low whistle.
“Finally told her, huh?”
She doesn’t look at him. Not even a flicker. She just turns on her heel, already walking away.
“Shut it, Huckleberry.”
But even as she says it, she can’t help the smile tugging at her lips — fingers drifting up to trace her mouth, like she can still feel the ghost of your kiss lingering there.
Summary: You hadn't been prepared for everyone at work to find out you were hard of hearing, but when a patient is left alone without care, you step up to ensure they don't slip through the cracks.
Word Count: 7.7k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
Masterlist
The Pitt never sleeps, and it sure as hell never shuts up.
That’s the first thing you learn when you work here.
Not the medicine. Not the charting system that seems determined to humble every physician alive. Not the way time stretches and collapses until ten minutes can feel like an hour, and twelve hours can disappear in a blur of labs, consults, discharge instructions, and cold coffee you keep forgetting you poured.
It’s the noise.
The Pitt is all noise.
Monitor alarms. Overhead pages. Someone is coughing behind a curtain. Someone retching into an emesis bag. A patient in Bay Four is yelling that he’s been waiting forever and doesn’t care that the trauma team is currently trying to keep someone alive down the hall.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A radio crackles at Dana’s hip. A gurney wheel squeaks past in a rhythm that drills straight through your skull.
Your hearing aids catch it all.
Every alarm.
Every scrape.
Every sharp edge of sound.
That’s the thing people don’t understand about hearing aids. They think they fix things. They think you put them in, and suddenly the world makes sense again.
They don’t know that sometimes they just make the chaos louder.
You stand at the nurses’ station, watching Dana’s mouth more closely than you want to admit.
She’s talking fast because Dana always talks fast when the department is on the verge of tipping from busy into disaster. Her eyes are on the board, her hand already reaching for the next chart, her radio spitting static between you.
“Room Nine,” she says.
The radio crackles.
You miss the rest.
“What?”
Dana looks back at you.
Not annoyed. Not yet. Dana notices more than people think. Sometimes that makes you feel safer. Sometimes it makes you feel too visible.
“I said Room Nine’s been waiting over an hour. Eighteen-year-old. Abdominal pain. Deaf. No interpreter yet.”
You catch it that time.
All of it.
Your stomach tightens.
“VRI?”
“Cart’s down.”
Of course it is.
“Interpreter services?”
“Called forty-five minutes ago. Still waiting.”
You glance toward the hallway.
Room Nine.
You already hate this.
The Pitt runs on speed, instinct, and duct tape. Everyone knows what’s supposed to happen. Everyone knows the policy. Everyone knows the right number to call, the form to fill out, the backup procedure that exists somewhere in a binder nobody has time to read.
But when the system breaks, it breaks on the patient.
It always breaks on the patient.
“I’ll take her,” you say.
Dana watches you for half a second.
“You sure?”
You know what she’s asking, even if she doesn’t know exactly why she’s asking it.
Not whether you can handle abdominal pain.
Whether you can handle this kind of abandonment.
This kind of failed.
This kind of personal.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m sure.”
Dana hands you the tablet.
“Bell, Maya. Triage notes bare bones. Good luck.”
You don’t say thank you.
You’re already moving.
The hallway is its usual obstacle course.
You sidestep Javadi with a stack of discharge papers tucked against her chest. She says something as she passes, but her mouth is turned away and the radio pops at the exact wrong second.
You smile anyway.
It’s automatic.
You hate that it’s automatic.
You’ve spent your entire life becoming fluent in pretending. A smile when you miss a sentence. A nod when you catch enough to guess. A small laugh when everyone else laughs, and you’re a beat behind. Most people don’t notice.
That’s the point.
Dennis nearly clips your shoulder coming around the corner with a urine cup in each hand and panic written all over his face.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” he says. “Have you seen Dana?”
“Behind me.”
“Great. Perfect. Thank you.”
He gets three steps away before turning back.
“Wait, blue tops before purple, right?”
“Blue first.”
“Blue first,” he repeats, like he’s trying to carve it into his brain. “I knew that.”
He absolutely did not know that.
You keep walking.
At the trauma board, Robby is talking to Mel, his voice low and clipped. Trinity stands near them with her arms folded, listening while pretending not to look like she’s listening. She catches sight of the chart in your hand.
“What’ve you got?”
“Room Nine. Abdominal pain.”
“Anything good?”
“Deaf patient. No interpreter.”
Her expression shifts, quick and controlled.
“Still?”
“Still.”
She glances toward the board. “We’re about to get slammed.”
“We’re already slammed.”
“That’s my point.”
Her eyes stay on you for a second longer than they need to. There’s a question there, maybe a warning. Trinity lives in the pressure point of things, always ready to move, always measuring where she’ll be most useful. It’s part of what makes her good. It’s also part of what makes her hard.
You keep walking before she can say anything else.
Room Nine is at the end of the hall.
The curtain is half-drawn.
You pause outside long enough to scan the chart.
Maya Bell. Eighteen. Right lower quadrant pain. Started around the belly button this morning. Worse now. Nausea. No vomiting. No documented fever. Vitals stable.
The triage note says, “Patient is Deaf. Requests an ASL interpreter.”
That’s it.
Nothing about what it feels like to sit in pain for over an hour while people talk around you.
Nothing about fear.
Nothing about isolation.
Nothing about the way a hospital can be full of people and still leave someone completely alone.
You pull the curtain back.
Maya is curled on her side on the gurney, knees drawn up, one arm wrapped tight around her middle. She’s wearing an oversized blue hoodie, the sleeves pulled over her hands. Her face is turned toward the wall.
Her shoulders shake.
She’s crying.
Silently.
No sob. No gasp. No sound that would make someone walking by turn their head.
Something in your chest twists.
You step inside and let the curtain close behind you.
The noise of the ED dulls, but it doesn’t disappear. It never does. Still, in the room, there’s a pocket of something quieter. Not peaceful. Not safe. Just contained.
You move slowly into Maya’s line of sight and lift one hand.
She turns.
Her eyes are red, wet, and terrified.
You raise both hands.
“Hi,” you sign. “I’m the doctor. I’m going to take care of you.”
Maya stares at you.
For a second, she doesn’t move.
Then her face changes so fast it hurts.
“You sign?” Her hands shake, but her signs are clear. “You actually sign?”
“I do,” you sign back. “I’m hard of hearing. I sign.”
Her mouth opens around a breath you barely hear.
“I’ve been here so long,” she signs. “No one understands me. They gave me a clipboard. I kept trying to explain, but they just pointed at the pain scale. It hurts. It really hurts. My dad died in a hospital. They didn’t have an interpreter. He was alone. I’m scared.”
The words come fast.
Too fast.
Like they’ve been trapped in her hands for an hour, and now there’s finally somewhere for them to go.
You pull the rolling stool closer and sit at eye level.
“I’m here now,” you sign. “I’ll explain everything. You’re not alone.”
Maya wipes at her face with the sleeve of the blue hoodie. The fabric is worn soft at the cuffs. There’s a faded crease across the front, like it’s been washed too many times and loved too hard.
You wait.
You don’t rush her.
You know what it means when someone finally gets language back.
You know what it means to be given a room where your hands can speak faster than your mouth ever could.
Maya takes a shaky breath, then nods.
You start with the pain.
“When did it begin?”
“This morning,” she signs, pointing around her belly button. “Here first. Then it moved.”
She points lower. Right side.
“Sharp?”
“Yes.”
“Worse when you move?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
“Yes.”
“Vomiting?”
“No.”
“Fever?”
“I don’t know.”
You watch her hands, her face, the way she protects her abdomen when she shifts. Pain has a language of its own. It’s in the shoulders, the breath, the way someone tries not to move until the fear of moving becomes its own symptom.
It looks like appendicitis.
You’re asking about allergies when the curtain opens behind you.
“There you are.”
You don’t turn right away.
You finish signing, “Any allergies?” and wait for Maya to answer.
“No.”
Only then do you turn.
Trinity stands in the opening, already braced for an argument.
“We’ve got an MVA coming in,” she says. “Two critical. Robby wants extra hands.”
“I’m with a patient.”
“I can see that.”
Her eyes flick to Maya, then back to you. They don’t linger on Maya for long enough. Not yet.
“Can Dennis take over for five minutes?”
“No.”
Trinity’s jaw tightens.
Not anger exactly.
Pressure.
She gets like this when the department surges. Focused. Sharp. Too fast for softness. Her whole body seems to lean toward the crisis that isn’t here yet, already anticipating where she’ll be needed, already annoyed by anything that slows the room down.
“We’re about to have two critical traumas,” she says.
“And she’s been sitting here for over an hour without access.”
“I’m not saying that’s okay.”
“Then don’t ask me to leave her.”
Maya’s hands move behind you.
“What’s happening?” she signs. “Is something wrong?”
You turn back to her immediately.
“Nothing’s wrong,” you sign. “Another patient is coming in. I’m staying with you.”
Maya looks past you toward Trinity. Her eyes are wide and searching. She’s trying to read the room with none of the tools the room is using.
When you look back, Trinity’s expression has changed.
Not softened.
Not yet.
But she heard that.
“She has abdominal pain,” Trinity says, quieter now.
“She has no communication,” you say. “That’s not a side issue.”
“I know that.”
“No,” you say, and your voice comes out lower than you mean it to. “You know it as a policy. She’s living it.”
Trinity looks at Maya again.
This time, she really looks.
Maya has one hand pressed to her side and the other clenched in the front of her father’s hoodie. Her eyes move between you and Trinity, trying to understand a conversation that keeps moving without her.
Trinity’s mouth tightens.
You see the moment the facts rearrange themselves for her.
She doesn’t like being challenged. She doesn’t like being wrong. But she likes missing the point even less.
“Okay,” she says.
You blink.
She looks back at you.
“I’ll tell Robby you’re staying. But if the trauma goes sideways, I’m coming back.”
“That’s fair.”
She nods once and leaves.
No dramatic exit.
No cutting remark.
Just movement.
That’s Trinity too.
She pushes. She tests. She challenges. But when the truth lands, she recalibrates.
Even if she hates that you made her do it.
You finish the exam.
You explain every step before you touch Maya.
“I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs. Then I’m going to press on your belly. I’ll start away from where it hurts.”
Maya nods.
You warm the stethoscope between your palms before placing it against her. It’s something small, probably not important in the grand scheme of things, but Maya watches the movement and relaxes half an inch before you even touch her.
Heart regular. Lungs clear.
When you move to her abdomen, you go slowly. You start away from the pain, like you promised. Your hands are gentle, but the second you reach the right lower quadrant, Maya flinches before you even press.
“Here?” you sign.
“Yes. There.”
Guarding. Rebound. McBurney’s point is tender as hell.
You pull off your gloves.
“I think this might be appendicitis,” you sign.
Her eyes widen.
“Do you know what that is?”
“A little. Appendix infected?”
“Close. It gets inflamed and blocked. It’s a small organ attached to your intestine.” You point to the spot. “When it swells, it hurts. If it bursts, that can be dangerous. We need blood tests and a CT scan. If it’s appendicitis, surgery will probably remove it.”
“Surgery?”
Her signs get smaller at that word.
“Yes,” you sign. “But it’s common. The surgeons here are good. And you’ll have an interpreter for consent and questions.”
Her hands pause.
“You won’t leave?”
You feel that one in your throat.
“I won’t leave you without communication,” you sign. “I promise.”
Maya stares at you for a second, like she’s trying to decide if promises can be trusted in hospitals.
Then she nods.
At the nurses’ station, you put in the orders.
CBC. CMP. Lipase. Urinalysis. Pregnancy test. CT abdomen and pelvis with contrast. Fluids. Pain control. Nausea meds.
Dennis appears beside you, facing you directly this time.
“Dana sent me. What do you need?”
“Check whether the VRI cart is actually broken or just dead. Then call interpreter services again and get an ETA.”
“Got it.”
He starts away, then stops.
“And I should not go in there and try to use my one semester of ASL, right?”
“Correct.”
“I know turtle.”
“That won’t help.”
“It rarely does.”
“Dennis.”
“Going.”
He goes.
Dana comes up on your other side.
“Probable appy?” she asks.
“Yeah. CT pending.”
“Pain meds?”
“Ordered.”
“I’ll get the line.”
You look at her.
“Thanks.”
Dana’s eyes flick over your face. Brief. Assessing. There’s something there, something almost like concern, but Dana doesn’t dress concern up in soft clothes. She makes it sound like an order.
“Don’t burn yourself down in one room.”
You almost laugh.
“Trying not to.”
“Try harder.”
You’re halfway to Room Nine when Trinity catches you near the supply alcove.
“Hey.”
You stop.
She keeps her voice low, which you appreciate even though the hallway is still too loud.
“Robby’s got enough hands. Trauma’s covered.”
“Good.”
She watches you for a second.
Then, “I didn’t know she was that scared.”
“You didn’t ask.”
Trinity’s eyes sharpen, but she takes it.
“Yeah. I know.”
You don’t say anything.
For once, neither does she.
The silence stretches between you, awkward and too honest for a hallway full of movement. Trinity shifts her weight, arms still crossed, but her posture is less defensive now. Her gaze cuts toward Room Nine, then back to you.
“This is personal for you.”
It isn’t an accusation this time.
It’s an observation.
“Yes.”
“Because she’s Deaf?”
“Because access is personal.”
Trinity’s gaze flicks to your ears.
It’s quick.
Almost nothing.
But you see it.
Of course you do.
Her face changes.
Not a lot.
Enough.
You feel your stomach drop.
“Don’t,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Her mouth opens.
Then closes.
It’s rare, Trinity Santos, without a fast answer. Rare enough that it almost makes you ache.
You step around her.
“I need to get back to my patient.”
This time, she lets you go.
Maya’s IV is in when you return.
Dana is finishing the tape, facing Maya whenever she speaks, glancing to you only when something needs to be signed.
It’s small.
It matters.
“Pain meds are going in,” you sign to Maya. “CT should be soon.”
Maya nods.
Dana steps out.
Maya watches the curtain settle.
“She’s nice,” Maya signs.
“She’s scary,” you sign back. “But yes.”
Maya almost smiles.
It changes her whole face, makes her look eighteen again instead of small and stranded.
Then she looks at you more carefully.
“Can I ask something?”
“Of course.”
“You said hard of hearing. Not Deaf?”
You appreciate the question.
You appreciate that she knows there’s a difference.
“I’m hard of hearing,” you sign. “Progressive sensorineural hearing loss. I’ve had hearing loss since I was a kid. It’s gotten worse over time. It’ll keep getting worse.”
Maya’s face softens.
“I wear hearing aids,” you continue. “I sign. I’m connected to the Deaf community, but I also work in the hearing world. It’s complicated.”
“My mom says hearing people make everything complicated.”
“Your mom’s right.”
That gets a real smile.
Small, but real.
Maya looks down at the blue hoodie. Her fingers rub the cuff, thumb moving over the worn seam.
“This was my dad’s,” she signs. “He died three years ago.”
You wait.
“He had chest pain. My mom asked for an interpreter. They said someone was coming. It took too long. He was scared. My mom tried to interpret, but she was scared too. Then everything got bad.”
Her hands stop.
She presses the sleeve to her face.
“I wore this because she said it would keep me safe.”
You swallow.
“It’s a good hoodie,” you sign.
Maya looks down at it like she wants to believe you.
Then she signs, smaller, “I thought maybe if I wore it, hospitals couldn’t take anyone else from us.”
You don’t have an answer for that.
Not a good one.
Not one that fixes anything.
So you don’t reach for something false.
You just sign, “I’m sorry.”
Maya nods once.
Her eyes fill again, but this time she doesn’t look away.
Robby finds you after CT confirms it.
Acute appendicitis. No perforation.
He listens to your rundown without interrupting.
“How long without an interpreter?” he asks.
“Over an hour before I got to her. More if we’re talking formal interpreter access.”
“VRI?”
“Down.”
“Backup?”
“In-person interpreter called but delayed.”
His jaw tightens.
“Document every step.”
“I will.”
“I’m filing a safety report.”
You nod.
You expected that, but it still settles something in you.
Robby looks toward Room Nine.
“Communication access isn’t optional.”
“No.”
“Good work staying with her.”
The praise is brief. Direct. Then he’s gone, pulled toward another problem.
That’s fine.
You don’t need a speech.
You need the report filed.
The interpreter arrives before surgery comes down.
His name is Jonah. He introduces himself to Maya, explains his role, and positions himself so Maya can see him clearly.
You step back.
That part matters.
You’re Maya’s doctor, not her interpreter. Emergency communication is one thing. Informed consent is another.
Dr. Garcia comes in from surgery and explains the laparoscopic appendectomy, the risks, the recovery, the timing. Maya asks good questions. Jonah interprets. Dr. Garcia answers without rushing.
That should be the baseline.
It still feels like a victory.
Maya’s mother arrives twenty minutes later with her aunt.
The second Maya sees her, she starts crying again. This time, her mother is there to catch it. Their hands move fast, fear and relief all tangled together. Maya’s mother touches her daughter’s cheek, then the hoodie, then the side of the bed, like she’s confirming everything is real.
Maya’s aunt keeps apologizing.
“I had to go to work,” she says. “I shouldn’t have left her. I shouldn’t have left her here.”
“You didn’t know,” you say gently.
Maya’s mother turns to you.
You introduce yourself in ASL.
Her eyes lock on your hands, then your face.
For a moment, she just looks at you.
Then she steps forward and hugs you hard.
You freeze for half a second, caught off guard by the force of it, by the motherness of it. Then you hug her back.
When she pulls away, she signs, “Thank you for seeing my child.”
Not treating.
Seeing.
You nod because you don’t trust yourself with anything else.
From the hallway, you feel someone watching.
You glance over.
Trinity stands near the doorway, half-hidden by the curtain, her tablet held against her chest. She isn’t interrupting. She isn’t inserting herself.
She’s just watching.
And this time, you think she understands a little more.
Maya goes to surgery at eleven.
The case is clean. Uncomplicated. She’ll be okay.
You check the OR board anyway.
Three times.
At two in the morning, you end up in the staff lounge with coffee you’re too tired to drink.
Your hearing aids hurt.
The molds have been in too long. The edges rub. Your brain feels raw from sorting noise for hours. Every alarm from the shift seems to have left an echo behind your eyes.
You want to take them out.
You can’t.
Not at work.
Not when someone might call your name. Not when a code might be announced. Not when the world still expects you to meet it on its terms, even when those terms leave you exhausted.
The door opens.
Trinity steps in.
She pauses when she sees you.
“Can I sit?”
You nod.
She sits beside you, angled toward you. Purposefully. So you can see her face.
You notice.
So does she.
Neither of you says anything about it.
“Maya did okay,” Trinity says.
“Yeah.”
“I saw the OR note.”
“Of course you did.”
She ignores that, but one corner of her mouth moves like she almost smiled.
Then she looks down at her hands.
“I was wrong earlier.”
You stare into your coffee.
“You already said that.”
“I’m saying it again.”
Of course she is.
Trinity doesn’t like being wrong, but once she decides she is, she doesn’t half-admit it.
“I let the trauma dictate the whole room,” she says. “That’s not an excuse. I made it sound like access was secondary because the patient wasn’t actively crashing.”
You don’t interrupt.
“She could’ve gotten worse,” Trinity continues. “She needed consent. Pain control. Imaging. Surgery. None of that works if she can’t understand what’s happening.”
“No,” you say. “It doesn’t.”
Trinity nods once, almost to herself.
The room settles around you. The hum of the vending machine. The distant murmur of voices through the wall. The soft click of Trinity’s nail against the side of her paper cup.
Then her gaze drops again.
Your ears this time.
You go still.
“How long?” she asks.
You almost pretend not to understand.
You’re too tired.
“Since I was a kid.”
“Progressive?”
“Yeah.”
“How progressive?”
You press your thumb into the side of the cup.
“It’ll get worse.”
Trinity’s face closes down for half a second.
Not cold.
Controlled.
Her control always looks cold if you don’t know her.
“I didn’t notice,” she says.
“No.”
“That’s not a question.”
“I know.”
“We’ve been together six months.”
“I know that too.”
Her jaw tightens.
She looks angry, but not at you. Not exactly.
“With your hearing aids,” she says slowly. “Have you always worn them around me?”
“Most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“At home, sometimes I take them out.”
“I thought you were just tired when you got quiet.”
“I usually am.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
She looks away.
For a second, you think she’s going to snap. That sharp Santos defense, the one that comes out when she’s scared of feeling too much.
Instead, she takes a breath.
“What helps?”
You blink.
“What?”
“What helps?” she asks again. “At work. With me. In general.”
You stare at her.
You’d expected hurt. Anger. A demand. Maybe all three.
Not that.
You set the coffee down.
“Face me when you talk,” you say. “Don’t call from behind me and expect me to catch it. In loud rooms, get my attention first. Touch my arm, wave, something. Don’t cover your mouth. Don’t say never mind when I ask you to repeat something.”
Her expression changes at that.
She’s said never mind before, a lot.
You both know it.
“Okay,” she says.
“And don’t tell people before I do.”
Her eyes lift to yours immediately.
“I wouldn’t.”
You believe her.
That scares you more than not believing her would.
A long silence settles between you.
Trinity leans back into the couch, shoulders tense, eyes fixed somewhere past the coffee table.
“I’m trying not to make this about me,” she says finally.
You look at her.
Her voice is quieter now. Stripped down. Still Trinity, but without the armor polished quite so bright.
“But I keep thinking about all the times I missed it,” she says. “All the times I was talking too fast, or turned away, or annoyed because you didn’t answer me the first time.”
You swallow.
“I didn’t tell you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
She huffs once, but there’s no humor in it.
“I hate that I didn’t see you.”
That breaks through more than anything else.
Not because it’s perfect.
Because it isn’t.
It’s messy and guilty and blunt. It’s Trinity, honest in the only way she knows how, with the edges still on.
“I didn’t want to be seen,” you say.
She looks at you then.
“I know.”
The softness in her voice almost ruins you.
You make it to the end of your shift on fumes.
Dana tells you to go home twice before you actually listen.
The first time, you pretend not to hear her.
The second time, she stands directly in front of you and says, “Don’t even try that with me.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Try what?”
Dana points at the locker room.
“Home.”
“I have one note.”
“You have one foot in the grave. Finish the note and leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gives you a look but lets you go.
In the locker room, you take your hearing aids out.
The world softens.
Not silence.
Never full silence.
But close enough that your shoulders drop for the first time in twelve hours. The buzzing lights vanish. The hallway noise fades into a dull vibration. Your own breath becomes the loudest thing in the room.
You close your eyes.
For a second, you let yourself exist without translating.
The door opens.
You don’t hear it.
You see Trinity in the mirror.
She says something, then stops when she realizes.
You point to your ears.
She nods, pulls out her phone, types, and turns the screen toward you.
Coffee? Not here.
You stare at her for a second.
Then nod.
The diner two blocks from the hospital is almost empty.
The windows are fogged around the edges. The booth seats are cracked. The sugar packets sit in a little metal holder that looks older than both of you combined. Someone in scrubs sleeps face-down at a corner table with one hand still wrapped around a coffee cup.
You put your hearing aids back in with fresh batteries, the quiet making it easier. Trinity chooses the booth in the back without asking. She waits until you sit, then takes the spot across from you, facing you fully.
Again, you notice.
Again, she doesn’t make a thing of it.
The waitress leaves with your orders.
Trinity waits until the footsteps fade.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“You said that.”
“I have more.”
You almost smile.
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I know you hid it, and I’m not blaming you for that. But I hate that I missed it.”
You look down.
Her hands are wrapped around her coffee cup even though it hasn’t been filled yet. She’s holding onto the empty space like she needs something to steady herself.
“I’m sorry for talking to you from another room,” she says. “I’m sorry for getting annoyed when you didn’t answer. I’m sorry for every time I said never mind.”
Your throat tightens.
“And I’m sorry if I made you feel cornered tonight,” she says. “You didn’t owe me that information in the middle of a shift.”
“I should’ve told you.”
“Maybe.” Trinity leans back. “But disclosure isn’t simple. I know enough not to pretend it is.”
You look at her then.
Her face is tired. Guarded. Honest.
“I was afraid,” you say.
“I know.”
“No, Trinity. I was afraid of you.”
That one lands.
You watch it hit.
She doesn’t look away.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
“I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
“I already look at you differently than everyone else.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
You breathe out.
The waitress brings your tea and Trinity’s coffee. Trinity doesn’t touch hers right away.
She reaches across the table, but she doesn’t take your hand. She just sets her palm there, open, waiting.
You look at it for a long second.
Then you meet her halfway.
Her fingers close around yours.
“I’m mad,” she says.
Your stomach drops.
“Not because you’re hard of hearing,” she adds. “Not because you didn’t tell me fast enough. I’m mad because the world made you think hiding was safer.”
That breaks something in you.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
“I don’t know how to stop,” you admit.
“Then don’t stop all at once.”
You laugh once, watery and tired.
“That’s your medical advice?”
“Yes. Gradual exposure. Very evidence-based.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You like that about me.”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll take it.”
The laugh that slips out of you this time is small, but real.
Trinity’s thumb moves once over your knuckle. It’s barely there, a small brush of warmth in the too-bright diner. She watches the movement like she’s making sure it’s allowed.
It is.
You let your fingers relax in hers.
For a while, neither of you talked about the hard parts.
Trinity tells you about the trauma you missed. You watch her mouth as she speaks, catching most of it over the low hum of the diner and the distant clatter from the kitchen. Two critical patients. One intubated. One stabilized. Robby calm in the middle of it, Mel catching a med discrepancy, Dennis almost dropping suction tubing and recovering so dramatically that half the bay noticed.
“You should’ve seen his face,” Trinity says. “Like the suction tubing had betrayed him personally.”
“He gets attached.”
“To tubing?”
“To being useful.”
Trinity’s mouth curves. “That’s annoyingly generous of you.”
“I’m a delight.”
“You’re something.”
Her voice is dry, but her thumb is still moving lightly over your hand.
You let the warmth of it settle you.
There’s something almost ordinary about sitting there with her. Your tea is cooling between your hands. Her coffee is untouched because she keeps making faces every time she tries it. The sunrise is beginning to pale at the edge of the window. The exhaustion sits heavy in your bones, but not swallowing you.
This could be normal, you think.
Not easy.
But real.
Trinity looks at you over her coffee cup.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have a face.”
“I always have a face.”
“You have a specific face.”
You roll your eyes. “I was just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“You’re one to talk.”
She smirks, then sobers.
“I want to learn ASL.”
You freeze. “Trinity.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “It’s a language. I know it’s not a cute girlfriend project. I know I’m not going to become fluent in a month because I’m good under pressure and annoying enough to make flashcards.”
“You’d make flashcards?”
“I already have.”
You stare at her.
She shrugs, defensive now.
“Not from some random app. I looked up Deaf-led classes.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“When I was supposed to be sleeping.”
“Of course.”
“I want to learn properly,” she says. “Not to interpret at work. I know that’s not my role. But I want to understand more. For patients. For you. For me, honestly, because I don’t like being bad at something I should know enough about to not be useless.”
“That’s very you.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t exactly a compliment.”
“I take what I’m given.”
You look at her hand on yours.
“I love you,” she says.
Your chest stops.
Six months together, and neither of you has said it.
You’ve said it in other ways. In coffee. In spare scrubs. In the way she texts you after bad shifts and pretends the meme she sends isn’t a check-in. In the way you know when she needs food before she knows she needs food. In the way she steals fries off your plate and then gives you the last bite of her dessert without commenting on it.
But not like this.
Not out loud.
Trinity looks terrified in the controlled way she gets when she’s decided to be brave and hates every second of it.
You lift your free hand.
Slowly, you sign it.
“I love you.”
Trinity watches carefully.
Then she copies you.
Badly.
So badly you laugh before you can stop yourself.
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“That was not right.”
“How not right?”
“Deeply.”
“Did I insult someone?”
“Maybe a goat.”
She groans. “Oh my god.”
You show her again.
This time, she slows down.
This time, she gets it.
Mostly.
“I love you,” she says aloud, holding the sign with awkward, careful fingers.
Your eyes sting.
“I love you too.”
Trinity’s face changes.
It’s not one of the expressions she lets the department see. Not sharp. Not smug. Not guarded.
It’s open.
Just for you.
She slides into your side of the booth without asking, which is very Trinity. Then she stops halfway, like she remembers she’s supposed to be careful now.
“Can I?”
You nod.
She sits beside you, shoulder pressed to yours, and you lean into her before you can overthink it.
She smells like hospital soap, coffee, and the faint citrus of the shampoo she uses. Her cheek rests briefly against the top of your head.
Neither of you says anything for a while.
You don’t need to.
The next shift, Trinity changes small things.
She doesn’t announce them.
That’s why they matter.
She comes up on your left side when she can. When she needs your attention, she taps two fingers lightly against your forearm. In the trauma bay, if Robby gives an order while turned away and the noise eats half of it, Trinity repeats the key part while facing you.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
Like it’s medicine.
Like it’s teamwork.
The first time she does it, you nearly miss the next step.
Trinity notices.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like I donated a kidney. I repeated a lab value.”
You smile.
“Still.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it.
Across the bay, Dennis watches the exchange with open curiosity until Mel elbows him without looking up from the chart.
“Stop staring,” Mel says.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was observing.”
“Creepily.”
Dennis turns red and suddenly becomes deeply invested in restocking gauze.
Trinity looks at you and lifts one eyebrow.
You press your lips together to keep from laughing.
Dennis finds out by accident.
He comes up behind you at the nurses’ station and says your name twice.
You don’t hear him.
Trinity does.
“Dennis,” she says, not looking up from her tablet. “Move where she can see you.”
He freezes.
Then his face goes red so fast you feel bad for him.
“Oh. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t realize. I mean, I did realize just now because Santos said it, but before that I didn’t. Obviously. Because I was behind you. Which was the issue.”
You turn around.
“What did you need?”
“Robby wants you to look at the lac in Seven.”
“Okay.”
He hesitates.
You wait.
“Can I ask something and you can tell me if it’s stupid?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I can ask or yes, it’s stupid?”
“Both are possible.”
“Fair.” He rubs the back of his neck. “After Maya, I was thinking I should learn more ASL. Not from you. I mean, unless you wanted to point me somewhere. But I don’t want to be useless next time.”
Your chest softens.
“Look for Deaf-led classes,” you say. “Not random videos. And don’t use family members as interpreters for consent.”
“Deaf-led classes,” he repeats. “No family for consent. Got it.”
Trinity glances at him. “And don’t make her your personal tutor.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was thinking near it.”
“Don’t.”
“Noted.”
You try not to smile.
You fail.
Dennis smiles back, relieved, and disappears toward Seven.
Trinity watches him go.
“He means well.”
“He does.”
“He’s going to sign turtle at someone by accident.”
“Probably.”
“We’ll survive.”
You look at her.
She shrugs like she didn’t just include herself in the we without thinking.
Then she touches your wrist lightly.
“Seven,” she says. “Robby’s waiting.”
You nod and go.
Maya comes back three days later for a post-op check.
She’s wearing the blue hoodie again.
Her mother is with her, watching everything with the kind of attention you understand completely.
Maya looks tired but better. Less folded into herself. Less afraid of the room. She’s sitting up this time, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand resting near the surgical sites like she’s protective of them but not terrified.
“Hi,” you sign. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she signs. “Sore, but better.”
The incision sites look clean. No fever. No worsening pain. No redness or drainage.
“You’re healing well,” you sign. “Keep following the surgery instructions. Come back if you get fever, worsening pain, vomiting, redness, or drainage.”
Maya nods.
Her mother asks two follow-up questions, both sharp and practical. You answer both. She watches your hands the whole time, then your face, then your hands again.
Trust is not instant.
You don’t expect it to be.
Then Maya’s eyes flick past you.
Trinity is in the hall, pretending to review a tablet.
Maya grins.
“Your girlfriend?”
You feel your face heat.
“Yes.”
“Obvious.”
“It is not.”
Maya’s mother gives you a look that says it absolutely is.
You sigh.
Maya signs, “Did you tell her?”
You know what she means.
“Yes.”
“How did she react?”
You glance toward the hallway again.
Trinity looks up at exactly the wrong moment, catches you looking, and immediately looks back down at the tablet like it contains the secrets of the universe.
“She’s learning,” you sign.
Maya’s face brightens.
“ASL?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s love,” Maya signs.
You don’t answer right away.
Then you nod.
“Yeah,” you sign. “It is.”
Maya’s mother watches you for a moment, then signs, “Love should learn.”
The words settle somewhere deep.
You carry them with you when you leave the room.
When you step into the hallway, Trinity pushes off the wall.
“How is she?”
“Good. Healing well.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then Trinity lifts her hands.
Carefully, she signs, “I’m happy she’s okay.”
The grammar is rough. The movement is stiff. Her expression is too intense because she’s concentrating like this is a central line.
It’s perfect.
You sign back, “Me too.”
Trinity squints. “Too fast.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’m a beginner. Be nice.”
“I am being nice.”
“You look smug.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Dana passes behind you with a stack of charts.
“You two done flirting in my hallway?”
Trinity doesn’t miss a beat.
“No.”
Dana snorts. “At least you’re honest.”
The email takes two nights.
You write about Maya.
About the delay.
About the broken VRI cart.
About the lack of a functioning backup process.
About the clinical risk of treating communication access like a courtesy instead of a safety issue.
You write it at your kitchen table after a shower that didn’t quite wash the hospital off you. Your hearing aids sit in their charger beside your laptop. Without them, the apartment is soft around you. The refrigerator hum is gone. The traffic outside is a distant vibration more than sound. Your fingers move over the keys, and for once, no one is asking you to translate yourself in real time.
You send it to Robby first.
He replies eight minutes later.
Send it.
So you do.
You don’t know what it’ll change.
Maybe nothing.
Hospitals are big. Systems are slow. Everyone believes in access until access requires money, staffing, training, and accountability.
But you send it anyway.
Then your phone buzzes.
Trinity.
Proud of you.
Before you can answer, another text comes through.
Also I practiced for 20 minutes and may have told my ASL instructor I’m romantically committed to tacos???
You laugh so hard you have to put your phone down.
A second later, your phone buzzes again.
Don’t laugh. This language has too many handshapes.
You type back, I am absolutely laughing.
Trinity replies, Rude. Accurate, but rude.
You sit there in your quiet kitchen, smiling at your phone like an idiot.
For once, the quiet doesn’t feel like hiding.
It feels like home.
The Pitt doesn’t transform overnight.
Of course it doesn’t.
The VRI cart gets fixed, then misplaced, then found in a storage alcove nobody admits using. Dana starts checking it at the beginning of every shift with the same energy she uses to check staffing. Robby keeps pushing. Mel quietly makes a laminated reference sheet for interpreter requests and leaves it by the charge desk.
Dennis starts ASL classes and practices at inappropriate times until Trinity tells him that if he fingerspells pancreatitis one more time while she’s eating, she’s going to throw something at him.
“You can’t discourage education,” Dennis says.
“I can discourage you.”
“That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
You laugh into your coffee.
Trinity keeps going to class.
She’s bad at it at first, which bothers her deeply.
“I’m good at languages,” she complains one morning after shift.
“ASL is a language.”
“That’s why this is offensive to me personally.”
“You’re improving.”
“I signed hospital wrong and my instructor looked at me like I’d disappointed her entire bloodline.”
“She sounds great.”
“She is great. I fear her. I need her approval.”
“That tracks.”
Trinity gives you a look.
You smile back.
She’s learning more than signs.
She learns to pause.
To face you.
To touch your arm before speaking when the ED is loud.
She learns not to say never mind.
She learns that when you take your hearing aids out at home, you aren’t shutting her out. You’re coming back to yourself.
The first time she sleeps over after everything changes, you stand in the bathroom with your hearing aids in your palm, suddenly nervous.
Trinity appears in the doorway.
She doesn’t speak.
She just leans against the frame, watching you with that careful stillness she only uses when she knows the wrong move matters.
You look at her in the mirror.
Without the hearing aids, you can’t hear the apartment the way you usually do. You can’t hear the small sounds of her shifting. You can’t hear the city outside. You can’t hear if she says your name.
But you can see her.
Trinity lifts her hands and signs, slowly, “You’re safe.”
The sign isn’t perfect.
The meaning is.
Your fingers close around the hearing aids.
Then you set them in the charger.
Trinity smiles, small and private.
You turn off the bathroom light and follow her to bed.
The Pitt is still loud.
It always will be.
The alarms still hit you the second you walk through the doors. Voices overlap. Phones ring. Gurneys squeak. Someone yells. Someone cries. Someone laughs too loudly at the worst possible time because sometimes that’s the only way anyone survives this place.
But you stop pretending it doesn’t cost you.
Not completely.
Not every second.
When you miss something, you ask for it again. When someone talks from behind you, you tell them to face you. When your hearing aids overload in the middle of a shift, you step into the quietest corner you can find and breathe for thirty seconds.
You stop treating your needs like evidence against you.
That might be the hardest part.
Harder than the medicine.
Harder than telling Trinity.
Harder than the noise.
One morning after a brutal overnight, you and Trinity walk out together.
She’s on your left side.
Your better side.
The parking garage echoes too much, turning footsteps into dull thunder and making every distant car door slam feel closer than it is. Trinity is telling you about a patient who swallowed a poker chip on a dare, but half the sentence gets swallowed by the sound of an engine starting two rows over.
“Again?” you ask.
Trinity turns toward you fully.
No sigh.
No never mind.
No flash of frustration.
She repeats it.
You catch it that time and laugh.
She looks proud in the smallest possible way, like she’s trying not to be obvious about it and failing.
You bump your shoulder against hers.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“You’re suspicious.”
“Accurate.”
At your car, she stops.
She signs, “I love you.”
It’s smoother now.
Not fluent.
Not perfect.
But hers.
You sign back, “I love you too.”
Then, because she’s Trinity, she adds out loud, “And I love being right.”
“You weren’t right about anything in this conversation.”
“I was right that I’d get better.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re in love with me.”
You smile.
“Yeah,” you say. “I am.”
She steps closer, and for once, there’s no urgency in it. No trauma bay pace. No clock running out. Just Trinity in the gray morning light, one hand settling at your waist, the other brushing your sleeve like she’s still asking without words.
You lean in first.
The kiss is soft. Warm. Tired around the edges.
When you pull back, Trinity stays close enough that you can feel her breath against your cheek.
“Text me when you get home,” she says.
“I always do.”
“I know. Do it anyway.”
You roll your eyes.
She kisses your forehead.
It’s quick, almost embarrassed, like tenderness still feels like a thing she has to sneak past herself.
That makes it sweeter.
You drive home in the quiet, hearing aids resting in the cup holder, the world softened around the edges.
You think about Maya in her blue hoodie.
You think about her mother’s hands moving fast with fear and love.
You think about Dana checking the VRI cart like she’s daring it to fail again.
You think about Dennis trying too hard, Mel noticing everything, Robby turning anger into policy, and Trinity sitting in a diner booth at sunrise, signing love badly and meaning it completely.
You think about the silence you used to hide inside.
And the language you’re finally letting people see.
It’s not fixed.
You’re not fixed.
You were never the thing that needed fixing.
The Pitt is still loud.
The world is still built wrong in too many places.
But now, when you walk back into the noise, you don’t disappear inside it.
You lift your hands.
You use your voice.
You ask for access.
You let yourself be seen.
And when Trinity stands beside you, watching carefully, learning slowly, showing up again and again, you let yourself believe that love can be a kind of translation too.
munch!trinity who begs you to let her eat you out after a stressful shift, getting on her knees in front of you the second she comes home
munch!trinity who gets off on your moans, grinding against the mattress to get some relief, any relief
“fuck…” she whimpers against your clit, finally getting to taste you. you throw your head back in pleasure, scraping your nails against her scalp
your sweet noises and the feeling of your fingers pulling her hair cause trinity to whine your name, moving the blanket underneath her in between her legs
she grinds against the blanket, feeling how slick her pussy is against the fabric. the tough material against her clit is so delicious, and your sounds….she cums before you do
munch!trinity who from the moment you first came on her lips could not stop thinking about you doing it again
munch!trinity who plays with her pussy while eating yours, letting out soft gasps against you when her fingers rub circles against her clit
munch!trinity who has the firmest grip on your thighs, leaving bruises along your hips
munch!trinity who whines when you’re too busy to let her eat you out
munch!trinity who begs to eat you out when you’re working from home. she can’t help being turned on at your concentrated face
“please? i’ll be so good, you’ll focus so much better afterwards” she has a sly grin on her face.
you glare at her, turning back to the pile of work you have to do on your desk. you’ve been working on a case for three hours straight, and are losing focus fast.
trinity slides her hands up your thighs, already taking her place on the floor. her puppy eyes are staring up at you, pleading you to let her taste you.
you lose all resolve, and nod you head. she takes all of 4 seconds to have your pants and underwear on the floor.
munch!trinity who is obsessed with kissing and marking your thighs, almost claiming her place
“fuck you, i can’t go to vic’s beach trip with all these hickies” you laugh staring at your legs in the mirror. the perpetrator lies on your bed behind you, blushing remembering the hours she spent between your thighs.
“those took a lot of hard work to make, i hope you know…”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ warnings: MINORS DNI (18+) smut- r and trinity receiving, sexting, language, bratty bottom trinity supremacy, cunnilingus, face riding, fingering, biting, nipple play, teasing
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ description: when trinity gets called into work on her day off, you’re left at home alone with your thoughts. becoming too bored, you spice up trinity’s work day by sending her special pictures to distract her.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ word count: 4.2k
You woke up to a cold bed, your outstretched arms rubbing over the cotton sheets. It was a strange feeling— waking up by yourself to an empty apartment. The energetic buzz you normally feel as the world wakes you up is no longer there. Unfortunately, the world got called into work on her day off.
There had been a train accident that pulled Trinity into work early in the morning. The two of you had specifically worked your schedules out so you always had days off together. PTMC had once again stolen a precious day away from the both of you.
You grabbed your phone from the nightstand and checked your notifications. There were more tiktok notifications than you could count from Victoria, a text from Dennis about turning the load of whites pink again, and a text from Trinity a couple hours ago.
6:47 am
trin🖤
i’m sorry i got called into work, angel. it’s gonna be a busy day, so i may not be able to answer you quickly. breakfast is in the fridge, love you ;)
No matter what was going on, Trinity always ensured that you were taken care of. Even with her hard exterior, she was the most selfless person you knew.
8:55am
you
good morning :) thank you for breakfast🫶
Once you heard the cats scratching on the door, you slowly got out of bed. You languidly made your way to the kitchen to seek out the breakfast Trinity had set aside for you. A bowl of freshly cut fruit, yogurt, and granola was waiting for you. She only made food when you were around, which was all the time now. It became part of her love language now, spending time cooking things that you loved most.
You had resisted the urge to text Trinity for a while— you knew she was busy, but you couldn’t help that you had been thinking about her from the moment you opened your eyes this morning. Her warm touch that you’re so accustomed to and her signature scent that intoxicates you with a single whiff are the things you miss most in this moment.
Your thoughts start as pure lighthearted memories, but they slowly morphed into a heated territory. Those warm touches that slither down your stomach or the smell of her neck as your lips ghost across her skin and your tongue tastes the lingering notes of musk. You could even imagine the feeling of dragging your nails up the back of her neck and into her short hair, slightly pulling until she—
You had to stop, but you couldn’t not think about her whilst you were surrounded by her presence everywhere. What you wouldn’t give to have her here right now…
9:46am
you
thank you sm for breakfast. it was great, only wish i was eating something else ;)
It might’ve been corny, but it was the truth. To your surprise, your phone buzzes rather quickly.
9:48 am
trin🖤
woah there, a little early for innuendos isn’t it?
9:49 am
you
never when it comes to you <3 how’s work going?
Trinity reads your message but doesn’t answer. A minute or two later your phone starts ringing.
“Hey!”
“Hi baby,” Trinity greets and your knees practically get weak from the sleep deprived rasp in her voice. There’s something about talking to her on the phone that makes you hot and bothered. “I only have a couple minutes, but I thought I would check on you before going back in.”
“I’m doing alright, just wishing you were here,” you sighed.
“Mm, I bet you do.” You could feel the smirk through the phone.
“How’s work?”
“Oh you know, just putting that savior complex to good use as always.” You scoffed at her joke. “Been fishing debris out of wounds all day, Robby’s still punishing me I think.”
You sarcastically gasp. “What do you mean? He hasn’t forgotten about how you practically had my clothes off in the staff lounge and that’s why I’m on probation for hospital visits?”
“Okay, your clothes weren’t off,” Trinity starts, “my hand just so happened to slip under your shirt…”
“And my pants.”
“Whatever,” she dismisses. “It was worth it.”
“Ask me how you feel after your entire shift cleaning wounds and no surgery.”
“Such a brat,” Trinity huffs a laugh. “I should probably go.”
“Alright, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Bye, babe.”
Trinity hangs up the phone and the world is quiet again. All that remains is the flicker of feelings and lust that settles heavy in the air like fog. You had a long day ahead of you until Trinity came home.
It had been a few hours and between checking your phone every few minutes, doing laundry, and reading a book, boredom started to consume you. You hadn’t heard from Trinity since this morning, but you hadn’t stopped thinking about her since.
A terribly dirty idea conjured in your head, causing you to smirk to yourself. Who said you had to be the only one worked up?
You positioned yourself on the couch with a book in your lap and your shirt unbuttoned. The camera was angled down just right so you could see easily down your shirt and get a peek of your lace bra. You made sure to wear the big brown glasses that Trinity liked so much on you to top it off.
You took the photo and hit send.
—
“If anything starts to ooze or swell more than it has already, come by and see us and we’ll take care of you again.”
“Thank you so much!”
Trinity watched as the last of the non-critical train crash victims walked out of the ER. She gave a faint wave goodbye before her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She gasped as she opened your message. Her eyes fixed on where you knew she would love most. Trinity didn’t know how long she was sucked into a trance until someone approached her.
“Everything alright, Trinity?” Samira asked.
Trinity practically dropped her phone in surprise. “Oh! Uh nothing— I mean yes, everything is fine.” She shoved her phone deep into her pocket and made a mental note to look at the picture more later.
Samira smirked and nodded her head. “I just came by to tell you that the blood and CT results came back for that little boy— everything looks great.”
Trinity sighed. “That’s really good to hear, thank you. I’ll be right back,” she said shortly, her head nodding in the direction of the bathroom. She turned and walked at a quicker pace than she normally does.
When she made it to the bathroom, she entered the last stall and sat down. She pulled her phone out again and stared down at the picture. Her eyes admired the lace trimming that adored your breasts and her breathing shuttered.
When she saw your glasses she bit her lip to hold back a smirk. She couldn’t understand the logistics of why you looked so damn good with glasses on, but it worked like a charm every time.
As she stared at the picture, another message came through— it was another picture.
This time you sent a picture in the mirror. You were preparing to get into the shower when you decided to add fuel to the fire. The picture was from the waist up and you were fully nude, only covering your exposed nipple with your free hand. Plenty of skin to make Trinity’s mind wander.
Heat pooled to her cheeks and her core as she looked away from her phone. Your intentions were now crystal clear and Trinity wished more than anything she was off the clock.
She looked up at the ceiling and ran her hands through her hair. She wasn't sure how she was going to make it through the rest of her shift with your body freshly in her mind.
1:38pm
trin🖤
are you trying to kill me? bc if so, it’s absolutely working.
1:40pm
you
well i couldn’t let you have all the fun at work today ;)
1:40pm
trin🖤
i have a feeling i’ll be having a lot more fun when i come home from work. god, i wish i could touch you.
1:41pm
you
don’t worry, i’ll do it for you until you get here.
Trinity nearly choked on thin air. The image of you being so desperate for her touch was enough to make her squeeze her legs together. The temperature seemed to jump twenty degrees within seconds.
1:43pm
trin🖤
not without permission you won’t. you should know that by now, baby girl.
1:44pm
you
is that you giving me permission?
Trinity smirked and slipped her phone back into her pocket. She knew what she was doing was a little cruel, but it would pay off later when she came home to you. Trinity would be lying if these moments of brief torture didn’t bring her the smallest bit of joy, especially now that she could feel her phone buzzing from a stream of messages you were sending, most likely asking for permission. If Trinity had to wait, she wasn’t going to give you the pleasure of sweet relief either.
She approached the sink and splashed some cold water on her reddened cheeks before she went back to work. She regretfully left the bathroom with a head full of dirty thoughts and the end of her shift on her mind.
“What’s up with the red face?” Trinity jumped and cursed under her breath when Whitaker appeared out of thin air. “I’ve never seen you get embarrassed. Well, there was that one time with the scalpel-”
“No more talking,” Trinity said, “like, ever.” She walked away from Whitaker as his arms were shrugged in the air, not knowing what he did wrong.
If Trinity couldn’t come home, she sure as hell wanted to keep herself as busy as she could be to make the last few hours go by quicker. Even as she treated several patients, she found herself forgetting important steps in her diagnostic thought process and procedures— people were starting to catch on.
“Dr. Santos, do you have a minute?” Robby asked. Trinity sat at the bedside of a patient when Robby entered the room. She excused herself and followed him into the empty staff lounge, somewhere she didn’t see often as the ED was more demanding. “How are you feeling today?”
“Fine, I guess. Why, what have you heard?” Trinity nervously fidgeted in place.
“I can see for myself that your mind is elsewhere right now. The waiting room is starting to thin out, why don’t you go home.”
“I promise I’m fine, I just-”
“I don’t need anyone compromising patient care because they can’t focus. Everyone appreciates your availability on your day off and you did a great job, but politely, you’re not needed anymore. Got it? ”
Trinity sighed. “I understand.” She felt defeated about letting her work slip out from underneath her, but felt relieved that her work day had come to an end.
—
You looked impatiently at the clock. Time was moving at a snail's pace and you still had a few hours until Trinity came home. You weren’t sure how much longer you would be able to wait around for her to fix your little situation.
You had been too distracted in your own thoughts that every task left you paralyzed. You were glued to the couch until further notice. To your surprise, you heard the key turn in the door and all of your built up courage washed away.
Your eyes were fixed downwards while you tried to pretend you were reading your book. It was your attempt at playing hard to get regardless of the fact your arousal was eating you alive.
“Nothing to say?” Trinity hummed as you tuned her out as much as possible. She approached you with slow, intentional steps towards your spot on the couch. Her arms were crossed, her posture stiff, and you didn’t have to look at her to know how she was eyeing you down. When she stood before you, she leaned forward to place one of her knees on one side of you, her body almost towered above. With one hand on the back of the couch, the other slid up the side of your bare thigh where the heat Trinity radiated as a result of your teasing throughout the day lit your skin on fire. “Don’t get shy on me now, baby. You had so much to show me earlier, and now you’re all tucked away. Now, that’s not very fair, is it?”
Trinity's voice, sultry and raspy, left its kiss across your skin. Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of her hand slowly rubbing its way down different paths of your body. She grazed over your shirt, moving until she hit the buttons in the middle. “I think you had a little less of… this.”
Her steady hands popped each button open one by one, paying you back for the torture you caused her. Your shirt slid down your shoulders and you dared a glance in Trinity’s direction. Her hair was pulled half up and her baby hairs flew loose around her face. It was a huge mistake because now you found yourself locking eyes with a smirking Trinity.
“There’s my girl,” she whispered while her hands felt up your hot skin.
You were through with playing coy. Hastily, you shimmied your arms out of the remainder of the shirt you were wearing and pulled Trinity into you. The sweet taste of relief rushed through you as you kissed her lips. She melted into your touch, delicately straddling you and pressing her body against yours.
Her nails scraped down the front of your bare skin, stopping to briefly circle her thumb over your nipples. “Shit, Trin,” you gasped.
“So she can speak. I thought you lost your pretty voice.”
“No, just saving it,” you answered, trying to suppress the noises your mouth was threatening to free.
Trinity wrinkled her eyebrows into a confused look, almost like she was studying you. While holding eye contact, her fingers pinched down on your nipple harder eliciting a loud sound from you.
“Saving it for that I hope?”
“You bitch,” you whispered.
You pulled her back in, her lips leaving you for too long. Trinity dug her nails into your hips with enough fervor to set you alight, but you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.
It was so small that you almost missed it— the way Trinity’s hip flicked ever so slightly against you, trying to gain any traction she could. Your hands moved to her hips where you slipped your leg in between hers and forced her hips down onto you. She moaned into your mouth and you drank it down like strong whiskey, her sounds intoxicating.
“I see I had an effect on you too,” you teased.
“Shut up,” she said through gritted teeth while grabbing onto your hands. “Come on.”
You both left a trail of clothing behind as you kissed your way to the bedroom. The last thing to go before she crashed on the bed was Trinity’s sports bra that she threw somewhere in the room. She left her underwear on because she knew you wanted to be the one to take them off yourself.
She stared at you with her body propped up on her elbows. One of her legs was bent, putting her soaked panties on display. You cursed the fabric that covered her.
You crawled on top of the bed to her where your lips met again. Her hand snaked behind your knee and followed the path upwards towards your ass, squeezing it as you deepened the kiss. Your fingers ran through her hair until you reached her hair tie, promptly undoing it and putting it on your wrist for you to use later. You started twitching the closer that Trinity came to your cunt and she could tell you were practically begging for more touch.
At an excruciatingly slow speed, Trinity’s hand found its place between your legs. When she wanted to, she was really good at teasing you, but you didn’t know how much you could take tonight.
Her fingers slipped in between your folds, her fingers gliding on either side of your clit. Just enough to get enjoyment, but also enough to feel tortured at the lack of direct stimulation. You tried to ride her fingers to feel anything more, but you were stopped by a firm hand on your hip.
“No more,” Trinity whispered. “This is all you get.”
You whined. “Please.”
“You don’t get to cum like this on my fingers. I wanna taste you, baby.”
Even though she said exactly what she wanted, she didn’t stop touching you. Her finger circled lightly over your clit, giving you the stimulation you had been craving. This didn’t help your case if she planned on fucking you with her tongue because if she kept at this pace, you’d be coming undone soon.
“Trin…”
She could read you so well that you didn’t even need to say anything more. She stopped her teasing and used her hands to push your legs towards her, a signal for you to move up the bed.
You stopped when your core was inches away from Trinity’s face. It was her, so of course she would still take her time when you were dying inside.
She was obsessed with your skin— the feeling, the smell, the taste, marking it. She took her time when it came to your skin, savoring each moment she made contact with it. This time was no different.
She squeezed and rubbed on your legs while her lips found the soft skin of your inner thigh. It started as gentle kisses but it turned fiercer. The kisses turned into sucking marks onto your skin, which escalated to her teeth sinking their way into your skin.
You cried out but this was nothing new— this was Trinity’s speciality. She loved to mark you in areas only she could see, occasionally placing one strategically that could be seen by others.
One of your hands flew to her head, keeping yourself steady. In a moment of weakness and distraction on your part, Trinity lowered you down until your cunt was met with her tongue.
“Oh, fuck,” you whimpered, not expecting the abrupt contact.
You arched back, your hand that wasn’t taking space in Trinity’s hair supported you from behind. Her tongue licked long motions across your pussy, the tip flicking out to tease your clit even more.
She changed her method as your orgasm was building. She flattened her tongue, creating a harder surface for you to grind on. You moved your hips and rode her face as your pussy slipped back and forth on her tongue.
Trinity moaned and the vibrations coursed through your body, making your hips move faster and the sounds you were making louder.
You were getting closer and you had reached a state of ecstasy and Trinity made such fast work of you. As you continued to ride her tongue, your hand that supported you from behind shifted until you found her body. With a shaky hand, you found the band of her panties and slipped beneath.
The warm wetness you found was enough to send you spiraling, but you held off. You both moaned at the feeling. Trinity might play it cool, but she completely melted at your touch and became a whining mess. You couldn’t hold back a smirk when you crept your fingers through her folds and her legs opened wide almost instantly.
“Such… a fucking… tease,” Trinity managed to say through her breathing. Her hot breath brushed your soaked cunt which had you grinding into the thin air.
You tried to keep the focus on Trinity’s clit as long as you could, but the more you touched her the less attention she was paying to your own clit. You removed your hand and moved your hips faster, your high approaching fast.
“Baby… I-I can’t… I…” Your words turned into random mumbles of begging and pleading for your release.
She grabbed your hips and pressed you down harder against her mouth, her tongue focusing all of its efforts on your clit. You rode out your high with her name escaping your lips with every breath you took.
When you caught your breath, you looked down to see Trinity’s eyes through a heavy gaze. You moved down until you could see her face to face, bringing your lips to hers. You could taste the lingering parts of you on her tongue as she brushed it inside your own mouth.
You moaned at your own taste. Everything that you were doing only added to Trinity’s arousal. Her hips bucked up into nothing to which you pinned her to the bed.
“So damn eager,” you whispered into her ear.
“Can you blame me?” she scoffed, slightly embarrassed at her own want.
You kissed down her sharp jawline to her neck, then down to her chest. She squirmed and whined the entire way down to her core. You had to scold her once for moving too much.
It’s funny to picture her this way now. When you first started sleeping with Trinity she was unusually quiet, only verbally expressing her arousal when she finished. Now, you couldn’t shut her up even if you tried.
Your lips kissed the skin above her waistband, leaving marks that turned purple immediately. Once again, her hips tried to grind up into you. “What did I say?”
“Fuck, please just do something,” she complained. Trinity might’ve been frustrated, but it sure was fun getting her riled up like this.
As you trailed kisses lower, you hooked her fingers under the band of her underwear and pulled down. You could’ve came a second time just looking at the mess you caused. A string of arousal formed as her panties slipped down her legs.
Instead of giving her the satisfaction of your touch, you sat up straight and kept eye contact with her as you slowly put your hair up.
“Now that’s just mean,” she said.
You smirked, but quirked your head to the side playing dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re just trying to stall so that I-”
You cut her off by licking deeply through her pussy, collecting her wetness on your tongue. “What was that?”
She was unable to finish her train of thought as you cut her off. You had a tight grip on her thighs to keep her from moving as you ate her out.
Her lips were soft and sweet with her arousal. Your tongue licked circles around her clit, then flicking up under her hood. Even with your efforts, Trinity wouldn’t stop moving.
The unholy sounds she was making only lit a fire under you even more. If there was one thing Trinity could do, it was talk shit.
“I need more,” she whined. You had only just started, but it was cute that she was reaching her climax.
“What do you say?” you asked.
“Now.” She sounded impatient and needy all wrapped up into one. You knew she didn’t like to beg, but sometimes you liked to get her there.
“Mmm, you know that’s not right.”
“Oh, just shut up and-”
You watched her mouth fall open when you slid two fingers inside her. You moved them slowly at first, taking time to watch her reaction and feel her body around your fingers.
As you picked up the pace, you added your tongue back into the mix. You didn’t think she could get any louder, but she put you to shame within seconds. With profanities falling from her lips, she gave you a jolt of confidence.
With your fingers and tongue moving faster, along with Trinity riding your face, you felt her clench around your fingers. Her breathing was irregular and her hands found your hair, bringing your face closer to her.
“Babe… I’m right there,” she whimpered.
“I know, you got it,” you encouraged her.
“Fuck!” she cried out. Her legs clamped around your head, but you didn’t stop. You kept your tongue and fingers moving while she rode out her high.
One of the selfish things you loved doing when you fucked Trinity was watch her. The way her body reacted to your touch and the way she looked in her euphoric state. There was nothing better than seeing how you affected her.
Now you were caught in the act. Trinity looked down to see you resting the side of your face against her leg while you stared at her.
“Like what you see or something?” she asked.
“Something like that,” you smirked.
You moved from your position to lay next to Trinity. She turned towards you so you were both face to face. She smiled and brushed loose hairs away from your face and behind your ear. “Did I tell you how much of an asshole you were for those pictures today?”
You chuckled. “Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”
“Woah, woah, don’t go jumping to conclusions now.”
You both sat with each other for a moment. Though Trinity’s shift wasn’t as long as she planned, it was a rough day nonetheless. It was nice to sit in comfortable silence.
“You know…” you started, already sick of the quiet, “I don’t know why people say you don’t have any bedside manners. I feel quite satisfied.”
Trinity stared at you with a blank expression for several seconds before saying anything. “So back to what I was saying about you being an asshole.”
content warning: jack abbot x gn!reader. no use of y/n. fluff!!!! reader is referred to as 'bunny' once.
word count: 0.4k.
"so, you hate me?" you ask, straightening up as jack walks right past you in the kitchen. you were bent down to get something from the cabinet beneath the sink — he walked right behind you... and didn't slap your butt.
not even a soft pat.
that obviously means your boyfriend hates you.
because not once since you've been going out, for a good chunk of months now, had this man walked past you and did not slap your ass. every single time. washing the dishes? slap. making dinner? slap. sweeping? slap. drinking water? slap. if you two were simply hanging out on the couch, the moment you stand up, slap. jack is simply obsessed with your ass, and it shows. sometimes even in public — those were obviously less of a slap and more of a gentle pat. like he just needed to put his hands on you, and somehow, it always on your butt.
jack stops mid step, turning around to face you. his handsome, wrinkled face has confused written all over it. "what?"
"you didn't slap my butt," you say, as if it's obvious. "you hate me."
"sweetheart—"
"you don't love me anymore!" you cut him off dramatically, throwing your arm up like a damsel in distress.
jack watches you, trying to figure out if you're serious or not. when he catches that slight tilt of your lips, he huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head. he walks back into the kitchen with that slow gait that makes you weak in the knees. because he knows the effect he has on you.
"i hate you, mhm?" jack says when he's close enough, trapping you between his body and the counter behind you. your heart picks up the pace, but you're not gonna let him throw you off just yet.
you tilt your chin up defiantly, crossing your arms over your chest. "yes, you do—" now, you're the one being cut off. by his lips.
jack grabs your jaw with one of his big hands, bringing you to his lips so he can devour you. his kiss is demanding, his tongue licking the seam of his lips. his other hand trails down your body, down to you hip. he grabs your ass, squeezing the flesh there. you melt against him, all that defiance leaving your body.
the bastard laughs into the kiss when you moan softly at his handling, his other hand going down to grab at your ass, too. he's rough, and you yelp against his lips when jack smacks your ass-cheek. "ouch,"
"you asked for it, bunny," he says, kissing down your neck.
synopsisJack and you have always been ying-and-yang and until a few months ago, the love of each others life. but when thing start shifting and you start drifting from Jack for the worse he doesn't know how to stop it, until he can stop it in the most brutal way possible (request) (7.9k words)
warnings this is heavy, heavy angst, it deals with mental health, not necessary suicide but also a not caring to live. reader has a dnr. so heavy angst with a HAPPY ending. language. typical hospital stuff. not accurate medical things. blood. stabbing mention, death. younger reader, age not specified.
authornote this is heavy angst but with a happy ending. i really liked the request and wanted to explore the idea of dnr's and stuff but if your sensitive to death please don't read (but nobody dies!)
the pitt masterlist! another jack fic!
It was a good day if you were working, Jack had decided that a long time ago.
It was the sort of rule he lived by. Like reading at least one hundred pages of a book a day kept him intelligent, his yoga in the morning kept him calm and limber. A shift working with you, was a good shift.
Most of the day shifters had gone home, but you were still at the nurses station, talking with Lena.
“Hey,” said Jack. It was the first word he'd said to you, un-able to do hand offs with you when Shen decided it was his turn to be at your side, throwing a testing grin in Jack’s direction. “Aren't you going? Here- take this for the road, you might need it.” He was all but forcing a granola bar in your hand. The special ones he reserved for you.
You took it. “Sorry to disappoint, Ellis had a concert she really wanted to go to, I said I'd cover. Beyonce.”
Jack leant over the counter at you, peering through squinted eyes. “Disappointment? I think you've just made my night.”
There was a blush on your cheeks as you looked away, studying the Pitt to find something to distract yourself with.
“You might regret that. We've got a lorry car collision, ETA ten minutes out,” you explained, dropping the granola bar into your scrub pocket. “I might just be your bad luck charm.”
Jack loved working with you. He loved getting your opinion on cases that didn't need a second opinion. He liked the quiet moments in the night shifts you covered where it was just the two of you and the night sky. He liked being able to make you blush, to make you laugh in the middle of the darkness.
Because there was a darkness lingering in you. The sort only the Pitt could latch onto a person.
He'd seen it in Robby.
He despised seeing it in you.
There were some nights you covered- because you were always the first to volunteer to do a double- you started with a sparkle in your eyes and ending the night in despair, dragging yourself home. You'd return hours later, not at all long enough to have had a good sleep.
Jack worried, but he liked having you around to keep an eye on you.
Jack shook his head. “Nah. The bad luck is this place. You're the good.”
You laughed, hesitantly.
Lena patted your arm, kindly, the way a mother did. “I'll go get the guy from trauma two moved.”
“You want some help?” you offered.
“No, sweetie, I got it.”
You looked around like you needed to make myself busy. Like you couldn't be alone with Jack. He'd seen it in the ED many times, even in the military, the need for people to stay busy instead of succumbing to a sort of numbness.
It had been him some years back before he managed to deal with his demons.
“Any interesting cases in the ED today?” Jack asked, following you around with his hands behind his back, restraining himself from guiding you through with a hand on your back.
“Well, we had a woman who didn't realise she was eight months pregnant who gave birth today. A priapism-”
Jack seethed. “Ouch.”
“- and a man with a toothbrush stuck up where the sun don't shine.”
“Double ouch,” he said, checking the side of you. “So you had quite an interesting day, huh?”
“You could say that,” you mumbled. “There's also a girl in five with Fancomi anemia. She came in four hours again and we're still waiting to hear from her parents. She has a half sister half way across the country that might be a bone marrow candidate that they've never tried.”
Jack nodded, listening and catching the far away look in your eyes. “You're doing everything for her,” said Jack. He didn't even have to ask to know you would be doing everything possible for the girl. Even if it meant exhausting yourself.
Jack nodded to himself, debating with himself if he wanted to know the answer to his next question. The devil and angel arguing on his shoulders. “A little birdie told me you had a date,” he said, the both of you knowing the little birdie was, in fact, Robby. “How'd it go?”
You sighed and stopped in the middle of the corridor.
He cut you off before you could start. “I'm just asking to check you're okay. That... that he was nice.”
You nodded slowly, not meeting his gaze as your hands rested at your hips. “He was- he was fine.”
Jack ignored the wince of pain as he crouched to get a look at you. “Just fine?”
If Jack couldn't have you, he loved you enough to just want you happy.
It was only four months ago you'd broken up with him, after seven months of beautiful moments. Of coming home to you in his sheets, making a coffee and waking you up to it. He wanted to steal every moment with you, choosing sleep when you went to work, spending the morning just watching you get ready. The lunch dates where he'd turn up to the ED, the place he could never escape, with a delicious home made lunch for you and sometimes extra for Robby who kicked up a fuss that he got nothing and had known Jack longer.
Jack missed the kisses in the night and the morning. He missed holding you when he had a night off. He missed when you'd think he was asleep and map his freckles, tracing I love you into his skin.
Because the tender moments were always there, yet gradually they began to hide themselves in the cover of night, when you thought he was sleeping.
Jack knew things weren't perfect. With both your schedules it was hard to balance but you tried to make it work. Then the light in your eyes started to fade and when you told him it isn’t working anymore, I love you, I'm sorry, he hadn't thought to keep your relationship alive. He'd just been fighting to keep you.
He was terrified he'd lose you.
Then what would he do?
He wouldn't survive it.
“Just fine?” he asked again.
“Don’t sound too pleased.”
“I’m not,” he denied but bit back a smile.
You looked up to him, shuddering a deep breath. “He was just... whatever.”
“Just a whatever kind of guy?”
“Why are you asking so much?” you asked, mildly annoyed.
Because he still loved you? Wasn't it painfully obvious? Weren't you just trying to act like you didn't know he was helpless for you to spare him embarrassment.
“Just, checking in on you.”
You looked down at your shoes, scuffing them on the floor. “It- he was nice but... I dunno, not what I wanted.”
Jack hummed. “No?” did you still want him? He'll be honest, he didn't think he'd hear about you going on a date. Least of all with some guy from Pedes. When you'd broke up with him he expected it had something to do with you wanting to focus on you. Rest up. The sort of stuff like that. Then he had to hear from Robby that you were going out for dinner.
There was only a small bite of anger before Jack felt sorry for himself.
“No,” you sighed.
There were deeper circles under your eyes than usual, sharp half moons dark in colour lingering there. Your eyes were dark and lifeless, scrubs hanging off you.
“Is there anything else going on?” he asked, tugging at your arm slightly to hide yourselves at a corner.
You looked up to him, lips pulled down in a frown as you shook your head. “Nope.”
His brows rose, eyes looking at you, pleading. “You can talk to me if there is, h-” the pet name he had no right to almost slipped from his lips. He gulped it down and felt it sting down his throat. “You can tell me.”
“We're...” you hesitated. “We're not together anymore, Jack. You don't have to do all this chivalry thing.”
“Can't help it,” Jack shrugged. “Not when it's you.”
Your hands wrung together and Jack looked down. There was flakes of dry skin on along your fingers. He knew the sanitiser in the ED could be harsh on your skin, but he also knew he'd replaced your hand moisturiser in your locker just two weeks ago and that you should have plenty. It was a nervous habit you had, to rub your hands together like so.
Jack remembered it from your first date. He’s used it as an excuse to reach over and take your hands.
“I'm just tired,” you mumbled.
Jack nodded, slow and listening. “That it?” he prodded gently.
He'd heard countless doctors slip those words out in answer to the everything okay type questions. He'd seen Robby break as the words chocked in his throat. You said them without emotion. Without even trying to prove your lie.
“Why don't you go home? Get some rest-”
“Ellis is-”
“- we'll manage,” he insisted. His hand had un-consciously started to move up and down your forearm in comfort.
You winced as you turned your head aside, thinking about it.
Jack didn't know how much he really wanted you to go home. He wanted you to rest, yes, but preferably in the family room with a blanket thrown over you where he could drop by and check in on you. Check you were okay.
Check you weren't doing something stupid.
He knew that not everyone felt like a ticking time bomb. That not everyone's mind would wonder as dark as his did sometimes.
But he feared you weren't far off.
“Go rest-”
At the same moment Jack spoke the ambulance doors were pushed open and two bodies were pushed through on gurneys, bloody and broken. Stats were yelled out and Jack was called for.
At the same time, Matteo popped out of five, calling for you.
“She's crashing!”
You rushed over, falling into the room with the young girl and Matteo.
With a heavy sigh, Jack followed the other path of emergency responders and doctors.
He and the team worked on them. A father and son involved in a lorry crash that ploughed right into the side. The kid was only seventeen with a broken leg and collapsed lung. The father was much better off. The boy would need surgery and Walsh was already down and wheeling him up.
It was all done in a quick blur of thirty minutes. He took care of it all clinically like ticking through a to do list, not looking to close at the kid to remember shades of hair or lines of the face.
By the time Jack was stepping out the trauma room, Crus at his side, you still had not returned to the floor of the ED.
“How does she seem to you?” Jack asked Crus, the two of them pulling off their gloves and gowns. He said your name in clarification.
“Hot!” said Crus with a shit-eating grin.
Jack glared at him. He should have known not to expect a serious answer from Henderson. Or at least he hoped that wasn't the serious answer.
“I don't know man, how do you want her to seem?” asked Crus.
“She seems tired. For a while now,” Jack noted.
“Aren't we all chasing sleep?” he asked him, leaving his side with a pat on his back.
Jack found himself at the nurses station, leaning over.
Lena's glasses slid down her nose, a chart in hand and her red hair messily pulled back. She ditched all efforts to seem busy however when he beckoned her over. “She's been in there the last thirty-five minutes,” she told him. “The little girl she'd been looking after crashed.”
“Nothing back?”
Lena shook her head.
Jack shook his head. “Shit.”
With a heavy heart he dragged himself to room five, already hearing the stillness of the monitor, the hard breathing and orders.
“Push another round of epi and charge to two hundred.”
The room smelt of septic cleaning products and the faint aroma of sweat. There was a faint burn smell from the defibrillators that had apparently already been charged and used.
Jack lingered in the doorway.
Your body was curved over the small girl, knees denting into the crappy hospital bed that hadn't been updated in years. Your hands were cupped over her chest, pumping down as Matteo pushed another round of epi. Catching Jack's eyes, he shook his head.
Jack tutted, quietly to himself. “Hold compressions, check for a rhythm.”
It took you a second but you stopped, looking to the monitor in hope.
There was nothing but a flat line.
Jack didn't tell you to resume compressions but you did anyway.
“Charge to three hundred,” you said to Matteo.
He was caught in the middle, looking toward Jack for confirmation.
Jack nodded and Matteo got the paddles, warming them and handing them to you.
Your grasped them in an all too familiar hold. “Clear!”
The small girls body lurched before flopping back on the bed. Everyone in the small room waited for a rhythm. There was nothing in answer.
Jack had no time to tell you not to carry on before you were. He took a slow step in, patting Matteo on the shoulder, in a silent gesture to have him leave.
The nurse gave a sad look before leaving, closing the door gently behind him.
There was Jack and you over the girls body.
He said your name, slowly.
You didn't react.
“Honey, come on,” said Jack. “She's gone.” He could see the tremble in your arms from the compressions you hadn't given up on.
One. Two. Three. Four.
“Her parents aren't even here,” you said. “They didn't even pick up their phone when Dana called. We-we left a message. They deserve to see their daughter one last time.”
Jack nodded. “They will.”
You glanced up at him. “Alive.”
He clocked his head to the side. “That's not gonna happen. It's been forty-five minutes. She's gone.”
Losing kids were the hardest. Losing anyone was hard but kids weren't supposed to be found in hospital beds, tubes poking out of them. If they had to be found in a hospital, they deserved loved ones around them. Not strangers in black and blue.
Jack knew you were trying to do the right thing. Sometimes there was no right thing to do.
“Come on.” Jack was slow in moving around the bed to your side. He gave you time to slow down, to feel the exhaustion in your arms. His own hovered over you. “Come on.”
You shuddered when his arms fell over you, holding you softly as you slumped back into him, falling from the bed on feet that weren't ready to catch you. His arms were; strong where you were weak.
“It's okay, it's okay,” he mumbled into your hair, peppering kisses there. “You did everything you could.”
Neither of you knew how long you stood there in his embrace. Somewhere between the consoling you and you slowly leaving his arms- like it was paining you physically to do so- Jack called the time of death so you wouldn't have to, pulling the plug on the monitor to kill the sound of dying.
When he turned back you were stuck at the door, eyes downcast as if you couldn't bring yourself to look at the small body he pulled the cover over.
He returned to your side, hand gentle on your arm. “Go take some time in the family room.”
You shook your head, a tear betraying your words. “I'm fine.”
Jack reached up and cupped your cheek in the palm of his hand. He looked at you like you were still his whole world. You were. To him. His thumb delicately wiped the tear away as your gaze reached his. “Ten minutes, please. For me.”
It took some time, some great mental calculations sparring inside of you but you nodded and Jack led you from the room, closing the door behind him.
His hand was a gentle breeze against the small of your back as he led you out, giving a gesture of a nod to Lena about the room. It was enough for her charge nurse bells to go off as she nodded and sent someone over.
“Take all the time you need, okay?” Jack whispered to you.
You nodded, stepping out his hold and slowly walking to the family room.
Jack waited and watched closely, marking every step you took to the room. He only let out a sigh when he saw you close the door behind you.
“Everything okay?” asked Lena as he slouched over the counter.
His face scrunched up as he fought his own pain. Pain for the little girl but a greater pain chocked at him as he closed his eyes and pictured the heartbreak marring your face, taking over your entire body. He sniffed back his own grief. “No. No, not really.”
Slowly he explained the situation to Lena. He re-encountered the break up that had took the night crew by shock. They were all so sure it was happy ever after for the two of you. When Jack had to slowly explain the break up (he lied and said it was mutual, it was very much not) there were distraught faces as if the night-crawlers were all going through a parental divorce. He told Lena he knew something was going on with you. He told her about the girl that had just died.
“And I just-” said Jack, chocking on a cry that threatened to escape the lodge in his throat. “Sometimes when I see her, it feels like I'm gonna be seeing her for the last time.”
“Hey,” Lena whispered and reached for his hand, squeezing it. “None of that. She'll be okay.”
Jack nodded, repeating the words to himself. “Yeah, she'll be okay. Keep an eye on here?”
“Already on it.”
By the time Jack next had the spare moment to check his watch he found thirty minutes had flickered by since he last saw you. When he passed by the family room you weren't there. Instead Caleb was, talking to a family.
Jack went in search of you, checking the board for your initials. He didn't see anything up on there, nothing that jolted his heart with the usual sparks.
“Shen!” he called in passing. “Have you seen her?”
“Er, no, sorry.”
Jack cursed. He was turning around the ED, spinning on his heel and looking around every corner for you. You weren't by the lockers, weren't out in the ambulance bay. Trauma one was empty and trauma two had a large team in there already, devoid of you.
His heart beat like a drum in his chest, growing louder and louder, the thud of the bass growing the more time went on and he couldn't find you. Had you gone home without a word? Were you hiding away somewhere else?
Jack was losing hope, running on anxiety when he pushed back the curtain to fourteen hard enough to almost tear the thing.
You looked up at him from your place on the stool next to your patient, a middle aged woman with an ankle not as it should be.
“You're here,” he said, breathless.
“Er, yeah?” you said with a small chuckle. “I'm just telling Mrs Greene here about the surgery to reset the bone in her foot.”
Jack nodded, looking from you to your patient.
He wasn't an idiot. Your eyes were scratched and red, cheeks flushed. Yet you'd tried to put yourself back together. You'd scraped back your hair in a neater pin up, had clearly splashed cold water on your face, maybe even dunked your face in a bowl of it. You sat with your hands in your lap, a leg kicked over the other, caving in on yourself.
As soon as you left the room, chart in hand, Jack was hot on your heels.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You startled, looking at him. “Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?”
“You lost a patient,” Jack reminded you, a small frown pulling at his lips. “It's tough on all of us.”
You glanced down to the chart, lifting your shoulders. “We lose people all the time. It's the job.”
He surveyed you as you slid into a seat, logging into the computer in front of you. No eye contact, distractions pulling at you. Jack knew your tactics; they were everyone else's. Ignore the pain till it went away before mounting up and crashing down at the worst time possible. Heck, he was chair of the club.
“Sure,” he mused. “Doesn't make it any easier.”
You sighed, pulling your lips up into a strained smile. “Jack, seriously, I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me.”
Jack leant over the counter. “Well, you want to know a secret?”
“What?”
“I'm always worried about you.”
“I don't think it's much of a secret,” you said, moving your fingers quick over the keypad.
He wondered if your hands were steady. Or even if you were writing anything with meaning, or just trying to occupy yourself. “If you need to go home-”
“- I don't-”
“- take some time-”
“- I don't want to take time,” you huffed.
“You’re starting to sound like Robby.”
“Now that’s insulting,” you huffed. There was a moment were you fell silent, your body slumping under the weight of the argument. You dragged your hands down your face. “Jack, please.”
When you're a kid they teach you that manners are an important basis in the human condition. A show of respect. A nicety. They don't tell you the effects the simple words hold when used on the tongue of a loved one. When someone you love is begging you to leave them alone, even against your better judgement.
Jack never liked to hear you beg as it was.
He hung his head in surrender. “I'm staying close.”
“You'll be loitering.”
“Observing,” he corrected.
He loitered around you the rest of the night. He checked your name on the board every time he passed. When the parents of the young girl arrived five hours later Jack spoke to them, he didn't even tell you they had arrived but somehow you knew. A silent nod of thanks was passed. The sun started to rise and Jack had counted three coffee's, two over your usual. The granola bar he'd handed you was left abandoned at your station and before Jack could find you to make sure you eat the rest, Crus had taken it in one bite.
Six am was a blessing. The night hadn't been full of patients, no more than usual at least but it had been more stressful to Jack.
Every time you moved and he couldn't find you he was worried. Even if it only lasted a minute or two. It was the same blind panic he'd felt the day Robby left for his sabbatical, yet the relief when he saw you didn't last.
Jack had left to go to the bathroom in the morning. When he came back Robby was there, fleece pulled up and talking to you. He couldn't tell what was going on, only that Robby's hands were clasped together in a prayer like motion.
Then he saw you nod and Robby sigh before giving you a high five and leaving.
“What was that?” Jack asked, falling at your side.
“What?”
“What were you and Robby talking about?”
“Er,” you hesitated. “Langdon can't make it, there's something at home, I don't know his kids are sick or something, Abbey's away visiting family.”
Jack was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “So?”
“He's asked me to stick around for a bit, help him out-”
“You've just pulled a double,” Jack snapped.
“It's only a few hours,” you shrugged, as if you weren't the walking definition of sleep. “Beats going home.”
“I'll cover.”
“Then you'll be pulling a triple,” you pointed out. “I'm younger, more spry.”
His jaw pulled tight, hands falling on his hips. “I'll talk to Robby.”
“I've told him I'll do it,” you said, firmly. “I don't want to go home and sit with this, I'd rather be here.”
“For how long?” he asked. “You gonna stay here forever now? You can't run away from this.”
“I can't sit with it either,” you snapped back, heat rising up your neck. “I'm not like you, Jack. I can't leave the shift at the door and go home and just sleep it off. I need to... I need to do something.”
Jack stood and listened. He knew you all processed things differently. He knew that you were never good at staying still, always rising early in the mornings even if you weren't working, cooking before he'd even said he was hungry. Siting still and thinking didn't work for you.
You took a deep breath and squeezed your eyes shut. It took you a couple moments to drag your eyelids open. “I'm gonna go sleep through hand over. I'll see you soon, okay?”
Jack didn't bother saying anything as he watched you go.
Your place was taken up by Robby. He looked down the way you'd walked.
“You had no right to ask her to stay,” Jack argued.
Robby chuckled low in his throat. “You have no right to be mad that she said yes. She's not yours anymore, Jack.”
“She's exhausted!” he grit.
“Then she wouldn't have said yes.”
“She wouldn't have said no, either!”
Robby grit his teeth and backed up a step. “Brother, I know you care about her. I'm only asking a couple hours to figure things out. She's a grown up. She knows what she's doing. I don't think you do.”
Robby walked off then, leaving Jack to it.
The worst part was, Jack knew he was right. He had no idea what he was doing.
It was two days later and Jack wasn't even supposed to be in.
It was only three in the afternoon, he had at least three more hours of snooze time, lying back in his bed, counting the flecks of paint in his ceiling- if he hadn't been out on the SWAT team.
A bunch of boys- punks really- were holding hostages for a total of six thousand dollars and a PS5. Considering the wars and losing his leg and the shoot outs it was a relative easy thing to deal with. Still, when the larger one of the trio took a run at him and landed his shoulder square in the chest, pushing Jack to the floor, it still hurt.
He'd pulled up his shirt, caught a glimpse at the bruising and thought it better safe than sorry. Best to get it checked out by your hands.
Any excuse really to feel your hands touch him.
“Hey,” he greeted, walking through the ambulance doors.
It was like walking into a morgue.
Dana and Javadi were at the nurses station, both turned to look at him in shock. “Jack, honey, what are you doing here?” she asked without her usual smile.
Jack clocked his head aside. “I took a tumble, thought I could get a look at, you know.” He was hoping she'd catch just who he wanted examining him without saying your name.
Javadi gasped at her side, hands flying over her mouth. “Oh my god.”
Jack looked to her. “What?”
He glanced around the Pitt.
Princess and Perlah were in the corner, talking in Tagalog quietly while glancing at him. Others were looking at him but Robby wasn't. He wasn't around. He counted: neither Samira, Whitaker, Santos or McKay were there.
Nor were you.
Dana slowed around the counter, lifting an arm to him. “Why don't we get some coffee? I can take a look at you-”
But Jack had already found trauma two, where all the doctors he was looking for were.
Robby stilled, gloved hands and gown covered in blood. At his side Samira was much the same, behind him Whitaker too. “Jack! Get out!”
It took him a minute to realise why everyone was looking at him, why the ED had felt colder than usual. Why you'd been missing from the floor.
The blood surrounding everything was yours.
“Jack!” Robby yelled.
You were on the gurney too still, so un-natural for you. Had he not been complaining you wouldn't take a break just forty-eight hours ago?
Jack looked to each face that was frozen, wondering what to do. Whether they should work on saving you or work on getting rid of him.
Jack made their choice for them, throwing off his jacket and pulling on latex gloves over the sweat of his palms. “Talk to me!” he yelled to anyone in the room.
Robby gave one un-impressed shake of his head and a groan. “We found her in the bathrooms. Stab wounds to the left chest, two to the belly, right and left upper quadrants.”
Jack was over you know, looking down.
You were pale, eyes dark and closed and not opening as he pressed a hand to the top of your head, feeling around just to be able to touch and know you were there. It was a relief to know as much as it was a nightmare to see you. He inhaled but it was shaky.
“She- she was stabbed?” he asked.
“We think it was a patient,” said Santos from behind him. “Or-or a relative of a patient, we don't know.”
Jack shook his head, brows creasing. “Oh god.”
“Pule ox eighty-two!” called out Donnie.
Jack snatched the central line tray away from Robby, lying it out and doing it all himself. He looked at you and saw a patient. For the sake of your life he was looking at you and cutting you open like he didn't love you. “Call- call someone,” he said.
“What?” asked Whitaker.
“Robby,” said Jack. “Call- call her emergency contact. A friend. A family, I don't know just get her someone! She-she doesn't like patients being alone so for gods sake, call someone!”
Robby was adamant to argue. It was evident in the lines in his face and the frown on his lips but Jack heard the sharp tug of elastic and the sound of him giving up.
He remembered how distraught you'd been when the little girl had no family with her. You weren't going to die- you weren't. But Jack wanted someone you trusted to be with you.
“BP's ninety over fifty!”
“Okay, c'mon, c'mon, honey,” said Jack as he carefully and skilfully intubated you, the bag going on. “Don't do this to me.”
Robby had pulled over the computer, logging in and typing away.
“Pulse ox is dropping!”
“Belly is distended,” said Whitaker. “Probably an intra-abdominal bleed!”
“Get four more units of O-neg in here!” ordered Jack.
“Pressure's down to sixty!” yelled Samira.
“Oh... god,” Robby uttered, staring intently at the computer screen.
There was a harsh beeping screaming through the room and everyone looked.
“We've lost her pulse!”
By the time Mohan had finished announcing it Jack had already climbed up, compressing down on your chest.
“No. No,” he said, harshly. “You are not doing this to me. You're not! Push a round of epi!”
There was another beeping that would haunt Jack for the rest of his life.
“She's in V-fib!”
Jack grunted. “Charge to one hundred!”
“Stop!” Robby called out. His head was hung low between his shoulders, one hand held up. “Stop.”
Jack did not stop pushing down to your chest. Over you, Donnie did not stop pressing down on the bag. Nobody was stopping. “Robby, What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he snapped.
Robby was pale, his eyes down cast as he turned his body to the room but didn't have the strength to look at anyone. He rested a hand on his hip, the other stretched out to the cart with the computer to steady himself. “Her chart. She's DNR.”
Jack didn't hear him, not right away. Or he did but didn't want to. He knew the letters DNR. Sometimes a mercy for the elderly that had lived a long, good life and wanted to go out on their terms. For the terminally ill who didn't want to live the rest of their life in pain.
You were young. You were healthy. You were not dying.
“What?” said McKay.
“You're kidding,” said Denis.
Robby shook his head, spinning the computer to them.
“Doctor Mohan!” Jack called, a silent plea for her to take his place. With steady hands, she did and Jack stumbled down next to Robby.
He stared at your name, your birthday. Your file sat there staring at him, the DNR mocking all the love he held for you.
“She's DNR, Jack, I'm sorry,” said Robby, a hand on his shoulder. “We have to respect that.”
His fingers moved around the keyboard till he highlighted the DNR.
You'd signed a DNR. You'd never said anything. Why had you signed a DNR?
Jack moved around on the keypad and did the only reasonable thing. Everyone behind him waited with bated breath.
Jack dragged his finger to the bin icon and deleted your file.
Robby stared at him in shock.
Jack looked away from the now empty computer screen and didn't so much as glance at Robby as he returned to your side. “Charge to one hundred.”
A wave of shock rippled through the doctors and nurses as Jack marched back to your side. There was disbelief that you, someone so young, would ever be a DNR. That Jack- who they'd all argue was a little bit more responsible than their own Doctor Robby- would erase a file!
Jack looked around at them all. “Charge to one hundred, now!”
Santos and Whitaker were the first to jump to attention, charging and handing over the panels.
“Clear!”
The waiting room was colder, quieter and whiter than Jack was accustom to. He was used to working down in the Pitt, with its white walls and ghosts but there was always noise. Always monitors going off and names being called, usually there were wails or cries of relief.
In the waiting room there was nothing.
Only lines and lines of chairs, a fish tank that last time he'd counter had a dozen or so goldfish and a clock that ticked by every second you lay under the knife.
Every second ticked away and nobody came to fetch him, to update him.
Every second Jack was left alone to guess why you'd have a DNR order.
The door creaked open and the only other waiting woman and child in the room looked up. As did Jack.
Robby walked in, boots shuffling, lips tilting up into an apologetic smile as he raised a hand to the mother and daughter. He found Jack. “Anything?”
He shook his head. He learnt almost two hours ago not to trust his voice from shaking anymore.
Robby settled in the chair next to Jack, stretching out his legs. Not to impose but just to press his boot next to Jack's and assure him he was there. It was a small move but none the less appreciated. “The guy was only came in for a headache,” he explained quietly in the silence. “We were waiting on a psych consult from some erratic behaviour-”
“- he should've been restrained,” said Jack, through eyes that were heavy in tears. He knew that most patients came in erratic, that they didn't always have to be tied down but he still he remembered your blood all over the trauma room, your blood on everyone's gloves.
Jack had to get a change of scrubs from the lockers just to get out of his clothes stained in your blood but as he looked down at his boots he found a spec of your blood.
“The guy had no infection, we've no idea how he got the knife. He ran after the attack. Word is he's at Westbridge being treated for schizophrenia.”
“How long?” Jack asked, a shake in his voice as he angled his head down to Robby. He gulped. “How long do you think she was lying there, alone, bleeding to death before anyone found her?”
Robby's own inhale was shaky, his body wracked with it. “I don't know.”
Jack's breath shuddered. He hunched over himself, resting his elbows on his knees.
Had you been conscious? Aware of the fact litres of your blood were leaving without being able to call for help. Were you trying to call for help but un-able to find your voice? The thought had Jack's stomach churning.
“What if-”
“Don't-” warned Robby.
“What if she doesn't make it?”
“She will.”
Jack tried to imagine a world without you but he couldn't. He tried to picture walking into work and not finding your face, smiling or on the verge of collapse. He imagined not being able to text you just to say he was thinking about you and for you to just reply, don't. He couldn't imagine the last photo he'd have of you on his phone was the morning you broke up with him, when you were sleeping and he thought you looked so beautiful and at peace that he had to capture the moment.
He wanted to tell you there'd be no peace on the other side. Not if you left him.
“Two stab wounds to the belly,” Jack sniffed. “Could've been the spleen.”
Robby didn't try to sugar coat it. He only nodded and listened. “It could.”
“It could've got the heart, she was stabbed in the chest.”
“Maybe.”
They sat in silence.
Jack saw Robby watch the clock for an entire minute.
“Do you know why?” asked Robby. “Why she had a DNR?”
Jack winced at the memory. The stamp standing out to him. It was offensive to him, that you'd do such a thing. He rested back in his chair. “No. She.... she never said anything about it, not to me.”
Jack didn't need to ask what he might have meant. They knew it better than most.
Maybe it wasn't a want to die, but an indifference to live.
Yet, a DNR wasn't an indifference. It was a choice that if anything happened to you you'd never want to come back from it.
“I can't do it,” said Jack, looking down to his boots. He struggled to put the rest of it into words. “I can't... without her- I can't. And I want nothing more than for her to wake up. But... I'm so angry she's done this.”
There was grief, despair also behind that anger but the fury masked it.
“So am I,” said Robby. He was the closest thing to a mentor you had, someone to look out for you when Jack wasn't around. “When she wakes up-”
Jack shook his head. “We don't know that.”
Robby's body hunched over, focused on Jack. “When she gets out of that OR you get to argue with her first.”
Jack dared to hope in the silence that paraded between them. “You think she knows?” he asked. “That we brought her back?”
It seemed Robby didn't even have to think about it.
“She knows.”
There was another tick of the clock before the door opened again.
“Doctor Abbot.”
He shot up at the call of his name, pushing through the door with Robby following behind. Out in the hallway the lights radiated a ghostly white and Jack felt haunted already.
Garcia stood there, a mask lose around her neck.
“How-how is she?” he asked.
Garcia looked between them. “Recovering. There's a long road ahead of her, but she's stubborn. Far more stubborn than the two of you combined. She's going to make it.”
Jack let out a shudder of a breath of relief, his entire body curling. He felt the need to throw up all the words he'd wanted to say to you and hadn't. That coil in his stomach released and his last good leg trembled.
He felt Robby's hand on his shoulder and dully heard him and Garcia talk about what had gone on in the operating room but it was as if Jack was under water.
A score of surgeons started to wheel you out, pushing you into recovery.
Jack saw you in a new gown without blood, bandages around you. You were still asleep but that's all it was, a sleep. Your skin was still pale but there was the smallest bit of life in your cheeks. You moved so slow, or maybe that's how he was seeing you, trying to slow it down to memorise you.
When you disappeared Jack came back to with enough time to thank Garcia and rush off after you.
By the time you woke up Jack had gone through his mind a thousand times, trying to think of a way to approach the topic of you seemly wanting to die without coming off as angry and afraid as he felt.
You woke slowly with flutters of your eyes and your hand coming up to rub at the sleep only to be held down by the IV in your hand.
Jack jerked at the movement, claiming your hand and holding it in his, squeezing. “Hey. Hey, you're okay, it's okay,” he said, coaxing some comfort into you.
You turned to find him, eyes groggy as you blinked at him. Your lips parted, dry and chapped, just barely mumbling his name.
“Yeah, yeah, it's me,” he said with a watery smile as tears sprung to his eyes. “It's me, you're okay, you're safe.”
You glanced around the room in post-op. The blank walls with cards about various health hacks, at the monitors all around you, then down to yourself in a gown, the blanket that Jack had asked Robby to bring from his place gently tucked close to you. Selfishly, he'd wanted to keep just one thing when you left. You gulped. “What-what happened?”
Jack steadied himself. “You were- you were stabbed, one to the chest. Tw-two to the belly.”
You blinked, taking in the information. Slowly, your free hand rose and rubbed over your heart. “My-my chest-”
“Does it hurt?” asked Jack, ready to begrudgingly let go of your hand and rush to get someone.
You shook your head, closing your eyes and resting your head back in the cushions. “It... aches, a little.”
Jack knew the pain from other people winces. From the jutting of chests when they were shocked to the burn marks left there after. He'd seen your wince on hundreds of other patients, often described as a pain like being kicked in the chest.
He wondered if his heart breaking was a similar pain.
“Your- your heart stopped. We lost your pulse. We had to bring you back,” he said slowly, studying your face for any sign of grief. “We had to shock you.”
He waited.
You only slowly closed your eyes and opened them again. “Oh.” Your hand gave his a little squeeze.
Jack gulped down his troubles, shuffling closer and resting his arms on the bed, caressing your hand close to his chest. “We had to go against the DNR. Your DNR.”
You looked at him, a small knot of confusion between your brows before it quickly smoothed over. He watched you slowly avert your gaze, turning away to stare at the ceiling instead. You didn't cry- in rage or relief- you didn't say anything for a while leaving Jack to guess if you wanted him to bring you back.
“Why?” he asked, a crack in his voice. “Honey- why was there a DNR order on your file?” deep down he knew he should have been letting you rest, taking care of you and whispering soothing words but he couldn't see past the order on your file. He couldn't forget the way he watched your body lie still and bloody without breath and the dread that filled his chest when he found out you didn't want to be brought back.
You blinked a tear. “I don't know.”
Jack shuffled closer still, his knees digging into the bed. “Baby... honey, please. You-you can tell me,” he begged, holding the back of your hand to the stubble growing in stress. “Please, honey. I... I thought I was gonna lose you forever.”
His salty tears rolled onto the back of your hand and like it was acid, you cried, the sort that had your bottom lip jittering.
“I-I really don't know,” you uttered. “I guess I was young and-and stupid. I didn't want to die... didn't care much about living either. I just put there as a.... as....”
Jacks thumb slowly soothed your hand, resting it on his cheek as he listened. “As a what, honey?”
You glanced his way before your expression turned pain and you stared down at the blanket instead. “A failsafe. I didn't think anything would happen to me... but if I did I guessed it was life's way of telling me to be done.”
Jack took a deep breath that didn't reach deep in his lungs, it sat and burned. He knew it wasn't about him and he wasn't trying to make it so but he'd had a long time to think about life without you while waiting for you to come out of surgery.
Who else was he supposed to talk to if he didn't have you?
Who else was he supposed to laugh with if you weren't there?
Who else would take up all the love he had if you didn't have it?
“I did it ages ago, Jack, I swear, I forgot about it. Things were different, when-when I was with you. I just... I...”
He nodded, trying to hide his tears. He turned his head to wipe his cheek against his shoulder.
You squeezed his hand again.
“You didn't- you never said anything,” he mumbled.
You lips parted and hung open lamely. “I'm sorry.”
Jack shook his head again and looked at you with his best, un-stable, smile. “I just don't know what I would've done without you.”
Your finger tapped his hand, almost pityingly. “You'd have been okay.”
He scoffed. “Like fuck I would have,” he said, looking at you. “Do you realise how scared I was when I saw you in trauma? Do you realise what my life means without you? Nothing. Nothing, it means nothing.”
You frowned. “But I... I broke up with you?”
Jack shrugged. “So? You think I was gonna stay away long?”
You looked down at the blanket again, the one you'd picked up at a store- Jack couldn't even remember what store- he just remembered you'd seen it and said it would look good at home. At his. It was the first time you'd said his place as home and the first time he realised it could have been just that. “I dunno, I'm kind of a mess.”
Jack looked at you like you were the stars in the sky. “So am I, baby. That doesn't change anything.”
He thought to how sad you'd looked breaking up with him, like you didn't want to. All the extra shifts you'd been carrying, the silent pain. “You can't carry on like this. Being distracted, running from the pain. You have to... talk about it, face it.”
You swallowed, bitterly, as if even thinking about doing just that was the last thing you wanted to think about.
“If I hadn't been there today, I... I don't even want to think about what could've happened,” he admitted, quietly.
“How- how did you do it?” you asked. “Go about the DNR?”
Jack looked up sheepishly. “I deleted your file from the records.”
There was the smallest hint of a smirk on your lips.
“Gloria's not gonna like that,” you warned, pulling at his hand.
Jack chuckled to himself. “Gloria can kiss my ass.”
You laughed. It was small and pained but it was the first laugh from you Jack had heard in months.
He smiled at the sound.
“Jack?”
You pulled on his hand, beckoning him closer.
Jack hovered over you, checking where he could rest as to not hurt you. He rested his arm over yours, gently stroking back your hair while keeping your hand in his, resting it over your chest where the firm and promising beating of your heart lay.
“Thank you,” you said. “I don't... I don't think I'd want to have died. I know I act like it some times with... with all the work and the distance-”
Jack nodded along. It was a good start, a fresh one that he could build with you.
“But I want to be alive. With you.”
“Well that's good,” he said, tasting the own salt of his tears on his lips that were bitten down on in anxiety. “Because I want you to be alive. With or without me.”
You smiled up at him.
Jack stroked back your hair again. “But I'd prefer with.”
“So would I.”
Jack kissed you gently and slow, letting you set a pace of push him off. You did neither. Your lips puckered and were light against his but he grew solid then, an un-moving block at your side.
And you'd start again with each other, gentle and slow.
if you need help or related to the dark ideas in this fic, please talk to someone!
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