Summary: Bucky has the biggest crush on you but he can never bring himself to ask you out and he's so done with the teasing everyone else does about it
Warnings: it's very fluffy but also angsty because Bucky thinks very lowly of himself. mutual pining. bucky who yearns. bit of jealously, but does it count if it's because his cat? Everyone say thank you Sam. Bucky who is scared of rejection and who thinks you deserve better than him. patient reader, like omg she's so patient.
Word Count: 2.8k
Present for @buckysdecaflove! Hope you enjoy lovely!
Bucky doesn’t mean for it to happen. It’s just something that sprung up on him the first time he met you. When Steve brought you to Wakanda and introduced you two with this stupid smug grin on his face like he knew exactly what was about to happen.
You put your hand out and looked at him like he was just Bucky. You smiled at him and told him your name. And Bucky’s brain short circuited for a solid ten seconds.
He hates that that was your first impression of him. How he immediately felt hot and struggled to say his own name back. And then he did and he knew that was stupid because Steve had told you about him. You already knew his name.
But it isn’t until years later. Years that hadn’t been years to him because they passed in a blink of an eye for him. When quiet had settled within the Avengers Compound and slow days rolled in.
It wasn’t until the afternoons where you’d had a second cup of coffee at the kitchen island with him while he had his first because he didn’t wake until 11 unless he had to be up. Words barely spoken. The days where you’d casually mention a book you’d read and Bucky would find himself writing it down so he could see what you like. The nights where you’d both be in the gym together and he’d keep an eye on you while you lifted something heavy.
It wasn’t until then did he realize just how fucked he was.
You were the best part of his day without even trying to be and that made it so much worse.
It’s stupid--not you. Him and the way he acts. He’s a grown ass man, not a school boy, his brain shouldn’t just stop working because you smiled or hell even looked at him.
You also deserve better. You don’t deserve rough and bloodied hands. You don’t deserve someone who can barely sleep peacefully through the night. You don’t deserve someone as haunted as him.
What you deserve is the world and he wishes he could give it to you.
~
The smell of coffee brewed earlier this morning lingered in the kitchen and mixed with the faint scent of burnt toast from the bottom of the toaster that no one had gotten around to cleaning out.
Sunlight comes in through just the right - or wrong - angle through the wide windows that make it bounce off the polished floor and shine far too brightly then it has any right to.
There’s stillness in the space, the kind that comes from the quiet, the kind that settles a pounding heart--a kind that makes Nat’s and Yelena’s chatter from the other end of the room nothing more than a buzz that Bucky tunes out easily.
It’s far too early--earlier than Bucky likes to be up, but Sam had other ideas. He walked into his room like he belonged there and dragged Bucky out of bed. Literally. Sam ignored Bucky’s threats and just yanked his blanket, taking Bucky with it with a harsh thud onto the floor and then into the hall.
THANK GOD you didn’t see. He had been in just his boxers after all.
But now Bucky was up and his mind had no intention of falling back asleep after training anytime soon so he settled on breakfast and coffee. Strong coffee that kept Bucky from sneering at Sam.
Who wakes up at seven for sparring!?
Bucky should, at least, be able to push Sam down the stairs.
“Oh, mornin’ Bucky! You’re up early!”
He nearly choked on his cereal at the sound of your angelic voice and nearly got whiplash as his head cranked in your direction, still struggling to get his food down correctly. With his face turning red—it’s just the food, no one can make him admit otherwise.
There’s a smile on your face, it’s sweet and soft, and makes every wall he built crumble immediately. It makes his stomach twist and his heart pound wildly in his ears like a hammer.
Maybe mornings aren’t so bad after all. Not if he gets to see you.
Bucky swallows, thickly, attempting to force down the logs that suddenly formed in his throat, but the action is in vain. His mouth moves but words struggle to roll off his tongue as his gaze follows you while you move towards the fridge.
“Hey.. Mornin’...” He finally manages to say and instantly curses at himself internally.
You pull out the cake Torres made yesterday that somehow survived to today. “You and Sam heading out?” You ask, helping yourself to the last slice.
Bucky looked down at himself, then remembered why you were asking; because of the time. “No. He dragged me outta bed to spar.”
You hummed in response and licked a piece of frosting that got on your finger and Bucky’s brain malfunctioned entirely.
“That sounds like him. Y’know he tried to get me to join too, but I already promised Wanda we’d head to the farmer’s market this morning. We brought back a lot, but I got some plum jar for you, it’s in the pantry. I tasted some myself. Had to make sure it was good before I bought it,” you rambled, rambling that Bucky could listen to for hours.
Instead, he blinked. “You got me jam?” he asked slowly.
You nodded like it was no big deal. “You like plums,” you said so simply, voice muffled from the bite you took, and finally turned, leaning against the counter.
Fuck, you were beautiful. Eyes that marveled the heavens. A smile that made his knees weak. And a touch that was ungodly gentle compared to how you treat your enemies.
He realized you had said something else and were looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Buck? You good?”
He nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just--. Just tired.”
Your face crinkled in the sweetest way, not pity, but still care. You pushed off the counter, plate in one hand, and moved towards him. “I’ll tell Sam he’s gotta let you get enough sleep.” Your hand fell on his shoulder and even through the fabric of his henley it felt like his skin was on fire. You can’t keep looking at him like that. It’s not fair. Not when he could never be more than just this to you. “And then he can mess with you. After the eight hours.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off yours. “I’m afraid that’s easier said than done,” he murmured.
You snorted. A noise so close to your laugh that he adored. “True,” you mused. “We are Avengers. See you later.” and squeezed his shoulder.
He nodded. “See you later,” he mumbled as he watched you walk away, longing shimmering in his steel blue gaze.
The space is quiet for a solid five seconds after you leave, your footsteps growing dimmer down the hall, and Bucky realized who was still in the room as he turned and saw them.
Nat and Yelena were grinning, eyes swimming with mischief, and it made Bucky’s stomach sink because he knew what was coming.
“Coward,” Natasha muttered in Russian.
And so it had begun.
Bucky sighed, heavily and slumped forward in his seat.
They did this every time.
“Are you going to wipe off your drool from the floor?” Yelena asked.
“Y’know normal people ask out their crushes, not whatever the hell you’re doing,” Nat mused and sipped from her coffee while searching for Bucky’s gaze--something he refused to give either of them.
Bucky wanted to sink into the floor. “Do you have to do this?” he grumbled.
“Talking to a woman isn’t as hard as she makes you.”
Death would be too good of a punishment for Yelena.
The stool squeaked from under Bucky as he prominently stood up, taking his bowl with him.
But Yelena kept going. “It’s literally so easy. It’s ten words. ‘Would you like to go on a date with me?’ Then you eat her out. Every woman wants that. Hey! You always have to let a woman finish before you leave!”
~
It’s game night when someone finds the chance to tease him about you again and it’s Sam this time.
It’s stupid. He shouldn’t even be staring--there shouldn’t be jealous churning in his gut, but there is.
You're sitting on the floor, back brushing against Wanda’s leg, and in your lap is Alpine. You’ve got her face in your hands and you’re giving her soft little pecks as you consistently mutter how Alpine is such a good girl. How Alpine is such a princess.
And Alpine is eating it up. She’s no doubt purring as she just lets it happen. As she just leans into your touch. It’s like Alpine knows Bucky is watching.
He wants that to be his face you’re holding. His face that you’re kissing. But it’s his damn cat.
You’re completely ignoring the chaos around the coffee table. So is he. He isn’t even aware of whose turn it is. He’s just watching you pet Alpine.
It’s strange that Alpine is letting you do this. She hates everyone. She hates Steve for fucks sake. The first time Bucky introduced them after he brought the feline home she tore up Steve’s arm and they had to get the blood stains outta the couch. But for some reason she liked you, basically as much as she liked Bucky.
Bucky never questioned why she liked you. Of course, Alpine has great taste in people. But that still didn’t mean it wasn’t odd to see at first.
“Are you glaring at your own cat?” Sam whispered into his ear as he leaned over.
Bucky’s jaw ticked and he looked away from you. That lasted about five seconds.
“You can’t seriously be jealous.”
He was and it was so stupid.
Alpine was getting to do something Bucky has wanted to do for months. How was that fair?
“You could just go over and talk to her.”
No. Bucky already knows what happens when he tries to do that. He’d much rather become one with the ground than make a foul of himself. Again.
Sam sighed. “Happiness is not this hard. Dude, you walked into a wall because you were too busy staring at her last week and she noticed. You genuinely can not be anymore obvious.”
No. You had seen the aftermath. If you had noticed the fact that he had been staring at you then he would’ve probably jumped out the window.
“Maybe I should give Joaquin 50 bucks to ask her out,” Sam mused.
Bucky’s chin snapped in Sam’s direction.
Sam snorted. “You’re hopeless,” he said bluntly.
Sam wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. First off, giving someone money to ask someone out. That was an insult to the recipient. Sam wouldn’t do that to you. Not even to get Bucky to finally man up. Right?
~
Bucky didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.
He stared at the ceiling, unable to get the things that played in his mind to go away.
Joaquin showing up to your room with flowers. Joaquin flashing that flirty grin your way. Joaquin taking you out like Bucky wanted to do.
You saying yes.
You wouldn’t say yes, would you? You didn’t like Joaquin like that. But you were single. Bucky knew that. And Joaquin was right there. Joaquin was sweet and… not broken. He wasn’t someone who got woken up in the middle of the night by nightmares that left his skin damp with sweat. He wasn’t someone who looked down and saw blood dripping from his hands.
You deserved the world, not someone who was haunted by his past.
“She wouldn’t, right?” He murmured to the furball curled up against his leg.
Alpine’s eyes opened at the sound of his voice.
“It wouldn’t happen,” he insisted.
But…
“She deserves to be happy.”
His jaw ticked.
“I could make her happy,” he blurted.
He made her smile. He made her laugh. Sometimes so hard she would snort and clutch her stomach. When has Joaquín done that?
But there was so much blood on his hands. So much pain he caused.
“You think I could make her happy?”
Alpine merely only blinked at him before her chin returned to her paws and her tail flicked on top of her pink nose.
Bucky let out a frustrated breath. “I’m not overthinking this. I’m thinking about this the correct amount.”
Alpine didn’t even grace him with a sigh.
“You rub it in just because you can and I know you do.”
This wouldn’t be the first time he’s talked to Alpine about you and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“If she says no then we’re moving to a different country, you know that right? I don’t think I could show my face ever again.”
There was a soft thump as he lay back down. “I just need to get over this crush. That’s all.”
~
By eight he’s outside your bedroom, pacing like a madman.
He shouldn’t be out here and he knows he shouldn’t but he is anyway, and every time he turns around to walk away he stops in his tracks and returns to the line he’s been walking back and forth for the past 40 minutes.
Coward.
The word rings in his ears.
He used to be able to do this with ease. He used to crack that smile that always had dames swooning. He used to know what the right thing to say was.
But that was so long ago and you weren’t just anyone. You were his friend. You were someone he trusted. You were someone too good to lose.
He needed to leave. He needed to return to his room before you showed your face and saw him out here.
But the way you looked at him. The way you always relaxed when he was in the room. The way you always fell asleep on missions so quickly when he was there.
He raised his knuckles but drew it back immediately.
Would you like to go on a date with me? Please?
No. No. That sounded desperate.
He was desperate.
Could I take you out on a date?
I think I’m in love with you.
No. Absolutely not.
He can’t do this.
You’re going to reject him. You’re going to rip out his heart and throw it onto the floor.
He’s going to have to move. Maybe running from those bounty hunters in Madripoor would be a better fate than hearing your rejection.
The door opened and Bucky froze like a deer in headlights. Heat instantly flooded across his skin and his clothes felt way too tight.
You startled, not expecting anyone to be standing there, and he cursed internally at himself for making you react like that.
Your hair is a mess and your sleep wear wrinkled.
And the softness that comes with the traces of sleep that lingers erases at the sight of him.
Shit.
You put a hand over your chest. “Oh—Jeez. Don’t—. Hey, Bucky.”
Fuckin’ idiot.
A sheepish look passes over his heated face. “Hey. Hi.”
Hi???
Her brows furrow and she glances over his shoulder for a moment. “Whatcha doing outside my door?” You asked, lightly.
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Fuuuuucccckk
“… it’s not nothing,” he admitted quietly.
And you waited. You always waited. You never rushed him, not with anything that wasn’t life or death.
“I had a question.”
Still that patience you always held for him stuck to your face.
He swallowed thickly
“… would you… wouldyougoonadatewithme?” He finally blurted and immediately wanted to become one with the floor.
He didn’t wait for your response, he just looked down.
Something soft swam across your face, it came with the way your heart clenched and stomach twisted in knots.
Your lips ticked up, not amused, just fond. “Could you repeat that?” You asked even though you had heard him.
He took a deep breath as he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the doorframe. “Would you go on a date with me?” He asked, forcing the words to roll out slower.
He peered up and realized how flushed you were. How you were looking at him like that. So fondly.
You smiled. “I was waiting for you to ask.”
He blinked. “You knew?”
You nodded. “I suspected and you aren’t exactly the most subtle man about it,” you admitted.
Then that softness melted into something shy and your eyes flickered down. “But I just wanted to make sure you wanted this.” You gestured between them. “That you took the time you needed. I didn’t want to rush you,” you said gently.
He searched for your gaze. “I want this,” he blurted firmly. “I want you.”
You gazed up and tried to fight the smile that threatened to come to your lips. “Tonight?”
He nodded eagerly. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“See you then, Bucky.”
His skin buzzed. His heart hammered. And his stomach twisted in a million different ways. “See you then,” he murmured and quickly turned on his heels, hoping you wouldn’t see the smug smile on his lips and hoping you didn’t see the way he punched the air when he thought he was far enough away.
dr. jack abbot x resident fem!reader blurb - 1.4k wc
warnings: fluff, yearning!jack, baby fluff, no use of y/n, no description of reader, mention of jack's late wife
authors note: just a lil something i came up with while writing sweet serotonin part 2 <3 we deserved a scene with jack and baby jane doe, just saying…
masterlist
It was something he had once longed for, many years ago when the wedding ring on his finger was new and untarnished. Him and his late wife had discussed it at length—staying up until the early hours of the morning, writing baby names down in a leather-bound notebook. The same notebook that still lived in his nightstand even after all these years.
Then came the diagnosis. Stage four ovarian cancer. It took his wife away from him too soon, along with any dreams he had of having a kid of his own. They spoke about adoption briefly—when the chemo looked to be working and his wife was starting to feel like herself again. She passed away suddenly two months later, leaving Jack with a hole in his heart and a ring that he twisted around his finger when he needed comfort.
He never noticed anything shifting, something clicking into place in his heart. It just happened one day.
You were speaking with a patient's family after an intense procedure in Trauma one, one that you handled with both grace and strength like he had seen you do countless times before. You were explaining what happened to the family in a calm, professional manner when their young daughter started to have a breakdown. You comforted her when her parents couldn't, dropping to her level and changing your tone to be soft and soothing.
Something happened to him in that moment—almost like he had been drowning this whole time and you brought him back to the surface. The sounds of the ER became clearer and his sight sharpened, focused solely on you.
That's when things became complicated for him. He tried to ignore it, even began to distance himself from you—his frequent praises turned into brief head nods, the occasional banter you shared turned into gruff hums on his part. But his eyes betrayed him, constantly seeking you out from across the other end of the ER.
Robby was the first to notice, catching the way his friend's eyes drifted to you during morning rounds. He didn't mention anything at first, carefully observing the cracks in his friend's exterior. Suddenly, Jack's usual charm disappeared when it came to you.
The first time Robby brought it up was on the Fourth of July when Baby Jane Doe had been brought in. She was assigned as one of your patients during shift change, and after everyone split ways—checking on other patients, finishing up their charting—Jack just…stood still. He was frozen just outside of the pedes room, his eyes trained on you as you checked the baby.
Robby quietly stepped next to his friend, tilting his head to the side as Jack continued to stare.
"…What are you doing, brother?"
A few seconds passed, Abbot still not blinking.
"Nothing," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper.
"Really?" Robby crossed his arms over his chest. "'Cause, it kinda looks like you're staring."
That caught Jack's attention. He cleared his throat and shook his head, trying to snap himself out of his stupor. He couldn't blame it on a long shift—it was barely past seven pm.
"No. Nope. Just making sure everything's fine." He shot Robby a look before making his way to Central, the sound of his friend's disbelieving scoff following him through the busy ER.
The second time was a lot more noticeable. You had recently switched to the day shift due to a routine swap—Abbot wasn't happy about it but bringing it up to Robby would make it a thing. A handful of day shift staff were at the park across the street, sharing the days horror stories over a can of beer. Jack had come in on his day off, having heard about the train derailment over the police scanner before Robby even thought to call him in.
Jack sat on the bench across from you, nursing a beer in his hand and half listening to Robby talk about a vintage motorcycle he was going to test drive. Jack honestly couldn't give a shit, he much rathered the soft, tired giggles you let out as you chatted to Donnie.
You were asking him questions about his baby girl, the brightest smile Jack had ever seen donning your face as you nodded along to Donnie's words—enthralled by his stories of his six month old.
"Do you have any photos? Can I see them, please?" You asked, your hands clasped in an almost pleading gesture. It made Jack's heart lurch in his chest—you were so obviously over the moon just at the possibility of seeing baby pictures.
The gasp you let out when Donnie handed his phone to you over the cooler was loud and instantaneous. Jack thought he saw your eyes glimmer with tears.
"Oh, she is just the cutest little thing." Your eyes were glued to the phone as you swiped through more baby pictures. "I just wanna pinch her cheeks," you all but squealed.
Jack didn't even notice Robby had stopped talking, didn't notice that his friend was eyeing him knowingly. The beer in his hand was getting warm, the drink completely forgotten as you gushed and awed over photos of Donnie's baby.
"Now you're definitely staring," Robby said with a low chuckle.
There was only silence from Jack in return, not bothering with a reply when he could just continue looking at you—no one else had noticed, their own conversations filling the night air around them.
Robby brought his can to his mouth, muttering low with a slow shake of his head—that knowing smirk of his partially hidden behind the can.
"You're screwed, brother."
The third and most damning time was just after shift change, your bag slung over your shoulder as you bid your goodbyes for the night.
"Oh, would you look at that!" Dana exclaimed, making you turn and watch Donnie walk towards you with his baby girl in his arms.
"No way," you whispered in awe. Your bag dropped to the floor before you were in front of him in a flash—a star struck expression on your face as you cooed at the baby in your colleague's arms. "Oh my god…"
You trailed a tentative finger along her cheek, a smile blooming across your face as she giggled at you—her chubby little hand reaching out towards you.
Your hopeful eyes met Donnie's. "Can I?" You asked, outstretching your hands towards her.
He gave you a fond chuckle. "Of course."
Jack was frozen in his spot leaning against the Hub. In that moment he didn't know where he was, only caring for the sight of you lifting the baby into your arms with the purest expression on your face. He felt the world shift beneath his feet, something else clicking in place in his chest.
"She's an angel," you whispered, slowly rocking the baby in your arms. She cooed in response, lifting her hand towards your face. "Hi, yes, I'm talking about you," you started to babble out baby talk like it was second nature.
"You say that because you're not the one up with her all night while she cries," Donnie mumbled to which you promptly ignored.
Robby sidled up to his friend again, doing a double take at the softened expression on his face. He followed his line of sight to where you were standing a few metres away, gushing at Donnie's baby. Yeah, it was cute—but it was hardly 'stand motionless like an idiot' cute.
"You're staring again." He muttered low, a warning laced through his tone.
Dana was standing next to you, brushing a hand over the baby's wisp of curls. You didn't catch the soft smile she was focusing on you.
"You ever think about having kids? You're a natural."
You flushed at the older woman's comment—that meant a lot coming from the Pitt's very own mama bear.
You chuckled softly, your eyes glued to Donnie's baby girl. "I mean, maybe one day. There hasn't really been anyone I've wanted to have them with."
Dana hummed faintly, "don't shut yourself off to the possibility. You never know who's around the corner, doll."
You missed the way her eyes flicked up to the older attending's standing near you, missed the small smirk on her face as she took in Abbot's speechless expression.
As soon as he heard you utter those words, he knew he wanted to be that person for you. It wasn't just a want, it was a need. He needed to be the one by your side, the father to your future children.
"Yeah," he mumbled, nodding his head slightly. He turned towards Robby, keeping his eyes glued to you.
"I'm screwed."
im not joking when i say someone give this man a baby - it's a concern atp
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you can't stand bucky barnes. despite all your attempts to get rid of him, he's always somewhere in your orbit. you say you hate it. hate him. but you're also a very good liar.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, college!au, frat!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, rivals to lovers but the rivalry is one-sided, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, bucky being a yearner, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (teasing, stripping, nipple play, praise kink and degradation kink, soft dom!bucky, mean bucky but you're into it, possiveness, dacryphila, pussy spanking, brat!reader, fingering, manhandling, doggy style, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.2k✦
✦Author's Note: one day I'll just write porn without plot. today is not that day. we earn the horny. Enjoy!✦
You’ve gotten used to him. He’s like a fly that lives in your kitchen, and after a while you stop trying to kill it and just give it a name. It buzzes past your head and you swat at it, but it also sits on the window and you pretend it isn’t there.
Bucky Barnes laughs loudly from the table over, and you turn up the music in your headphones.
Telling him to be quiet never works in your favor. He smirks and tries to flirt with you. All his friends oooooo, like you’re still in middle school, then cause even more noise after you reject Barnes and they jump him like a pack of animals.
If you were smarter, you’d sit all the way in the corners of the cafeteria. Where there wouldn’t be a table big enough to fit all of them.
Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.
Pissing you off.
You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.
How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.
You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.
A very shiny fly.
You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.
It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.
And Barnes.
He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.
But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.
And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.
You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.
“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.
You snorted. “Of course you do.”
“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”
Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.
“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”
“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”
“But- You don’t actually believe that-“
“Yes, I do.”
Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”
That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.
You ignored it.
You were going to get very good at that.
“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.
“You hate everyone-“
“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”
Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”
“You’re still looking at me-“
“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“
“Not like that-“
“Like what?”
“Like you- You don’t believe me.”
He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.
“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.
Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“
“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”
He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“
“It’s not.”
It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.
He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.
After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.
“We work well together-“
“No we don’t.”
“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“
“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”
Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.
It made you want to throttle him more.
“You think I’m pretty?”
He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.
Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.
You had to rip your gaze away.
“Shut up.”
He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.
When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose.
He always smelled so good.
And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.
He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.
The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.
You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.
The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.
“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”
You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.
“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.
Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”
You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.
“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.
“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”
“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”
Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.
“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.
When Bucky looked at you, a lot of coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.
“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”
You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”
“What?”
“The butterfly.”
“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”
“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“
“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.
Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.
“You want this?”
“The-“
“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”
You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.
An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.
“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.
Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”
You scoffed. “Please-“
“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”
“I know fun.”
“Uh huh-“
“Stop doing that, I do-“
“Never seen you have it.”
“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”
You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.
“James-“
“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“
He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.
You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.
“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.
But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.
You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.
It’s better, really. Not to think about why.
Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.
All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.
You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.
You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.
“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.
“I can go myself.”
Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”
“I carry pepper spray-“
“That’s not enough.”
You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”
Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”
“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“
“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”
You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.
“What-“
“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”
Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“
“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”
That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.
“Fuck you, James-“
“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”
You paused.
Fuck, that was a good point.
You hated it when he made good points.
“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”
Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.
You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.
“No. I’m goin’ with you.”
You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”
“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”
You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.
He knew you.
You hated him.
“Fuck you.”
“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”
You blinked. “Wha-“
“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”
He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.
He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.
You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.
Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.
Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.
Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.
They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.
“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”
But you don’t make bad choices.
Ever.
You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.
Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.
“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.
“Hi.”
“You got the homework for public speaking?”
“Yes.”
Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”
“It’s online, James.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.
He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.
“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.
You cross your arms. “Did you.”
“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”
“If I wanted… Help?”
Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.
“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”
You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.
“I don’t need your help.”
He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.
You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.
“Maybe I need your help?”
“You always need my help.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean-“
“You wanna come over Thursday?”
“No.”
“Alright, I’ll go to you-“
“I’m working Thursday.”
Bucky paused. “You got a job?”
You nodded. He frowned.
“Where?”
“Corner store.”
His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”
You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“
“You’re working late, it’s not-“
“I’ve been fine.”
“But what about when you’re not-“
“But I am-“
“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.
It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.
“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“
“Why do you care.”
Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.
“What corner store.” He grunts.
“Fifth and twenty, why-“
“We’re studying while you work.”
Your mouth fell open. “No-“
“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”
“I can kick you out-“
“You won’t.”
He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.
You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.
You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.
He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.
Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.
You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.
He made you giggle.
You hate him for that, too.
And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.
Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.
Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.
You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.
Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.
You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.
For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.
“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.
Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.
It is not fine.
Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.
But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.
It’s Sam.
You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.
You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.
And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.
“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”
You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.
Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.
“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”
You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.
There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.
“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”
And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.
Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.
“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.
Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”
You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.
“You know, I still got homework.”
You frowned up at him. “Okay.”
Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”
“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.
He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-
“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”
You blinked.
Oh.
“Yeah. I do.”
Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”
And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.
Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.
“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.
“I am tired.”
“You been eating enough?”
“I’m eating right now-“
“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.
It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.
That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.
“I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.
Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”
Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.
Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.
It felt different now. It felt like it matters.
You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.
He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.
Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.
You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.
The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.
“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.
“Where do you think he is- Nat-“
She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.
You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.
Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.
You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.
He finds you first.
“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”
You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.
“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“
“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”
“I-“
“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”
“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.
Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.
“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”
“I needed to drop something off.”
Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.
“You’re not stayin’?”
“I- I don’t-“
You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.
“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”
Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.
“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”
“Come- James-“
You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.
Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.
“You’re drunk, be careful-“
“’M not that drunk.”
“You’re slurring-“
“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”
You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.
“You’re here.”
He says it like he can’t believe it. Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.
You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.
“Yeah. I am.”
Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.
It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.
“James-“
“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.
The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.
“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”
He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”
“I- Um-“
“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”
There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.
“James-“
“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”
Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.
“What?” You squeak.
He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.
“I call your name when I have sex.”
“I- I- Why-“
“’Cause I love you.”
“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.
You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.
But now he’s saying this.
And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.
Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.
You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky doesn’t even flinch.
“I do.”
“You’re drunk-“
“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”
“James-“
“Hmm.”
He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”
You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“
“I liked workin’ you up.”
“That’s mean.”
“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”
You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”
Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“
“But I mean it.”
“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”
He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”
“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.
“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”
You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.
The challenge.
Why do you care.
Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-
Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.
Your body moves.
Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.
When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“
Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.
Really kissing.
The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.
Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.
This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.
Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.
“Ja- James-“
“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”
“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.
Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.
“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.
And who are you to tell him no?
“Oh- Okay- Oh!”
Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.
“No bra, hm?”
“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“
“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”
He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.
“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”
“N- No-“
Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.
“Wha- What’re you doing-“
“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”
“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.
Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.
“Bucky, please-“
“Please what?”
He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.
“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”
And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.
What you want him to do.
You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.
“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.
Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.
“You didn’t, huh.”
You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.
You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.
Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.
“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”
“You- You don’t know what I need-“
Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.
“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”
God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.
Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.
But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.
“No touching.”
He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.
“You’re touching-“
“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”
He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.
“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“
There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.
“Fuck- James-“
Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.
“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”
You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.
Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.
“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“
You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.
“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”
You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“
“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”
He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.
“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“
You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.
“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”
Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.
Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.
“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”
Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.
“I- I’m not-“
“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”
You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.
“Bucky- Fuck-“
Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.
“No touching.”
You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.
And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.
Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.
His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“
“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”
Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.
Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.
“Eyes stay on me.”
He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.
“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”
You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.
“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”
You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.
He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.
“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”
He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.
“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.
You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.
You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.
Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.
“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”
You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.
The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.
“Buh- Bucky-“
“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”
“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.
A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”
“Do it again.”
It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.
But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-
“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”
Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.
“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”
You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.
“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”
He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.
“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.
Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.
“And?”
You blink at him through the tears. “And?”
“What are you?”
Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.
“Two fingers.” He reminds you.
And just like that, you cave.
“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“
“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“
“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“
Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.
“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”
You moan. “Yes, oh- Oh my god- “
Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.
“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“
“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”
Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.
You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.
“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”
You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“
“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”
“Nuh- No-“
“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.
“Mmmm-“
“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”
You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.
“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”
Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.
Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.
“Flip over.” He grunts.
You frown. “Wha-“
“Over. Just-“
Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.
A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.
“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”
“James-“
“Please.”
His voice cracks.
You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.
You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.
“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”
Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.
“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”
He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.
“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“
Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out.
“Oh- Oh my god-“
It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.
“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.
He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.
“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”
“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”
“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”
You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.
“Yeah. You are.”
And if Bucky says you are, you are.
He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”
“’S- ‘S a lot-“
“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”
He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.
Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.
“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”
You keen, and Bucky laughs.
“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”
You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.
“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”
“I- Jaaames-“
“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”
You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.
“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“
Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.
“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.
“Can’t- Can’t take it-“
“Yeah, you can.”
You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“
Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.
“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“
You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.
“Wh- Where-“
“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“
Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.
You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.
And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.
Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.
“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.
You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.
“Perfect.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
You giggle. “Yeah.”
Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.
“You’re were perfect too.”
“Thanks.” You breathe.
He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.
“You still want me to take it back?”
And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.
“No, thank you.”
Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“
“I had manners-“
“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“
“Don’t hold your breath-“
He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.
“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”
And you wonder.
If it had really been there, the whole time.
“Okay.”
✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, civil war canon compliant, smut, mentions of size difference, widows have a red room variant of a super soldier serum, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, sex pollen, touch starved, bucky is so down bad, dry humping, bucky is a virgin, virginity loss, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, body worshiping, arguments, banter, physical fights as foreplay
⭐︎ word count: 11.1k
⭐︎ a/n: first time writing for civil war bucky and a black widow/avenger reader, kinda nervous. this is also my first attempt writing sex pollen. i hope i make the founding fathers proud with this one. gif
synopsis:
While Bucky Barnes is on the run, Steve entrusts you to look after his old friend while the rest of the team tries to resolve the conflict with Tony Stark peacefully. As if babysitting a grumpy ex-Hydra soldier wasn't hard enough, an airborne toxin gets released—one designed to weaken a super soldier's resolve with the intention to trap them... and an unexpected side effect that skyrockets their libido.
Between the constant bickering and fighting for your life, you have to keep reminding yourself, "I refuse to be Bucky's first."
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There were a few things you could respect Steve Rogers for.
He always seemed to know what was best for the team, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he always tried to find a way to resolve conflict with the least amount of bloodshed possible. He was a respectable man—respectable enough for people like you to follow him into hell.
But there were also plenty of things you disliked about him.
Namely, once he had a plan, he stuck to it whether the people around him agreed or not. Unfortunately for you, his current plan involved you babysitting the world’s most wanted Hydra assassin.
And that was the Winter Soldier.
“What!” you barked in disbelief, throwing your hands in the air. “No! I am not watching him. I’m coming with you—”
Steve was already gearing up—wearing the suit he stole from the Smithsonian and strapping on his shield last.
“No,” he replied, sharp and firm. “Trust me, it’s better if you stay put. If I show up with Buck by my side, it’s not gonna look good.”
Steve motioned towards Bucky, who just stood there looking about as useful and clueless as a bag of bricks.
The kicked puppy look on his face almost made you feel bad for him. Almost. Because if it weren’t for him, and your own stubborn loyalty to Steve, nobody would be in this mess in the first place.
“Look, you’re going to talk to Stark, right? Nat’s with him. Let me come. I can talk to her while you work things out with Stark, and maybe we can figure out a better solution—”
“We shouldn’t even consider talking to Nat. She’s in deep with Tony and the Accords. And besides, I don’t trust—” Steve cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes flickered between you and Bucky. “Never mind.”
You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Don’t trust what?”
The tension in the parking garage turned uncomfortable really fast.
No one dared speak or move—it felt like a bunch of kids walking in on Mom and Dad arguing and refusing to pick sides. Even though you already knew what he was going to say, you kept your eyes fixed on Steve with a silent threat for him to continue.
Steve sighed and stepped forward, mentally cursing himself for letting the words slip.
“You Widows—they’re known to be deceptive,” Steve explained as calmly and gently as he could, though it didn’t help.
“I just… can’t risk you talking to Natasha. It’s too dangerous.”
Offended wasn’t even the right word for it.
Everyone in this line of work—including you, especially you — knew about the Black Widows and their reputation. You were a group of young girls broken down and rebuilt into perfect chameleons. Widows were trained to whisper sweet nothings into a victim’s ear, only to hold a blade to their throat, slit it without remorse, and go about the rest of their day as if nothing had happened.
Steve wasn’t wrong, but the hypocrisy of his logic made you feel sour.
He didn’t trust your background, yet in the very same breath, he was willing to leave you entirely alone with Bucky—his best friend, and the only piece of his past he had left. If you were truly so deceptive, so inherently untrustworthy, what was stopping you from turning Bucky over to Stark the second Steve cleared this garage?
You wanted to cry. You had been loyal to Steve, standing by his side while the rest of the team split up and tore at each other’s throats—and this was how he repaid you? By humiliating you in front of everyone?
But you’d die before you let a single tear fall in front of Steve, or anyone else for that matter.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tightened your jaw until your teeth hurt and forced your gaze away.
“Fine.”
You were going to protect his precious best friend—not out of submission, but to shove his own prejudice right back down his throat. You would prove to him, definitively, that you could be trusted.
“I’ll watch over him,” you added, trying to keep cool. “I’ll keep my comms open, too—just in case you want to pop in and check if he’s still alive.”
Steve returned your sarcasm with a relieved exhale. “Thank you—”
“Don’t mention it,” you cut him off, waving a hand dismissively as you walked past Bucky—who was standing there looking like a child of divorce. You headed for your motorcycle.
“Are you coming, Barnes?”
Before joining you at the bike, Bucky walked over to Steve with a fond look in his eyes. They shared the same brotherly hug they'd been exchanging since they reunited. Steve mumbled something into his shoulder—probably reassurance that everything was going to be okay—before finally sending him off to you.
You rolled your eyes, slipping your helmet on to block them out.
As everyone else cleared out of the garage, Bucky walked over to your bike. You handed him a helmet, and he started strapping it on.
“Should I drive?” He asked.
You blinked at him, your face going blank despite him not being able to see it.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve been hiding in Bucharest for a while,” Bucky explained. “I know some discreet spots where they won’t find us.”
Even though neither of you could see the other’s expression, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky was testing your competence—and on top of everything that had led to this moment, especially that little conversation with Steve, your patience was wearing dangerously thin.
“Barnes, I assure you that whatever spot you’re thinking of, a SWAT team is already sweeping it.” You revved the engine. “Get on.”
Bucky muffled a deep sigh inside his helmet. Based on his stiff posture, you thought he might argue, but he finally conceded, swinging his long leg over the back of the seat.
As you gripped the handlebars, you waited for him to hold on, but nothing happened.
Glancing at your side mirrors, you saw him awkwardly plant his hands at the edge of his seat, leaning back as far away from you as the space would allow.
“I’m gonna need you to hold on,” you ordered without looking back.
Bucky hesitated, not moving an inch.
Annoyed, you killed the revving engine for a second and glared at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to fall off?”
Bucky still didn’t budge. He kept his posture uncomfortably stiff, his eyes boring down at the empty space between his hips and the arch of your back.
“I’ll be fine right here.”
You couldn’t believe the gall of this guy. You had been tasked with something that was supposed to be so simple—tedious, sure, but easy enough—yet he was making your job twice as difficult. You glared at him through your visor, your voice strict even through the muffle of your headgear.
“Steve entrusted me to look after you. If he finds out on the evening news that his most wanted best friend fell off the back of my motorcycle and got captured by the government, then he’s never going to talk to me again. And everyone who is risking their lives for you did it all for nothing because you chose to be stubborn. Now, I am not going to repeat myself. Hold. On. To. Me.”
You couldn’t make out his expression, but slowly and reluctantly, he leaned forward and wrapped his thick arms around your waist.
“Tighter,” you commanded.
From the short time Bucky had known you, he already knew there was no point in arguing.
He let out a sigh into his helmet and wrapped his arms around you just a little tighter than before—but still kept his hold loose and, well… as respectful as he could manage.
“Bucky, I need you to hold me tighter,” you urged again.
It had already been a good five minutes since everyone left—and here you were, stuck with the man who, if caught, could risk your life and your position, all because he refused to hold onto you properly.
To you, this was nothing but a nuisance.
But for Bucky…
Bucky was holding onto every thread and reminder left from the forties of what it meant to be a respectful man. Especially since it had been so long since he’d not only been this close to a woman, but held one.
“Tighter!” you shrieked, patience finally snapping.
“Fuck, you know what? Fine!” he snapped back, adjusting his hips so that his chest was pressed up right against your back, wrapping his strong arms around you tightly enough to make you gasp.
“Is that tight enough for you?”
“Perfect,” you croaked sarcastically.
Without giving him another second to respond, you kicked the bike into gear and finally steered it out of the garage.
You were determined to keep your pride intact. His broad chest was pressed up against your back, trapping your body heat until your leather jacket felt burning hot against your skin. His metal arm was a hard band across your midsection, while his flesh arm gripped you still.
You were so small compared to him. He could easily take over—yet here he was, being your obedient puppy.
“Where are you taking me?” Bucky shouted over the rush of wind as the two of you whipped through the busy streets of Bucharest.
“To an amusement park,” you shouted back. “Don’t you want to ride a roller coaster?”
Bucky let out a tired sigh.
You managed to find sanctuary at an abandoned, overgrown rooftop greenhouse. Located on the very outskirts of Bucharest, it was far enough from the city center to avoid suspicion, but still close enough to keep your comms within range of Steve.
You paced the rooftop, feeling restless as your mind overworked with what Steve and the rest of the team could be doing right now.
Were they already fighting? Would Stark actually listen to reason and put all of this to rest?
Letting out a defeated sigh, you kicked a stray pebble, watching it skid across the concrete of the rooftop.
“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself. “Stuck on babysitting duty when I should be out there.”
Lifting your head, your eyes locked onto Bucky. He was standing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distant streets below.
“Hey!” you barked, pointing a finger at him like a mother scolding a child. “Step away from the edge! You’re going to fall.”
“I’m just keeping a lookout,” Bucky mumbled, his back still facing you as he refused to step away from the edge.
“You’re just making my job harder than it already is,” you argued, throwing your hands up in exasperation.
You pointed aggressively to the dusty wooden crate tucked against the brick wall.
“Just go sit over there or something.”
Bucky’s brow twitched the same time his patience snapped. He turned around to finally face you, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.
“Would you stop talking to me like I’m a child?” he snapped, stepping away from the edge—not because you had ordered him to, but to match your hostile stance as he stalked toward you. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the shitty job of watching over me, but I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”
His defensive outburst made you raise a brow.
“Oh, really? You can handle yourself just fine?” you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Is that why the entire global government is hunting you down right now? Is that why Steve had to throw away his entire reputation just to keep you out of a cage? Because you’ve got it all handled?”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.
The mention of Steve’s sacrifice definitely hit a nerve, you could see the guilt in his eyes.
A part of you wished you hadn’t said it at all, and you were just about ready swallow your pride and apologize, until…
“You’re from the Red Room,” he said, stepping closer. An involuntary shudder went down your spine. “You’ve done terrible things in the past—just as I have. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone like Steve bend over backwards for lowlifes like us.”
You didn’t realize just how close he was standing until his hot breath hit your face, only shortening your temper.
“We don’t ask for the help, yet they do it for us anyway,” Bucky’s voice graveled into a whisper. “Don’t talk down to me like you don’t know what it’s like. When in fact, you’re worse—”
You were already seeing red before he could even finish his sentence.
You quickly unsheathed a pocket knife from your belt and lunged at him, aiming straight for his throat just as a threat to silence him.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me!”
But Bucky was faster.
He brought his metal forearm up just in time to block the blade, making an ugly scraping sound. He twisted his wrist to disarm you, but your grip on the knife was tight. While one arm was held captive by his, you used your other to try and deliver a punch—which he also dodged.
You resorted to your legs, bucking them up to deliver hard kicks to his stomach. He grunted after each hit your leg managed to put out, but his hands moved quickly to grab the collar of your jacket and hurl you backwards to the nearest wall.
You cried out, face scrunching into a wince as your back slammed into hard brick.
The impact made you drop your knife. Bucky pressed his heavy body right against yours, aggressively tucking his legs between your thighs so you couldn’t use the space to swing your knees at him again.
“I can’t believe this is who Steve decided to trust me with,” he hissed in your face.
“Get off of me!” you yelled, squirming beneath his body.
“You drew your knife at me,” Bucky roared back. “Maybe Steve was right. All you Widows have a tendency to break your vows whenever things go even remotely south for you—”
You weren’t going to sit there and take his insults. Gritting your teeth with a brace, you pulled your head back and slammed your forehead directly into his face.
Bucky groaned out in pain, his grip on you loosening as he stumbled back with a hand to his face. Seizing the small window of opportunity, you shoved his chest away and dove towards the floor, reaching for the dropped pocket knife.
Before your fingers could even brush the hilt, his large hands grabbed you from behind and slammed you right back into the brick wall again.
You let out a breathless gasp as your face was forcefully squished up against the brick.
Bucky’s flesh hand came to the back of your head, pushing your skull firmly against the wall to keep your vision pinned away from him. At the same time, his metal hand gathered both your wrists behind your back, locking your two arms prone.
“Let go of me!”
You started to violently squirm and writhe, trying to buck your back against him—to tire him out, but Bucky moved his entire lower body to seal the space. His hips pressed tightly up against your bottom, his chest to your back, pinning you completely helpless as you were left trapped between him and the wall.
“No. I don’t care if you’re Steve’s friend, or if Steve respects you,” Bucky hissed, his breath right at your ear. “If I find my life in danger—after finally being free from Hydra, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way. Even you.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving against your back.
He was angry.
He hated how much a woman like you could get under his skin with just a few sarcastic words and petty jabs.
One moment he was flustered just holding onto your waist during the bike ride, and now, he had you pinned up against the wall, your life completely in his hands.
You grit your teeth. “Dammit, Barnes—”
“—do you hear me? Hello? Anyone copy?”
You and Bucky froze. His eyes went wide as he leaned his head down toward the earpiece tucked just behind your earlobe where Steve’s voice was emitting. You glared at Bucky through the corner of your eye.
“Steve’s calling for me. I can’t answer it unless you let me go.”
“Status check. Code Blue-Alpha. Repeat, Code Blue-Alpha. Do you copy?”
Bucky was hesitant.
He didn’t want to let you go—afraid that you might actually threaten his life again the second he backed off.
Instead of releasing you, his metal hand kept the tight grip on both your wrists, while his flesh hand finally let your head free. Shifting his body closer, his finger reached around to press the button on your earpiece, activating the channel and allowing you to speak.
“Steve,” you breathed, catching your breath. “I’m here.”
“There you are!” Steve let out a relieved, staticky sigh through the comms. “How are things over there? Are you two alright?”
You and Bucky side eyed each other.
The situation was ridiculous—the two of you were still tangled in each other’s limbs, bodies pressed tight against one another, chests heaving in sync as the adrenaline from the fight slowly began to die down.
“We’re fine,” you lied. “Your boyfriend’s still alive.”
Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh right against your ear. He didn’t say it out loud, but you could already hear his thoughts. This fucking woman.
Steve wasn’t laughing, however. His voice was serious.
“Listen to me carefully. We just got word that there are traps set up around the highest points of Bucharest. They’re wired to release an airborne toxin—specifically meant to target the biology of a super soldier.”
You watched Bucky’s eyes. His brows furrowed, concentrating on Steve’s voice as his grip on your wrists loosened slightly.
“They’re trying to smoke him out,” you reasoned. “What about the regular civilians? Will it affect them?”
“No. Just us. I’m already wearing a rebreather mask on my end,” Steve continued with a rasp. It sounded like he was running from something. “But Bucky doesn’t have one. You need to keep him inside and be extremely careful.”
There was a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach.
Steve was thinking about Bucky, and Bucky was thinking about himself, but neither of them knew your full medical history—how could they?
During your time in the Red Room, they had pumped your veins full of a biochemical serum. It wasn’t the exact super soldier formula that created Captain America, but it was a heavily modified variation meant to enhance your physical abilities, speed up your healing, and maximize your strength.
It was what made you into a Widow. And right now, you had no idea if that same chemical footprint was enough to trigger the airborne toxin.
“Steve,” you swallowed hard, your voice shaking with worry. “How is Natasha doing? Is she with you?”
If Natasha was fine, then maybe you would be, too.
Behind you, Bucky must have sensed the sudden spike of panic in your posture. He took a step back and finally released his tight grip on your wrists—relinquishing his hold over your body.
He inhaled a deep breath to steady himself, but stopped midway, choking as if something had gotten stuck in his lungs. His chest hitched. He sniffed the air again, letting out a harsh, hacking cough in return.
“Fuck—” Bucky choked out, his hand flying to his throat.
You spun around, catching the way Bucky stumbled blindly against a wooden crate. Your heart started to race in a panic.
“Steve?” you called into the earpiece, your eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of the trap he had just mentioned over comms. “Steve, do you copy?”
There was no answer.
The static on the other end had cut out completely. Steve had already ended the line to focus on his own escape—either that, or his comms had been jammed. You tapped the button behind your earlobe again desperately, but there was nothing.
“Steve! Respond!”
Bucky called your name from where he held himself against the crate—a sound that was broken, small, and almost whiny.
“Bucky!” you cried out, abandoning the comm line completely and focusing entirely on the man you were tasked to protect. “Are you okay?”
“Hot,” he winced, letting out a deep groan. “It feels... hot.”
You knelt by his side, the palm of your hand flying to his forehead to check his temperature. Your eyes widened at how warm he had suddenly become. He wasn’t nearly this hot when he had you pressed up against the wall just mere seconds ago.
“Fuck. Did the toxins get to you already? But how! We’re on the outskirts—”
Bucky lazily raised a finger just past your head. You whipped your head around, squinting past the sunlight that pierced the clouds.
There, you saw a hazy, almost pollen like fog beginning to drift from across the rooftop building far from you.
“Shit,” you cursed, wrapping your arm around his waist and positioning his heavy arm over your shoulders to help him up.
“Come on, we’ve gotta hide you somewhere. You’re too weak to run if you get caught.”
You tried lifting him up, but he was too heavy to carry just on your own. You groaned beneath him, using every bit of your strength to try and keep him steady.
While you struggled, Bucky’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused—he could barely keep them open.
“Stay with me, Bucky,” you murmured against him with a grunt, dragging your feet to get him inside the greenhouse.
It was a glass enclosure, but the walls were muddied with dirt and the plants were overgrown enough to provide decent cover. It wasn’t as indoors as you’d like, but it was the closest place you could take him with your current strength.
Bucky’s eyes fluttered down to you, letting out a heavy sigh.
“I think… I need to sit.”
Suddenly, he felt like he was suffocating in his own clothes. The breeze in Bucharest was cool, but his body felt like it was burning up from the inside. What was even worse was your touch—having your body pressed up against his made him react in ways he never thought he would.
Or at least, not anytime soon.
You stumbled over an overgrown branch, losing your balance and your grip on Bucky.
“Shit—I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
Bucky lay on the ground, adjusting his body so that he was flat on his back. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, the organ trying to tear its way out. His vision and mind went hazy, and his flesh hand was clammy.
The tension was even worse whenever he looked at you. His pupils would dilate the second his eyes landed on your body, his breath getting stuck in his throat.
You knelt down, trying to get your hands under his arms to haul him back up, but Bucky flinched away with a sharp hiss.
“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”
You furrowed your brows. You had no idea what kind of side effects the airborne toxins had been released—Steve hadn’t specified. But right now, you couldn’t afford to stand around and ponder it. You groaned, trying to lift him up one more time, but your body suddenly felt even weaker than before.
Your knees buckled as a strange aroma began to drift into your nose. It was a musky, almost tangy smell filling the deep pockets of your lungs.
“W-what the hell…?”
Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavily from where he lay on the floor, his dark, half lidded eyes meeting yours. “Do you feel it, too?”
Meeting Bucky’s eyes in this state was the worst thing you could have possibly done.
Suddenly, the greenhouse felt smaller—a glass enclosure closing in on the two of you. Your body felt molten, and you wanted nothing more than to strip your clothes off.
Grunting, you began to pull down the zipper of your jacket, and Bucky inhaled sharply.
“Hey—what… what are you doing?”
“It’s hot,” you breathed, your head spinning. “Need to take my jacket off.”
The heat inside your own skin was hurting, but for Bucky, it was absolute torture.
The super soldier serum in his veins processed the toxin at an accelerated rate, making his flesh feel like it was working overtime. His blood was rushing—hot and heavy—pooling lower until he was completely and unapologetically hard under his pants.
He wanted to rip his own clothes off. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice the tent poking between his legs—or maybe a dark part of him did, and he wanted you to offer to take care of it.
Fuck. What was he thinking?
But it wasn’t like you were thinking straight, either. Abandoning your jacket, you were left in just a tank top that clung tightly to your chest, offering Bucky a full view of your tits. You knelt right back down beside him, your hands clumsily reaching for his shoulders to lift him up again.
This was going bad for Bucky.
Too close.
Too close. Too close. Too close.
Bucky caught your scent—a natural floral and feminine smell mixed with an underlying musk of sweat that made his head spin with an overwhelmingly dangerous amount of desire.
“Stop,” Bucky choked out, his voice dropping deep and dangerous.
His right hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your bare wrist, while his metal hand gripped your hip to keep you from leaning any closer.
“Don’t... don’t do this. Get away from me right now.”
“Bucky,” you panted. “I need you to get up for me.”
“I can’t,” he groaned, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I mean it. Move away… or I swear to God, I won’t be able to control myself—”
Your gaze drifted down his body, your eyes widening at the prominent bulge waiting for you between his large, strong legs.
It throbbed and twitched beneath his pants, growing harder and more unbearable by the second.
This position was too compromising—too vulnerable, and far too dangerous for you both.
Bucky had no strength to get up on his own, and you could feel your own body betraying you by the second. You would have to relieve this for him now, or it would be doom for you both.
“Goddammit,” you cursed, bracing yourself mentally.
You moved to cradle Bucky between your thighs, mounting his lap while he was pinned weak to the floor.
His eyelids flew open, and he used all the strength left in his body to lift his head and stare up at you, bewildered and off guard.
“What the hell are you doing—!”
“We need to take care of this,” you muttered, grinding your hips tight and firm against his, making him let out a groan.
“We need to fix your problem before they find us. They set up that trap not too far from this building. There’s a chance they’re already scouting it out. It’s only a matter of time—”
Bucky’s eyes were filled with hungry lust as he stared at the point where your hips were rubbing against his. He was so hard it fucking hurt. He didn’t dare touch you—because if his hands made contact with your waist, with that warm, smooth skin just beneath your tank top that was begging to be licked, he would probably embarrass himself and cum in his pants right then and there.
“Shit—wait. Hold on. I—fuck.”
You reached for his zipper, tugging it down, and the sudden movement made his hips buck up against yours.
“Now’s not the time to talk, Barnes,” you panted, the toxin blurring your thoughts. “We need to take care of this now, or we’ll be in deep trouble. And Steve’ll have my head—”
“Fuck, shit. Wait—! I’ve never…”
You were losing your patience. You stopped your hands, glaring down at him. “Never what, Barnes?”
His face burned an embarrassing shade of red. He refused to look at you, his eyes suddenly far more interested in the overgrown plants next to him than your face.
“I’ve never had… sex,” he admitted quietly, swallowing hard.
Oh.
Oh.
Bucky was a virgin?
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
You felt incredibly foolish straddling him with your hands still hovering over his open zipper.
You felt shameful—you felt like a harlot, throwing yourself onto him and thinking you could resolve this entire crisis just by getting him off with a few strokes. You felt dirty, humiliated, and deeply guilty.
“I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly scrambling off his lap.
Your legs felt like jelly—a testament to the toxin fully taking hold of your own system.
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know. I mean, that doesn’t excuse it, but—”
“No,” Bucky rasped, his hand catching your wrist before you could back away entirely.
His grip on you was so tight and dominant, it felt like a pickaxe slowly chipping away at your remaining resolve.
“Don’t go,” he broke out, his voice a desperate, tortured rasp. “Please. Keep going. It hurts. I need you to relieve it.”
If he had said that to reassure you, you felt anything but. In fact, you felt even guiltier because of how broken and desperate he sounded.
“Bucky, I can’t.”
His brows knitted together tightly, his face twisting unpleasantly—he was upset.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because—”
“Because what!” he barked back, rolling onto his side to give you his full attention. You tried really hard not to look at the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “You threw yourself onto me. You promised Steve you’d take care of me—so you’re going to come back here and finish it.”
“Bucky, I’m not going to be your first!” you yelled out, and that finally stunned him into silence.
Your chest was heaving with a frustration you didn’t even know how to name.
With confusion and a flash of embarrassment taking over his gaze, his fingers finally loosened, releasing your wrist reluctantly.
“I’m sorry,” you said, much softer this time. “I’m sorry. Just… if you need a minute to take care of it yourself, I’ll be over there—” you pointed to the far end of the greenhouse “—I’ll keep watch.”
“And what about you?” he asked, his dark eyes trailing down your body in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. “Don’t you need to take care of yourself, too? You feel it, don’t you? That… primal need.”
You pressed your lips tight and tore your gaze away, not trusting yourself to look at his pained, desperate expression. You couldn’t look at the way his body was open and inviting you back in, or the way his voice went so coarse when he said the word need.
“I’ll be fine.”
You were not fine. And Bucky certainly wasn’t, either.
You tried to keep your concentration focused outside the greenhouse, forcing your hazy eyes to stare through the glass panes to keep watch. But your gaze kept betraying you, drifting right back to the corner to watch Bucky where he sat propped up against a wooden crate, his legs spread wide.
His chest was still rising and falling heavily, his long hair damp with sweat and falling over his darkened eyes.
You had told him to take care of his business, but he hadn’t made a single move since you stepped away from him. Your own urges were becoming impossible to control, too. You found yourself squeezing your thighs tightly together, trying to find any form of friction, any relief from the ache that had been building up ever since the toxin first wafted into your lungs.
It didn’t help that you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, watching you from behind, tracing your silhouette.
It felt telepathic—as if his silent gaze was speaking directly to your body, knowing you wanted exactly what he was desperately craving too.
No. You couldn’t go to him.
If you walked up to him right now, neither of you would have any control left, and you would both submit to the drug completely.
He was a virgin. You couldn’t take something so precious from him. He had already been through a lifetime of torture and lost autonomy. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you took his first time over a stupid, weaponized toxin.
Sex was meant to be reserved for someone special—and you were far from it.
“Bucky,” you finally called out, still refusing to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay back there?”
“…No,” he muttered with a thick rasp. “Come here.”
You sucked in a breath.
Every instinct in your brain was telling you stay exactly where you were, but your body was entirely out of your control now.
Your feet dragged you across the dirty floor until you were standing over him again.
You dropped to your knees in front of him with a sigh. Trying to frame it as purely medical check, you lifted a hand and pressed your palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature once more.
He was still burning up, but the fever felt even worse.
Every hot breath he exhaled hit your exposed collarbones, and the way he was sitting—legs spread wide with you kneeling directly between them—made you feel like a mouse being lured into a trap.
Realizing just how dangerous this proximity was, you swallowed hard and began to pull your hand away. But Bucky didn’t let you. His fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist to hold you back. He let his heavy eyelids flutter shut and slowly leaned his head into your touch, rubbing his stubbled cheek right against your warm, open palm.
“Stay,” Bucky pleaded as he his metal hand came to hold your hip. “Stay here. I need you.”
A breathless groan rumbled warmly into your palm. You froze, your eyes locked onto him as you watched the lethal super soldier—the very man who had pinned you up against the wall just minutes ago—unravel helplessly right in front of you.
As he held you there, you felt an unbearable heat trickle between your legs.
Your cunt pulsed, and you squeezed your thighs tightly together to soothe the desperate ache spreading through your lower body.
The friction was a temporary fix, but the tight grind of your thighs only made you ache for more.
Bucky nuzzled his face deeper into your palm, inhaling your scent like a dying man catching a breath of fresh air.
Then, his parted lips pressed a soft, wet kiss against the center of your hand. And another one. Then another, right against the inner skin of your wrist.
“Bucky… what are you—”
“Please,” Bucky whispered against your skin, looking up at you through his dark, thick lashes.
His eyes were dilated, the blue completely washed out by a lust that made you burn from the inside out.
“I need you.”
“You… You don’t know what you’re saying,” you muttered, shaking your head in a desperate attempt to find your reason.
Bucky held your hand tighter, refusing to give you any chance to escape.
“Please, don’t go. Fuck—I need you so bad, it hurts,” he choked out. “This ache won’t go away until you help me take care of it.”
His eyes never left yours. Under normal circumstances, every confession leaving his lips should have left him feeling deeply ashamed or embarrassed. But right now, he didn’t care. His body was on fire, and your touch was only stroking each and every flame.
“I know I’m a virgin, but I don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either,” Bucky rasped.
His large hand covered yours, forcing your palm down his chest—slick and damp with sweat—until he guided your hand directly over the heavy erection waiting for you beneath his pants.
“I can make you feel so good. I can fix this for both of us. Please.” He begged.
You let out a shudder as his large hand swallowed yours, guiding your palm to slide up and down against the length of his cock. Even through the denim, you could feel him throb and harden rapidly beneath your touch, his breathing turning incredibly shallow and fast.
“It hurts so bad,” he groaned, his eyes unhinged by the toxin. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too?”
You looked down, biting your lip hard at the sight of Bucky’s thick bulge pressing directly against your fingers. He twitched beneath your touch.
There was nothing you wanted more than to finish the job you had started earlier—to finish unzipping his pants, sink right down onto him, and show him exactly what it felt like to be inside a woman for the very first time.
But you couldn’t.
Not like this.
“Bucky, I can’t—” you whispered so softly, it sounded like a whine. “I can’t be your first.”
Bucky trembled a sigh, his head falling back against the wooden crate. But he didn’t let go of your wrist. He began to subtly shift his weight, rocking his hips up in a tilt that forced his thick length to slide right against your captive palm.
“Why not?” he murmured, deep and gravelly. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’d do a good job?”
His question was so innocent, though the very thing he was doing wasn’t. He kept grinding his clothed cock into your hand—seeking pleasure from just your palm—and you felt yourself going insane.
“No, it’s not that,” you tried to pull your hand back, but he held you tight, using your trapped hand for his own pleasure. “Sex is supposed to be something that you save. And your virginity is something you give away to someone special. Not… not a casual teammate—not someone like me—”
Bucky interrupted you with a groan, his hips bucking up higher against your palm. All of your words went in one ear and out the other. The only thing he could process right now was how good your hand felt—and how much better it would feel if he sunk into something tight, wet, and warm.
Like your mouth… or your…
“I don’t care about any of that,” he choked out.
His hips rolled into your palm with a needy jerk.
“I need this. I need you. I’d be more than happy to give it to you. Fuck—I’ll give it to you so good. You’re the one I want. I need you—”
Bucky’s mouth dropped into an o shape, a sharp hiss of breath filling his lungs as his hips bucked uncontrollably. His eyes never left yours as he suddenly started spilling in his pants. A warm, thick liquid began to seep through his jeans, leaving your fingers sticky with his seed and musk.
You couldn’t believe it.
Bucky had just finished right in his pants.
“Bucky…”
His face was unreadable.
His head was tilted back against the crate, his eyes boring into yours through heavy lids and long lashes. He was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath while letting his cum shamelessly pool in the tight space of his pants.
You figured he’d pull your hand away any second now—that finally releasing all that pent up frustration would make him feel well enough to move to a safer location.
You tried not to point it out to save him from the embarrassment. And most importantly, you tried not to give in to the intense sensation of his warm spunk right beneath your fingertips.
“You should be feeling better now, right? We should keep moving—”
With his grip on your wrist tightening, he hauled you forward until you collapsed back to the ground. Two strong arms wrapped completely around your body, caging you flush against his chest.
Your knees—already so weak—forced you to straddle his lap. Your hands flew to his broad shoulders for balance as you found yourself perched directly over his ruined pants.
“Hey—what are you—!”
Bucky nuzzled his face straight into the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breaths turning into open mouthed kisses against your skin.
“More,” he begged, the deep vibration of his voice tickling you. “S’not enough. I need more.”
Your breath hitched when his hands started to roam over your body. His fingers tickled beneath the hem of your tank top, the metal fingers cooling your skin and making you gasp out loud from the sudden cold.
No.
I won’t let this happen.
I refuse to be Bucky’s first.
But despite your emotional turmoil, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not with the way his hands were roaming around your body, claiming every inch of you as his through touch alone. Not with the way he was looking at you, his mouth parted with desperation.
And especially not when he had just let himself spill in his jeans from nothing but your touch and closeness.
“I know you feel it too,” Bucky rasped against your neck. “I know you’re wet down there, begging to be touched. Begging to be filled. I can fix you, baby. Just let me take care of you, please.”
He pulled back slightly, looking up at you with wide puppy blue eyes that made your heart ache and your pussy clench.
“Can I kiss you?”
You searched his gaze, breathless. “You want to kiss me?”
His metal hand left your waist, slowly crawling up your spine until his fingers tangled firmly in the hair at the back of your head, keeping your eyes pinned to his. His pupils were completely blown out, his gaze demanding an answer right now.
You should have said no. You should have pushed his chest, reminded him of the drug, and scrambled away to safety.
He was a virgin, sure. But with the way he was looking at you while holding you tight—you felt like you were going to be ravaged.
But your resolve was already a fragile thing. And with the way he was looking at you, you knew you were in too deep. Your body was hurting—aching for him in the exact same ways he was aching for you. The only way you two could fix it was each other.
You pressed your lips hard against his, and Bucky let out a rough, needy sound into your mouth.
His grip tightened in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.
The fever burned through your veins, and the way his tongue danced with yours only made the fire burn hotter. He was tasting you, broken whimpers tearing from his lips with every slick slide of his tongue. Saliva mixed together, leaving you both completely breathless, your lips and limbs tangled.
You rolled your hips back, grinding yourself deeper against Bucky’s pelvis.
His cock twitched inside his jeans, poking hard against you. You didn’t know how—but he felt even bigger and harder than he had before.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he panted against your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t—I need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”
His hands scrambled down to your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of your pants. He popped it open with a rough tug—threatening to break the button itself—as his knuckles brushed against your hot skin.
Bucky groaned at the sight.
The lace of your panties was poking through the opening, damp with sweat and your scent. He inhaled deeply, and you wondered just how much his heightened senses were actually taking you in.
When he let out a satisfied sigh, you knew he could smell everything.
“Look at you,” he praised, his eyes tracing the curves of your body. “You’re so beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you.”
You chuckled—a sound that came out raspy and sultry without your intention, making Bucky’s cock twitch beneath you.
“Quite a bold statement for someone who’s never had sex before,” you teased, your hands trailing slowly down his chest.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He accepted your challenge, gripping the waistband of your unzipped pants and yanking them down your thighs.
The moment your bare skin was exposed to the cool air, Bucky wasted no time traveling his eyes down the expanse of your legs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from drooling like a madman, his gaze raked over the inner and outer curves of your thighs. His mouth went dry at the sight of the little wet spot that had collected near your clit.
His large hands slid up your thighs and behind you, squeezing your ass firmly in his rough palms.
“So fucking beautiful,” he growled, his thumb swiping over your clit, smearing your own juice all over the lace.
“Fuck—you’ve been dripping all this time. You need this just as bad as I do, and you’ve been holding back?”
You swallowed hard. “It’s not too late. We don’t have to—oh!”
You cried out once his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties. His fingers dipped between your folds, collecting your arousal with embarrassing wet noises as he tried to rub at your clit.
“No, Bucky… it’s right here—” You grabbed his forearm, guiding him to the right spot, and arched your back with a sharp cry when he started rubbing deep circles against the sensitive bud.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
This was the pleasure you were looking for—but it wasn’t nearly enough.
There was an empty ache deep inside you that was begging to be filled. But you weren’t going to demand that of him just yet, in case he changed his mind.
A lazy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he watched you come undone from his fingers.
“Yeah?” he huffed out a breath. “That feel good, baby?”
“Yes—don’t stop, please,” you cried helplessly.
His other hand lifted your tank top up and over your head, quickly unhooking your bra to fully reveal your tits. With a low grunt, he leaned forward, capturing one of your perky nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth.
You moaned loudly, your hand flying to the back of his head and giving his hair a hard, desperate tug. He liked that a lot, moaning against your skin in pleasure.
Bucky’s tongue swirled around your nipple, licking and sucking until you were arching off his lap at his mercy.
He was making a beautiful mess of you, switching between both buds and letting his mouth worship your body. His rough stubble tickled your chest while his fingers continued their clumsy work down below, sliding through your slick folds and rubbing messy circles right against your clit.
The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers moving against your soaking flesh filled the greenhouse—the filth of it only making you wetter and causing the toxin to course even harder.
He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your chest, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin, and finally looked up at you.
His lips and chin were slick and shining from giving your breasts such sloppy, adoring kisses.
“I need to be inside you,” he pleaded. “Please… I need to put it in. I need to stuff you so full of me, baby. Please, let me fuck you.”
Your eyes searched Bucky’s.
He looked like an even bigger mess than before. He looked and sounded utterly helpless, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face tight with an expression that made it look like he was physically hurting.
Even though he had just come in his pants moments ago, he needed so much more.
You knew that once you gave in to him completely, there would be no holding back for either of you. He would have to live with the fact that you would be his first.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky slowly slipped his hand out of your panties, bringing his fingers up to his lips and licking the juices clean. “You’re scared, but I’m not. I know what I want, and what I want right now is you.”
Bucky gripped your waist, raising you off his lap and pinning you flat against the ground.
He slipped his large body directly between your legs, his strong thighs forcing yours wide open as he covered your frame with his.
Your hair was messy across the dirt floor, framing your face as you laid beneath him breathless. The toxin was taking over control of your body—every single nerve demanding to be touched by the man between your legs.
You felt like you were in heat, consumed by a fever that only Bucky could cure.
His eyes fell over your body, tracing your tits and stomach, his gaze locking onto the way your panties—already a soaked mess—looked like they were begging to be torn away by his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands making quick work of your underwear.
With a harsh tug and a sharp tearing sound, the fabric gave away.
“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do to you.”
Your panties didn’t even make it past your knees before tearing clean off your thighs. You winced slightly.
It was dizzying to think about how you had found the strength to fight Bucky earlier, only to now be reduced to a breathless, aching mess over a piece of torn fabric.
Bucky leaned back on his heels, unbuckling his belt and shoving open his unzipped, stained denim jeans.
The moment he pulled his cock free, it sprang forward then back—the tip slapping against his abdomen.
He was thick, his cock fully engorged and begging to be wrapped in something tight and warm. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, trailing down his shaft and mixing with the creamy white essence from his earlier release.
His eyes were glued to your soaking center, legs spread wide and inviting. His jaw slacked as he lazily pumped himself at the shaft, prepping his cock for your warm embrace.
He claimed he was a virgin, but the way he was looking at you with such a hungry look in his eyes made you think otherwise.
“Bucky,” you breathed, heart racing. “Are you sure you want to do this? With… me?”
Bucky leaned over your body, using his metal elbow to prop himself up while he slapped the tip of his cock against your entrance.
You weren’t sure where he learned that from, but the dirty act left you clenching around nothing.
“The more you ask, the harder it is for me to stay in control,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m just gonna have to stuff you full of my cock just to prove how much I want you.”
You craned your neck, watching Bucky rub his tip up and down your folds—smearing his pre-cum while coating his shaft in your own slick juice.
When he positioned himself right at your opening and poked gently, testing your stretch, your folds immediately parted for him. You were so wet and pliable from the toxin that you were sure he would slip right in without a fight, despite how big he was.
“Just… just enough to get rid of the side effects, okay?” you muttered, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.
Bucky either didn’t hear you, or maybe he did and he just chose to ignore it.
With a clench of his jaw, he slowly pushed his hips forward, his eyes glued to the spot where your cunt wrapped around the head of his cock.
The sensation was delicious. Your body was burning hot, tight, and dangerously wet. He had only sunk the tip in, but it was already the greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back as a deep groan tore in his chest.
“Ohhh…”
Despite the toxin making your body more accommodating, you were still tighter than either of you expected.
You were being stretched completely and fully as Bucky kept going, relentlessly sinking his cock all the way inside until his dark, hairy base pressed flush against your folds. He was so big, and a part of you was grateful that he had already come once before this—because right now, his entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable need.
“So goddamn tight,” he cursed, his face twisting that looked almost like pain. “I never… fuck, I never expected pussy to feel this good… Christ.”
He stilled inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. But in reality, he was the one who needed time to adjust to your tightness.
You paced your breathing. Being stretched full by him made you want to scream at him to hurry up and move, to fuck you right into the dirt floor of the greenhouse—but you couldn’t make that kind of demand of a virgin.
Since it was his first time, despite the unfortunate circumstances, you were going to guide him gently.
“Hold me here,” you murmured, taking his hands and guiding them back to your thighs. “Feel me. It’s soft, isn’t it?”
Bucky breathed hard, nodding as he held you.
“When you’re ready, just move your hips nice and slow. Take your time.”
His face fell into a tight scowl, as if displeased with that order.
Every single one of his base instincts was screaming at him to fuck you hard and fast—to claim every surface of your pussy with his cock.
“F—fine,” he reluctantly agreed, his voice strained. He gripped your thighs tightly, spreading you open as he began rocking his hips back and forth.
His eyes were glossy with desire, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your body.
A thick, creamy white ring was forming around the base of his shaft, staining the unruly dark curls that sat at his pelvis.
Every time he pulled out, he made sure to sink back in even deeper, rolling his hips forward until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.
Your eyes rolled back, your hands clutching his broad shoulders as he buried himself inside you.
“Fuck… just like that,” you moaned. “Keep going.”
“Does… does that feel good?” He swallowed hard, fingers digging deeper into your thigh.
You nodded fast. “So good—I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Your breathless plea made him scowl , a frustrated snarl leaving his lips.
“This is torture.” He groaned.
You furrowed your brows, looking at his angry expression in concern. Torture? That wasn’t what sex was supposed to feel like. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.
“Bucky,” you said, pressing your hand against his sweating chest. “If this is hurting you, we need to stop right now. Pull out of me—”
You gasped as his metal hand circled tight around your wrist, prying it away from his chest and pinning it over your head. He slammed you back to the floor, his large body shadowing yours as his face hovered.
His dark eyes bored deeply into yours—and you felt like if you so much as looked away, he might take it as a threat.
“No, I can’t—I can’t do slow,” he growled. “The drug in my veins, it’s like it's yelling at me to take what I want. And what I want is to fuck you until you cry.”
Your breath left your lungs as Bucky slammed his hips forward, burying himself inside you.
He pulled out halfway before fucking right back in, a broken gasp leaving your lips as you arched your back against the floor from the pleasure. You hadn’t expected him to fuck you this hard—being a virgin and all—but you couldn’t complain.
You had been craving to be taken like this since the moment the drug first entered your system.
“Oh my god—!” You cried out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
“Ah—fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky cried out.
He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath scalding against your skin as he relentlessly pumped his hips in and out of you, using your vulnerable body like his own personal sex toy.
“It feels too good, fuck, baby. Everything feels too good—I can’t stop,” he moaned.
Your moans blended together into a dirty symphony.
The toxin was amplifying every single touch, his thick shaft stretching you out completely—turning your usually strong and poised body into mush with every thrust.
Your wet walls clenched down on him every time he threatened to pull out, as if sucking him right back in. Bucky was entirely lost, his mind short circuiting from the pleasure.
Every time he buried himself deep, your swollen pussy tightened around him like your body was trying to milk him dry. You whimpered with every single thrust he gave you, your teary eyes meeting his in a lustful haze as you wrapped your legs tight around his hips for support.
“Fuck—my god, don’t do that—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re squeezing me so tight. God—if this is what sex feels like, I never want to stop.”
He tilted his head down, his sweaty strands of hair tickling your hot face as he stared back down at the exact point where his hips got lost with yours.
Every stroke of his cock inside your tight body came with a hot wave of pleasure, amplified by the toxin coursing through your blood.
The sensation was addicting.
Bucky had never felt a pleasure like this before. He’d jerked off a few times in his apartment just to quickly relieve some stress, but that was always by himself.
He was a curious boy back in the forties, but he had never been close to getting any action like this.
To him, this was like a dream come true.
But he needed to go deeper. These regular, sloppy thrusts weren’t enough. He needed to feel more.
With a snarl, he leaned back to grip the backs of your thighs and shoved your knees up towards your chest, folding you into a tight mating press.
Before you could adjust to the new position, he pressed his hips against yours to lock you in place and sank down even deeper than he had before.
Your eyes flew wide, nearly bulging from their sockets as a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. His cock was stretching you at an impossible angle, burying himself so deep you could’ve sworn you saw stars.
Because you were already so sensitive from the toxin, having him bottom out so hard against your cervix made your core shudder uncontrollably, causing your legs to shake. Your head fell back against the floor, your toes curling in the air as your vision went hazy.
“Oh my god!” you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “It’s too much—I can’t… you’re gonna make me cum!”
You felt your walls start to hyperventilate around his length. You knew he felt it, too, because he immediately doubled his pace.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Fuck—I’m so sorry. It just feels too good—fuck, I—”
His voice broke into a pained moan the moment your pussy tightened. You came hard around him without warning, your neck arching as a loud moan strained your vocal cords.
Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face twisting in a grimace from how your climax was squeezing him.
The feeling was exquisite, and fuck, he wasn’t going to last another second when he was buried this deep inside of you.
He knew your body was sensitive and overworked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His balls had never felt this full, this heavy. He was close, so fucking close, and the more your pussy fluttered around his shaft, the more desperate he became to chase that same release.
“Shit. M’gonna cum,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he hilted himself deep inside.
His cock twitched—he had never came inside a girl before, but he was determined to do so now.
He was going to make sure he filled you, to stuff your tight hole to the brim with his backed up super soldier seed.
“Gonna cum inside,” he warned, his metal hand sliding beneath your lower back and lifting your hips up to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t control myself.”
You couldn’t muster a single coherent word. Only muffles and teary whimpers escaped you, but it didn’t matter what you said while Bucky was in this state. He had no intention of stopping.
His blue eyes were crazed, rolled back so far in his sockets you could see the white. He grit his teeth, meeting your hips with sloppy and wet thrusts. A litany of curses mumbled in broken strings under his breath, until finally…
“Oh my god—I’m cumming. Take it, baby. Take every single drop of me. Don’t let it go to waste. Please, I need this. I need this so fucking bad—”
With a firm grip on your thigh, he pinned you down and pushed his hips against yours.
His tip kissed your cervix, pulsing twice before his body gave way to your tightness. You were being filled by the thick, heavy pumping of his seed. You could feel his cock twitching relentlessly against your walls, determined to flood every inch of your pussy.
He buried his face in your neck, his chest heaving violently as he stuffed you so completely full that your lower belly felt heavy.
“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded brokenly.
Bucky trembled from head to toe, and despite his mumbled apologies, he kept your hips pinned securely so that not a single drop of his release could escape. He was spent, breathing in shaky and ragged gasps against your skin. He didn’t want to pull out yet, still savoring the feeling of your pulsing walls squeezing the very last drops from.
The two of you lay on the floor, tangled and sweaty in each other’s limbs. Once you finally caught your breath, your hands gently caressed his broad back, a comforting gesture that caught even you off guard.
“How… how are you feeling?” you finally mumbled.
Your body tensed as you braced yourself for an answer.
Now that the side effects of the toxin seemed to be wearing off, dread started trickling in.
You were terrified that everything you had just done with Bucky would be something he’d immediately regret. A part of you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care—that he had despised you before this, and he would simply go back to hating you again.
But after being his first, there was an undeniable connection in the way you felt beneath him.
If he was already starting to feel regret... well, you weren’t sure how you would handle it. Guilt? Probably. The longer he stayed silent, the more the worry gnawed at you.
He eventually huffed a breath, but he didn’t pull away.
“If you’re wondering if I’m going to regret this,” Bucky began, his voice so raspy and tired that it sent a shiver down your spine. “The answer is no.”
You sucked in a breath, expecting a but to follow.
Bucky attempted to lift himself up slightly so he wasn’t crushing you, but he was still so sensitive that the movement made him wince sharply. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out yet, so he collapsed right back against you with a soft huff.
“I wish I could just stay like this,” he muttered, wrapping both arms around you while resting his head against your sweaty chest.
He looked so small and vulnerable in that moment, and it made your heart ache for him.
“Just holding you,” he whispered, hugging you tighter as his voice grew quieter. “Instead of constantly running, fearing for my life, or being taken away. I just want to stay like this. Holding a pretty girl.”
The tension was starting to become too much for you to handle. Your face burned, unsure of how to process the sudden compliment. Trying to break the tension, you huffed a soft laugh and continued to rub your hand up and down his broad back. He seemed to like your touch very much.
“I’m sorry you lost your virginity this way.” you tried to joke.
Bucky chuckled against your chest. “The man I was in the forties probably would’ve done a much better job.”
“Well, this wasn’t bad at all—I’ll tell you that much.”
The two of you lay there, chuckling softly in each other’s arms, until the loud, sudden static of your earpiece made you both jolt.
“Do you copy? Report in.”
You both froze, your hearts beating rapidly for an entirely different reason now.
Bucky cleared his throat as he reluctantly tried lifting himself up. The friction of his slick and semi-hard cock sliding out of you made you let out an involuntary whimper.
“Status update,” Steve pressed, his tone anxious. “Are you two safe, or are you compromised?”
Compromised, sure. But definitely not in the way Steve meant.
Suppressing a giggle, you tapped your earpiece with a bright smile, catching Bucky's eye.
“Glad to hear your comms didn’t break, Steve.”
A relieved sigh came from the other end. “Give me a status report. How are you two? How’s Bucky?”
You watched as Bucky began to pull his clothes back on, his face an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to compose himself. You chuckled softly.
“We’re fine.”
halfway through proofreading this i lowk realized this was slop. i thought i had a good idea and then lost the plot. if you actually liked this please consider leaving a like and hit that subscribe button *epic outro music*
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
summary: You make Bucky regret ever suggesting that your arrangement is 'just sex' by flirting with other men. He makes you regret ever flirting with other men by giving you a bit of well-earned discipline.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with a sprinkling of plot, spanking, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, condescending!bucky, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, kinda dubcon but more like undernegotiated kink, no daddy kink but do not be fooled bc this whole thing reeks of daddy issues (see: title), jealousy, use of petnames (doll, sweetheart, baby etc.), implied age gap, bucky calls reader kid, no use of y/n, jealousy, cursing, mention of alcohol, slightest bit of angst if you squint hard, situationship to relationship pipeline
a/n: so. sat down in front of a blank google doc to write a 800-900 word drabble based on this ask. blacked out. snapped out of it and found myself with 7k words of pure filth and a pit of self-disgust in my stomach that i think will last my whole life. bon appetit.
please reblog / comment if u liked this. otherwise i die </3
Bucky knows this is all his fault.
He’s fully aware he’s the one that started this whole thing. When he first said those words to you - ‘no emotions, no exclusivity, just sex’ - he watched about twenty emotions roll over you in the space of a few seconds. First was offence, as if he had just shot you the nastiest insult you could have imagined. Next was something uncomfortably close to hurt. But eventually, he watched a sort of smugness begin to sprout over you - like you knew you would make him regret it.
And fuck, does he ever.
He’s sitting with Steve and Sam in the corner of one of Tony’s stupid team-building drinks, watching all sorts of SHIELD employees approach you. For some reason, it seems like every fucking field agent, engineer and tech analyst decided that tonight is the night to chance their arm with you.
He is furious at the fact that they think they have a shot, but there’s nothing he can do. He has no claim to stake. You dismiss most of them with a polite smile and a flippant comment, but every so often you lean just slightly too far forward, speak a little bit too softly, and it throws Bucky’s head for a spin. Hand grasping his whiskey tumbler just a bit too tight, he’s biding his time until he can discreetly pull you into his room or a supply closet or hell, even the bathroom, and prove why none of them are worth your time. It wouldn’t be the first time.
In his defence, the whole ‘no strings’ thing had mostly been for your benefit. He’s an old man with the emotional regulation abilities of a teenager. HYDRA had left him so thoroughly fucked up, he hadn’t been sure what parts of him were Bucky and what parts were the Winter Soldier. He hadn’t wanted to drag anyone into the mess of finding out and surgically removing the unwanted pieces.
But as spring bled into summer and eventually streamed steadily into autumn, he began to realise that maybe those unwanted pieces don’t need to be removed - you seem to like them just fine, in any case. You do more to dampen the noise in his head than any court-mandated therapy session, uncharacteristically sincere when he wakes up with terror wracking his mind and body. You remind him of who he is and the fact that he will never again be the Bucky of the past - but who is ever their past selves? And who would want to be? He is the old Bucky and the new Bucky and both are okay and worth living as. And if he fucks you with a little more intensity on those days where he feels more Winter Solider than Bucky Barnes, bends you over and makes you take it hard and fast - well, who is complaining? Not you.
He had regretted asking for this arrangement almost instantly. You are gracious; never mentioning the dates you go on, but he knows and you know, and he can just feel how smug you are about it. He almost wishes he could return the favour; show up to your trysts smelling like perfume and running out early with a vague excuse. But he’s old and disgruntled and, if he’s being honest, the idea of being so close to anyone except you makes his skin crawl, as if you’re the one exception to his whole touch aversion thing. Maybe you are.
He has only seen you out with a date once. He was passing by the window of a cosy, candlelit Italian restaurant on his way to the laundromat and caught sight of you. Your blood-red dress was dipping just low enough to hint at your cleavage. Your lips were the same crimson as your dress and you brought the rim of your glass up to meet them, shooting the asshole in front of you a flirty smirk. Lust and nausea were flooding Bucky’s stomach in equal measure. When your eyes caught sight of him, he watched surprise flicker there momentarily, before you smiled wickedly and turned back to your date, leaning in closer to rub salt in the wound.
He thinks you might be doing the same thing now, doling out your punishment to him in the most unkind way he can fathom. The way you’re tilting your head up towards the agent in front of you, eyes wide and enthralled, as if he had just said the most fascinating thing you had ever heard. He knows you’re faking it.
Sure, the guy was fairly good-looking - if you’re into that All-American, Steve Rogers kind of thing. But he knows you’re not. You like your men with rough edges - you like them like Bucky. He can see as much when he fucks you, whispering to you all dirty and mean, and your eyes roll back into your skull as if you’ve found nirvana. The boy in front of you wouldn’t know how to treat you like that, how to get you there.
And he can hear, even from this distance, that the guy is a bore. He’s rambling on about statistics - expounding entry level concepts to you, as if you’re not two full grades above him. And you’re just sitting there, listening and nodding earnestly like he’s not the exact sort of person you would make fun of when you’re alone with Bucky.
You’re in your tactical gear - not long returned from a mission, but always eager for a chance to socialise and cause mischief. His jaw twitches when you shift in your seat and he gets a better view of your breasts. He sees your hips shift, a sliver of soft skin peeking out between your vest and the waistband of your pants, and he can almost picture that you’re seated above him, with the way the leather of your suit clings to you like a second skin. The asshole talking to you - Brandon? Brian? - is clearly enjoying the view too, judging by the way his breath stutters mid-sentence. Bucky wonders if you’re doing this on purpose just to torture him.
“Get a fuckin’ grip, dude,” Sam mutters, reaching over to remove the tumbler from Bucky’s grasp. “Gonna break the damn thing.”
He wonders how long they had been watching him when he catches sight of Steve, expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “You okay, pal?”
Bucky just grunts in what is intended to be an affirmative, forcing his eyes away from you but still listening in to your conversation. Steve and Sam are watching him like they aren’t quite sure what to say, eyes darting between himself and you. They have been in this predicament enough to know that something is happening between the two of you, but had never discussed the specifics. Bucky figures they must just know that he has an interest in you that is bordering on unhealthy.
“Look,” Steve says in that pragmatically optimistic way of his. “I actually think it could be a good thing to… you know, get back out there. Why don’t you just talk to her?”
Bucky almost laughs at the suggestion that it’s shyness that is preventing him from talking to you right now. But the truth is so much worse, so he admits nothing. “Had enough whiskey,” he says instead. “Gonna get a beer.”
Steve and Sam sigh almost in tandem as Bucky hauls himself up and over to the bar. When he gets his beer, he doesn’t bother returning to his seat. Instead, he leans against the bar where he can observe you again without any intervention. It’s almost embarrassing how well you have him wrapped around your finger, but he can’t look away.
“Uh- not trying to freak you out or anything,” Brandon mutters conspiratorially, voice lowering. “But I think Barnes has been staring over here for a while. And he looks- well, he doesn’t look happy.”
You smile then, and it’s real - not the pitiful grins you had been granting him before. “Oh, really?” you ask, eyes flicking over and meeting Bucky’s for just a split-second. It strikes him like lightning, the way you look at him - eyebrows raised with mirth and devilment. He feels that he’s too old for the games you’re playing with him, while also wanting nothing more than to grab you by the hips and haul you out of the room caveman-style to have his wicked way with you.
“Don’t look, you’ll make it obvious,” your little pest urges you quickly and Bucky almost face-palms at his idiocy. He doesn’t really understand how this guy got certified as an agent without an awareness that super soldiers also had super hearing, but whatever. The training program is more Steve’s remit.
“Sorry,” you say with a smile that only Bucky knows is sarcastic. “Don’t think he saw me.”
“Are you guys…” he trails off, head turning around to glance at Bucky who meets his stare head-on. “Are you guys together or something? I wouldn’t really wanna piss him off…”
“Together? Oh god no,” you laugh and Bucky’s jaw twitches.
“Okay…” Brendan continues, taking another quick glance at Bucky, who knows his stare has only grown more stormy. “Well, does he maybe have a thing for you?”
“No way,” you protest, and he hates how much you seem to be enjoying this. “We’re not like that at all, Brennan. Bucky trained me. Pretty much taught me everything I know. He’s more like… a father figure, really.”
Bucky almost drops his beer. Something inside him stops, like all the clogs turning in his body have decided to break down. His brain is lagging as he tries to convince himself that he must have misheard you. Even his blood has paused its journey through his body. He can see Steve looking between the two of you from the corner of his eye, but he ignores his bewildered glances. He’ll do his best to explain this away later.
You can hardly contain your amusement. Bucky can tell that you’re fighting every instinct in your body to not look over at his reaction.
“Oh ok!” Brandon seems happy enough with that explanation, but you have lost interest. You quickly manage to get rid of him with the promise of a date the next day and turn back to Natasha, voice brimming with real interest in a stark contrast to your last conversation.
Bucky isn’t sure what to do with himself. He can see Steve deciding whether or not to approach him, so he gives you a look - one that you are very familiar with - and goes straight to his room, trying his best to ignore the bulge forming in his pants.
It takes you near enough to two hours to get to Bucky’s room. Exhaustion steamrolling through you in the aftermath of your mission and the team event, but not enough for you to turn down the silent offer made to you before he walked out. He is almost foaming at the mouth by the time you reach his door.
“You have some fuckin’ explaining to do,” he demands when he meets you at the door, dragging you in not-so-gently. You smirk up at him as you walk in, purposely casual and slow, as if you have all the time in the world.
“I don’t have to leave early just because you do. My world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”
Bucky would usually tell you that it should, but he seems to bite it back today. He’s not talking about the fact it took you so long to get here, and you know that. “What the fuck was that, down there?”
“What? You’re the one who wanted no exclusivity, remember? Don’t tell me you’re jealous just because I’ve talked to a few boys.”
He is and you know it. You see the way he grits his teeth when someone else approaches you and a warm sort of satisfaction slithers up your spine every damn time. It’s the only thing that makes it worth letting them take you out on dates. The way he fucks you after, rough and demanding, like he’s proving that he’s better than whoever your date is (he is). Or the way he fucks you before you’re scheduled to run out, desperate and possessive, pushing into you hard and fast in a way that should be too much but isn’t because it’s him. Like he’s trying to convince you to stay.
And you never do. Because he made his stance perfectly clear and the last thing you are going to do is invest where he hasn’t.
Even if the dates you go on make you bored and sick. Even if the one person you had tried to sleep with since starting your arrangement with Bucky gave you a full-body ick, a shiver running through you like your body was rejecting him. (“Did you just cum?” he had asked you, smug and satisfied. You told him you had.)
But that’s not the point. You’re playing with Bucky now, trying to make him say it. To admit he is jealous. That he doesn’t want to see you with anyone else.
“You said I was a fuckin’ father figure, doll.”
Your smile just widens, a laugh bubbling forth. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, that really got you, huh? You have a daddy kink, Barnes?”
Bucky just glares back. He doesn’t. He has told you before that the whole daddy thing has never appealed to him.
But you can see it now - you calling him a father figure, so flippantly and casually, did something to him. You can’t tell whether he wanted to bend you over then and there, prove to you and everyone else at the function that he is most definitely not a father figure to you. Or if he wanted to lean into it, maybe show you who is in charge. The irritation on his face is making you lean towards the latter.
“You’re a damn piece of work.” he grumbles, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve half a mind to take you over my knee and show you the discipline you obviously never got from your actual father figure.”
You freeze for just a beat. That’s new.
“You won’t,” you say, indignantly rolling your eyes even though you’re kind of faking your confidence.
“Wanna bet, kid?”
The air has changed slightly, an odd current running between the two of you. And you’re suddenly not so sure he’s bluffing. You feel slightly out of your depth. Like this whole thing had gotten away from you a bit. Like he was more serious about this than you were expecting.
Still, you press him. Because that’s who you are and what you do.
“Yeah, actually, I think I do, old man.”
There’s a tense silence - long and drawn out - where you start to doubt yourself. Maybe you should have backed down, because the way he’s looking at you now, stormy and dark, is making you nervous in a way you’re not used to with him.
And then his nostrils flare and he’s moving towards you, faster than lightning, faster than you are prepared for. He lifts you with annoying ease before you can even register what’s happening, fingers digging into your waist as evidence of a cracked restraint. You’re kicking your legs, a strained shout escaping as he catches you off your guard.
“Let me go!” you’re thrashing now, all spit-fire and outrage.
No,” he grunts, manhandling you with practiced ease. He settles you down over his lap. “You wanna act like a brat? I’ll show you what it means.”
You’re squirming when his hand comes up to yank the leather of your pants down to your thighs, almost tearing it in the process. You’re left in just a lace white thong, bearing your backside to him fully. You had worn it intentionally to see the tortured expression on his face that you enjoy so much. Now it just feels humiliating, bent over in front of him in his favourite panties - the picture of submission.
“Stop messing around, Bucky. Don’t be a dick.”
There is a second where neither of you speak. His fingers dance gently on the skin of your ass and you can’t see him but you can hear his breath catching over the strained silence that stretches between you.
Before it shatters into a million pieces.
Because Bucky’s flesh hand comes down - abrupt and hard - against the skin of your ass. The stinging sensation travels outwards from the area of impact, sizzling your skin and your nerves, and you realise you are absolutely and utterly in over your head.
“Okay!” you gasp. “Okay, Jesus Christ, Bucky, I’m sorry! I didn’t actually think you’d…” you trail off, face enveloping in a sudden and suffocating heat. “I’m sorry. You can let me go now.”
Another silence where you can feel him hesitating and then: “No.”
“No?” you splutter, words lost in your throat as if the position you’re in isn’t humiliating enough. “What do you mean no? I apologised.”
“I mean no. You asked for this doll, remember?”
He grabs your hair in a way that you suppose isn’t a million miles from gentle and twists your face to meet his. In what is an uncomfortable stretch for you, his eyes implore yours, silently assessing whether this is really okay.
Whatever he finds in your face steels his resolve because in the next second, he is pressing your face down further, ass arched higher and his palm is coming back down against your ass, knocking you forward. He clears his throat, mutters a curse under his breath that lets you know this is getting to him too.
“Asked for it when you flirted with that moron downstairs instead of coming to me.”
Another slap has dark stars flashing behind your eyes, the combination of pain and pleasure sparking through you to create something completely unchartered. Your skin is burning and it should be unpleasant - probably would be with anyone else.
Maybe it’s just the angle, you reason. Maybe it’s reverberating to your clit and that’s what making you rock forward with an embarrassing moan.
“Asked for it when you called me a father figure, like I don’t fuck you silly.” He spits the term ‘father figure’ like it’s something dirty, and the smack he delivers after it makes your mouth fall ajar and your cunt pulsate.
“Asked for it when you wore this fuckin’ thing,” he says, hooking a finger around the thin lace strap of your thong and letting it slingshot back with a dull nip, before you feel the stronger sting of his hand on your ass again. “Asked for it when you bet I wouldn’t do this. You remember that, don’t you, doll?”
“I-I-“ you can’t get the words out because now Bucky is pressing his fingertips lightly down your spine, carding through the soft indents there before tracing down, lower and lower. He follows the line of your thong, over places that make you clench and shudder, until his finger is pressing lightly over your core through the soaked fabric of your underwear.
“You-you-?” he mocks, black and mean, as he applies pressure there and watches you wiggle back to his touch.
When you don’t answer, his hand leaves your pussy and comes down hard with three successive smacks as punishment. You can feel his jean-clad cock pressing into your thighs, feel it jump at the little yell you release. He curses, whispered and dirty.
“I don’t know, Bucky,” you whine. “It hurts.”
“Too much?” he asks condescendingly, rubbing a hand over the curve of your ass where you can feel red-hot heat blossoming.
You shake your head, face warm with embarrassment and sheer desire and he brings his hand down again and you wonder if it’s possible for you to cum like this, with nothing but his hand against your ass in explosions of fire and something just shy of real pain.
You really should not be having this reaction to being taken over Bucky’s knee and spanked - you’re an adult, for fuck sake - but you think maybe you would enjoy anything he chooses to do to you. Your shame is just making you want it more.
He continues until it really starts to hurt in the most delicious way, the flat of his palm hitting against your skin, rotating between featherlight and rough. Every so often, his fingers nudge their way to the tops of your thighs and your clit, playing there for just a matter of seconds before returning to the fat of your ass.
When he stops, you’re delirious and dumb and you wonder if you’ve just discovered something new about yourself, or if Bucky just has a way of gnarling all your desires, turning them darker and moulding them to his own preferences until the only thing you can categorically say you enjoy in bed is him.
Your ass is so raw that when Bucky finally lifts you off his lap and places you on the bed, you feel a pleasurable little burn linger, but most of your concentration is on your neglected core. You can’t stop moving your hips, too desperate for friction, as he carefully removes your shoes and peels your pants the rest of the way down your legs. He makes light work of your top too and in just a matter of moments you are completely bared to him at the bottom of the bed. He stands above you, still fully clothed, his jeans stained with your desperation.
“Did so good for me. Took it so well,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and forcing your eyes to his for one brutal moment. You feel imprisoned by his blue eyes before he grants you a soft kiss - an act of mercy before he completely destroys you. “I think you enjoyed it a bit too much though. Not much of a punishment.”
You shake your head but both of you know that you’re lying. Bucky just smiles knowingly, glancing down obviously to where your pussy is dripping onto the bedsheets. Your face floods with humiliation.
When he kisses you this time, it’s a violent thing - tongue pushing against yours with a dominance usually reserved for those nights when you return to him after a date, your chin lightly grazed with beard burn from an unpleasant goodnight kiss. The feel of his lips on yours lets you know what kind of night you’re in for.
He’s leaning over you, thumb navigating its way to your clit like clockwork. You’re so ridiculously wet that it almost glides right off. He chuckles and mumbles something about how needy you are against your lips, but your body is buzzing and your ears aren’t working properly.
He circles your clit, using extra pressure as if it needs it. You’re humming and moaning, feeling like you might already be on the precipice after just a few seconds. When he slides just one finger into your heat, your mouth opens to release the most desperate sound you think you might have ever made right up against his lips. He smiles, nudges it in further.
“I don’t think I need to get you ready for me at all, do I, sweetheart? Pretty pussy is drooling already just from a bit of discipline.”
Something about the term ‘discipline’ - as if he’s an authority figure - makes the whole thing feel so horrifically dirty but you can hear the mortifying squelching between your thighs and you know he’s right. When he adds a second finger, you’re preparing for the humiliating reality that you’re about to cum just from Bucky’s punishment and less than a minute of fingering.
Except you don’t. Because Bucky curls his fingers into that spot that only he can hit, makes light explode behind your eyes, gets you so so close. You grind down on his fingers, body taught with the expectation of something mind-blowing. And then suddenly he’s gone as quickly as he was ever there and you’re pressing your hips down onto air, trying to find purchase where there is none.
“Bucky!” you gasp, voice coming out so embarrassingly breathless that you might be self-conscious if you thought about it too much. The sight of him humming around his fingers, still slick with the evidence of your arousal, is not helping. “I was just about to-”
“I know, I know,” Bucky murmurs, hand brushing through your hair, voice thick with false sympathy. He’s looking down at you as if you’re some child that fell off their bike - his condescension almost pisses you off, but mostly it turns you on. “You were so close, baby. Your voice goes all whiny when you’re almost there, did you know that? Always sound so needy. Makes me wanna fuck you harder.”
“Then why did you do that?” You’re vaguely aware of how petulant you sound but all conscious thought flew out the window the second you felt his palm on your ass.
Bucky doesn’t answer you. Instead, his hands reach down and begin to unbuckle his belt. Slowly. Meticulously. You’re transfixed, watching every movement. When you reach out a hand to help, he smacks it away, light but firm. He unbuckles and tugs his pants and underwear down far enough for his hard cock to spring out. Your thighs press together in a motion he doesn’t miss.
You feel small like this - completely bared and open to him. You are vulnerable and exposed and so helplessly turned on. But if you try to rush Bucky into touching you, he will only take ten times longer. So you lie as still as a rock, watch him undress slowly and fold away his clothing with precision, ignoring the very horny, very naked woman on his bed. But it is wildly clear that he is feeling some of what you are. His jaw is ticking and his nostrils flare at the smell of your arousal.
By the time he leans over you and kisses you again, you are both on fire. He wastes no time, pressing his cock up against your dripping hole and slamming in with one stroke.
It’s humiliating, really. The whole night is turning out to be just one humongous humiliation ritual.
Because after that first stroke, you’re completely gone. Your cunt clenches down in a way that makes him hiss, squeezing and convulsing, losing your mind. You’re not sure what you’re babbling while you try to milk him - possibly something along the lines of Yes, Bucky, please, right there. You just know that Bucky’s grip bruises your hips with a restraint that is fit to snap at any moment and your legs are spasming as you try to bear down on the cock he just fed you. He’s too surprised to even talk you through it the way he normally does. Instead, he just watches you, awe filtering through his bright eyes.
Your first thought when you come down is that Bucky is going to be absolutely insufferable about this. Your second thought is that you’re still ridiculously horny.
“God, baby,” he grits out, a taunt and a prayer all at once - like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to tease you about this or worship at your feet. He chooses the former. “I didn’t know you were this fucking desperate. Coming as soon as you get my cock in you. Like you were trained for it.”
In a way, you were, you think. But then Bucky is pulling out of you and slamming back in. The sensation is overwhelming - he is too big. It’s too much for your sensitive hole. Your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks, the sensitivity verging on too much. But you’re still squeezing around him, unwilling to give yourself any reprieve. Not when it feels this good.
“Feel how she’s sucking me in, doll? You can’t stop, even after coming. Your tight little cunt was made for this.”
His eyes are trained solely on your wet heat and the way it’s taking him, a sort of adoration painting his face that almost seems out of place in the filthiness of his actions. His hands have a firm grasp on your hips for leverage while he fucks into you, hard and slow. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head and you feel too braindead to respond. All you can do is watch him.
“Look at you. Can’t even talk. Let me empty that smart little head of yours. There’s only enough space in there to think about my cock.”
When he fucks you like this, you think you might be in love him. Best not to think too much on it. Not that you can think too much on anything, with his dick sliding in and out of you, filling up and stretching every inch of you.
“Feels so good, Bucky,” you whine. “Need you.”
“You need me?” His voice is patronising. It should piss you off, but it has you gushing. “Baby, you have me. I’m all up in your guts, right here.”
He looks to your stomach and you follow his gaze, watching the head of his cock press into the skin there, before disappearing and poking through again with every thrust. “Fuck, look at that,” Bucky groans, watching his own movements. “So perfect at taking me.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, hand absently reaching down to press on your stomach, feeling his movements there. Your breath is stuttering and you think maybe you’re choking on the pleasure he’s giving you. “Wanna be good for you.”
When Bucky feels you press down on the head of his cock through his stomach, his hips stutter and a loud, animalistic groan spills out. “So good for me. Such a good girl, letting me mark up your ass like that. Think you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you baby? Let me fuck you past your limit?”
You’re lost to the pleasure. You just nod and he gives your clit a quick nudge in appreciation.
“I know you would. Know how bad you wanna make me proud.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your pussy jumps, face flooding with heat and Bucky is looking down at you like he’s figuring you out. The term ‘father figure’ comes rushing back into your consciousness and it takes everything in you not to go running for the hills in a panic at how much you liked those words on his lips.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he grumbles, pulling his cock out of you and manoeuvring you so you are kneeling up on the bed with your hands on the headboard. “Can’t look at your face when I say those things to you, baby. Gonna make me cum too soon.”
He’s sliding into you from behind then, both arms pressed to your hips to navigate you up and down on his cock, while he presses his face to yours. Every now and again, he lands a kiss to your gland that makes your pulse drop. His pace is steady and harsh and your tits bounce with every brutal thrust of his hips, your combined arousal dripping down to his heavy balls.
You’re chanting his name along with other obscenities that you can barely even register. You feel completely shameless, willing to do anything he wants just so he will shower you with more of that praise you have become so addicted to.
“You’re so easy,” Bucky taunts you again. “Bet if I touched your clit right now, you’d cum again.”
“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t help the way you sound as if you’re begging. “Please, Bucky.”
He tuts, and he grins against your cheek. “I don’t know. Do you deserve it? You talked to a lot of men today, sweetheart. Made them think they have a shot.”
There’s a stubborn part of you that, even in this cock-induced daze, wants to snap at him. To remind him that this was all his decision, not yours. Unfortunately, you’re thinking with all organs except your brain right now.
“M’yours,” you pant, fucking back onto him. You can feel the short, course public hairs graze your ass, which is still red raw. The pain only adds to the building feeling. “Don’t want them.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck- yeah, please, Bucky.”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” he gasps, voice strained. “I’m gonna come inside you. Gonna fill you up so good that nobody could ever try to take you from me again.”
You can’t help the sharp moan that comes spilling from you. You can’t quite explain how much you want that; how much you want him to fuck his cum into you, as if it would somehow make you belong to him. His filthy words along with the grinding of his hips is almost too much for you to handle.
“Please, Bucky. Want it so bad.”
“Please, Bucky,” he mocks you with a cruel lilt that makes you squeeze around him. “That all you can say? You want my cum so bad you can’t even think?”
You just nod, a strange concoction of arousal and humiliation coursing through you.
“That’s okay, baby. Don’t have to talk. I’ll give it to you. You just have to take it like a- fuck- like a good girl.”
Finally, he moves his metal arm down. He presses his middle finger over your clit, featherlight, and it makes your legs shake and your cunt squeeze and you’re so close-
“Gonna flood you, baby. Have so much to give you. Gonna make you drip.”
And then you’re falling off the edge with a call of Bucky’s name, grinding back onto his stupidly big cock, nonsense falling from your lips. You’re almost embarrassed about the keening noises you’re making but the enormity of your orgasm is too extreme for it to matter. He follows you not a second later, and you feel him pulse inside you, shooting up ropes of sticky cum. He holds you tight as he groans, rocking his hips back and forth on yours with aggressive ardour that peters out into slow, languid thrusts as the feeling washes through you both.
Bucky was telling the truth. He’s still grinding shallowly into you while his spend is spilling out of you, dripping down his length, past his balls and onto the sheets. He fucks what he can back into you for a moment while you both come down, shaking and shuddering.
He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your neck. “So good. Took that cock so good for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you, sweet girl? My good girl.”
He pulls out of you gently and you feel his spend flood out of your thoroughly used hole. He allows you to slump back, lifting you back until you’re lying on the bed with his face in your neck. You can’t bring yourself to care about the wet patches you’re lying in. Not yet.
Both of your chests are heaving as you come down. Bucky is pressing intimate little kisses to your neck, a gentle hand stroking your stomach, and your chest tightens. You’re so close to mistaking this for something that it’s not. How he can dole out his affection like this while still maintaining that you two have ‘no strings attached’ is beyond you. As you slowly recuperate, your breathlessness is replaced with a gooey warmth, owing itself entirely to the man pressing gentle kisses and whispering sweet praises to you as if you’re his. And you’re uncomfortable with how much you want to be.
But you don’t let it upset you. Instead, you take your red ass and your dignity and you decide it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.
“Jesus, Barnes,” you chuckle softly, beginning to haul yourself up even though you’re still feeling shaky and limp. “Whatever I did to piss you off so much today, remind me to do it again.”
“You’re leaving?” he asks, sitting up with you immediately.
“Yeah,” you say, searching through the crumpled sheets for your underwear which has blended into the white of the bed. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Why? You just got back from a mission.”
You give him a sideways glance. “Going for breakfast,” you say simply, as if you’re not both aware that it’s a date you have planned.
“You being serious right now, doll? You’re really gonna go on a date knowing I was inside you just a few hours before? With my cum still dripping out of you.”
You ignore the way heat pools in your stomach. Maybe it’s for the best that you and Bucky are not together - being this turned on all the time would be exhausting.
“Well, that’s what showers are for, dumbass,” you say, standing up and shimmying into your underwear.
You’re turning around to find your pants but his voice stops you. “Don’t go.”
You give him a smug little smirk, but truthfully, your heart is racing. “Why not?”
“I don’t want you to,” he spits and his eyebrows are furrowed - an attractive little line forming there. He looks so sulky and petulant, it almost makes you laugh, something affectionate tugging at your heart. But that answer isn’t good enough.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have high hopes for this guy,” you sigh, yanking on your pants. “I will probably be back here again in a day or two.”
“I don’t want you to come back in a day or two,” he grits out, standing up to tug on his underwear. “I don’t want you to go.”
He’s standing over you now in a way that might be intimidating if you didn’t know Bucky any better. His arms are crossed, great swells of muscles tensing and bulging while he looks down at you with stormy eyes. You like him like this - broody and grumpy and disgruntled. But the confusion it’s causing right now is overriding all of that.
“I can’t stay, Bucky. I would have to cancel-”
“Then cancel.”
You’re not sure what to say - shifting from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable staring contest. You’re not usually like this, but you feel a bit nervous, squirming under his gaze. You push it down.
“No.”
Bucky grits his teeth. “Why are you bothering with these fuckin’ dates? You think they can fuck you like me? Make you cum as hard as you just did?”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” you snap, irritation fighting through all nervousness. “It’s not all about sex, asshole.”
He stands up straighter. “And you think any of them would be the perfect man for you, doll? You think they’d be better for you than me?”
That was cruel. Fury is coursing through you, burning hot. “I don’t know, Bucky, maybe they would be. At least they wouldn’t say they just want sex and then throw their toys out of the pram when I talk to anyone else.”
The storm clears from his eyes for just a second but you don’t care to stick around to see what peeks through after. You’re fumbling with your bra, trying to get it on as fast as humanly possible. Why is it so much harder with shaky fingers?
“I don’t just want sex,” he says, so earnest and uncharacteristically timid that it almost makes you want to wrap him in your arms. Almost.
“Yeah, I know, Bucky,” you scoff and watch as surprise flickers over his expression. “I’m not stupid and you’re not subtle. But you made your bed when you asked for this. I’m not gonna stick around and wait for you to stop being too emotionally stunted for a relationship.”
“I’m not- hey, stop.”
You’re leaning down to tie up the laces of your shoes when he grabs your arms to stop you in your tracks. You glare up at him.
“I’m tryna talk to you. Can you just listen to me for a second? Stop trying to run out on me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He puffs out a breath and silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You know you won’t be the one to break it - you just watch Bucky grapple with his words.
“It was never just sex,” he begins softly. “I just didn’t wanna fuck you up while I was figuring things out. But then things were… so good between us.” He looks to you with a hint of insecurity, as if checking to see whether or not you agree. “It made me think maybe I had nothing to be scared of. I regret ever saying it was just sex. And I can’t fuckin’ stand watching you leave.”
He closes his mouth tight, like he’s trying to stop a flow of excuses and appeals from bursting forth. He might even be holding his breath, leg twitching and bouncing nervously. You still won’t say anything, waiting for him to admit what you’ve known all along.
“I want you to be mine, doll. If you’ll have me.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re fighting off a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”
Bucky’s eye twitches comically. “You’ll think about it?”
“Yeah. I’ll compare notes after my date with Brennan, decide which one of you to pick.”
He glares, but his ears are pink. “You think you’re funny.”
“What’s funny?” you say and this time you can’t stop the smile from creeping onto your face. “Gotta assess my options.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face but he’s smiling too - a crooked, reluctant one with blissful happiness creeping out of the cracks. His hands move to your hips and you let them.
“Let me give you something else to add to your notes.”
how i felt after writing this:
tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal @marina468
ask: @tough-tittay-4u (i hope this was ok! i changed a couple of things so i would find it easier to write but i hope it was somewhat how you pictured it!)
(dā'-be), (β) Capricorni, "the lucky one of the slaughterers," or "the slayer's lucky star."
synopsis: Dex finds himself watching you more than Matt as he tries to learn all about you.
word count: 8.7k+
pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader
notes: this is the last chapter before things really start to *spice up!* also want to say that there are some small bits of foreshadowing, in terms of character relationships/how they interact with you. it may not make sense yet, but i hope it does down the line! also i swear to god, the gifmaker had something against me because tell me why this gif is so low quality, but it originally wasn't???
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, told from dex's pov!, stalking, light violence, yeah i really don't know what else to tag lol it's just dex stalking you
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Dex caught you both on a Thursday because Thursdays were the easiest to predict now that he’d been watching long enough, and because Matt always did the same thing when he wanted to check in without making it look like he was checking in, he took the long way home from wherever he’d been, walked through blocks that gave him multiple exits, and kept the cane in his hand like it was a shield and an announcement at the same time. Dex watched from across the street, half-reflected in the dark glass of a closed storefront, and felt his jaw tighten before he even saw you clearly, because he’d started associating the shape of you beside Matt with a kind of irritation that made no sense on paper.
You were laughing at something, head tipped back just enough for Dex to catch the movement, and Foggy wasn’t there to be the obvious cause of it, nor was Karen there. It was just you and Matt cutting down the sidewalk at an easy pace, your arm threaded through his like you’d decided that was where it belonged. Matt’s cane tapped a rhythm that looked convincing to strangers, and Dex’s irritation spiked because he knew better than strangers ever would—he knew Matt could navigate a packed room in the dark, and he knew Matt could move like a ghost when he wanted to, and the cane was a prop that made people underestimate him.
What Dex didn’t like was that you weren’t playing into it.
You weren’t hovering at Matt’s elbow like you thought he’d trip, you weren’t tugging him around obstacles or doing that careful, performative kindness people did in public to prove they were good, you were just walking with him, close and casual, and when Matt angled his shoulder to slip past a couple pushing a stroller, you adjusted with him like you’d done it a thousand times. The contact didn’t read like pity, and it didn’t read like you were babysitting him, it looked like you were comfortable.
Matt said something under his breath that made you snort. “You’re such a liar,” you told him, and your tone was light, the kind of light people used when they weren’t worried the other person would leave.
Matt’s mouth curved. “I’m not lying,” he replied.
“You are absolutely lying,” you said, and you bumped his shoulder with yours, small and quick, not enough to throw him off balance, just enough to make your point. “You just don’t like being called out.”
Matt’s head tilted toward you like he was listening to your expression as much as your words. “I’m fine with being called out,” he said.
You made a sound like you didn’t believe him for a second. “Sure,” you replied. “That’s why you get that face every time Foggy tells you you’re being stubborn.”
“I don’t have a face,” Matt said, deadpan.
Dex narrowed his eyes, not because he cared about the joke, but because the way you were talking to him was too easy and practiced, like you’d built this rhythm with him a long time ago. The cane clicked again, and Dex tracked how it never caught, never searched, and never betrayed the fact that it was theater.
You stopped at the curb, and a car rolled through the intersection with music loud enough to rattle the windows. Matt stepped forward first when the light changed, and you went with him without hesitation. You didn’t grip his arm tighter like you were bracing for him to stumble, you followed his lead like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Dex watched you glance up at a fire escape as you crossed, just a quick flick of your eyes, and then you looked forward again like you hadn’t done anything. That small glance shouldn’t have meant anything, but Dex’s attention sharpened anyway, because the average person didn’t scan upward like that unless they had a reason.
They reached a corner deli and slowed, and Dex shifted his position to keep the angle. Matt stopped outside the door without going in, and you leaned against the brick wall beside him, your tote bag bumping lightly against your hip. “We can grab something quick,” you said, already pushing off the wall like you were ready to go inside.
Matt shook his head. “I’m good,” he replied.
“You’re not good,” you said, and you sounded mildly annoyed in a way that felt familiar. “You’ve had, what, coffee and guilt today? That’s not food.”
Matt’s lips pressed together, and Dex watched that tell because it always meant Matt was choosing whether to argue. “I ate,” Matt said.
“You ate a piece of toast,” you countered immediately, and Matt’s pause was half a beat too long, which was how Dex knew you were right. You pointed at the deli door. “Go inside,” you said. “And get a sandwich. I’m not asking.”
Matt sighed like you were inconveniencing him by caring. “You can’t boss me around,” he said.
“I can, actually,” you replied. “I’ve been doing it since we were kids.”
That line hit different, and Dex could see it in Matt’s posture even if you couldn’t. Matt went still for a fraction of a second, then exhaled like he’d decided not to make it complicated. He shifted his cane, pushed the door open, and went inside.
Dex stayed outside with you, close enough now to catch the smaller sounds, the way you tapped your nails against your tote strap while you waited, the way your breathing stayed steady even when you weren’t doing anything. You didn’t look nervous or like you were checking behind you, but you did look like someone who had learned to be calm in public and didn’t waste energy pretending to be fragile.
A man walking past brushed too close to you, shoulder bumping yours, and he didn’t apologize, and Dex’s hand twitched in his pocket before he could stop it. You didn’t react the way most people did, either by snapping or shrinking, you simply shifted your stance a few inches away from the flow of foot traffic like you’d corrected for an inconvenience and moved on.
The deli door opened again, and Matt stepped back out with a paper bag in one hand; he held it casually, like it hadn’t been a negotiation. You raised your eyebrows. “See?” you said. “That wasn’t hard.”
Matt’s expression stayed neutral, but Dex heard the faint amusement in his voice. “You’re insufferable,” Matt replied.
“You love me,” you shot back, easy and immediate.
Matt didn’t answer the way a boyfriend would or the way a man flirting would, he just gave you a look that Dex couldn’t fully read from this distance, then he said, “come on,” like he wanted to keep moving before the conversation could go anywhere tender.
You fell into step with him again, arm linked, and you headed down the block toward a darker stretch of street that led toward the church. Dex followed at a distance, keeping to the opposite side where the parked cars gave him cover. He watched you keep talking, watched Matt respond, watched you both move like people who knew exactly how to exist beside each other without needing to explain it.
You cut past the church instead of going in, and Dex felt the familiar annoyance flicker again, because Matt used the church like a checkpoint; like a safe house. You glanced toward the church door as you passed, and this time Dex saw it clearly, because the streetlight caught your eyes at the exact angle. It wasn’t curiosity, it was recognition.
Matt didn’t slow, but his head tilted slightly toward you, and he said something Dex couldn’t hear over a passing truck. You replied without looking surprised, and you didn’t glance around like you were worried someone might be watching, if anything, you looked like you were bored by whatever he’d said, like it was the kind of thing you’d heard before.
A few blocks later, Matt turned into a narrow side street that was quieter, darker, and emptier, the kind of street that made normal people speed up. Dex stayed back, using the shadow of a building entrance to keep sightlines while letting you get far enough ahead that he didn’t have to worry about Matt’s hearing catching his footsteps.
Matt stopped near a service door, the kind that led to a back stairwell. You paused with him and didn’t ask why he was stopping there, you simply shifted your tote bag higher on your shoulder and spoke like you’d already been in this position before. “So,” you said, “are you going to be stupid about this, or are you going to do what you’re supposed to do?”
Matt huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and controlled. “I’m not being stupid,” he replied.
“You are absolutely being stupid,” you said, and the words came out like a habit, like this argument had played out in different forms a hundred times. “Just… text me when you’re done.”
Dex’s attention snapped in tighter, because you didn’t say it like a guess or like you were hoping, you said it like you knew exactly what “done” meant.
Matt didn’t answer right away, he shifted the paper bag in his hand, then said, “I will,” and his voice was calm, but it carried something careful underneath it, like he was taking you seriously.
You nodded once, then said, “okay,” and you stepped back, giving him space without making a performance of it.
Matt moved toward the service door, and Dex expected you to look away, to turn, to start walking, but instead you kept your eyes on him until he disappeared inside. When the door clicked shut, you exhaled and glanced up again at the rooftops.
Dex stayed very still in the shadow, because that second upward glance confirmed what he’d been circling for days without letting himself name it. People didn’t look at rooftops like that unless rooftops mattered, and rooftops only mattered to a certain kind of person in this city. You waited a moment longer, then turned and started walking away in the opposite direction with a steady pace and no hesitation, like this was part of your normal night.
Dex didn’t follow Matt; Matt was behind the door and on the rooftops and moving in ways Dex couldn’t easily track without putting himself in a position to get noticed.
So instead, Dex followed you.
You walked two blocks, then three, and you pulled your phone out as you went. The screen lit your face briefly, and Dex watched your thumb move fast as you typed. You looked irritated, like you’d been forced to accept something you didn’t like but had accepted it anyway.
Dex stayed far enough back to keep your phone screen unreadable, but he didn’t need it. He didn’t need to see the words to know the shape of them, because there were only so many reasons a woman would tell Matt to text her “when he’s done,” and only so many reasons she’d watch him disappear into a back stairwell near a church and then look at the rooftops like she was checking whether the sky had teeth.
You kept walking, and Dex watched you blend into the city like you belonged to it. You didn’t run from what Matt was, and you didn’t act like it was shocking or romantic either. You treated it like a fact of life that had been in your hands for a long time, like something you’d known and chosen and carried without turning it into a confession.
Dex stayed in the shadows until you reached your building and went inside, until the lobby light swallowed you and the door locked behind you. He didn’t move for a moment after that, not because he was having some deep emotional revelation, but because his brain was doing what it always did when new information slid into place—it reorganized the map.
He walked away from your building with the same controlled pace he always used, and he didn’t go looking for Matt on the rooftops. He went to his place instead, because Monday morning you’d go along your regular routine, and he wanted to see whether you acted different after a night like this. He wanted to see whether you were the kind of person who pretended nothing happened, or the kind of person who folded danger into routine like it belonged there.
Dex started Monday near the corner where the coffee cart set up before the rush really hit, because people were easier to read when they thought they were still alone with their day. He kept his pace ordinary, kept his shoulders loose, and stood a few feet away from the cart like he was just another commuter deciding whether caffeine was worth the line. The vendor was the same guy Dex had seen you buy from many times, the kind who remembered faces but didn’t remember names unless you were loud about it.
“Morning,” the vendor called when Dex stepped closer, already reaching for a cup without asking. “Whaddya want?”
Dex took a second too long, like he was thinking, then said, “black.”
The vendor snorted. “Of course it’s black,” he muttered, pouring fast. “Everybody’s either black coffee or dessert-in-a-cup these days. No in-between.”
Dex paid, took the cup, and didn’t move away right away. He stood on the edge of the crowd, sipping slow, and watched the sidewalk instead of the cart. People passed in clusters, some glued to their phones, some talking too loud, and some moving like they were afraid of being late even if they weren’t.
You showed up on schedule, tote bag strap cutting a line across your shoulder, expression already set like you were halfway through a meeting in your head. You didn’t look around like you were searching for someone, and you didn’t look down like you were trying to disappear. You walked straight to the cart and nodded at the vendor like they’d already had this conversation a hundred times.
“Hey, Doc,” the vendor said, brightening immediately. “Same thing?”
“Yeah,” you replied, and you leaned forward slightly when he handed you the cup, like you were already shifting to leave. “And if you’ve got something that isn’t pure sugar, I’ll take it.”
The vendor rummaged and produced a wrapped egg-and-cheese sandwich with the kind of pride people got from being useful. “This’s the only thing I have that counts as real food,” he said. “Take it before I change my mind.”
You gave him a look that was half gratitude, half disbelief. “You’re going to guilt me into eating breakfast,” you said.
“I’m going to keep you alive,” the vendor corrected, dead serious. “Somebody has to.”
You snorted, tucked the sandwich under your arm, and moved on before the line could swallow you. Dex waited until you were a few steps ahead, then fell in behind the flow of commuters with the same casual timing he used to step into a firing lane unseen.
At the subway entrance you swiped your card and went through without hesitating. Dex followed with two bodies between you, keeping the same distance without matching you too perfectly, because perfect mirroring was the kind of thing people noticed even when they couldn’t explain why. The stairs down were crowded, the air thick with perfume and damp coats and stale heat, and the platform was already packed in the way it got when everyone had decided the same morning mattered.
You stood near a column, not pressed against it but close enough that nobody could come up behind you without you feeling it. Dex stayed two columns down, angled so he could see you through gaps in shoulders and backpacks, and he watched you unwrap the sandwich with practiced hands. You took a bite while staring down the tunnel like you were daring the train to be late.
A man beside you was talking into his phone, loud enough that half the platform could hear. “No, I told you, I can’t do nine,” he said, irritated. “I’m on the train, I’m like literally underground. How d’ya want me to—”
He cut himself off when someone jostled him, and you didn’t react or even glance at him like he was annoying. You stayed in your lane, eating, waiting, with your posture steady. The train arrived with the familiar shriek and rush of wind, and you stepped forward at the exact moment the doors opened, slipping into the same car you always took when it lined up right.
Dex stepped into that car too, not close enough to be beside you and not far enough to lose you. He chose a spot by the opposite door, one hand on the pole, head angled down like he was half-asleep, and kept you in the corner of his vision. You didn’t sit, even when someone got up, you stayed standing, shoulder turned slightly toward the door, sandwich gone now, coffee still in hand, and you stared at nothing like you were already organizing the day into boxes.
The train lurched forward, the crowd swayed, and a teenager nearly bumped into you hard enough to spill your drink. The kid caught himself at the last second and mumbled, “sorry,” without looking up.
“It’s fine,” you said, not sharp, not sweet, just neutral, and you adjusted your grip on the cup without missing a beat. Dex watched the kid relax like he’d expected to be snapped at, then watched you return to stillness like the interruption had never happened.
When the train reached your stop, you got off with the same timing you always used, not pushing or lingering. Dex got off too, letting the crowd between you widen and compress naturally, and followed up the stairs into the cold morning air. By the time you hit the sidewalk you already had your phone out, typing something fast, and you didn’t look at anyone’s face long enough to invite conversation.
Dex didn’t go onto campus with you that day, he let you disappear into the building and instead walked past, looped around, and cut through a different entrance like he’d never been tracking you at all. He liked knowing the building layout anyway, liked knowing what exits existed and which doors didn’t latch properly and where the cameras sat. His brain did that kind of work automatically, the way other people breathed.
He saw you again at noon, not because he hunted for you, but because your schedule put you where he could anticipate, and anticipation always felt cleaner than chasing. You came out of the same building, coffee replaced by a water bottle, tote bag still heavy, and you walked straight to a small café just off campus that had cramped tables and loud students and a line that moved too slowly. Dex was already inside, sitting with a paper cup of his own, looking like he was waiting on someone who might not show.
You got in line, scanned the menu without really reading it, and ordered quickly. “Turkey, no mayo,” you told the cashier. “And whatever’s fastest.”
The cashier blinked at you like she didn’t know if that was an order or a threat. “Uh, okay,” she said. “That’ll be—”
You slid your card across without looking impatient, but Dex could see the exact moment impatience wanted to surface and didn’t. You took your receipt, moved to the side, and stood with your back to the wall, out of the way of the line, where you could see the door and most of the room. Dex watched you do it like it was muscle memory, like you didn’t even think about it.
A student at the pickup counter was complaining loudly to anyone who would listen. “I’ve been waiting forever,” he said, voice high with outrage. “This is ridiculous!”
The barista, exhausted and unimpressed, said, “you ordered ten drinks.”
“It’s for my group,” the student insisted, like that was an excuse.
You didn’t look at him, but you did speak when the barista called your order and the student reached for it at the same time. “That’s mine,” you said, calm as a flat line.
The student froze, hand hovering. “Oh,” he said, defensive. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t check,” you replied, still calm, and you took the bag from the counter without jerking it away from him. “It’s fine.”
Dex watched the student’s face do that thing people did when they realized someone wasn’t going to argue with them and they didn’t know what to do with it. The student muttered something and turned back to the counter while you went to a corner table, sat down for exactly long enough to eat without choking, and scrolled through your phone like you were cleaning up other people’s messes between bites.
Dex left before you did, because he didn’t want the overlap to become a scene, and because he didn’t want to risk a moment where you both reached for the same door handle at the same time. He walked a few blocks, circled back, and stood across the street near a newsstand until he saw you exit the café and head back toward campus. You moved like you had a destination every second, even when you were just crossing a street, and Dex started to recognize the difference between people who wandered and people who navigated.
That night he didn’t go home right away, he didn’t even pretend he was going home, because home was a word that implied comfort and he didn’t have that. He went to the late-night deli you’d visited with Matt, the one with the bright fluorescent lights and the bored cashier and the back wall of chipped candy bars that had been sitting there long enough to become stale.
Dex stood near the fridge doors, looking like he was deciding between drinks, and watched the front entrance reflected faintly in the glass. A man behind the counter glanced up and said, “you buyin’ somethin’?”
“In a second,” Dex replied, voice even, and the cashier lost interest immediately because in a second was close enough to yes for people who didn’t get paid enough to care.
You came in twenty minutes later, alone, with your shoulders tense like you’d been holding them up all day. You didn’t look around, you just went straight for the refrigerated case, grabbed a yogurt, then another, then set one back and took a different flavor like you’d reconsidered something silently. You picked up a plastic container of cut fruit, frowned at it, and put it back like you didn’t trust it.
The cashier looked up at you, and his tone changed in the way it did when someone had become familiar. “Hey,” he said, more awake now. “You’re late.”
You huffed a laugh. “I know,” you replied, and you sounded tired in a way you hadn’t sounded when you were with Matt. “It was one of those days.”
The cashier scanned your yogurt. “One of those weeks,” he corrected. “People come in here looking like they want to punch the lights.”
“I don’t want to punch the lights,” you said. “I want to crawl into a hole and sleep for twelve hours.”
“Same,” the cashier said, dead serious.
You slid your card across the counter, then added a pack of gum at the last second. “I’m being responsible,” you told him, and it sounded like a joke you were making at your own expense.
The cashier gave you a look. “That’s what you call this?” he asked.
“It counts,” you replied, and you took your bag.
Dex watched you leave, and he didn’t follow you out immediately. He waited until you were halfway down the block, then picked a drink at random, paid, and walked out into the night like he’d just been another customer. He kept to the opposite side of the street, matching your pace without matching it exactly, and watched you walk home without checking over your shoulder, as if the city couldn’t possibly be paying attention to you.
When you turned into your building, Dex stayed outside, leaning lightly against the brick like he was waiting for someone, and he watched the lobby light swallow you again. He didn’t move until the door locked behind you and the street returned to its usual noise, and then he walked away with the same calm he always wore, because calm was how you stayed invisible.
The next morning, he ended up in the same subway car as you again, not because he forced it, but because his feet had started taking him to the same places at the same times. He stood near the opposite door, hand on the pole, and watched you out of the corner of his eye. You didn’t look at him, and if you noticed that he was there again, you didn’t show it in any way that mattered.
A woman beside you sighed loudly and said to her friend, “I swear I see the same people on this train every day,” like she was annoyed by the idea of routine.
You didn’t respond to her, but Dex watched you shift your stance slightly when the train swayed, steadying without grabbing the pole, and he wondered how many people in this city didn’t realize how often they orbited the same strangers. He watched you get off at your stop, watched the crowd swallow you, and followed at a distance again, because that had become the shape of his days.
By the end of the week, he knew which mornings you stopped for coffee and which mornings you didn’t, and he knew which nights you ended up at the late deli and which nights you skipped it. He knew the bench you used on campus when you took a call and didn’t want students hovering, and he knew the bookstore you went into when you needed a break that still felt productive.
He never spoke to you, and he never made contact; he kept himself in the background like a shadow that learned how to blend into the wall.
Sometimes you looked straight ahead like the world didn’t contain him at all, and sometimes your eyes flicked in his direction without landing, like you were scanning the same way you always scanned. Dex couldn’t tell which was worse, because if you didn’t notice him, he couldn’t predict when you would, and if you did notice him, then the question became how long you’d known and why you hadn’t done anything about it.
Dex was across the street pretending to smoke a cigarette he didn’t actually light, because standing still in the open at night needed a reason, and a cigarette was a reason people understood. The campus had thinned out the way it always did after the last evening classes emptied, and the sidewalks went from crowded to scattered in waves, students peeling off into dorms and subways and whatever bars would take them.
You came out of the building later than usual, shoulders tight, tote bag slung high, phone in your hand while you scrolled with the kind of concentration that meant you were still working even though you were walking. You didn’t look lost or scared, and you didn’t look like someone who expected trouble, which was the part Dex had been noticing for weeks now. You moved like the city was yours, like the worst that could happen was stepping in a puddle.
A man came out behind you, and Dex noticed him because the man’s timing was wrong; most people leaving a building moved with purpose toward their own destination, but this guy came out too slowly, like he was checking whether you’d noticed him and didn’t want you to. He wasn’t dressed like a student, and he wasn’t dressed like faculty, and he didn’t move like campus security, either. His hands stayed in his jacket pockets, head angled down, shoulders slightly hunched, like he was trying to look smaller than he was.
Dex shifted his weight without moving his feet and watched the distance between you and the man stay the same across half a block. It didn’t widen the way it would if he was just walking in the same direction, and it didn’t shrink the way it would if he was trying to catch you quickly. It stayed steady, which meant the man knew what he was doing… or thought he did.
You crossed at the light without hesitating and the man crossed too, half a step after you, not close enough to be obvious, and not far enough to be accidental. Dex’s mouth pulled tight for a second, and he took two slow steps forward so he could keep the angle without standing too long in one place.
You kept walking toward the subway entrance, then veered off the usual route toward the street you took when you wanted to avoid the heavier crowd. Dex had already seen you do that, which meant the man should’ve hesitated if he was following at random, but he didn’t, he adjusted immediately, and Dex felt the irritation settle in his chest like a stone.
The man called out once, not loud, not aggressive, like he was trying to sound normal. “Hey,” he said.
You didn’t stop, but you did turn your head slightly, the way people did when they were deciding whether ignoring someone would make things worse. “Yeah?” you replied, tone neutral.
“I think you dropped something,” the man said, and he lifted his hand halfway out of his pocket like he might be holding an object, except he wasn’t holding anything.
You slowed just enough for Dex to see the choice happen in your body, that moment where you weighed politeness against caution. “I don’t think so,” you said, and you kept walking.
The man’s pace quickened by a fraction, “I’m pretty sure,” he insisted, and now he was a little closer than he’d been, pushing the distance down like he’d decided you’d given him an opening.
You stopped near a streetlight and turned fully this time, and Dex watched your posture shift, feet planted, tote strap held tighter, phone still in your hand but lowered. You didn’t look panicked, but you did look annoyed, like he was wasting your time, and Dex saw the same expression you gave students who tried to argue their way out of deadlines. “What did I drop?” you asked.
The man spread his hands slightly, empty. “I don’t know, I jus’ saw it fall,” he said, and he took another half-step forward, too casual and practiced.
Dex’s fingers tightened around the cigarette he wasn’t smoking, and he watched the man’s feet, because feet told the truth—the man wasn’t squared up like he planned to talk, and he was angled to close the distance fast.
You took a step back, not dramatic, but deliberate. “Okay,” you said, still calm. “Then I’ll find out when I get home.”
The man’s smile flickered, and Dex caught it, because it wasn’t a smile that belonged on a friendly face. “C’mon,” the man said, and his voice dropped. “I’m jus’ trying to help you.”
You didn’t raise your voice or start shouting for help, you simply said, “no” like it was the end of the conversation.
Dex didn’t wait for the next move, because he’d already seen enough to know where this went and he didn’t like the math of it. He stepped back into the deeper shadow beside a parked car, where the light didn’t hit his hands, and he reached into his pocket like he was adjusting his jacket. What he pulled out was small and ordinary, the kind of thing nobody noticed until it hit you, a cheap metal bottle opener he’d picked up from the deli days ago and never thrown away.
The man moved again, quicker now, closing in with a hand coming out of his pocket.
Dex flicked his wrist and the bottle opener left his fingers with a clean, flat spin, cutting through the air low and fast. It didn’t go toward the man’s head or chest, it went toward the joint that would stop him from moving forward, because Dex wasn’t trying to kill him, Dex was just trying to end it.
The man’s leg buckled so hard the sound carried, a sharp, ugly crack of impact and pain, and he went down with a shout that ripped into the quiet street. “Jesus—!” he screamed, clutching his knee as he hit the pavement hard enough to scrape skin through his jeans.
You froze for half a second, and Dex watched your face shift from irritation to startled alarm, the way anyone’s would when the world changed without warning. You didn’t look toward Dex, you just looked at the man on the ground, then scanned the street like you were searching for the source of what just happened. “What the hell?” you said, voice sharper now.
The man’s face twisted, sweat popping along his hairline as he tried to pull himself backward with his hands. “Help—help me,” he gasped, and the words didn’t sound sincere, they sounded like he wanted you closer.
You didn’t step toward him, instead you lifted your phone, thumb already moving. “I’m calling an ambulance,” you said, and you said it like a warning more than a kindness.
“No!” the man snapped, panic cutting through the pain. “Don’t—don’t call anyone!”
You narrowed your eyes, and Dex watched you take another step back, putting more space between you and the man. “Why?” you asked, and your tone was flat, like you already knew the answer and wanted him to admit it.
The man’s breathing went ragged, and he tried to scoot himself toward the curb, face contorting when his knee shifted. “I didn’t do anythin’!” he insisted, too fast, too defensive.
“You followed me,” you said, and Dex heard the anger now, controlled but real. “You lied about me dropping something and you told me not to call anyone. That’s not nothing.”
The man’s eyes darted, looking for an exit that didn’t involve getting up. “I was just trying to talk,” he said, voice cracking.
“You can talk from the sidewalk,” you replied, and you didn’t soften. “I’m calling.”
Dex stayed still behind the parked car, watching you do exactly what you should—refusing to step into range. You didn’t kneel beside him, nor did you hover, you didn’t even try to be the hero in a way that would get you hurt. You kept distance and used your phone, and Dex felt his shoulders ease by a fraction because he’d been bracing for you to do something stupid and kind.
You spoke into the phone a second later, voice clipped and professional. “Hi, yes, I need an ambulance,” you said. “There’s a man on the ground at—” You gave an address, clear and exact, and Dex noted that you didn’t stumble over it, you knew where you were at all times.
The dispatcher said something Dex couldn’t hear, but you answered smoothly. “He’s conscious,” you said. “He’s injured his knee, I think. No, I’m not touching him, I’m standing back.”
The man cursed under his breath, then cried out again when he tried to move. “You bitch!” he spat, the word slurring with pain and rage.
Your face hardened. “Say that again,” you told him, calm as ice.
The man stared at you, jaw clenched, and Dex watched him decide not to push his luck, because even on the ground he understood something about you: you weren’t soft, and you weren’t going to come closer just because he wanted you to.
You kept talking to the dispatcher, then glanced up and down the street again, scanning rooftops and doorways and dark windows. He watched the way your eyes moved and how they didn’t land on him, and he couldn’t tell whether that was because you didn’t see him or because you didn’t want to show that you did.
A car turned the corner in the distance, red-and-blue lights flashing against the wet pavement, and the man on the ground made a small, panicked sound like he’d just realized what consequences looked like. You stayed where you were, phone lowered now, posture steady.
When the ambulance pulled up, you stepped farther back, hands visible, and spoke to the EMTs as they approached. “He was following me,” you said, and your voice stayed even, not pleading or dramatic. “He said I dropped something, then he went down like that. I didn’t touch him.”
One of the EMTs gave you a brief look, assessment quick and practiced. “You okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” you replied, and Dex could hear the lie because everyone said that, but you didn’t look like you were about to fall apart. You looked like you wanted to go home and shut the door and pretend the street hadn’t tried to take a bite out of you.
The EMT nodded and turned to the man, and the man started babbling about nothing, about how it was an accident, about how he didn’t know what happened. You weren’t listening, but you kept your eyes on the scene with a detached focus that made Dex think of the way you watched students in lab when you were waiting for them to do something unsafe.
A police car arrived next, slower, and Dex saw two officers step out, hands on their belts like they were already bored. One of them looked at you and asked, “you the one who called?”
“Yes,” you replied.
“What happened?” the officer asked.
You repeated it again, concise and clear, no extra emotion. “He followed me, tried to get me to stop, then he went down. I didn’t see what happened to his leg.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed, not at you but the man, who was now sweating and grimacing as the EMTs examined him. “You didn’t see what happened,” the officer repeated.
“No,” you said. “I wasn’t looking at his knee.”
Dex stayed behind the parked car until you were done talking, until the EMTs loaded the man into the ambulance, until the officers took your statement and let you go. You walked away without looking back, shoulders still tense, steps quick but controlled, and you didn’t run, because running made you feel hunted, and you weren’t going to give the city that satisfaction.
Dex followed from across the street, far enough that he wasn’t part of your story, close enough that if something else happened he could end it before it touched you. You kept your phone in your hand the whole way home, and Dex watched you glance down at it twice, like you were debating texting someone and deciding against it.
When you reached your building, you paused at the door long enough to punch in the code, then slipped inside and let it lock behind you. Dex stayed outside for another minute, watching the lobby through the glass until he saw you disappear down the hall and out of sight.
When Dex finally walked off into the night, he kept his face blank and his pace steady, because there wasn’t anyone around to see the difference anyway, and because he didn’t have any words that fit what had happened. He only had the fact that you’d made it home, and that he’d made sure of it without giving himself time to argue about why.
Dex didn’t go back to campus the next night, and he didn’t go back to your block either, because he didn’t like being close to the place where he’d done something he couldn’t take back. He took the long way through the city instead, drifting through streets that stayed loud enough to cover his footsteps and bright enough to keep him from feeling cornered, and he kept telling himself he was just keeping his routine steady. He ended up in Hell’s Kitchen anyway, not because he meant to, but because that was where Matt’s life sat like a knot in the map, and Dex always found himself circling it when he didn’t know where else to go.
Foggy’s building was easy to spot from a distance, mostly because Foggy didn’t do subtle, and neither did the places he chose. Dex stayed on the opposite side of the street, half-hidden behind a delivery van that had been left idling too long, and he watched the windows the way you watched a lab sample, patient and focused. The curtains were open just enough that he could see movement, silhouettes crossing, light shifting, the occasional burst of gesture that could only be Foggy.
Inside, the night sounded normal, like they were all pretending normal still existed. Foggy’s voice rose first, spilling through the open window. “No, I’m telling you, I saw him do it,” Foggy insisted. “He did that thing with his face and he said, ‘I’m fine,’ and then he did the other thing with his face where he’s not fine.”
Karen’s voice was sharper than it had been the last time Dex listened in. “Foggy,” she warned, like she wanted him to stop poking at something.
You answered before Foggy could keep going, and Dex’s attention locked in immediately because your voice sounded steadier than it had on the street the night before, like you’d decided you were done being shaken by anything. “He’s allowed to be not fine,” you said. “You don’t fix that by yelling at him about it.”
Foggy scoffed. “I’m not yelling,” he protested.
Karen cut in, dry and tired. “You’re always yelling.”
“That’s not yelling,” Foggy argued, louder, proving her point.
Matt’s voice came through next, calm but tight around the edges, like he’d been sitting with his jaw clenched for a while. “I’m fine,” he said.
Foggy made a sound of immediate outrage. “You’re doing it again,” he declared. “You’re doing the thing. Stop doing the thing!”
Matt replied, and Dex could hear the restraint in it, the way Matt was trying to keep control over his temper the way he kept control over everything else. “Foggy, drop it,” Matt said.
You didn’t raise your voice, but you didn’t back off either. “Hey,” you said, and Dex heard the slight shift in your tone, the way it snapped Matt’s attention without turning it into a fight. “Don’t start.”
There was a brief pause, and Dex watched the shadow of Matt’s head turn as if he’d angled toward you. He couldn’t see facial expressions clearly through the gap, but he didn’t need to, the room’s energy changed in the way it always did when you spoke to Matt like that.
Matt answered you, and the tightness in his voice eased just enough to notice. “I’m not starting,” he said.
“You are,” you replied, and you sounded unimpressed. “You’re doing that thing where you act like you’re the only one allowed to be stressed. It’s annoying.”
Foggy made a delighted noise, like he was watching a show. “Thank you,” he said. “Finally, someone else says it!”
Karen sighed. “God, I missed having you in the room,” she muttered, and Dex heard her words more clearly than he expected to, because she’d said them like she hadn’t meant to.
You answered Karen immediately, not joking this time. “You look tired,” you said. “Are you sleeping at all, or are you doing that thing where you pretend you’re okay and then you get mad at people for noticing you’re not?”
Karen huffed a short laugh that didn’t sound amused. “I’m fine,” she said, echoing Matt on purpose.
You didn’t laugh. “Yeah,” you replied. “That’s not an answer.”
Foggy shifted into a quieter tone, but with Foggy quieter was still loud enough to carry. “She’s been doing that all week,” he admitted. “And Matt’s been doing… whatever this is.”
“I’m right here,” Matt said, mildly, but Dex caught the warning in it.
“You’re right here being irritating,” you told him, and your voice stayed steady. “Eat something and drink some water. Stop acting like it’s noble to feel like garbage.”
“I did eat,” Matt replied, and Dex could hear him bracing for you not to believe him.
You didn’t make it dramatic. “What did you eat?” you asked.
Matt paused and Foggy burst out laughing like he’d just won. “Oh my God,” Foggy said, delighted. “He did not eat.”
Matt’s voice sharpened. “Foggy,” he warned.
You ignored Foggy completely and kept your focus on Matt. “Matt,” you said, and it wasn’t soft. It also wasn’t cruel. “What did you eat?”
Another pause, then Matt admitted, grudging, “a sandwich.”
You didn’t sound impressed. “When?” you asked.
Matt replied, “earlier.”
You made a quiet sound of dissatisfaction. “That’s not an answer either,” you said. “You’re going to give yourself a migraine and then pretend it’s some kind of moral failing to take Tylenol.”
Karen murmured something Dex didn’t catch, and then you spoke again, voice lowering a fraction, like you were trying to keep the room from turning into a shouting match. “Look,” you said, “I’m not trying to lecture you, I’m just saying this is all going to feel worse if you don’t do basic human stuff.”
Matt didn’t respond immediately. When he did, the edge was gone. “I know,” he said, quieter, and Dex hated how quickly you could pull him back from that place where his anger went sharp and dangerous.
Foggy went for humor again because Foggy always went for humor. “Also, if we’re being honest, you are the worst at basic human stuff,” he told Matt, and then he added, “and she’s the second worst.”
You snorted. “I’m not the second worst,” you said.
Karen’s voice warmed, even if just a little. “You’re the second worst,” she agreed.
You pointedly ignored them both, and Dex heard the rustle of movement like you were getting up. “I’m getting water,” you announced. “You’re all dehydrated. I can hear it.”
Foggy gasped. “You can hear dehydration?” he asked, scandalized.
“No,” you replied. “But I can hear you being annoying, and that’s usually a sign you need water.”
Foggy laughed again, big and easy, and Dex felt his stomach twist at it for reasons that didn’t make sense. You sounded like you belonged in that apartment, like you’d always belonged; like you could walk into their lives and take control of the temperature in the room without anyone fighting you about it.
Matt’s voice followed you, calmer now. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, and Dex didn’t like the softness there because it was too intimate in a way that wasn’t romantic.
You answered him with the same bluntness you used on everyone. “I know I don’t,” you said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Dex stayed outside long enough to hear Foggy complain about how you were bossy, long enough to hear Karen laugh quietly like she’d needed it, long enough to hear Matt speak less like a loaded weapon and more like a person. He walked away before the night ended, because he didn’t like standing there listening to you make Matt easier to live with, and he didn’t like the way that fact sat in his head.
Two days later you were with Matt again, this time in public, and Dex caught you outside the church. It wasn’t Sunday, it was just a regular day with regular traffic, and the sidewalk was crowded enough that you and Matt had to slow down. Your arm was linked through his again, and you were talking fast, like you were trying to squeeze conversation into the walk before you had to split off for work. “I’m not going to dinner tomorrow,” you said. “I’m on lab prep until late and if I sit down I’m not getting back up.”
Matt replied, “Foggy’s going to take it personally.”
“Foggy takes everything personally,” you said, and Dex heard the smile in it. “Tell him I’ll make it up to him next week.”
Matt’s mouth tightened slightly, and Dex caught it even from across the street, because Dex had learned to watch for the exact moment Matt’s emotions threatened to show. “You don’t have to ‘make it up’ to anyone,” Matt said, and the words sounded like they were about more than dinner.
You didn’t stop walking, but you did squeeze his arm once, a quick pressure that looked casual to anyone else. “I know,” you replied. “But I’m still going to.”
Matt muttered something under his breath that Dex couldn’t hear, and you laughed, low and quick, like whatever he said had been rude in the way that made you amused instead of offended.
Dex followed at a distance, keeping to the opposite side, letting pedestrians cross between them whenever they could. He watched the way you moved with Matt, the way you didn’t guide him, the way you didn’t treat him like he was breakable. You kept pace, you joked, you argued, and you didn’t act like the cane meant anything beyond what Matt wanted it to mean.
You stopped near a crosswalk, and Matt’s jaw tightened again as he listened to something the crowd was doing, and Dex felt that familiar recognition of the anger Matt kept under his skin. Matt spoke, quieter than you, and Dex caught only pieces through the traffic noise. “—doesn’t matter,” Matt said, clipped. “—fine.”
You answered immediately, and Dex could hear you clearly. “No,” you said. “That’s not fine.”
Matt’s head angled toward you, and his voice sharpened just enough to sound like he was trying not to snap. “It’s not—”
You cut him off without raising your own voice. “I’m not doing this with you on the sidewalk,” you said. “Walk.”
The light changed and Matt stepped forward, and you stepped with him, arms still linked. Your tone stayed even, and Dex watched Matt’s shoulders ease a fraction as he moved, like the act of walking with you pulled him back into his body.
A few blocks later you peeled off toward the subway, and Matt stopped at the top of the stairs and didn’t go down with you. He stood there for a second with that stillness he got when he was listening for something farther away than the street.
You looked up at him, “text me later,” you said, matter-of-fact.
Matt didn’t answer right away, and then he said, “I will,” and his voice was quiet enough to sound like a promise.
You nodded once and headed down the stairs, disappearing into the underground crowd.
Dex stayed on the far side of the street, watching Matt turn away from the subway, watching him angle his body toward the darker stretch of buildings like he was already planning where he needed to be. Dex waited until Matt moved, until the cane became irrelevant, until the walk turned sharper and quieter and more purposeful.
Then Dex turned his attention back to the subway entrance you’d just gone into, because he didn’t care where Matt was going in that moment. He cared about the fact that you’d said text me later like it was normal, like you’d folded whatever Matt did into the shape of your day without flinching.
Dex followed you underground, keeping the distance, letting the crowd hide him the way it always did, and he watched you stand on the platform like nothing had happened at all. In fact, you looked like someone who trusted that a dangerous man would come back when he said he would, and Dex couldn’t stop the thought that came with it, sharp and unwanted and persistent, because it wasn’t about Matt’s ability to keep promises, it was about yours, about how easily you held space for him without trying to own him.
Dex stayed in the same train car again, across from you, not looking like he was watching, and when you got off at your stop, he got off too, and he kept doing that because the overlap had become habit. He watched you disappear into your building, then walked away with the city noise in his ears, and he kept circling the same question without letting himself say it out loud to anyone, because saying it out loud would make it real.
He didn’t need you to like him. He didn’t need you to forgive him. He didn’t even need you to understand him.
He just wanted to know what you would do if you saw him, fully, the way you saw Matt, and he hated that he wanted that at all.
notes: hehehehe i love dex being possessive before even meeting you and taking down a guy because he didn't listen to you when you said "no" (which should've been the end of the conversation!)
for the anon that wants to know how the 141 eat pussy. mdni.
Gaz enjoys a slow, intimate 69 laying sideways. He can watch you suck his dick, touch more of you, finger as he licks.
Ghost likes it on his knees with your legs over his shoulders, arms supporting your ass and bracing you against the wall. He loves that you can’t wiggle away.
Soap is a face sitter. He wants you to crush him, to squeeze his head between your thighs. The man wants to die eating pussy.
Price is as traditional as they come. He’ll grab your ankle and yank you to the edge of the bed, go down on his knees, and have himself a feast.
CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist // main masterlist
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park operated like most shark, always patrolling and returning to where he was familiar. he knew how to fix fractures and re-implant amputated limbs with confidence. he was a master in his professional craft. socially—brendon didn’t have that same skill, and when you moved to the night shift, the atmospheric change was something he couldn’t stabilize like bones.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, sexism/conflict in the workplace, pediatric/mass casualty cases, burnout, slow burn, grumpy/sunshine, competence kink, emotionally repressed brendon (he honestly needs therapy), power imbalance, this is just park realizing he fucked up and lowkey yearns for reader to notice him again lol
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ here is the long awaited continuation! someone said something of a park pov and i couldn't resist it!! i hope this is a worthy part two (yall let me know honestly, okay?) i love brendon park y'all and i know you guys do too, so i really hope you guys like it (i have a validation kink)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 14.4 k
part one: find another soldier!
Brendon heard more than what he wanted to about the hospital and its staff. Even though staff were acutely aware when he was around (typically refraining from making obvious comments about him), he was still able to pick up a few things here and there.
Observations of potential flings and affairs between nurses and doctors. The ‘drama’ that occurred within departmental staff—some of them including married couples who challenge their vows by working together. The latest news on what residents royally screwed up or who had been reprimanded for forgetting protocol.
Brendon Park, who had the hearing of a shark, picked up those sociable conversations between colleagues. He always stood a comfortable distance from the parade, finding no satisfaction in bonding with people he was meant to work with. The absence of relation and sharing intimacy such as personal details didn't affect his work negatively, which was all that mattered to him
He told himself he didn't care about any of it, even when he heard a thing or two about himself. Internally, he knew that was the absolute truth. There was no exception.
Until he passed by the nursing station where Sully, his chief resident, was speaking with Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending. The two were off to the side, speaking among themselves like the two had done so before. Sully held a digital chart in his hands, but his attention was on Dr. Emmick, casually slumped with her hands in her jacket pockets.
“She’s doing perfectly on her own.” Dr. Emmick shrugged, a proud smile on her face. The relief that escaped Sully made something tick in Park. “I mentioned nominating her for chief resident next year. That just seemed to amp up her determination even more, if that was possible.”
“That's not surprising. She’s always been miles above some of the other residents.” Sully responded with a buzzing smile. Brendon had resorted to stopping by the printer behind the station, pretending to be shuffling through pages he had already arranged. “She’s managed to teach me a few things I plan to take with me.”
“I’m sure she’ll be sad to see you leave,” Dr. Emmick patted his shoulder, that softer smile she reserved for praises and quiet appreciations painting her face. Sully nodded along with her words. “But, she’s blossoming here. Before you know it, she’ll be running this place.”
“Dr. Emmick,” Park cut through the conversation, standing from across the nursing station. He held up the papers in his hand, a curt nod in her direction.
She offered one more smile to Sully as she moved around the desk. Park didn’t look over at her as the two merged to walk alongside each other. In the time Dr. Emmick had been at PTMC, she never once spent time alone with Brendon Park. The most solitude the two of them spent was when they had meetings, and even then, those events included other admin or members of the collective hospital boards they were in.
She figured out he was a lone shark when they first met, preferring to slip in and out the doors without so much of a ‘good morning’ or ‘good night.’
The least he could do was offer her a nod whenever they passed each other by hand-off.
Dr. Emmick walked with a small sway, too much energy for someone who spent the entire shift focused on an emergency reconstruction of a patient with an unstable pelvic ring fracture. Brendon sensed the small glances she sent him, and he sighed out through his nostrils, maintaining his aloof demeanor. If he acted normal, she’d keep the curious questions to herself.
“We’re only a few months shy from graduation again.” Emmick mentioned casually, maneuvering around some nurses passing by, offering small ‘excuse me.’ “Do you have anyone in mind for chief residents?”
Brendon barely flinched at the question, keeping his attention straight ahead. The two pushed through the first pair of double doors until they reached the nonclinical area of the surgical department, where his office along with the other chief surgeons and attending lounge was.
He snorted lightly, shaking his head. “At the rate my residents are working, we may have to settle on one, if we both agree on someone.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for one resident,” Dr. Emmick snickered. She was aware what residents wanted the title, which came with the most attention from the attendings. All the other residents were their little ducks to watch, a true simulation of being an attending in a trauma-1 hospital.
Which came with the responsibility of their wrong-doings as much as their wins.
Emmick brushed her stray hairs behind her ear, “And if you can't settle on someone from the day-shift, I’d hate to hear what you think of those in the night shift.”
“I’m assuming you're asking because you had someone in mind.” Brendon diverted smoothly, his tone even and rested. Despite the fact he knew exactly where she was reigning the conversation, he still held the detached perceptive look he had when he was making an objective judgment.
She hummed, advancing ahead of Park to scan her badge to enter the hospital-staff exclusive area. With a beep, the doors clicked open and Brendon stalked down first. When the door shut behind Emmick she stepped back to his side, “It’s someone we both have worked with extensively.”
When Brendon reached his office, he bowed his head slightly to hide the twitch in his nose. Once he sat at his desk, he had put back the stoic expression. Emmick shut the wooden door, pulling out a chair for her to sit across him. Both her hands folded onto her lap, legs crossed. The small twitch in the corner of her mouth all but confirmed his suspicion.
When your name escaped her mouth, he straightened his back. He was recalling the image of him sitting on his desk, your buzzing body standing in front of the door, waiting for the moment to escape. You had left and never looked back.
Once the switch was made official, Park wasn't expecting there to be a lapse in his day-to-day life. It’s not like you had moved departments or hospitals. He would see you passing by the halls during hand-off, the back of your head or the familiar fleece jacket you sported in the eerily cold hospital; but there was a distance that didn't exist while you worked the dayshift.
Working under his command and his directive as his resident.
“What about her makes her ideal for the position?” Brendon questioned. The current quarterly review the two were meant to oversee before their meeting pushed aside.
The question was firm, like he was interviewing his colleague instead of searching for her opinion. She raised her eyebrows at him, an amused grin flashing back at him. “You want my professional opinion?”
“Obviously.”
“She is a good mentor, has great instinct and initiative. She keeps a clinical perspective while under pressure.” Emmick listed out concisely, opting to appease the language Dr. Park preferred. He didn’t care about the mush or the personable trait that made you stand out to him, even if Emmick felt those strengths were your greatest virtues. “As a third-year resident, she is already doing the job of a chief resident, without the title.”
Brendon remained silent, pressing his lips into a thin line. The subtle movement of his jaw, an obvious tick, made it evident what he refused to put into words. He had doubts.
“This observation is based on the last three months she’s been on the night shift?” He clarified while crossing his arms over his chest. Through the sleeves of his scrubs, his muscles tightened, pulling the fabric tighter.
Emmick confirmed with one silent nod, eyeing Park from her chair. “As well as the double and previous night shifts she has worked.”
“And you're confident in her abilities?”
The more questions he spewed, the more it resembled an interrogation. He was investigating a theory he was keeping to himself through the people who knew you, instead of addressing the source. In three months, it was clear that you were keeping a distance.
No one wanted to spend five minutes alone in a room with Park, let alone talk to him that long. In your case, you confronted him of the clear judgments he made of your work while under his supervision. The public displays of his criticism had pushed you into the deep end of a pool, and as you found an edge to climb off, you took the extra steps to never fall in that situation again.
If you had asked him, he’d describe it as running.
“You aren’t?" Emmick resounded incredulously, like it was unbelievable he thought contrary to popular belief.
“I think that in the majority of the three years I’ve witnessed her work, I’ve noticed moments requiring additional correction.” Brendon commented with no hesitation, as if he was waiting for the opportunity to let it out.
The frustration you caused when Mr. Stevenson suffered through compartment syndrome. The lack of awareness when you were run down through your double shifts. Even the lack of urgency when treating patients. It was all hindering your ability to be a perfect orthopedic surgeon.
“All residents need to be corrected.” Emmick remarks with a humorous scoff. Park ticked his head to the side, displeased with her dismissing his objection. “I’m not saying she’s perfect.”
“It was implied strongly by your choice of words.”
“Well, in comparison to some of the other residents, she’s damn near it.” Emmick cocked her head to the side, almost daring him to utter a word. Brendon kept his eyes on her, and all he saw were talons flared out, like a hawk ready to protect its nest.
Emmick had traits he respected in a colleague. Working together as attendings undertaking residents with shaky hands became a source of common ground. What divided them was their nonidentical ways of going about it. Emmick stuck her ground when Brendon might expostulate with gravity to the risks. She believed in a hand-on validating method. Brendon had to see it first to believe it.
“I thought maybe you might agree.” She mentioned casually, picking at a lint on her jacket sleeve.
Brendon nose twitched, leaning forward in his seat to rest his burly arms on the table. “Why is that?”
“Because I like to believe you couldn’t possibly deny when a resident is good at their job.” Emmick narrowed her eyes at him, tempting to push him just close enough to the edge where he’d have to turn and face the issue.
What Brendon thought was nothing was something worth omitting. He could brood all he’d wanted, and most of his residents wouldn’t blink a teary eye, but what he cursed Emmick over was her peculiar talent at observation.
“Especially not a resident like her.”
He huffed out a sigh, almost cracking his resolve. This had to be a joke. “The residents chosen for the chief position need to have earned my utmost trust. It’s not a title handed prematurely.”
“Like Sullivan?” She asked skeptically, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back in the chair.
Her steady stare dragged across every inch of his face. He didn’t bother intimidating a colleague who had proven time and time again she wasn’t to be messed with; even when people assumed she was too lax in comparison to him.
But, she had a nasty bite.
Brendon knew exactly what she was insinuating. Apart from Sullivan (who was personally chosen for the role by Park) his co-chief for night shift was also a man who (in Parks terms) got lucky from the process of elimination. Despite the fact Emmick might’ve argued the two female 4th year residents would’ve made wonderful selections.
“Look, before you snarl your shark-teeth at me, let me say one thing.” She put up a hand to restrain his irritability right before they were meant to meet with administration.
When he mentioned nothing more, she sat up straight, leaning in closer like she might tell him a life-changing secret. “If this is about her moving to night shift, that might’ve been my doing more than hers. No hard feelings, Brendon.”
“What do you mean?” He entertained, eyes turning into slits as he stared curiously. Like examining an amputation on the field.
“I told her I could use a resident with her skill.” She mentioned casually, like the concept was known by everyone. Brendon was aware of what Emmick thought of you, as much as the other resident did. She didn’t hide her affection or pride with a firm guard as he did.
She shrugged, her smile upside. “I didn’t think she’d want to give up the chance to be taught by you, but here we are.”
Brendon's eyes moved down at the desk, feeling the oak from that night as he gripped the edge of his desk. He conformed to the idea his sudden dissatisfaction was from you standing over him, pointing blame for affecting your work. He was too hard, too malevolent, or contemptuous for your liking.
All the effort he put in was just him being too “proud” and “arrogant.” He expected more from you, and he didn’t need your honesty (as you had put it), to remind him that you weren't up to the plate.
“I still stand by the fact she’s exceptional, and it would be a disservice if we didn’t even consider her.” She concluded, with the firmness that came from working her way to where she was.
On the very few occasions that they spoke, Emmick had expressed small gratitude for the trust he had extended to her when she first transferred over. He didn't comprehend the need to “thank” him. He assumed the hospital was hiring competent attendings to take over the hard work while teaching naive residents and interns.
So when he thought of you, as chief resident or an attending, the bill did not fit. Nobody just deserved the title. It was earned from hard work. You had yet to work hard enough to garner a standing ovation from him.
Philosophy wasn’t Brendon’s strong suit. He didn't waste his time on debates, but he did have strong beliefs. Medicine was a rational practice. There were right and wrong things to do in a hospital—as a surgeon—that could put the lives of others in the balance. He was taught that lesson long ago, and when it came time for him to pass along his teachings, he made sure to drill it in all his residents.
‘Your patient can die at any moment. Don't be the reason they don’t make it.’ was something he had reminded them time and time again. He didn't need to be pulled away from one life-saving surgery to futilely attempt another. His residents should be covering all bases, without serving any reminders.
He hadn't forgotten the occasions you had failed at that.
It was rookie mistakes unsuited for third year residents. When he enforced responsibilities, he expected stellar work in return. If the residents signed up for the work of orthopedic surgery, they should be held accountable for every action and inaction that they take. He expected them to enforce that upon themselves.
He had put that weight on you.
He was unapologetic for what he had done while you worked with him. It was all for the sake of the patients, himself, and you. Your work was a reflection of him, and if you couldn't figure out how to stand on your own two feet, how could anyone trust the training you had to save lives?
You had not seen it that way. Brendon shrugged it off in turn.
Maybe he was vindictive, waiting for Emmick to see the dangerous flaws he did. He expected Emmick to see it as he did, but she had other pillars in her teaching.
He saw it the way she smiled whenever you showed up around her. Brendon noticed it from inside patient rooms, behind nursing stations, and the few occasions you two were in the same space together. Emmick praised you with the same ease as breathing.
Everyone was aware how rare Dr. Park complimented anyone for his or her work. Marla Emmick operated oppositely.
She’d pat your shoulder, whisper something with that curled grin of hers, or give you a fist-bump as a supportive nod of your actions. Brendon rolled his eyes at it.
These weren’t kindergartners who needed a gold star for accomplishing something required of their program. These were grown adults who needed to comprehend the intensity of their choices, their observations and evaluation of patients, and the importance of knowing what they were doing as much as showing up to do it.
He was trying to make competent surgeons capable of saving fragile human life and he would do that at the expense of feeding the “shark” persona everyone saw. Cold-hearted, detached, and mean.
Even while you were under the supervision of Emmick, he still tried to figure out whether you had learned anything from the time you spent with him. He needed to see whether Emmick was right about her observation.
Park was making his way to the patient waiting in the pre-op wing. He stalked around, looking for the small group of residents making their rounds. He nodded at Annette, the charge nurse, as she pointed over to patient room three. When he made his way to the room, he saw the collective group of residents standing at the foot of the bed. He stood by the doorway, listening to the hand-off Reddy, the senior residents for the night, conducted.
Frank Giles, a 65-year-old, needing a total hip replacement after a nasty fall in his home, sat on the bed. He was cracking jokes with the residents, who seem to go along with it.
He was looking around the crowd, in search of someone specific. Frowning, he looked at Dr. Reddy, “Where is that one doctor? She’s the one who spoke with me when they first admitted me.”
Reddy furrowed his brows, glancing up from the device in his hand. He paused for a moment before speaking your name. It rang bells in Mr. Giles face as his smile widened, “Would it be too much to ask if she could do the operation?”
Sully smiled sincerely, standing center at the foot of the bed. “Her shift ends soon, unfortunately. But knowing her, she will likely check in with you tonight once you’re resting up in post-op.”
Mr. Giles conformed to the idea, despite the fact his smile was nearly as bright as before. “Good friend of hers, I assume?”
With a flustered grin, Sully nodded. “Roommates. Given the amount of time we spent together, I would hope we are.”
A belly laugh filled the room, and Mr. Giles identified with something Sully said. The endearing look on his face made it clear to Brendon, watching the old man examine Sully like he were someone familiar. “Reminded of my late wife and I.”
Brendon could make out a quiet condolence from Sully. Before Mr. Giles could go on a tangent, Sully smoothly transitioned the conversation into pre-op protocol. Reddy jumped in easily, going over the diagnosis.
He nodded along to what Reddy explained about the procedure assigned to Sully. After a couple of questions, the residents paid their farewell and filed out in a line.
Park stood back, waiting for the senior residents to emerge from the room. When his chief resident noticed Park, he gave him a silent tut of his chin. He fell in line beside him, silencing the quiet conversation between Sully and his co-chief resident.
“Where is Dr. Emmick?” Park asked without invitation. The question was directed to Dr. Reddy, who lifted his brows in response.
Park expectantly looked at him with hooded eyes. He shook himself from the daze, “She got stuck in a complex acetabular reconstruction. 3 hours and counting.”
“Alone?” Park followed up, eyes darting in front of him as he counted the back of the resident's head.
He knew exactly who was missing. He didn’t need to specify where his curiosity lied.
“No,” Sully jumped in, glancing at Park from beside him. Despite the fact they were about the same height, he still towered over the senior resident. He then said your name with a smile, “Dr. Emmick managed to rope her into a possible ten-hour surgery. Although, I doubt she would’ve said no to it.”
“Better her than me.” Reddy had mumbled under his breath, presuming his comment could be omitted from Park the Shark.
“As a fourth-year resident, it should be you.” Park swiftly remarked, barely jerking his head to look at Reddy. He did extend his arm to Sully, silently taking the device in order to sneak a look at the operation details. “How do you intend to make up for your lack of exposure in a different hospital? By choking up the minute you’re standing over a patient with everything at stake?”
Reddy's wide eyes panicked and landed on Sully, hoping the person supposedly in his corner would save him. Sully gave him a menial headshake, refusing to intervene. Reddy sighed in defeat, shoulders sagging. “It was a joke.”
Park didn’t elaborate more on the matter as he glared at him from the corner of his eye. As he opened the operation details, he read about the patient suffering a work-accident. Based on the intake details and initial imaging once in the ER, it was an unfavorable surgery to hop on while almost done with a 12-hour shift. With a both column fracture involved, you two were bound to be stuck there for ten hours.
Before Park could rip Reddy apart even more, he excused himself to debrief about a patient in post-op. Instead of joining the group, Park stopped by the nursing station, investigating the details of the case further. Of course, Emmick would choose her most prized resident to join the surgery.
However, Brendon couldn’t help but wonder whether you agreed for the experience and bragging rights that came from being selected over your senior resident only.
Sully stood in front of him, hands in his pocket while glancing between his fellow residents in the patient room and his attending. He leaned back on his heels, “I heard the patient was in a pretty bad state when he came in. Dr. Emmick might be stuck in there a while, if you needed her.”
Park huffed out a sigh, shaking his head slightly. With your absence, he was able to gauge what type of doctor Sully would turn out to be. He was the same ambitious and focused resident he always was, even without you to support him through every surgery.
Whether he wanted to or not, he had asked Park for a recommendation letter for an attending position he planned to take at a trauma-1 hospital in Chicago.
Brendon never embellished the truth—whether personally or professionally. There was no way he would lie on a rec letter for a resident, no matter how much they relied on it for a position anywhere. But, he hated to admit, Dr. Sullivan had managed to push Park to add some flourish to the letter.
“Maybe this is out of place, but I know talks about chief residents are being held around this time.” Sully leaned in casually, still keeping his focus mostly on Reddy and the other residents. They both could hear enough from outside the room. “Do you mind if I give you my opinion as their predecessor?”
Park lifted his gaze up, hooded eyes staring back at Sully, who waited patiently for a response. Looking bored, Park sighed, “Something tells me you’re going to give it to me regardless.”
Sully chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck casually. He shrugged, “I want to make sure you and Dr. Emmick consider everything to make the right choice, not that you need me to do that.”
Remaining silent, Park stared blankly at Sully. After a beat, he understood Park wasn’t going to welcome the suggestion verbally. That was beneath him. Sully leaned onto the nursing station, eyes focused on Dr. Park. “I don’t want you to think this is some plug just because she’s my roommate or because we’re close.”
Brendon didn’t need any more explanation as to who he was referring to. The utterance of your name from him was something he was starting to dread after the last conversation with Emmick. Sully stared skeptically at Park, trying to read into the stoic demeanor he had all the time. “She is a good surgeon, and as her chief resident, I do believe she could fulfill the position with ease.”
“Are you sure she’ll survive without you?” Park questioned, his eyes now narrowed on Sully. It wasn’t the type of concern Emmick would’ve shown him. It was a mockery of what Sully just expressed. The everlasting doubt in his resident still understands the work. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t vocalize it yet either.
Sully cocked his head to the side, “I don’t doubt it. The real question is if I’m going to survive without her. I got too comfortable having her around, I guess.”
Brendon saw the slight tenderness in his eye. Something soft he didn’t get to see every day between him and you. He could almost sense your presence while you were holed away in an OR. The way patients asked for you with the same affection they’d search for a comrade. He was aware of what the residents thought of you, often turning to you to save them from a sinking boat.
It was like they knew you’d throw them a life preserver, unlike the harsh suggestion to ‘figure it out’ on their own like Park would do.
“The lease of our apartment is already under her name. She is set for next year.” Sully mentioned coolly. Park hated small talk, but he found it odd within himself to hesitate with cutting the conversation short. He stared with the same blank expression at Sully, completely unsure what to do with that information.
Sully chuckled, “If she weren’t set on staying, I would drag her over with me.”
Brendon forehead creased in the center and his jaw clenched, similarly to when attending a consultation in the ER. A solid focus on trying to capture every detail of a patient’s leg, arm, or other joint susceptible to needing care under his department.
He never questioned where a resident went once they were done with their program. They all couldn’t stay here, and the ones that attempted found it hard to continue with the pressure pushed by ‘Park the Shark.’ Even if there were a resident whom he deemed sufficient to fill an attending position, he’d never advocate on their behalf.
Brendon didn’t get where he was by accepting a hand-out from anyone.
“I’m still going to hold her a place over there just in case.” Sully continued, still hanging around Park like there was more to discuss.
Park caught the residents leaving the room, walking over to another a couple of doors down. His eyes followed their movement, barely blinking when he looked back at Sully, questioning glare. “Shouldn’t you be doing hand-offs with the rest?”
Sully didn’t look over his shoulder, or show any attempt to attend to his duties. There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation, not even when he saw the glare from Park, staring him up and down. He was a man determined to do a job Brendon saw no point in. “I’m telling you this because I’d hate for you to come to the realization how critical her contribution to this hospital is until it’s too late.”
Brendon grinded his jaw slightly. Had Sully conspired with Emmick to shove you down his throat? Or maybe this was a lousy attempt at your end to get an apology out of him. Park didn’t relinquish. He didn’t care how much people argued the contrary, he refused to give in on what people may think was “best” for his department.
“You may not need her, but that doesn’t eliminate her worth around here.” Sully stated with firmness.
From the hardened stare of his resident, Brendon knew exactly what Sully was referring to. He didn’t doubt that you’d share the hostility brewing between him and you. It wasn’t exactly a secret. Park would not shy away from exposing a resident for their wrong doings.
What he was starting to notice was the courage of certain residents willing to put their foot down on what they saw was unjust.
They handed him the short end of the stick during his residency and med-school years. His teachers and attendings didn’t make it easy, and they certainly wouldn’t have tolerated being advised by residents like you and Sully.
Instead of picking a fight, he chose the silence. It was early in the morning to dig into Sully. He’d chosen to wait into swatting him around like a shark with its fin. It took another minute for Sully to realize Park the Shark was opting to glare at him, inserting dominance until he got the hint.
Park handed him the device back. Sully took it without question, swiftly turning to head in the direction the residents disappeared. Standing firm in place, he watched the cloud of plum scrubs move around the post-op floor.
He knew exactly which ones would cry over his directive before the start of their next year. Who would hesitate and second-guess themselves the next time they answered a consultation. He could acutely guess who would be eaten alive by the other attendings across different departments. If they couldn’t handle the likes of Robby or Walsh, then he saw them quitting sooner rather than later.
Yet, you didn’t fit that image, physically or metaphorically.
You, who was off doing a surgery only he trusted senior staff on, were ambitiously seeking to make yourself indispensable. There was no need when you had staff like Emmick and Sully in your corner, even the dreadful surgical attendings like Walsh were jabbing at Park to ‘ease up’ on the only resident able to keep up with him.
He heard it all and up until now, it never made sense to ‘ease up’ on his residents. It was far from his natural instinct to push until they finally figured to pull themselves up, even as he had control of the rope. You had managed to deny him that pleasure, opting to climb the side of the cliff with your bare hands.
Now, he was left watching and waiting, with the rope still in his hand.
When Brendon heard about the opening of OR 5, cleaned up after the complex acetabular reconstruction, it was past noon. He was doing the afternoon check in with Annette, and he hadn’t realized how late the surgery ended.
There was no sight of you or Emmick. He would not have assumed either of you were going to stay longer than necessary once charting was done. It was a difficult procedure based on the pre-operative details. The day had been lulled by a scheduled base itinerary that the residents could handle with limited supervision. He had time to spend, and he was analyzing the patients chart as if he was going to scrub in for surgery.
It was obsessive, but the compulsion to understand every surgery in the department he commanded, was a given.
He happened to be going around the post-op ward. Checking in with residents as patients moved out of surgery to observation or were discharged or transferred elsewhere. As he was passing by the room in the far corner, he heard a familiar belly laugh. Unrestrained and engrossed in whatever made him laugh.
Brendon peeked his head first, checking in through the window. Mr. Giles sat on the bed, glancing to his left with a toothy grin. The surgery had been done in a few hours, and although he’d probably feel better sleeping the entire procedure off, he had his own form of treatment.
He was staring fondly at a female visitor. It was hard to make out who they were from their face, but the silhouette was too familiar. He noted the black backpack sitting beside the chair, pulled close to the bedside. It wasn’t until the voice started laughing along with Mr. Giles that it clicked.
“I swear, I’ve never seen anyone slip so animatedly as then.” You breathed out, the laugh subsiding into giggles as you tried to catch your breath.
Stopping beside the filler of the wall between both rooms, he crossed his arms. Without realizing, he was inclining his ear closer to listen. You sighed out dramatically, “He’s not the most graceful, but he can suture up nerves and tissue even with his eyes closed.”
“So, how come he’s leaving?” Mr. Giles questioned, interested in the explanation. He cleared his croaky throat.
There was a beat of silence, and from the corner of his eye, Brendon noticed how you shrugged. “He doesn’t see himself staying here. This was always temporary compared to where he wanted to be.”
“And how about you?” Mr. Giles proposed, smiling again. “You’re pretty good at what you do. Where do you want to be?”
You hummed, nervously laughing after as you tried deflecting the comment. Too humble to know when to just take the compliment. “I haven’t decided yet. Dr. Sullivan has invited me to join him once my residency is over, but I still have a year to figure that out.”
“Don’t wait too long.” Mr. Giles advised in the antiquated fashion Brendon’s parents did to him.
Marriage. Kids. Retirement plans; personal-life-milestones Brendon put aside. He didn’t have to think about that while focusing on his career. As long as he could continue to be the chief orthopedic surgeon at PTMC, his life was as fulfilled as he felt it could be. He didn’t need personal distractions to keep him occupied.
“Sometimes, the things that are good for us are the things we let go.” Mr. Giles warned, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. “If I had taken my own advice, I would’ve married my wife before going to the Marines. I was lucky enough she came to find me once her first marriage ended.”
Brendon glanced down at the watch positioned on the inside of his wrist. It was past one and he didn’t need the liability of restless residents staying around past their bedtime. He advanced towards the patient’s door, one hand braced on the frame of the open sliding door.
He spoke your name briskly, title and surname firm into the air. You turned towards the door of the room, eyebrows raised to your hairline. Staring at you with heavyset eyes, he saw the casualness of your attire. Plum scrubs more than likely in the dispenser, changed into relaxed jeans, a grey t-shirt, wrapped in your fleece jacket.
Rotating from the hip, you put on a tight lip smile. “Dr. Park. Did you need to check in with Mr. Giles?”
“No,” The firm definition of his arm around the sleeves of his scrub tightened, gripping tighter to the frame. “I’m here to make sure all my staff is where they need to be.”
With the pronunciation of his possession over the day shift, you heard the message clearly. Facing Mr. Giles, your body relaxed with the revelation of his soft expression. With one hand stretched, you patted his hand lying flat on the bed. “I will check on you tonight.”
He scoffed, the corner of his lip curling up. “So soon? You just can’t stay away from this place, huh?”
While reaching down to slip on your backpack, you smiled coyly. You pushed the chair back to the corner, and once back by Mr. Giles bedside; you paused with your hands in your jacket pockets. “What can I say, I love what I do. Rest up, Frank.”
Making your way out the room, Brendon pulled his arm back, stepping aside to give you an undisturbed exit. The air that hit him as you were passing by was colder than the fuzziness between you and Mr. Giles. Brendon still found himself venturing in the same direction as you.
“If you’re looking for Dr. Emmick, I last heard she was speaking with the wife of the steel-yard worker.” You directed to Park walking behind you. As you turned the corner, walking in the direction of the elevator, he was still behind you.
“How did the surgery go?’ He asked with no change in the equilibrium of his tone.
You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s in the ICU. Apart from the fracture and the reconstruction, he suffered major trauma to his internal organs. Spleen was compromised, and Dr. Walsh removed a part of his kidney.”
The way you noted all the information was robotic. It was like having an automated voice read the chart. If he had wanted the differential diagnosis of the patient, he wouldn’t have asked. His eyes lingered on the back of your head, suddenly determined to leave the hospital as rapidly as possible. As if your pit stop to see Mr. Giles wasn’t the true reason you had delayed leaving.
Instead of heading straight for the elevators, you derailed into the residents lounge, slipping in and letting the door fall behind you. Park, with the reflexes from his childhood, pushed the door back with his palm. Inside the lights were dimmed, and you walked over to the fridge, as if you were utterly alone in the room.
“How come you were pulled to assist?” Brendon ruminated, eyes narrowed at you.
When you stood back up straight, you had an energy drink in your hand. The crack of the seal echoed and you shrugged while sipping the beverage. He awaited a verbal response. Some nonsensical explanation for an answer you had no way of knowing.
You took a couple of steps, in his direction, before stopping. He didn't move from the path to the door. With wide eyes and an awkward tight lip smile, you rocked on your feet. “Is there something else you needed to know about the patient, Dr. Park?”
The question wasn’t proposed because you wanted the conversation to continue. If it was the only way for you to be able to leave the confined space, you would; but you make it practical. About the patient care and the workload, the night shift was leaving the day shift. Nothing of the sort that related personally to you and him.
He knew with the scheduled double shift you were blocked for must have been a dread. If the current direction this conversation was heading was any clue, he could see the double shift being the last thing you want to do.
Working for 24 hours—half of them stuck with the attending you shunned from your education. Brendon was anticipating some form of retaliation. Letting your professionalism turn to spite. Lying in wait to see whether you’d give him the same treatment you felt you unjustly earned from him.
“Typically a fourth-year resident would perform or assist the procedure.” Park responded, completely guiding the conversation in the opposite direction.
You didn’t remove your eyes from him. They were glassy, and the way your lids would flutter ever so slightly, weary. With your lips sealed, you slowly nodded your head, as if remembering for the future. Don’t get used to this treatment. It’s not meant to last.
“I responded to the consultation and it was Dr. Emmick’s directive to have me on the surgical team.” You plainly renounced. This antagonistic approach was doing nothing in his favor. From the way you kept looking at him with the blank expression, he had more luck talking to a wall. “It was a learning opportunity.”
Brendon curtly nodded once, flexing his jaw as his teeth pressed against each other. Firmer than before. How were you supposed to be ‘equals’ if you could barely speak words to him?
“I have to go home. I work another shift tonight.”
Silently, you maneuvered around his body. As he felt your arm come up against his, he finally retracted himself. You only opened the door wide enough to slip your body, letting partial light from the hospital peek in the ambient lounge.
Brendon’s hand reached for the handle, pulling it open wider. You glanced up when you noticed the door leave your grasp. You spun around once stepping out the room, eyeing Brendon peculiarly.
He stood opposite of you, shoulder tall and pulled back. He nodded once more, “See you next week for day shift.”
Brendon prided himself on the control he had. The influence in his department that allowed him to rule over his residents prevented health violations and potential lawsuits from knocking on his door. It saved him from unprecedented headaches. The less likely he was to have an unplanned meeting with Admin, the better.
That idea was expanded to his residents. He deemed it efficient to harbor the tenacity his attending preached. If they put on a mile with an inch, they could potentially save someone’s quality of life.
That is a lot harder said than done when patients weren’t easily agreeable to their plan of care.
Which was the only reason Brendon was tenser with pediatric cases. With more parties involved with the care, there was more time dedicated to explaining operative procedures and post-op care. Everything was done for the consideration of the children, but Brendon didn’t understand that type of reliance.
Being a single man in his early forties, he had yet to figure out that stage of his life. There was no personal life with a wife or children waiting for him outside the hospital doors. So his approach was practical when explaining, but it was failing him at the moment.
A 12-year-old girl was trembling in fear, tears staining her cheeks, while sitting on the hospital bed. Her parents were sitting beside her, and after Brendon thought they might be able to proceed with the open reduction and internal fixation, they were pulling out with the consent forms before them.
“We just don’t feel as comfortable as we did before. I mean, how do we know the probability of the risks?” The father reasoned, similar in build as Brendon, one arm filled with tattoos. He twisted at the hip, as one hand held the smaller one of his daughter, while facing Brendon.
He shouldn’t have sent Jones to sign the consent forms.
“We don’t have precise numbers, but most children recover well.” Brendon’s concise answer was honest, not medically malicious. He couldn't provide them false hope. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.
“But, could she develop this growth plate injury the other doctor mentioned?” The mother questioned, leaning forward in the chair. Her eyes were sunken from the exhaustion, and despite the fact, they had only been there for three hours, the hospital air and lights were draining the youth in her.
“So we aren’t even sure if she will be able to dance, let alone move normally?” She continued with a shaky breath.
He was totally going to rip Jones a new one.
Before Brendon could make a feasible attempt to remedy their concerns, they all heard a knock come from the door.
You peeked your head in, one hand braced on the door you slid open. Your eyes landed on the couple and their daughter, and as if you immediately sensed the tension in the room, you smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Dr. Park for a moment.”
When your attention moved to Park, he let out a heavy sigh, one raised eyebrows in your direction. What is it?
The subtle shake of your head, Not in here.
Brendon grabbed the device the parents put at the edge of the girls bed. The father stood up, wiping his hands on his black denim jeans. “We will need more time to think about this, anyway.”
“Let the nurse know when you’re ready.” Brendon curtly responded.
You opened the door wider, stepping back to let him through. Closing it gently once he stepped out, you spared the family a soft smile. You both walked away from the glass, over to the nursing station. Brendon put down the device, “What is it?”
“ER needs a consult.” You informed him immediately. He put his hands on his hips, turning to the patient's room.
When he glanced at you, he noted the army green scrub cap, beige stars littered around it. It seemed new. He shrugged his shoulders, lips pursed. “Why hasn’t anyone gone down?”
“Bryant did.” You affirmed, shaking your head as you scoffed. “Dr. Robby must be in a mood because he sent him up immediately. I just happened to catch him groveling when I left the OR.”
His eyes wandered up to drink in your nurtured appearance. Despite the last shift you worked being night shifts, you managed to come rejuvenated for the day. This was no longer the shift you mastered, but you appeared the same as before.
Except Park knew things were different. Unexplainable, but it was messing with the ‘control’ he had within himself and in his habitat.
When you came in for hand off, you joked with the night shift. Hugged and laughed along with whatever funny patient interaction they had that night. When you came around Emmick, she’d check in with you, tease you about the change of schedule.
Once Park came around to collect all the residents, he caught the slight wink she sent you when you both looked in his direction. Like the two of you had always spent your residency as close friends.
“So, how come you're here telling me this?”
You chuckled, grinning subtly. “It’s better than having to hear about you ruining another resident's spirit.”
The knowing look in your eye that twinkled before you looked away didn’t go amiss. That was shady, but something told him that’s exactly what you meant to do. Even if he couldn’t admit it, you were intentional with your action.
You looked back over your shoulder to pre-op room 6. “Was that the girl with the Salter-Harris fracture?”
Park hummed, shifting on his feet. You had noticed the patient from looks alone. The only time you could’ve heard of the patient was from nurses when they transferred her up from the ER, before participating in the rotator cuff repair. You had the faintest idea of who she was, but you were aware from when you walked in.
“Seemed tense.” You noted cautiously, eyeing Park from his face alone. It was like you were trying to angle out his response without words. You had been able to read any room you had entered, which is why he believed in practicality.
No need to play different parts every time you enter a room.
He looked down at you. You mimicked his posture, less weight on your shoulder, appearing casual. “Blame Jones. He’s freaked the patient out, and now the parents are hesitant to sign the consent forms.”
He scowled and there was a beat of silence.
“Is there any way I can help?”
The question was assertive. You weren’t planning to be overlooked, and you needed an answer. You weren't going to walk away without an answer. It was the drive he kept alluding you were missing. Whatever pushed you into wrapping your soul around another was showing up more in this two-minute conversation than before.
The private check-in that Brendon had never acknowledged as you were looking out for a colleague (as much as a supervisor) was an ‘act’ that disappeared in three-months. In that time, you had erased the previous routine and rapport with him, and started new. Brendon knew it was taking everything in your power to restrain yourself from doting on him as much as anyone else you worked with.
He was also acutely aware you didn’t stray away from what mattered most to you. Professionally or personally.
Brendon reasoned. This was genuine, but the way your steely eyes waited expectantly, it felt like looking in a mirror. He was sure the residents recognized the impersonal stares from the countless times he stared down at them. He didn't hide the fact he was displeased, stressed, or irritated with an outcome.
No one wanted to be the one sent to bother him during those moments. You had dared to step up to the plate in place of an intern.
“Why not answer the consultation?” Brendon fixated on the fact you heard of the consultation and preferred coming to him personally to let him know. You hadn't responded to it, nor were you aware there was a consultation to see until a few minutes ago.
You cocked your head to the side, playfully rolling your eyes. “I’d rather not get on Dr. Robby’s bad side.”
Fair, he supposed. You set boundaries with your own attending. He couldn't say he was shocked you’d do so easily with someone who wasn’t directly your supervisor. The slight stretch of his neck managed to pull at the muscles down to his shoulders, and the dread of the patient in room 6 was getting to him.
Before Brendon could assign you to some scheduled surgery to busy yourself, you pointed your thumb back to the room. “I will talk to the parents. It is best that they make a decision soon before the girl takes a turn for the worse.”
He was left with no choice but to stiffly agree with you. The careful steps you were taking backwards put immense distance again. “You better head down to the ED before Robby rips you a new one.”
The smooth turn you made flipped a switch. You sanitized before knocking the door. When you opened it, he could make out the faint sound of you greeting them properly while introducing yourself . He could see you smiling all over again. It wasn't just the bed-side manner you put for patients, but the authentic side of you that was patient and illumining.
Brendon buffered for a minute, waiting to see whether you’d come out, deferring to the idea of appealing to their psychological needs. After what felt like minutes, you hadn’t come out at all. No inkling of a potential departure.
Daring to fight against the curve, Brendon stalked close enough to peek in the room from the window. To any nurses or doctors passing by, he was the leader taking mental notes of what was happening in his area of control.
He saw your figure first from the angle. You were sitting on a chair, nodding along to something the girl was saying. Beside her, the parents were grasping onto her hands, while the 12-year-old patient let tears roll down her eyes.
You were on the mothers opposite side, listening intently like any other adult patient. Yet, this patient was comfortable being a frightened 12-year-of girl. The father jumped in, speaking at you with more elaboration as his hands moved.
The transition was simple, still empathetic and understanding as they explained in detail what they couldn’t tell Park standing in the room. You spoke slowly and steady, much more available to sit and reflect on every aspect of a surgery you had done before.
When Brendon assumed time was escaping him, you weren’t fighting nearly as desperately as he was. He was endeavoring to make it worth his while. You were working at the pace that suited the patient under your care.
While being young and having better neuroplasticity than him, you were malleable with every experience. You were adapting to every interaction with patients and coworkers—which explained why you were unrecognizable in an element Brendon Park had no intervention in.
No control over a habitat you were reigning with your mind and fortifying with your heart.
And after answering the consult from a brooding Robby and booking an OR, he found you sitting in the dictation room, typing away. You had lost the scrub cap, letting your hair be free. You hadn’t moved when he walked in, as if you had been expecting him to look for you.
He was looking down at the consent forms, initial and signed by the parents.
“How did you manage to get them to consent?” Brendon queried. He stood at the door, holding the device up.
There was a small hum to fill in the silence of the room. He awaited there, like you had the knowledge of the Holy Grail—waiting for you to bestow upon him the privilege of knowing.
Standing in front of anyone, he’d feel like an idiot. Standing in front of you, he was trying to get to know what everyone else saw. The missing piece to his elaborate puzzle with a decades work into.
You lazily lifted your head, briefly confused until you realized what he was alluding to. Shrugging your shoulders and leaning back in the chair, you sighed. “I just sat there and spoke to them.”
“The parents and the girl had questions they felt Jones didn’t address.” You clarified, simplifying the previous trouble Brendon was having.
You made it sound like the antiquated practice had somehow been lost between consultation and transfer to the surgical floor. “They just wanted to have a conversation instead of being mandated to agree with the surgery.
Standing up, you wandered over to the coffee pot with a mug already in hand. Pouring the liquid, your light breathing was calm. You weren’t rattled by emotionally distraught parents and frightened girls.
The same way standing up against him came out as if you had done it before.
The coffee pot clicks back on the machine. You carefully moved around, grabbing sugar packets and powered creamer. “They knew it was necessary, but it didn't stop them from feeling scared.”
“It’s all for the benefit of their child.” Brendon responded. You were a doctor. He was aware you knew that. It was a reflex. It was the practical answer.
It should’ve been a no-brainer. For you and for the parents. No parent should neglect or delay care necessary, especially if the odds of them being mobile without the procedure was at risk.
You stared at him with wide eyes, before chuckling. “They know that, Dr. Park.”
With the stare of your eyes, you were communicating what you weren’t going to put in words for him. They’re still human and afraid. It was redundant considering Park had scolded you for such. You weren’t going to bother with explaining yourself anymore.
“I also spoke with Jones about appropriate verbiage when getting consent from patients, specifically in pediatric cases.” You informed, holding the mug in two hands while
heading back to your workstation.
He shook his head, squeezing his teeth together until they rubbed. You stuck a hand out, halting whatever tangent he was going to start. “Not everyone’s preferred method of criticism is from Park the Shark.”
The small grin on your face while you typed didn’t agitate him as much as it would’ve from anyone else. Walsh would’ve earned a scowl. He might’ve glared at Emmick from the corner of his eye, with a strained stretch of his neck. Garcia knew better than to poke the Shark when she saw him send the senior resident out of the OR as a second year.
And while he thought he had sunken his teeth deep enough to be able to pull you from making grave mistakes, you had slithered from his grasp. You had him chasing your tail in a trail that would end with him going to the depths of the dark ocean.
“Some of us learn differently. There’s nothing wrong with that.” You casually mentioned, clicking around on the computer and typing. “The point is we learn to do better next time, right?”
When his brain registered you were talking with him, he huffed out a breath, tempted to let the corner of his mouth curve. He picked up the subliminal message. You were becoming braver with your jab; and even while you pretended not to be overtly interested in to stare him in the eyes, you were making precise stabs.
Before he could push the conversation further, there was a beep. You both glanced down at each other's pagers and the small scrape of your chair against the floor followed. You breezed past him without a second thought, leaving him in the wake of your sunshine. Even with the glumness of his personality, you were shining the darkest of places. He was inches from touching the sunlight, but some cloud always obscured it.
Brendon looked at the door click shut and he saw the same cloud shutting his limited sunlight once again.
“All non-emergent surgeries will be rescheduled. We need to focus on OR turnover to be quick. Some of these patients may not be able to wait five minutes.” Brendon instructed precisely, staring at the patient board over the nursing station. His arms folded over his chest, musing in thought.
“My nurses know what they’re doing, Dr. Park.” Annette joked, frameless glasses sitting on her nose as she stared down at her device. Her fingers moved eagerly to start moving the scheduled times of the current list of patients.
Brendon shook his head with a small hum. He heard the clacking of shoes down the hall and his head followed the noise. Emmick was typing rapidly on her phone, while approaching him. “What is the current count?”
“17 including children, right now. It can change soon.” Annette responded, glancing at Emmick who stood close to them.
Emmick sighed, pocketing her phone. She shook her head as she saw a couple of the residents rushing by to reach out to loved ones and run to the bathroom before they were buried in their work. A multi-vehicle pileup on the interstate, including an 18-wheel truck. Once the mass size of the gasoline truck flipped over, the rest of the cars followed, and the casualties were increasing by the second.
“Have you reached out to the rest?” Brendon asked, turning to Emmick.
She stiffly nodded, interlocking both her hands behind her head. “I’ve debriefed with the residents in the lounge. A couple of them will be going over 24 hours on their feet.”
He knew exactly who was supposed to be done with a double shift. That didn’t stop them from their responsibilities. They knew medical emergencies occurred at all hours, and anyone’s life could hang in the balance. Their job was to react to the trauma at hand and do everything in their power to stop the emergency.
As on cue, you were coming around the corner with Sully by your side. He was handing you a paper cup, probably filled with coffee, to push you through the unexpected extension of your shift. Despite this being your third consecutive shift, you were synchronized with Sully’s steps. He was light and energized, and with each sip of coffee, you were pacing yourself to reach the same determination.
When Sully found the two attendings standing in the small circle, he smiled casually, as if a car pileup was an everyday occurrence. “Residents are getting in their last moments of freedom. Let us know where you want us, Captain.”
“Trauma down stairs will determine priority. Dr. Emmick will run point with Garcia.” Brendon informed, tutting his chin to his colleague.
“Lovely.”
Emmick rolled her eyes, dropping her hands to her hips. Brendon briefly ignored the annoyance with a slight glare. “I will assign you all to cases as they come in.”
Sully and you both nodded to Brendon’s command. Emmick bumped your arm with her elbow. “Want to help me downstairs? Could use the second pair of eyes.”
“I’m going to need all R4 and R3’s in the OR.” Brendon intervened, glancing between the two of you through his hooded eyes. “I won’t have to check the work of the interns.”
Emmick narrowed her eyes while she pursed her lips. To the two residents in question, it would seem like Emmick was challenging the decision. It wasn’t rare that on occasion the two attendings would butt heads, like hammer-head sharks fighting for their space. But to Brendon, this was a jest. One more feather in her cap about how well she knew him while barely speaking to her.
“Fair point.” Was all Emmick mustered, suppressing the small grin on her face.
When Brendon looked over at you, there wasn’t any deflation of his prerogative. You weren’t visibly upset as you were focused. While still taking sips of your coffee, you were simply listening to the instruction. He could safely assume you were high-strung, from the small shift of your feet and your eyes to the group of your supervisors and friends. You didn’t let your face show it.
“Will you be able to manage?” Brendon questioned in your direction.
Humming, you furrowed your brows at the question. He crossed his arms, “I’m going to need you to be alert. Sometimes you’re going to have to work through the fatigue for the sake of patient-care.”
The statement wasn’t wrong. It was an observation any rational teacher would warn their student. Accepting to work at a trauma-1 hospital brought the exhaustive workload. If he was going to trust any of the residents to demonstrate leadership and initiative, it was a moment like this to prove it.
He noticed the hesitant eyes from Sully and Emmick, caught off guard from the warning. You nodded once, ignoring the uncertainty for your closest work-partners. “I understand, Dr. Park.”
Satisfied enough with that answer, he looked back to Annette who was watching the interaction carefully while speaking on her spectralink phone. She muttered small replies before hanging up. “Ambulances are 7 minutes out.”
“That’s my cue.” Emmick announced, clapping her hands together. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, sending you a small wink. “See you once the dust settles.”
Brendon scoffed, shaking his head. Emmick began her tread backwards, pointing a finger at Brendon. “Don’t’ go biting any of my resident’s head off!”
Sully snickered, covering his mouth with a hand and with the two of you standing in front of him, he didn’t see that task as impossible. He motioned his hands outward. “Get your nerves out before either of you kill a patient.”
You pushed a smiling Sully in the direction that Emmick went down, your free hand resting lightly on the back of his arm as you guided him away. He was mimicking an aggressive bite, chomping his teeth at you. Retracting your head, you laughed, eyes crinkling into little slivers.
The energy changed two hours later. With the surgical unit bustling with all the possible staff available, his residents were no longer smiling or kidding—covered in blood stained gowns, dispersed between the 25 operating rooms. Brendon stepped out of OR 17, doffing the gloves he was wearing. When he walked down the hallway, he noted another door slide open farther down.
You stepped out, hands on your hips as you sighed. When you looked in his direction, he was already heading towards you. “What do you have?”
“Bilateral wrist and humeral shaft fracture with a radial nerve injury. Put in plates and screws.” You sanitized your hands, rubbing vicariously through every side. Motioning your head to the ER you just exited, you sighed. “May is closing up.”
The double doors down the hallways clicked open. Turning both your heads at the sound, a patient was being wheeled in with a small group of doctors and nurses surrounding the head of the bed. Brendon recognized the vascular surgeon, Greg Norton tying up his scrub cap. He greeted Brendon with a grin, hands landing on the bed railing. “Park, ready to make mincemeat with this poor fellow?”
When the bed came up towards where you both stood, you had moved beside Brendon, hands on your hips as you stared down at the patient. He noticed the quizzical look in your eye, staring at the lower extremities. “I won’t be scrubbing in.”
You turned to look at him as Dr. Norton furrowed his brows, his grin faltering. “What? Don’t tell me you’re going to send me one of your pups?”
Looking down at you, there was a moment of doubt, like you couldn’t believe Park was actually looking at you. “Possible posterior wall acetabular fracture with hip dislocation. Emmick called beforehand about it.”
“What did imaging show?” You questioned, already honing into your diagnostic skill. Your eyes shifted around his face, and your mind was moving at an incredible speed attributed to the neuroplasticity you sharpened.
“Come on, Park.” Dr. Norton interrupted, leaning forward as to cut into the silent digression of the case. His thick New England accent bounced off the walls with the heightened volume he always spoke at. Brendon crossed his arms as he reluctantly glared at the older, fuller man. Dr. Norton then looked towards you, nose scrunched slightly. “What are you, sweetheart? R3?”
“I’ve done this procedure before.” Your calm voice still gives way for the displeasure of his dismissal.
It wasn’t disappointment, it was anger. Despite being 20 years his junior, you maintained a sense of composure for your age. Some might have acted ferociously. Brendon knew there were attendings that would not have kept up appearances for the sake of respect in the workplace.
Dr. Norton snorted, shaking his head. “Nothing against you, honey, but this procedure is made for meticulous hands. I don’t need the trouble of some shaky, doe-eye resident screwing this man’s possibility of walking.”
Brendon's own disbelief didn’t seem as animated as yours, widening your eyes while tilting your head to the side. Dr. Norton had been around since before Brendon joined the hospital. He always poked at the fact Brendon didn’t smile for a doctor with ‘razor sharp’ teeth. He thought Dr. Brendon Park was as animalistic as people described him to be, he’d flaunt it.
Before you could proceed by jumping into a pit of fire, Brendon crossed his arm, squaring his shoulders. “Dr. Norton, I assign the cases, and if you have a problem with that you can take it up with me after my resident performs the surgery.”
Dr. Norton snarled, lifting his top lip to his nose. He looked at you before smacking his lips. With the menial glare from Brendon, he could see his ego visibly deflate. If he wanted him to show his teeth, he should have asked nicely.
“You ready?” Dr. Norton grumbled, motioning his head to one of the OR’s down the hallway. He was turning his father away from Brendon and avoiding your gaze, as if you had ripped his jugular.
Offering a polite nod, you took a step back, still staring at him. “I will meet you there after looking at the imaging, Dr. Norton.”
Dr. Norton grumbled, signaling for the nurses to continue down the hall to the OR. Brendon stood there, eyeing Dr. Norton as he passed, burly arms crossed to intimidate with his physicality as much as his personality. When the doors to OR 22 closed behind the transfer team, Brendon finally turned to face you, who was staring up at him with a deadpanned expression. “I didn’t want you defending me.”
Brendon pressed his lips in a thing line. You didn’t deny that you needed it. Dr. Norton didn’t know how to talk to his female colleagues, and his brusque manners didn’t rub people the right way, regardless. You had worked with him before, under Brendon’s guide, which left you in the limelight compared to center stage.
The overcasting shadow of his reputation protected you from the scrutiny. While stranded at sea, you had to find your own anchor to throw.
“I wasn’t.” Was all he plainly said.
He wasn’t defending you. He was defending your knowledge. Had you been Jones or Reddy, he wouldn’t have jumped so eagerly. There were weaknesses in all his residents, some more than others, but you had been the exception in most areas. Even if it didn’t come at first, it came from work. You could not have survived up to 27 hours of traumatic repairs if you had not put sweat and tears into getting it right.
“You better hurry and scrub in.” Brendon advised, cocking his head to the side. Go look at the images and prove to him he’s wrong. Prove to me you’ve got this.
With less visible friction, you walked around Brendon, heading in the direction of the double doors. You walked with the power of someone prepared for the challenge. When Brendon turned around, he noticed another figure had joined the hallway, having exited OR 2.
Sully stood outside the door, speaking at you quietly. He furrowed his brows, hands on his hips as he saw you walk away. You nodded in response to his question, pushing the door open with you back and slipping through gracefully.
Brendon sighed, walking down the hall and nodding to Sully in acknowledgment. “You done? I have a couple of open-tibia fractures that won’t heal on their own.”
Buffering for a moment, Sully complied with a small smile. He turned back to the door, forehead pinched as he tried deciphering the scene. Park, you, and Dr. Norton. From the small snort, he had picked up all the clues necessary to make a bold assumption. It didn’t help Norton spoke with the volume of twenty people.
“Thank you, Dr. Park.” Sully gently grinned; slyly leaning forward as he suggestively spoke.
The word rang in his ear repeatedly: You may not need her, but that doesn’t eliminate her worth around here. Sully was assuming Brendon thought the hospital couldn’t utilize your brilliance. That the hospital didn’t need surgeons with exemplary bedside manner that matched their skills in an operating room; or that he couldn’t use someone he could trust at this very moment to dedicate themselves in a surgery he trusted himself to do.
In typical Brendon fashion, he stared at Sully, lips in a tight line that strengthened his jaw and cheeks even more. Sully pushed the limits by still standing before him and that distressed him more than he liked. He didn’t know whether it was the fact that Sully had thanked him something he saw as unnatural, or the fact you had yet again dismissed his efforts others would consider valiant.
He didn’t want to be a hero of any sort (not that you needed it, he was starting to realize). You could snarl just as nasty as him, but it wasn’t your preferred method of surviving—because you weren’t just surviving your residency. The formulated relationships with your co-residents, attendings, and patients were your life mission, apart from learning to improve someone’s life while living their worst day.
The vulnerability that he considered not outfitted for the workplace led to how you operated. Your life, the patients, even the residents you helped when they just were not there yet.
Brendon didn’t see the future as optimistically as you, and when the shattering reality came of how it could look different to what he was used to know, it did break his stride. The built of momentum between you and him—his correction and your fear of fucking it up—was his everyday routine. Not to minimize you, but to build the tools to survive.
Of course, the method didn’t work. And he stupidly realized he was attempting to survive on his own like a shark in a tank.
It was a hard lesson you were teaching him while baiting him. He was rolling his neck around trying to compose himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” Sully responded, raising his chin higher as he squared his shoulders. The same self-satisfied grin gracing his youthful features. He watched for any unwelcoming passersby before leaning in. “Better you than me. I might’ve socked the guy.”
Brendon's lips twitched, and he looked at Sully thoughtfully. He definitely had the build. He had seen him work out at the gym across the street from time to time. “You wouldn't have.”
“For her? Yeah.” Sully confirmed breathy as he scoffed from the disbelief. “Like I said Dr. Park, she could survive without me, but I don't think I could’ve made it without her.”
“I don't take lightly when people dismiss her.” Sully stuffed his hands in his scrub pockets, shuffling briefly like the admission was something too vulnerable. For a conversation with Dr. Park? It was a revelation that went beyond professional bounds.
You had taught Sully a thing or two about being attuned with your inner spirits—and if that meant warding away what ate the center of it—there was worthiness in the cause. Park saw the deep resemblance in the now stoic impression on Sully’s face. Bold and Brendon couldn't ignore it.
Sully took careful steps backwards, arms falling to his side. “So, thanks, Dr. Park.”
“I’ll book the OR.” Brendon announced walking out of Trauma 2 in ER. He ripped off the gloves he was wearing, tossing him in a nearby waste bin. It was an ironic day to get into a motorcycle accident while the interstate was still being cleared from the debris of the MVA in the morning.
What more could you expect from a 21-year-old boy whose frontal lobe still had not developed.
It was almost 2 and the majority of the patients that came in during the accident had been moved to the post-surgical unit or the ICU while waiting for follow up surgery for open wounds. The surgical department had cleared half of its staff that stayed overnight or pulled the spontaneous shift. Those still on the clock were dragging their feet and it was taking everything in him not to bite. When the night shift residents were able to leave, they were also zombies walking.
All, except one. When he got up to the surgical floor, he walked into the viewing room, where their charge nurse could gauge operations with the camera live streaming it all. He could see OR 22 running up to 8 hours of operation time. He mostly was staring at the different scrub caps to distinguish all the involved staff.
The only one missing was a green cap.
“Are they finishing it up?” Brendon questioned, turning to Annette sitting at one of the open tables, typing into the device.
She hummed, head still lowered. “Ortho is done with the reconstruction. Vascular and trauma is finishing up.”
Brendon nodded curtly before heading back out the room. The surgery couldn’t have been too complicated if you were done in roughly 7 hours. He had slipped in once as he continued assigning residents to the incoming patients. You had stayed stuck there for the majority of it, and Brendon didn’t feel the need to come in after that.
His immediate thought was to check the dictation room. If you were still lingering, you’d probably be trying to finish up work you had, which meant charting. To his luck, when he peeked through the window on the door, he found you hunched over a computer. The same station you sat at the last week he had spoken to you.
Inhaling a sharp breath, he twisted the door open, and the click caught your attention. Lifting your head and eyebrows simultaneously at the direction of the door, your body visibly jolted. He knew you were awake enough to orally translate your notes, but your body kept succumbing to the sleep it needed.
“How was the surgery?” Brendon questioned, approaching the desk with his hands in his scrub pockets. With the height advantage, he had a clear view of the desk. You had a paper cup of black coffee, an open energy drink, and a small bottle of ibuprofen.
Straightening you back as a way to stretch your body, you shrugged. “Went better than expected.”
“Did Norton give you any grief?” Brendon followed up, not taking his eye off the obvious display of you recklessly messing with your body’s melatonin. From the look of it, you didn’t have anything of substance to run off.
You gently twirled your wrist to reboot your dexterity and putting down the microphone in your hand gave you the break your body needed to lean back in the chair. The question caught you off-guard, leaving your mouth open, while your brain lacked the reflex to come up with a response.
“He was fine. Didn’t talk much unless he was bragging about his NFL athlete son to the nurses.” The small scowl on your face made him bite back the laugh he wanted to let out.
He heard the stories. The accolades he made about a son who mostly sat on the bench. He couldn’t remember the last time they had even aired his face on anything bigger than a phone screen. Brendon crossed his arms, the slight cure of his lips gave him away. “He's the 2nd running back on a good day, at best.”
You bit your bottom lip, shaking your head lightly. “Have you told him that?”
“Almost.”`
The loopy grin on your face made you look cuter, as Emmick or Walsh might describe it. He was aware what staff liked you for your personality and which other liked you for something other than work-appropriate. In an objective sense, none of them were wrong, nor did it concern him or HR yet. Your hands rubbed the back of your neck, easing it from side to side. “Apart from that, he is a respectable surgeon. He just lacks the social cues to elevate him to a standard that I could befriend.”
Brendon arms crossed over his chest. When he looked away, he was starting to see there were some lessons you felt he needed reminding of. Brendon had casual friends, people from college or med school he kept in touch with enough to be invited to weddings. He didn’t plan trips to see them across the country, but he thought being mutual on social media made up for that.
When in comparison to you, he did fall flat of the mark. You had the charisma that engaged everyone, and no one forgot your name because of it.
In no way was it to save face for anything you may lack. It was your greatest strength, which as healers earned more respect that skill did.
You let out a choppy yawn, attempting to hide it before it just came out altogether. He cocked his head to one side, tightening his stance. “You’re exhausted”
“No, I'm fine.” You corrected him. He could not help to think that if Emmick were standing here, you would be more subject to her compassion than his no-nonsense tone. “I have charting to get done.”
“Which you are barely awake for.” Brendon pointed out.
The sigh that escaped you paired with the glare of your bloodshot eyes confirmed it all for him. You were past your limits, and there was no reason to prove you were capable of heaving the heavy load. Not to Brendon’s eyes.
He watched you reach for the energy drink and before you could take a sip, it was pulled from your loose grasp. You stuttered, sitting up taller while staring accusatory to Brendon, holding the now relatively small can in his hand. Before you could utter a word, he leaned over to grab the cup of coffee with the other. “You don’t need this. You’re frying the melatonin in your brain telling you to go home.”
“I am needed here.”
He scoffed, turning his back to you as he found a way to keep the caffeinated drinks from your reach. He opted to put it on a nearby counter, leaning back into it with feet crossed to hide the mere temptation of sight.
“If I did need you, I’d need you to stay awake and alert.” Brendon grasped the edge of the counter underhanded, flexing the muscles in his biceps. “Right now you are neither of those things.”
Sagging in the chair turned to face him, your computer with the dictation notes still open abandoned, you frowned. “You could use the help.”
“No, I need you to go home.” Brendon emphasized his stare glued to your tired body. You didn’t have the precision to walk in a straight-line let alone cut into someone and know the difference between each ligament in a fractured tibia. It wasn’t an undercut. He wasn’t even sure it was out of pity. It was the rational thing to do for both you and him. “I can't work if I'm concerned about the moment you come down from the adrenaline of everything else.”
“You’ve been working over 30 hours straight. Either go home or sleep in the on-call room until Sullivan is out, but I don't want to see you in any OR, understood?” He questioned the way a parent might give an ultimatum to their preteen.
With those options presented to you on a platter and not some vicious stab of his displeasure of your character, you came to your senses. “You’re right. It was stupid.”
“It’s the exhaustion.” Brendon huffed out, standing from the counter. He turned his back to you and dug in one of the cabinets.
“Is Park the Shark making an excuse for his resident?” You mused and he could imagine the dopey grin on your face.
“You’re my resident now?” Brendon questioned back, shutting the cupboard while hiding the item he grabbed in his wide fist. He glared at you through his eyelashes. It wasn’t nearly as fierce as Park the Shark could be.
“Honorary resident, depending on how I feel.” You joked, while craning your head back the closer he approached you.
The bags under your eyes were deserved. Not in a derogatory sense to put you down for your appearance, but because it felt like a badge you could brandish. The hard work you put while he pushed his thumb into your back, grinding your gears until you saw the same perspective from ten-feet above the ground, and you stood on your toes to match. It was an effort he could recognize in few residents.
Except not all dare yank him down to see it from their eyes. You had all but grabbed him from the collar and shook him. With dignity and pride to recognize yourself for something more than the surgical ‘pipsqueak,’ you humbled him.
That wasn’t an easy feat, and Brendon hadn't even snarled his teeth.
He held out his one curled hand, a protein bar in a plastic wrapper facing you. When you look back up at him, lips curled inwards and eyebrows curved in confusion, he sighed. He rolled his eyes, “Eat something. You’ve had enough caffeine to kill your heart two times over.”
Skeptically, you took the protein bar in your hand and muttered a small ‘thanks.’ Slowly peeling the wrapper apart, you took a generous bite. He stepped away, stalking around from behind, still making sure you were chewing properly the only piece of nutrients you’ve had in hours.
After sufficiently breaking down the food and digesting it down your esophagus, you spun your chair around, catching Brendon before he approached the door. “I appreciate your endorsement, by the way. With Dr. Norton.”
He looked at you from over his shoulder, before turning his body to get a better look. You nodded appreciatively. “I probably didn't deserve it, but I couldn't have entered that OR without some of your help.”
The cheeky smile on your face made him narrow his eyes humorously at you. He twitched his nose to hide the smile that wanted to break. If there was anything you were good at besides completely reconstructing the stability in someone’s hips, it was pecking at him with a double edge sword.
“If the patient makes a full recovery, Dr. Norton won’t have anything to complain about then.” He shrugged. It was a safe response. One that didn't compromise the stone-cold persona.
He knew you thanked him because you meant it, but also because he had already extended one hand to pull you back towards him. One step closer to reimagining what you both thought couldn't align.
“Not to be cocky, but I’m sure he will.” You said softly, the opposite of bold and pretentious. You hopped back on the computer, rapidly typing and clicking around on the screen.
Brendon snorted, enjoying the bona fide assurance. It’s the only reason he hasn't loiter or probe the medical judgment you made in the OR. Even with the pressure boiling like a cooker pot, you had earned the space to own the operation room he typically did with years of experience.
“I better not see you in my OR.” Brendon looked at you pointedly. “Not until your next shift.”
Now leaning in the chair, with your free hand, you lazily saluted to him. You brought up the protein bar and chewed lazily through another bite. He cocked his head to the side, awaiting a serious response from a third year resident.
“I promise, Dr. Park.” You added, reaching down for your backpack. With raised eyebrows, you wait for him to move along, proving he was satisfied with the response.
He looked you up and down once more before heading for the door again. With his hand on the door knob, he heard the shuffling of the chair and your bag. He opened the door and stopped when you called his name one more time.
With the sound of your voice, he pressed his back against the door, keeping it open while turning his head once more. You were approaching him, backpack hanging low as you trudged it. Slipping in between him and the space he held open with his body, he had to crane his neck down to watch the top of your head travel past him.
“Have a good rest of your shift, and I’ll see you around, Dr. Park.” There was a faint smile on your face as you started walking backward, still looking at him.
He stayed frozen holding the door, half his body stepping out into the hallway. You spun gracefully, fiddling with the wrapper of the protein bar. He believed the words, because they came tenderly from your lips. The easy steps of your walk communicated what you didn't say with the words. He was one step closer to getting in your good graces, and he rubbed away the stiffness in his jaw as he bit back the grin.
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park had earned the notorious title ‘park the shark’ for reasons besides his chiseled facial structure and razor sharp eye contact. his bites aimed to make his victims bleed without warning or apology. everyone awaited his retribution to come. the last person he expected to humble him was his do-good third-year resident.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, grumpy x sunshine trope, hurt/comfort, slowburn, work-place tension, park being a bully & ass (but he's hot), park being territorial/possesive (if you squint hard enough), night shift (because I love them!!), competence kink, blood/gore & other reoccurring medical topics in 'the pitt', medical inaccuracies (i've only graduated from google med school),
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ y’all i genuinely foam at the mouth every time a shark fic on this app. there’s nothing that brings me more joy than fantasizing about dr. brendon park, so here’s my interpretation of this sexy man. also this is inspired by the song 'kill me' by hayley williams !! (i love that woman soooo much y'all)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13.6 K
If you were in the comfort of your own apartment and bed, wrapped in the sheets you had personally endeavored yourself to splurge on, you would probably be in a better mood. Even though you had racked up enough student loan debt to achieve the satisfaction of ‘following your dreams’ to the point of living scraping by, you’d consider your bed a prized possession.
If they had warned you about the lack of commodities as a resident while working an overnight shift, you may have reconsidered your career choices.
While this wasn’t your first night shift, it was definitely the roughest one yet. Lack of energy, constant back pain, and absolute discomfort in the resident on-call room did nothing to satiate your grumpiness.
You no longer could count the times you had tossed and turned on the bed. At the end, you had resorted to sitting on the office chair, with your head thrown back. It did nothing for your back, but it was less annoying than attempting to lay on the sad excuse of a bed. You caught a couple of hours of sleep, with your sweatshirt providing some comfort, but not enough to pass as high functioning.
Right as you had fluttered your eyes close; there was a ping from a phone. You shook awake, flustered and alarmed from the noise.
Shit. You stared down at the watch. 7:23 AM.
You immediately jumped from the chair, tripping over your own feet to your backpack placed by the corner of the bed. Your hands fished for the phone in the side pocket, and when the screen illuminated your face, your blood pressure dropped.
SULLY 1 min ag0
The shark is looking for his next meal.
Where the fuck are you?
There was no hesitation. Your hands moved like lightning. Backpack, water bottle, random protein bar you scavenged from the resident lounge. Slipping out of the on-call room, everyone saw you jogging down the hallways, towards the resident lounge where no doubt, Dr. Park was expecting you to hand-off the night shift.
Your futile attempt to reverse the dark spot under your eyes landed you right in the middle of the ocean. The ‘Jaws’ theme song played in your mind, and you knew he could smell your blood pumping from across the hospital. It was a sixth sense of his, able to detect a puny resident from a mile away.
The thumping of your heart rose to your throat, like a boulder you couldn't swallow down. Your breathing was caught each time you tried to pull it down to your lungs. You were a dead man walking. That much was certain when you saw the wide eye stare from Sully, your senior resident. The two of you had bonded from being your attending’s personal meals.
‘Park the Shark’ was how you all had met him when onboarding the PTMC’s orthopedic surgery program. It didn’t make sense to you how the simple mention of a name could make everyone’s back shiver, until you tried to introduce yourself, hand out a stretched and wide smile to the hunk of muscle of your attending.
“This isn’t kindergarten. Don’t waste your breath on first impressions. To be clear, there’s nothing you can do to impress me.” Park deadpanned, staring down at you as he brushed past, leaving your hand floating.
The same frown must have crossed your face as you halted, fixing your badge into the waistband of your plum scrub pants. Holding your breath, you tossed your backpack to the nearest available chair, dragging your hands down your face. Time to face the music.
Your senior resident sat at one of the workstations, eyebrows raised as recognized the unease of your shortcomings. Sully leaned forward, arms crossed as he stared at you. “Where the hell were you?”
“Trying to catch some sleep so I don’t snore my way through the rest of my shift.” You gritted back, tucking your stray hairs away. There wasn’t time to doll yourself up in a mirror and you were praying that you didn't appear as restless as you were.
This was the second double shift you were pulling, and your third year had just started. If you were being honest, you didn’t understand why you were the one doing it.
Park had come up to you during one of your lunch breaks a couple of weeks ago, and dropped a physical copy of the newly printed schedule. In the colored blocks, you found your name under two of the 12-hour blocks. You had stopped chewing the sandwich in your mouth, looking up at your attending with wide eyes.
“There’s been some changes. Your cooperation is assumed, so memorize the changes.”
You barely uttered a word until he stalked off as if this was scutwork he was dreading to get done. Safe to say, you weren’t pleased with the sudden change of schedule for the month.
Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.
“You should be glad Dr. Park got distracted by Walsh’s morning jabs.” Sully scoffed, standing up with a smug slump. “He’s feeling particularly hungry this morning and Walsh is only going to make it worse for the rest of us.”
You shrugged menially, rushing over to the fridge in the room, digging for the collective energy drink collection. The crack of the seal echoed in the room. “It’s about time Park dishes what he eats.”
Earnestly, you got along with Walsh—and most of the other surgical attendings and residents. You had worked around enough of them to garner a likable reputation, but working under Dr. Park worked against your favor socially.
It was different in the night shift without Park. There wasn’t a certain tension when answering consultations or in the operating rooms. Albeit, everyone was a bit looser during the nights, but it opened a space where you could take charge more freely without worry of consequence or doubt in your decisions.
“And you think Walsh is the one to do that?”
The bass in the voice was unique to one person only in which everyone in the surgical department recognized from the other end of a call or down the hallways. Unamused in his tone that never changed while his lips remained stiff and straight.
You almost choked on the acidic liquid you had started gulping down. Whipping your head to the point of stabbing into your muscles from the speed, Dr. Park stood at the doorway with his arms crossed. If you were a bigger idiot than you were now, you would’ve pretended he didn’t hear what you said.
To try to spare yourself, you quickly shook your head. “Dr. Park—“
“Save it, pipsqueak.” Park dismissed, barely paying you any mind as he stared down at his watch. With his head bowed the reflection of the gel-cast over his light brown hair shined right in your eye. Perfectly combed back, chiseling his piercing bone structure. “You missed pass over. I had to hear from a second year resident.”
Glancing at Sully, he shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows down turned. Quickly recovering, your hand gripped onto the can tighter. “Jones? He’s a bit overzealous—“
“Which in your case, wouldn’t hurt.” Park dryly interrupted, staring at you with hooded eyes. The ‘clean shaven’ look he typically had pronounced every twitch in his mandible and the other parts of his jaw. It was a good way of telling when Dr. Park had lost his patience.
You blubbered, your fingers numbing from the cold can as you refused to let it go. “I don’t want to see you dragging your feet.”
“Of course not—“
“Don’t tell me.” Park dismissed, stalking passed you over to the fridge. He occasionally stole from the resident stock; everyone assumed it was a test to see who would stop him.
No one dared.
He didn’t have to finish the saying for you to get the message. He needs to see it. As of now, you weren’t helping your case as you tried coming up with deflections of your mistake. If there was something Park hated more than mere incompetence, it was weaponizing it with the false hope it worked on someone as sharp as him. Acting a fool and being a fool were two different things, and regardless of what angle you chose to play, it was always a lose-lose situation for yourself.
And you still needed to survive another 12 hours around him.
You should’ve known you weren’t going to last the day. If accidentally sleeping through your alarms and missing hand off told you anything, it should’ve been a sign things were going to go astray.
While pushing through a pair of double doors, having scrubbed out of an open tibia-fibula fracture surgery, a yawn escaped you. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you hardly noticed what was coming ahead. Head bowed and senses incoherent, you only lifted your head once you ran into a form of mass, sending you tripping backwards.
When you looked up, the heavy stare of Park shadowing over your entire body, you shrank into yourself more than you already had earlier. It was a miracle that Sully roped you into the surgery, long enough to endure half your shift and to avoid Park the Sharks current disfavor of you.
Sully did not intend to stay once his residency was up. He knew he didn't have the courage to battle up against Park over executive decisions, even if Park carried the ‘Chief’ title. He had other goals to look forward to that didn't include staying at PTMC.
You, on the other hand, were yearning for an attending spot. Upon matching into Orthopedic Surgery, especially at a trauma-1 hospital like PTMC, you knew you would fight vigorously to outperform the others. What you didn't expect was to be soul-crushed by an attending like Dr. Brendon Park.
In the three years you had worked under him, you had seen enough residents fizzle out with time. Half of them moved across the country for fellowships and attending positions, while the other stayed just far enough to refrain from having to mutually work with him again. No one dared curse his name, but he was the type of person you only wanted to meet once in your life.
Your plans of moving into a lively city like Pittsburgh and settling into the comfortable life of an orthopedic surgeon no longer felt like an achievable dream, and you were falling into the conveyor-like cycle as the rest of his former residents.
When you finally closed your slack mouth, you registered something clattered against the linoleum floor. Your eyes darted to the ground noticing his phone had fallen from his grasp. Immediately, your body bent down, examining the phone with anxious precision before holding it out again.
“I am so sorry, Dr–”
“ER needs an ortho consult.”
His words clipped your sentence again, the apology ignored. He brushed past you, and the cold brush of his arm brought shivers to your exposed skin. You stood dumbfounded, unsure how to interpret his stoic statement. Spinning in your heels, you watched his taunt, muscular back walk further from you.
He pushed the double doors with his back, sticking his phone in his pocket. The subtle sigh he let out didn’t go amiss. “What did I say about dragging your feet?”
You dashed over in his direction, pushing the door back as Park let it fall toward you.
The elevator ride down was nothing short of awkward. Park was never one for small talk. He found it a waste of air, especially when he considered most pleasantries as disingenuous. While standing behind him, your hands fiddled in front of you; grasping and releasing your fingers with easy rhythm, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You weren’t a talkative person necessarily, but you were now silently reminding yourself to request for some elevator music for ambiance later.
As soon as the elevator halted, Park wasted no time, briskly exiting the elevator once the sleek doors split open. You followed in his suit to Trauma 1 in the ED, slipping in behind Park.
When you first walked in, you saw the small bustling group of nurses and ED staff surround a gray-haired African-American woman. You could make out that much from the corner of the room as you stood back and watched. Although you had been in this room many times, you didn't always make yourself known while Park was around. Why would anyone trust a thing to slip out your mouth with someone like Dr. Park present?
With the fogginess of the lack of sleep and the last surgery you barely made out of, you hardly noticed the debrief occurring anyways. Words about the patient's vitals and chief complaints were being tossed from a resident off to the side. You were internally imploring Park to not dismiss him as he had you practically the entire morning.
Your hands fell in their customary position in front of you, folding into a ball as a form of self-soothing. Briefly closing your eyes, taking in a deep breath, you tried to call upon some energy to hit you like a wave. You still had the second half of your morning shift to go, and you barely got through half the energy drink you cracked open to sustain you. Don’t get in his way, and maybe he won’t sink his teeth into you–
“I see you dragged one of your pups, Park.” A deep voice ribbed from the opposite end of the room.
Dr. Robby stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the gurney, staring back at you with no shame. He cocked his head to one side, glazing at you with amusement, hiding in the corner like some meek fish. Some of the other doctors had finally noticed you, sparing you a smile that came off more like a grimace.
Your attention drifted to your attending, who glanced over his shoulder, back at you. So much for not being noticed. Your entire body tensed up, and the bored expression from Park secured another stamp of his disapproval.
“What does the X-ray show?” Park questioned, his tone even and bass-y while echoing in the sterile room.
Eyebrows lifted with a quick hum coming from you was the only sound that came from anyone breathing in the room. His piercing blue eyes didn't move from you, and you weren't sure whether to keep looking or to turn to somebody else he might have referred to.
Someone called your name in the distance. As if on a swivel, your head moved toward the direction of the call. Dr. Langdon scratched the side of his head, subtly nodding his head to the X-ray machine.
Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.
Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing.
“What’s your name ma’am?” You asked politely, with a soft smile.
She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. “Mrs. Perry.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.” You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Park’s side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. She’d visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. “How did this happen?”
“I tripped over my living room carpet.” She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. “I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.”
There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination he’d typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Don’t tell me.
Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. “X-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.”
You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. “The surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. You’ll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.”
“What is the healing process like?” She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.
Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. “You’ll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.”
You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didn’t pay them much mind.
“Thank you.” She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. “Bless your soul, sweet girl.”
“We will book the OR for the procedure.” Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. “We’ll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.”
“Already on it.” Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.
You certainly didn’t learn that from Park the Shark.
Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble.
Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. “Was I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?”
If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, you’d assume you made the right observation. But you weren’t—especially with Park present—and with a patient's life on the line, you didn’t pretend to be either.
The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.
“Do you really have to ask?” He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.
You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Next time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you won’t dally like you did now.”
You weren’t dallying.
If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too ‘soft’ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.
You furrowed your brows. “It’s all for the sake of patient-care.”
“Reacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.” Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to teach my third year residents this.”
If you were paid every time he threw that insult, you’d have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didn’t need words with the way he’d dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.
It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You’d be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.
“It’s his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.” Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months ago—sulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said.
Except, you weren’t sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.
That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldn’t have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasn’t anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached.
You hadn’t realized you fell asleep while supposedly “resting your eyes” from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time.
With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadn’t a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.
You tried to act like you hadn’t been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasn’t convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. “Were you looking for me?”
“You’d know that if you’d answer your pages.” His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you.
Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. “I’ve been trying to catch up on—“
“Sleep?” Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.
Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadn’t exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.
Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didn’t make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. “Mrs. Perry is ready for surgery.”
His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasn’t the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didn’t elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in.
Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?
After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,
When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.
SULLY 1 hr ago
Bought thai and dessert. I know you’re going to need it after tonight.
The exhale that left you might’ve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got.
You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that he’d be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasn’t the case.
As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor.
Maybe it was in everyone’s nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back.
You didn’t think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep. The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.
Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.
She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sully’s message.
You didn’t lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didn’t acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.
The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message.
“How’s the patient?”
You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.
He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. “Mrs. Perry is resting in post-op. I’m sure she’ll make a nice recovery with some therapy.”
Park only gave you a firm nod. He didn’t need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.
You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didn’t die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, “I’m sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I just—“
Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park? Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.
“All residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.” Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. “Do you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?”
He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. “I gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.”
You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Park’s sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldn’t save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Shark’s list of students who fell too short of the expectation.
“I need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who don’t need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.” He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. “I won’t risk my patient’s life for your irresponsibility.”
The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.
Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the ‘pipsqueak’ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.
God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.
You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.
It sounded naïve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didn’t mean you’d stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you weren’t going to stand for the tyranny—even if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.
Some animals were made to be preyed on, and you’d climb the food-chain if you had too.
The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You weren’t doing it just to earn Park’s respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.
Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasn’t a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he ‘liked’ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.
It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.
Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin.
She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, “it’s nice seeing you around.”
“Likewise,” You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small ‘thank you.’ Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal.
“I hope Dr. ‘Shark’ is treating you well.” She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.
You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “As well as he treats all of his residents.”
She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t charmed your way into his cold heart.”
Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. “What do you mean?”
You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadn’t been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. “I haven’t met a single person who didn’t have a single good thing to say about you.”
She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. “You have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.”
“That’s a lie.” You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.
“Don’t believe me?” she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldn’t have doubted the observation.
‘Most liked’ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldn’t have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.
“Which begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.”
When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. “I know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.”
“I could use a resident with your maturity.” She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. “Would take a lot off my plate.”
You hadn’t realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. “I’m sure you’re just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. “Truth is it’s a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. It’s definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.”
Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. “Just consider it, at least.”
She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing ‘guess that tune’ game.
It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.
You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, “What took you so long?”
“I was talking with Dr. Emmick,” You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. “She tried to convince me to move to the night shift.”
He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, “What? You’re not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.”
“I don’t hate working with Dr. Park.” You neglected, offended by the insinuation. ‘Hate’ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using.
‘Hating’ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didn’t want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then you’d have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with him—or anyone similar—without it affecting patient care. It wasn’t a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.
Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, “Either way, I won’t be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.”
When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.
His small huff caught your distracted attention, “If you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Don’t the big sharks always dominate the small ones?”
You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he should’ve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, he’d share it with him.
He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip.
“Wouldn’t turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?” You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.
“Maybe,” Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Or maybe he won’t care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?”
Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadn’t gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When they’d all make performances of them kissing ass, you’d do it in silence, without the need of recognition.
You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.
When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. “I hope I wasn’t wrong about you, pipsqueak.”
“Seriously?” You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.
Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didn’t know how he wasn’t drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.
There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. “What is that supposed to mean anyway?”
“I just hope that all the hints I’ve been dropping Park isn’t for nothing.” He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.
“What do you mean?” You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.
He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. “Look, I get we’re friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.”
“Get to the point.”
He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. “But, you are more than a decent resident.”
Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. “I’m messing with you.”
He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. “But, I don’t think I’ve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.”
Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. “People say the same about you.”
“My point is if I see it, so does Park.” Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. “So give him reasons he needs to be wrong.”
“And If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll hold you a spot in Chicago.” He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. “Then he’ll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.”
You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.
It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious.
Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were scheduled tonight.”
You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. “I switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.”
“Well, happy to have you here.” She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift.
She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. “Have you done the hand off yet?”
“Just got back from that,” You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. “Seems like a manageable workload.”
“For now,” Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. “Give it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.”
You should’ve known by now to take her words seriously.
While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.
That’s what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.
Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. “Dr. Park’s shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?”
You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. “Hello to you too, Dr. Walsh.”
Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.
“Present, please.” You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.
“A please? Are you sure you're one of Park’s?” Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.
“Motorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.” Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.
“Jesus” You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. “Did he come in unconscious?”
“Morphine and fentanyl will do that for you.” Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction.
She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. “Keep irrigating. It’s looking like a subtype B and we don’t want to risk infection.”
“Subtype B?” Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.
You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. “Gustilo-Anderson Type III.”
“Good old Ramon and John.” Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.
The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patient’s current situation.
When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. “Was his upper leg always this swollen?”
Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. “It looks worse than when he came in.”
“Before the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.” Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities. “Felt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.”
“Can I see imaging?” You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises.
Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.
“Acute compartment syndrome.” You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.
The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller. “What are the four compartments, Nazely?”
She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. “Anterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.”
“500 to Dr. Toomarian.” You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesn’t lose his leg.”
“Any attending’s available in ortho?” Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you.
You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, “Dr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.”
“Without supervision?” Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.
You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. “You’d rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?”
Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, “Now I see it.”
Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. “You’re up, shark pup.”
When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.
Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasn’t the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didn’t refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didn’t think would be present without either attending.
You could hear Park’s constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work.
There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didn’t want to come down from. It didn’t help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps you’ve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.
Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound.
When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, “The patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.”
“Thank you.” You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. “Is it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?”
“Don’t let Brendon hear you say that.” Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. “He’d have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.”
“You were there.” Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.
“I’m not your attending.”
Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. “I heard you’re bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?”
With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. “What are you talking about?”
Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. “Marla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.”
Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.
“I’ve yet to decide on such a big change.” You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. “I promised her I’d consider it.”
Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment?
She pushed herself off the counter, sauntering in your direction. “Here I thought I’d be able to rub in his face how we stole his greatest protégé.”
There was that word. Along with the ‘shark pup’ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasn’t the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.
“Why do you guys keep saying that?” You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. “I’m nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.”
For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knew–except you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.”
“Besides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I don’t think I want to.” She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out.
She sighed, “You’ve got potential. I’d hate for ‘Park the Shark’ to be the reason you don’t explore that.”
She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.
“See you around, daredevil.”
To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didn’t expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of ‘doing your job.’
By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.
It did get him off your back a bit.
He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion.
They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didn’t go missed by anyone.
Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg.
You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.
Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words.
What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didn’t falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.
The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.
You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park.
Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.
When Park’s eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you. “Nice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,”
With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. “What happened?”
“Your lack of concern for patient care is what.” He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. “Mr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.
“Jones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.” You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didn’t bother to look at you, which should’ve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.
“So I heard,” he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body weren’t caught off guard, you would’ve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. “I’ve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.”
He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.
“But with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.” He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. “You learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether you’re tired or busy with their limb on the line?”
His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words.
It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.
“Now he might lose his leg.” Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place.
Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didn’t stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.
“I can scrub in.” You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.
With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
“I will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.” His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.
“Word of advice? Don’t waste my time if you don’t plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.” The lash of his words didn’t need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume.
He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. “I’m not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. It’s not worth my effort and you’re not worth the aggravation.”
You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.
Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you.
You’re not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once.
It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park might’ve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program.
It wouldn’t have been unjustified, but you would never recover.
When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didn’t mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.
Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.
“What happened?” He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.
You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was.
Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, “You’re right. I hate Dr. Park."
A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You weren’t the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didn’t settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.
You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.
It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didn’t want to cave into Dr. Park’s not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.
That’s what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.
It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.
As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldn’t turn back now—certainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.
“Come in.”
When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.
Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard.
In the past week, he couldn’t ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.
He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadn’t stung. That was the intention, after all.
You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.
Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. “I wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.”
The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. “Admin will want a formal address as to why.”
“Dr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. She’s agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.” You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.
Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded he’d just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance you’d have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest.
If he weren’t so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.
“You aren’t interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.” He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. “You love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.”
It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadn’t worked that case. He remembered that.
“Is this about last week?” Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.
You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. “If it was?”
“I’d tell you not to act so immature.” He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. “You messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.”
You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept?
Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit.
“What’s so funny?” He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasn’t sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.
“Everyone seems to mistakenly think I’m your protégé or as they endearingly call me ‘shark pup’” You air quoted the last part, and the various voices utter that name brought upon a distaste in your mouth.
The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients weren’t the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement.
“Like I want to follow in the footsteps of ‘Park the Shark.’”
Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow.
You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. “I’m going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.”
“Is that so?” He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.
“Yes.” Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. “All I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.”
“I can’t do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.” Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, he’d always terrorize your waters. “Especially when you don’t trust my skill as your resident.”
Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?
“I happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.” Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart.
The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher.
“I don’t need you invalidating that method because you’d rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.”
There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just weren’t cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.
“Being emotional costs patients’ lives.” He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious.
“I don’t see it that way.” You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldn’t make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge.
Too brilliant to apologize.
“Which is why I cannot have you as my attending,” You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.
He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.
Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, “I’m afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.”
That did it. You’d never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park would’ve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly would’ve had you considering withdrawing all together.
Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. “We will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.”
“Together. As colleagues.” You clarified, “Equals. Where I am not just some student you’re expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.”
There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. “I’ve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.”
Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.
Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.
With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, “I hope by then, you will have accepted I’m not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.”
When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried you’d regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you weren’t acting as you?
When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.
Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And you’d finally outgrow the ‘pup’ term, once and for all.
the first time you asked, jack laughed and shook his head. kissing your temple and uttering something along the lines of good one baby, as if you were joking.
the second time he didn't even look up from his book. laid against the headboard with his readers perched low, a soft nope on turning the page. you huffed.
the third time you changed tactic. jack always struggled to think straight when your hands were on him, stroking, rubbing, squeezing the outline of his cock over trousers. he was making dinner when you interrupted and started working him up until he was giving in to your attention. it wasn't til you dropped to your knees, freed him from his sweats and ran your tongue along his reddened tip that he asked what you wanted.
"just makin my boyfriend feel good" you mumbled against his length, "feel goods, doesn't it jackie?"
his breath hitched when you took him in your mouth fully, "fuck baby", hand coming to fist your hair as the counter top took the rest of his weight. "what's gotten into you today hm" you hollowed out your cheeks, head bobbing as his cockhead neared the back of your throat on every take. you could tell he was close when his dick twitched against your tongue and the soft grunts grew louder above you. that's when you pulled off him, batting your eyelashes at his confusion.
"what-"
"it'll be fun" you lazily fisted his cock, keeping him alert. "please jackie, get to watch us fuck whenever you want" you licked a bead of precum away, his hips jolting at the feel of your tongue again. "don't you want that?"
"fuck" how could he say no to you? "fine"
you let him cum in your mouth to seal the deal. a sex tape.
-
he struggled a little at first. settling in as if there wasn't a camera capturing his every move on you. you'd set it up at the foot of the bed, feeling your pussy grow damp as you imagined the angles. being able to see how jack looked as he fucked into you, muscles straining, his face when he was cock deep in your cunt.
"relax baby" you purred against his stubble, nuzzling at him. "this is so fucking hot, gonna watch you fuck me over and over and oh-"
you needn't say any more. jack interupted you with his mouth on yours, sucking on your bottom lip with such fervour your chin was coated in his spit.
"gonna make you feel so good baby, make you cum for the camera yeah?" any performance anxiety he had disappeared when your back arched, bare tits pressing into his face as he circled his tongue around your nipple and rolled the other between fingertips.
"fuck jack 'm so wet, touch me, please" you weren't playing up to the camera. sex was always like this between the two of you, so much dirty talk and instruction, pleads and encouragement. you were just excited you'd finally be able to play some of it back.
your pussy jumped when you felt jacks breath between your legs. a kitten lick to your clit and a pull on your thighs then he was face deep, eating you to the high heavens. he moaned into you, hips gyrating against the sheets absentmindendly until he was chasing his own release in tandem with yours.
you fisted his hair with one hand and fucked his face til you were coming all over it. he came to his knees in time to avoid blowing his load all over the bed before he'd even had the chance of being inside you.
"on your knees baby"
you planted yourself at an angle that showcased your glistening cunt, all puffy and wide open for the camera to see. jack had already discarded his prosthetic at the same time as his clothes, positioning you just right in front of him. his hands smoothed over your ass, rolling the flesh before a palm came to thwack one of your cheeks.
"mmmpf, please jack-" he rubbed away the sting. "need your cock baby. please"
the whine in your plea was just too perfect for him not to give in. you looked back over your shoulder to see him stroking himself, eyes dark and concentrating on your sopping hole as he pushed into you. slow at first but you were too impatient, sinking back on your knees to take all of him hard and fast.
"jesus fuck- slow down angel" he huffed a laugh. "you tryna kill this old man?"
that didn't help his cause, pussy clamping down around his cock because he knew how tight it made you. to refer to the age gap between you, calling himself your daddy and you his baby girl. it always elicited pure pornagraphic moans from you and this was no exception.
his hand stroked up your spine, landing at the nape of your neck. he held you there when he started to fuck you hard, face shoved into the mattress and hair tangled between fingers. jack loomed over you, deep hard thrusts until just the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room.
"my good girl, takin me so well, so perfect"
"j-jack, my g-god" your words stuttered in line with each thrust.
"that's it, make some noise, show the camera how good 'm makin you feel yeah" his voice was low and gravelly, concentrating hard, snapping his hips harder and faster.
"so good jackie, fuck, so close-" your knuckles paled as you fisted the sheets above your head "gonna c-cum-"
that magic word had jack panting and pulling out of you at the same time. you whined at the sudden emptiness but it was mere seconds before he was pulling you up and round.
"want the camera to see how pretty you look when you cum" he leant back, tugging you on top of him til you were sinking back onto his cock, head thrown back at the returning fullness.
"come on that's it, fuck yourself on me" he moved the strands of hair from your face, a gentle gesture that opposed the roughness of his other hand digging into your hip. "fuck yourself baby"
you wasted no time in rolling your hips, a figure of eight then up and down, wanting to feel him hit every part inside you.
"god you look so good, not gonna last much longer..."
"oh, fuckfuckfuck-" the sudden shrillness of your pants accompanied his deep grunts, pushing eachother to the edge as your hips worked manically against him. you came when his thumb found your clit (with ease), the tight circles snapping the band in your stomach, gushing all over him with a silent cry.
jack came inside you a second later. fingers deep in the flesh of your thighs, hips jerking up, your name dripping from his tongue. he slowly rocked into you until his thick white mess was oozing out of you and collecting at the base of his cock.
you rode it out together, bodies relaxing against one another after a few minutes of silence.
"can't wait to watch that back" jack pressed a kiss to your cheek, still catching his breath. "you're a fuckin star"
dex knows full well you're not on birth control, but the urge to take you raw always, always plagues him. he has to have it, he has to take you whenever, however he wants. you're both careful enough and there's been no mishaps thus far...
that is until one night, dex is so so close you can feel it and without a second thought you're caging your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together and moaning so loud you're practically begging him to cum right then and there.
his brows pull together and he's gasping, taking you deeper and harder, whimpering and pawing at your legs to release him so he can cum on your pretty tummy.
but that's not what you want. you're arching your back off the mattress, panting, gripping at dex's waist. pleading eyes just begging him to fill you up.
you both know he's physically strong enough to pull away, but he's so irrevocably obsessed with you that all he can truly think about is pumping you so full of his cum you're overflowing with it. he's desperate now to fuck a baby into your belly, growling as he gives in and crowds your body with his and hitting impossibly deeper forcing you to scream his name as you come around him.
he's biting you, hard, groaning into your skin as he fills your cunt full of his cum. "this what you want, hm?" he's mumbling into your neck. "will fill you up, baby, much as you want." within minutes he's already semi-hard again and rocking into you, filthy noises echoing in your bedroom.
this was inspired by a shane maguire ask on another page awhile ago but i lowkey lost it
first piece 4 shane kinda nervy.......pls accept my humble offering...this came to me in a vision ✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉
tags: bf!shane maguire x afab!reader, established relationship, implied age gap (unspecified), explicit sexual content, dry humping, choking, outdoor sex, voyeurism (??), unprotected p-in-v (ur sick of me saying it but wrap it fr), praise (both receiving), degradation (f receiving), shane gives reader's cunt pronouns <3, creampie, c0ckwarming, shane carries reader into cabin without slipping out, two rounds, intentional lowercase, fluff, shane's a loser in love, they're def round 3-ing after idk
summary: shane returns to your shared cabin after a week-long, irritating hunt on his atv and he looks....good. ⊗
the familiar roar of an engine grew louder outside the suffocating four walls of your cabin and your smile grew with it. finally. you leapt across the small cabin floor, cursing the raw excitement that made you drop your book and trip over your feet as you raced to the door. you threw it open just in time to see your boyfriend break through the treeline, perched on his atv, speeding toward you. with a beaming smile, you sprinted in his direction — shoes be damned — to meet him in the middle of the dirt driveway.
shane barely had a moment to throw the atv in park before you threw your body weight on him, arms wrapped lovingly and suffocatingly around his dewy throat. the impact tugged his handkerchief from around his nose to expose the lower half of his face in a ruggedly handsome smile.
"hi baby—oof—jesus, someone miss me?"
"mhm," you whined into the black t-shirt clinging to his built torso. shane only chuckled, snaking his strong arms around your waist. you inhaled him then; a delightful fragrance of smoky leather, earth, sweat, the faintest hint of his favorite old spice cologne. it was overwhelmingly shane. your stomach did a flip when you realize the cologne had been freshly spritzed so he didn't smell entirely like a mountain man when he returned to you.
you released him from your iron embrace. the corners of shane's mouth curled up as you pulled away to peer up at him in the way that made his knees weak, though he'd never tell you. as if you were the only one neck-deep in this relationship.
his beautiful tan skin was speckled with dirt from his drive, revealing a slight outline of his sunglasses once you pushed them back through his greying locks to sit on top of his head. he grinned in approval at your outfit choice as he shamelessly checked you out: a bikini and daisy dukes that left little to the imagination. the bikini bottom ties sat high on your hip bone high above the waistline of the jean shorts; so, naturally, shane had to put an embarrassing amount of concentration into not creaming his pants.
shane's hands moved to sit properly on your hips, thumbs kneading your flesh gently. the sensation had you squirming in his lap until, at long last, he dipped his head down to kiss you.
a week. it had only been a week.
yet, now, with shane's lips kissing, nibbling on yours, it felt like a lifetime ago that you'd last seen him. you knew shane couldn't help his absences for his hunts. but fuck, he made you miss him.
a rumble of a laugh escaped shane when you ground your hips against him. he broke your kiss only slightly, lifting his hand to your face and swiping his thumb over your swollen bottom lip, pushing around the mixed saliva coating it.
"yeah? you wanna go for a ride, darlin'?"
shane groaned, watching your pretty head nod up and down. his stiffening dick twitched in his camouflage pants. a stunning smile met your lips and in combination with the summer heat, your beauty had shane's head spinning. his sweet girl that he absolutely does not deserve glimmering like a mirage in the sun.
eager, you found shane's lips again, opening yourself to him as his tongue danced in your mouth. you met it's every swipe and caress with your own, earning you a delighted grunt from the back of shane's throat. he rocked his hips against yours gently, length grazing your clit delightfully. a wanton moan bled into his mouth and shane lapped it up gratefully.
his arms squeezed you now, and he made to stand up. you broke the kiss and shook your head 'no.'
"y'don't wan'me to fuck you, sweetheart?"
"no!" you all but screamed to shane's amusement. "that's not it! i want you here. now."
"baby, i'm fuckin' filthy."
you made a strangled noise, eyebrows drawing together. as if a little dirt had stopped him before! shane knew he didn't stand a chance against your pouting. you rolled your eyes when he sighed, smirk sliding back into place as he gazed down at you.
"she really misses me, huh?" shane's words traveled straight to your core. you didn't miss his patronizing tone, either. but despite yourself, you couldn't disagree when he was grinding into you like that any more than you could deny your damp bikini bottoms. "fingers can only get you so far, right, pretty girl? hmm…she's just so fucking greedy."
your enthusiastic nod made shane mutter a quick "fuck" under his breath. you tore off his canvas overcoat, exposing his muscular arms to your hungry eyes. yes, you thought when your fingers reached shane's belt, she's very fucking greedy indeed.
with a little bit of calculated maneuvering, shane was able to push his pants down his thighs and you were able to ditch your bottoms. he coated his mushroom tip in your slick, relishing in the moan you let out as he entered ever-so-slightly. the lack of proper preparation made the stretch burn more than usual; your sensitive walls slowly yielding inch after inch.
"pussy's so fuckin' tight, good god," shane gasped. "so fuckin' perfect, hmm?"
"shane," you whined, eyes rolling back when he bottomed out. the sick fuck thought of hunting to keep from cumming immediately. "please."
calloused hands held your hips in place, but you bucked against shane's strong hold, desperate for relief.
"easy, girl," he cooed. "'s okay, i know, i know. she needs a reminder of why she puts up with her old man, huh?"
shane chuckled as you clenched around him. tears of pleasure prickled the corners of your eyes. any remaining shame you had died when you awarded him a shy nod.
"fuck, that's good. go 'head, honey, show me how much you missed me."
shane sat back as you lifted your hips, now free of his bruising grip. the drag of his swollen cock within you was magnificent, each ridge and vein lighting up your nerves. your boyfriend let out a low grunt on the third stroke, perfect teeth nearly drawing blood from his lower lip.
you began a gyrating rhythm, fingernails dragging lines down his solid biceps to leave deep red scratches in their wake. the breeze tickled your exposed lower back, reminding you of your natural surroundings. the thought of some poor, lost soul accidentally stumbling upon this scene was shockingly erotic. a new wave gushed between your thighs, your union creating the most vile, obscene noises.
shane swallowed your mewls of pleasure in a mind-numbing kiss. one of his hands cupped your jaw, fingers sliding into your hair, while the other settled possessively on your throat. your breath hitched when his hand on your throat made a 'V' around your windpipe, pressure almost entirely on your arteries. the combination of shane's cockhead pistoning against your cervix and lack of bloodflow to your brain had you seeing stars. each thrust carved a salacious moan from you. shane smirked something wolfish as he began to meet your thrusts from below, doubling the tension in your core.
"that's it. that's my girl," shane growled, relishing in the view of your eyes rolling back in pleasure. "take it. s'all yours, baby."
your answering whimper made shane's cock jump inside you. slipping past the hem of his shirt, your nails traced patterns on his abs; caressing, circling, outlining the slabs of muscle. shane let out a shudder and low moan, lips ghosting the shell of your ear as his thumb moved from the side of your face to stroke your clit.
"f-fuck, shane, i'm close," you said, eyes fluttering shut.
"you better fucking open those pretty eyes and look at me when you cum, sweetheart." the threat in shane's voice promised serious consequences. unfortunately, you were so horny and desperate for him that your eyes shot open instantly. a condescending laugh tickled your neck, where shane laid sweet kisses along your delicate skin. your cheeks burned in embarrassment, but your bouncing pace didn't falter—if anything, it spurred you on.
"s'that big dick feel good, baby? s'it nice and deep?" he taunted, tongue drawing gentle spirals below your ear.
"yes—fuck—'s so deep, shaney," you replied, breathing heavily. "always fuck me so good." the whine of your tone coating his name made shane's balls ache. he hadn't realized how much he missed you, either.
"mm, i know, baby. you gonna cum for me?"
with the mounting pressure in your core, you could barely hear shane over the euphoria, but you nodded pathetically anyway. he groaned, head falling against your shoulder.
"yeah? shit, that pussy's so fucking tight." shane ground out the words between clenched teeth, teetering on his own release.
"shane, please," you begged, trying to pull him ever closer.
"there y'go, baby, that's it. cum all over me, that's it, good girl."
the tension in your core snapped like a worn rubber band and your vision exploded white. wave after wave of pleasure washed over you as you rode it out on shane's cock. your cries echoed through the tranquil woods. shane's orgasm followed not long after, the hand that had been working your clit now holding your hip firmly as he fucked you on him like a fleshlight. the lack of resistance where you were joined sent shane hurtling over the edge. a broken sound met your ears when he throbbed inside you, thrusts getting sloppy.
shane's hand on your throat eased up the pressure as his lips found yours again. your hips and legs were twitching with aftershocks, much to your boyfriend's delight.
"just needed me to take care of you, hmm?" he asked, tapping your chin to answer.
you nodded, but shane stared at you expectantly, brow raised. you flushed brighter under his gaze.
"needed you to take care of me," you repeated with big eyes and shane was done for. his softening cock jerked inside you as your fingers traced his sharp jaw.
his lips claimed yours again, tongue slipping into your mouth with ease. no sooner did your arms wrap around shane's shoulders than did shane pick you up and dismount the atv, staying tucked inside you. a thrilled moan ripped through you, pulling a genuine laugh from shane.
you kissed him feverishly as he flung open the cabin door, not even bothering to close it as he hauled you to the bed. as soon as your back hit the mattress, your legs locked around shane's waist.
"fuck, baby, so wet," shane grumbled against your lips. his blonde brows were drawn together in overstimulation, thrusting shallowly. "she needs more?"
you hummed, taking shane's lower lip between your teeth to pull and nibble on softly. he grunted loudly in response, cock throbbing in tandem. as your tongue and teeth clashed together, shane grew harder and harder inside you, slowly fucking your mixed cum deeper. you felt him everywhere in your body, lighting up your nerves like a christmas tree.
"pussy's squeezin' me so fuckin' good, fuck," shane muttered, "gonna make me fill you up again."
a particularly hard thrust pushed your hips into the mattress and a moan from your throat. the bed creaked as shane began to plow you through the mattress, using it to bounce you on his length. his fingers closed around your right nipple, twisting and pulling it between them. the sensation shot down between your legs like lightning.
"shane!" you moaned, feeling yourself go mindless underneath him. "rightthererightthererightthere, oh god, yesyesyes."
he fucked you with fervor, weighty balls slapping against your ass. lewd sounds filled the room as you made out with shane, both hands cradling his handsome face. shane's pelvis ground perfectly into your swollen clit. he was barely moving now, only pulling out an inch before sliding back in. you'd never felt so full in your life.
"god, you look so pretty takin' me like that, honey," shane whispered. "s'hard to go without, y'know?"
a stunning grin met your lips. you nodded in earnest agreement, knowing that was about as close you would get to getting shane to admit he missed you, too. it filled your heart just the same, seeing the sincerity reflected back in his beautiful hazel eyes.
"i love you, shane maguire," you said, sweet as a peach. shane's face hurt from smiling down at you, a touch of pink in his cheeks, and he looked years younger.
"fucking love you so much," he mumbled into your mouth, hiding in the kiss.
your second orgasm hit you like a train. with no warning, your back arched away from the bed into shane's strong frame. one of his arms slipped underneath you to hold you closer as he fucked you through it. he swallowed your moans with devastating passion.
"mm, right behind you, sweetheart," shane said, unoccupied hand resting on your throat.
pleasure had you on cloud nine and you clung to shane in your sensory overstimulation. you clamped down on him, riding it out. his hips stuttered to a stop as he spilled into you once more with a grunt. sensitive now, shane elected to stay still, forehead pressed against yours. shane's big arms caged your head between them, braced on his elbows as to not entirely crush you. however, he knew you liked his weight on top of you for some strange reason, so he halfway laid on you. you let out a giggle, your exchanged breaths slowing together.
an adoring smile crept onto shane's face as he gazed down at you. the tinge of pink still colored his cheeks when he pecked your forehead and buried his face in your neck. your chest tightened at his rare display of unfiltered affection, knowing you'd be spending the entire morning just like this.
Summary : Dex was doing just fine being the only prisoner in Enhanced Supervision Housing until they put you in the cell next door.
Pairing : DDBA!Benjamin Poindexter x mutant!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : hurt/comfort! Meet cute at Rikers, prison isolation, mutant!reader, thermokinetic!reader (controls temperature, pyrokinesis and cryokinesis), restraint jacket/straitjacket, institutional neglect, arson and murder mention, Foggy’s death mentioned, blood, injury, prison break, guard death, violence, through-the-wall romance, hurt/comfort, first kiss, Set in DDBA S1, including part of the episode 8, where Dex uses his tooth to break out of prison. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 6.3k
Notes : Need more mutant! reader in this fandom. The title is inspired by Impossible by Nothing but Thieves. Enjoy!
Dex had spent five months alone in Rikers’ brand-new Enhanced Supervision Housing after killing Foggy Nelson.
Of course, the city had decided that Benjamin Poindexter was not a man you put in general population, or solitary, or protective custody, or any other place built for your run-of-the-mill violent offenders. Apparently, if a person could kill his way out of most situations with a paperclip, a loose screw, or the edge of a dinner tray, the state had to start getting creative.
So they made a new building just for him and called it Enhanced Supervision Housing. ESH for short.
It was funny. As if calling what he could do an enhancement instead of a talent meant anything when they still fed him through a slot, restrained his hands before opening the door, and had three men with rifles posted behind reinforced glass every time he was escorted anywhere.
There were eight cells in ESH. Eight beautiful little boxes built with reinforced doors, observation panels, pressure sensors, thermal cameras, anti-ligature fixtures, shatterproof windows, and enough cameras to make privacy feel like a fairy tale told to a child.
Dex had seen the brochure when one of the guards had left paperwork too close to his cell during intake, and Dex had read it upside down through a reflection in the polished floor.
It was made for “high-risk enhanced detainees” with “special containment protocols” and “behavioural isolation.”
Cute.
The problem was, there were no other enhanced detainees. After all, not every day did somebody with a weird little gift or near-superhuman talent get arrested in New York. Not every day did someone land in Rikers with enough justification of being locked in a concrete aquarium, and half of them were in the supermax across the country, and the other half was in The Raft.
So it was just Dex.
Eight cells, seven empty. A whole hallway built for monsters, and only one monster inside it.
It was isolating, sure. But it was fine. There were worse places to be in the world. Maybe. Meh.
Rikers still had a rhythm. Even the ESH had one, if you were trapped long enough to learn it. He learned that the lights dimmed but never went fully off and guards passed every twelve minutes unless the night shift was bored, then every nine. The vents clicked twice before the air shifted temperature. Camera four made the smallest electric whine when it adjusted focus. Guard Velasquez dragged his left foot when he was tired and guard Miller breathed through his mouth and smelled like cheap coffee.
Dex knew all of it, and it helped with the silence creeping in sometimes.
The silence was the worst part, probably, not the restraints. Not even the meals so bland they felt punitive on a spiritual level.
This type of silence made his thoughts louder and made the walls seem closer at night, when he lay on the thin mattress with his hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling like the ceiling might someday blink first.
Sometimes he thought about Foggy Nelson, but not in the way people probably wanted him to. He didn’t feel guilty; he did what he thought he had to do. He thought about that chapter in his life like a splinter under skin– impossible to forget without digging too deep and making it worse.
Sometimes he thought about Fisk. Sometimes he thought about his spine. Sometimes he thought about how easy it would be, if someone made one mistake.
Just one.
If someone would just accidentally give him the wrong set of cuffs. If a new guard would just be standing too close to the bars with his badge clipped to the wrong side of his belt.
But no one had made a mistake. Yet.
Then, in the middle of June, in the middle of the night, the hallway suddenly erupted.
The far door opened with a metallic groan, then another. Buzz. door one. Buzz. door two. Buzz. door three.
Eventually, boots flooded the corridor, and Dex counted twenty guards. Maybe more.
He could hear the metallic clangs of rifles and the plastic bounce of shields as static popping over radios. A guard whispered., “Keep moving,” like whatever they were escorting might change its mind if they hesitated.
Dex sat up.
The lights snapped brighter overhead, white and ugly, turning his cell blind at the edges.
He didn't move to the door. He stayed on the bed, head tilted slightly, listening.
There was a slightly smaller set footsteps beneath all the others.
This one must be the prisoner. It dragged, but not fighting. Perhaps this person was sedated? No. There was a little bit of struggle. Maybe they weren’t sedated enough. Whoever it was kept resisting the pace without ever fully stopping.
Metal clinked as someone cursed under their breath.
Then came a sound like fabric straining, and he could tell it was heavy fabric. Then, he heard thick restraints being adjusted. Not ordinary cuffs, and definitely not a chain.
Dex tilted his head. Interesting.
The procession stopped in front of the cell next to his.
The guards shifted around the door, blocking his view through the narrow panel in his own cell. He caught pieces of you, though nothing whole. He could see a bit of your hair, and the corner of something white and reinforced strapped across your torso. Your rikers-issued shoes were planted firmly against the floor, like you were refusing to be placed anywhere by anyone.
One of the guards knocked twice on Dex’s door with his baton. “Got a neighbor now, Poindexter.”
Dex looked at him.
The guard smiled like he’d said something funny, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, none of them looked relaxed.
Tonight, they were not afraid of Dex. They were afraid of you.
The door to Cell Two opened and they moved you inside.
You didn't scream, threaten, or beg, even if you were half-awake.
Weird, Dex thought, people usually did one of the three when they arrived in a place like this.
You were shoved past the threshold in silence, and the guards backed out fast. The door shut with a brutal final sound, locks engaging one after another, heavy and layered and unnecessarily dramatic. A guard gave an all-clear over the radio. Another laughed once, shakily, then stopped abruptly when nobody joined in.
Dex stayed very still as the guards filed out, one by one, until the hallway swallowed their footsteps one by one.
Eight cells, two occupied.
For the first time in five months, Dex was not alone.
He waited for you to make a sound, but he couldn't hear any noise, not even crying from the next cell. You weren’t pacing, like he did on the first night, and you barely even rattled whatever restraints they put on you. Most notable, you didn’t even attempt to make contact through the wall.
Dex stared at the wall between his cell and yours: solid concrete, thick enough that he shouldn't have been able to feel anything through it.
He did, though he didn’t know how to explain it. The only measurable metric was that somehow the room had felt cooler than it had been an hour ago.
He lay back down eventually.
From the other side of the wall, you still said nothing, no sound at all except the occasional shift of fabric and once, very quietly, an exhale through your teeth.
Dex almost smiled. That’s when he saw the window.
At first, he thought the glass had caught the overhead light strangely. ESH windows were narrow, reinforced slits. You could see a suggestion of the sky if you stood at the right angle, but mostly you saw the garden roses and your own reflection staring back like a bad idea.
Tonight, the glass was… clouding.
What?
Dex sat up again.
A thin white film crept across the corner of the window, delicate and pretty. Tiny veins of frost branching outward in lacy patterns, spreading over reinforced glass that had no reason to be cold.
Why was his window frosting up in the middle of summer?
—
For the first couple of days, Dex assumed you were asleep. Or unconscious. Or dead.
It was hard to tell with the wall between you and him. Still, the guards checked on you often enough that he knew you must technically be alive, but they did it through the panel, never through the door unless there were at least six of them and one of them had the long black shock baton they liked pretending it was not a weapon.
Dex had seen criminals arrive angry. During his time in the bureau, he had seen them arrive screaming, pleading, spitting, promising lawsuits, promising revenge, promising innocent. He had seen prisoners break under silence in twelve hours and start telling the ceiling their childhood nicknames.
You did none of that. In fact, you barely moved.
That was the strangest part, not the frost, not even the straitjacket, which was still interesting in a funny way to him, because they had Dex’s hands restrained any time they opened his door like he was going to start flicking femurs through skulls, but you must be special. After all, you had arrived wrapped up like a badly behaved present.
By the second day, he started actively listening for you.
It was pathetic, maybe, but there were very few things to do in Enhanced Supervision Housing besides become intimately familiar with the sound of your own breathing and develop opinions about fluorescent lights, so a new person on the other side of the wall was not nothing.
You shifted sometimes, when he heard a small scrape of fabric against concrete. He could hear the faint clink from whatever additional restraints they had attached to the jacket. Once, your head hit the wall with a dull little thud, and Dex turned his face toward the sound before he could stop himself.
Then… nothing. Nothing but a drag of breath through your nose.
The guards did not like you either, that became obvious pretty quickly.
They liked Dex, in a way. Obviously, they didn’t like him as a person, they were not stupid. But they understood him. They had made a little mental box for him: former FBI agent turned murderer. They had rules: keep your distance, keep his hands restrained, do not let him near anything that he could throw.
You, they did not understand.
They approached your cell like prey approaching a sleeping animal in the wrong enclosure.
On the third morning, one of them brought your breakfast and stood too close to the slot.
Dex heard a soft crackle before the guard even reacted. Then the man swore and stumbled back. “What the fuck—”
“Don’t put your hand in,” another guard snapped.
“I didn’t put my hand in!”
“Then stop whining.”
“She froze my fucking fingers, man!”
Dex sat on his mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall. Interesting.
Your cell stayed silent and the breakfast tray was shoved in with much less dignity after that.
Nobody asked if you were hungry. Nobody asked if you were hurt. Nobody asked if you needed the jacket loosened, even though Dex could hear the shallow and held in breath, clearly struggling for air half the time. It was as if the straps cut across your ribs and you were trying not to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing it bothered you.
By the fourth day, Dex had decided you were either extremely disciplined or extremely broken. Possibly both.
He had also decided that the silence was annoying. This was unfair, because he had hated the silence before you arrived, and now that the silence had another person inside it, he hated it more.
He tried not to care, but that only lasted until evening.
A guard walked past and muttered, “Crazy bitch still hasn’t said a word.”
Dex’s head lifted.
The guard kept walking, probably feeling very brave because there were reinforced doors and rifles between him and the consequences of being stupid.
Dex watched him go. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you.
The night after that, the frost came back, but not just on Dex’s window this time. They were crawling up the walls.
It crept from the seam where the concrete met the floor, thin and white under the dimmed lights. At first, he thought it was moisture, a product of bad ventilation and Rikers being Rikers. Then the frost branched, crawling in little veins across the wall between your cells.
Dex got up and walked over, putting two fingers against the concrete. It was painfully cold.
On the other side of the wall, you breathed out, and frost thickened under his fingers.
Dex almost knocked. That felt ridiculous.
What was he going to do? Tap his knuckles against reinforced concrete and ask the stranger in the murder-prison next door if she was making the building colder because she was sad?
No. So he went back to bed, but did not sleep.
By day five, the guards had stopped pretending this was normal.
Maintenance came in wearing insulated gloves, and even gave Dex a thicker orange jumpsuit, even though he never minded the cold. They took temperature readings in the hallway, checked the vents, checked the windows. They argued about condensation. One of them said it was probably a system fault, and then immediately shut up when a thin line of ice crawled over his boot.
Dex enjoyed that a lot, actually. It was the first entertainment he’d had in months.
By the fifth night, Dex woke up to snow.
At first, he thought it was dust falling from the ceiling. But then a single cold snowflake landed on his cheek.
Dex blinked.
For a moment, he lay very still, staring up at the ceiling where tiny white flakes drifted down from nowhere. Another landed on his chest. Then another. Soon there were dozens, small, delicate, almost shy.
Dex sat up slowly.
The floor was beginning to powder white. His blanket had caught a fine layer of it. The air was cold enough now that his breath was visible.
He looked toward the wall, and for the first time in five days, he spoke to you. “You doing this, neighbor?”
Nothing but silence.
Dex waited.
The hallway outside was quiet, which meant either the guards had not noticed yet or they were all standing very still pretending they had not noticed yet. Dex watched snow gather on the toes of his prison-issued socks.
Then, from the other side of the wall, there was the faintest shift.
And then your voice, rough from disuse. You sounded almost… bored. “...mmhm.”
Dex’s mouth curved up. Ah. She speaks.
He leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold bite through the cotton of his shirt. “Should I be concerned?”
Then, barely louder than before, you said, “Probably.”
Dex laughed once under his breath.
His own sound surprised him, because it sounded wrong in the cell. Too human then he had ever been.
The snow kept drifting down. It should have made him uneasy. It should have made him think about containment failures and emergency protocols and what the guards might do if the whole unit iced over. Instead, Dex sat there with his shoulder pressed to the wall between you, watching winter collect in his lap.
“Good to know,” he said.
You didn’t answer. But a few seconds later, the snow slowed down.
—
After that, Dex learned how to read you. It was not subtle, once he understood what he was looking at.
When you were sad, you were cold so it made sense that in the first month, it snowed almost every day.
You barely spoke during those days, you barely even moved.
The guards asked questions through your door and received nothing but silence. The nurses came by with clipboards, asking if you had eaten, if you were injured, if you needed medical attention, if you understood where you were. You gave them nothing.
Sometimes, actual ice sealed your food slot shut. Snow collected in the corners of Dex’s cell.
His blanket went damp and cold and his breath fogged when he sat up. Even the guards stopped making jokes when they passed Cell Two because nobody wanted to laugh in a place that had started to feel like a morgue.
Dex sat with his back to the wall and listened. That was all there was to do: listen and wait for proof that you were still in there.
Then, eventually, the cold would begin to cease.
The frost on his window would sweat and snow would melt into silver lines down the concrete. The air would warm by a degree, then another, like your body was remembering that it was summer.
And then, and only then, you would speak. “Neighbor?”
His eyes opened in the dark. “What?”
You inhaled, as if you had been thinking about this for days. “Do you think they’d let me have a hairbrush?”
Dex stared at the ceiling. “No.”
You were quiet for the rest of the night, but the cells suddenly became as warm as a hug, as if someone had reminded you that human connections were possible.
Then, the next day, you called out again. “Poindexter, right?”
“Mm,” he replied.
You paused, as if considering whether or not the question was stupid, but said it anyway. “Do you think pigeons know they’re ugly?”
Dex blinked. “I don’t think pigeons care.”
“Good for them.”
Then, a few hours later, after hearing a prison guard during dinner time call you this, you said, “Dex.”
The name came too naturally from your mouth for someone who had never said it before.
He turned his head toward the wall. “What?”
“I have an itch.”
He waited. You said nothing else.
“Okay.” he finally said.
“I’m in a restraint jacket.”
“I figured.”
“It’s under my shoulder blade.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It is,” you sounded very, very annoyed.
The room heated so fast it made the steel bars creak.
Dex smiled into the dark.
You were quiet a moment longer, then said, “They keep calling it that.”
“What?”
“A restraint jacket.”
“That’s what it is.”
“No,” you said. “It’s a straitjacket.They just call it a “fireproof restraint jacket” because that sounds nicer with the taxpayers, and straitjacket makes me sound like I’m supposed to be in a basement eating wallpaper.”
Fireproof, huh?
Dex found your comparison amusing and laughed under his breath. “You’d prefer that?”
The wall warmed. You heard him. He knew you did, because the warmth stayed.
“At least it’s not an inhibitor collar,” you muttered finally.
Dex went still. “They have those?”
“Not anymore,” you said, though Dex didn’t ask for any clarifications that day.
For a while he stared out quietly.
After a moment, you asked, “Are you in one?”
“An inhibitor collar?”
“A straitjacket, genius.”
“No.”
The temperature dropped, but only in a small enough increment. “You’re not in a straitjacket?”
“No.”
“That is so fucked up.”
Dex closed his eyes. “Is it?”
“Yes,” you scoffed, “What makes you so special?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is discrimination.”
Dex, who couldn’t miss if he wanted to, looked around to see nothing in his cell that he could throw or ricochet with. And if he was imagining you right, your hands must be the main conduit to your power. You didn’t need an object to break out if your hands were free. “I don’t think that’s what that is.”
“It is to me.”
After that, you told him your name. You said it at two in the morning, half-muffled through concrete, like it had slipped out by accident.
Dex repeated it once.
The heat that bloomed through the wall felt almost shy.
After that, Dex started sleeping with his shoulder closer to your side of the cell, though he told himself it meant nothing: The bed was narrow and the room was small, that’s all. There were only so many places to put a body inside a box. But every night, somehow, he ended up turning toward you, listening for your breathing through concrete like it was the only sound in Rikers that mattered.
And when you went quiet for a bit too long, Dex would listen in, panic blooming, and it would not calm until you shifted or sighed or muttered something ridiculous about prison oatmeal, and then he could breathe again like an idiot.
That was when he understood the other half of you.
When you were in a good enough mood, your powers weren’t icy anymore. You’d run hot.
The first time it really hit him, Dex woke up sweating with his shirt clinging to his back. The window was fogged over and the snow had vanished completely, and the whole cell felt damp and tropical, like a greenhouse in Rikers.
And you were talking. God, you were talking.
You were talking your ass off, giving him whole floods of thought, fast and impossible to hold still.
“Do you think they built this place because of you specifically,” you asked once you realised your rambles had shook him awake, voice bright through the wall, “or do you think someone made a budget request years ago and then got really excited when you gave them a reason?”
Dex looked to the wall. You didn’t wait for an answer.
“Because eight cells is very ambitious. Someone must’ve sat in a meeting going, no, trust me, we are going to have so many enhanced criminals. And then it was just you for like, half a year.”
Dex sat up, and the air was even warmer.
On the other side of the wall, you shifted in the jacket, fabric rasping hard against concrete.
“Also, do you think enhanced is offensive? I can’t decide. It feels offensive. Like I didn’t ask to be labelled like a skincare serum.”
Dex’s mouth twitched up a little. “You done?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I also think the eggs are powdered.”
“They are.”
“I knew it.”
Then you laughed, and it was a half-controlled laugh this time, wild around the edges. The temperature in Dex’s cell jumped so fast it felt like someone had opened an oven door.
Dex now knew how your powers worked: when you were kinda sad, things frosted over. When you could barely move, it snowed.
Good mood meant warmth. Full manic meant tropical.
It was ridiculous and fascinating all the same. Sometimes, the whole unit went damp and sticky, other times the reinforced windows fogged over, the walls sweating like the building was nervous.
Eventually, it got warmer and warmer, and you would be pacing, five steps one way, five steps back, talking out of your ass like language had become a pressure valve.
You talked about everything. The guards’ schedules, the ceiling tiles, how ugly prison socks were, whether corporations should be burned down in alphabetical order or by severity of moral failure.
Dex listened to all of it.
He learned of who you were without ever seeing your face. He knew when you were smiling because the wall warmed before your voice changed. He knew when you were pretending not to cry because the frost came fast, like you were trying to hide it and failed anyway. He knew the difference between your tired silence, your angry silence, your sad silence, your plotting silence. So he knew you.
And you knew him, too, in ways no one alive had earned before. You knew when his guards had pissed him off before he said anything. You knew when his spine hurt from the way he breathed through his teeth. Once, when he had gone too silent, you knocked your forehead lightly against the wall and said, “Dex, don’t go wherever your mind just went.” He had stared at the concrete for a long time after that, because nobody had ever come looking for him inside his own head before.
That's why, when you talked, he listened.
Some of it was nonsense. Some of it was clever. Some of it was both. You talked like someone sprinting downhill with no interest in stopping, fast and too amused by terrible things. You even told him what you did: apparently you burned down a warehouse and office of a company called Meridian Dynamics. They made suppression tech: Inhibitor collars, cuffs, injectables, sold to prisons and private security. Apparently, you planned to burn the building down during a very important board meeting, which resulted in your two counts of arson and twenty four counts of murder.
And, inevitably, you started talking about escape.
“I’m getting out,” you told Dex one night.
He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, sweat dampening his collar. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You can’t burn through reinforced doors.”
“I could if I had my hands.”
Dex looked down at his own, free, for now. He was still dangerous. His hands had always been the part of him people watched first, the part they feared, the part they restrained before opening any door.
He understood, suddenly, the cruelty of having your body treated like a weapon even when you were just sitting there, breathing.
You shifted in the jacket, and the fabric rasped like it hurt.
“Obviously,” you said, trying for lightness and missing by inches, “I don’t have them.”
Dex stared at the wall. For once, he did not know what to say.
You laughed, but it came out thin. “I can feel them. That’s the worst part. They’re right there. I just can’t use them.”
The heat dimmed.
“That why you keep talking about chewing through your jacket?”
You shrugged, though it hurt. “Maybe.”
“You’ll break your teeth.”
“You care about my teeth?”
“I care about not listening to you complain.”
“You care.”
He should have denied it, but he didn’t.
Dex had spent his entire life understanding attachment as a liability, something people could weaponize until he became useful or pathetic or both. But with you on the other side of the wall, this attachment didn’t feel temporary. It was clear in the way he measured his nights by whether you spoke. He had an ache of wanting to see your face and being terrified that if he did, it would only make this feeling worse.
The silence stretched, warmer than it should have been. Then you said, very quietly, “I don’t think I could actually chew through it.”
“No,” Dex said. “Probably not.”
“I still might try.”
“Don’t.”
That made you laugh for real. The wall warmed beneath his palm. For a moment, it was almost gentle.
One night, after hours of heat and pacing and a long speech about how prison architecture lacked imagination, you went suddenly quiet.
Dex waited.
The wall was warm against his shoulder. Then you whispered, “Dex?”
“What?”
“Do you think I’m going to be like this forever?”
Dex looked at the concrete between you, at the damp shine where the heat had melted old frost.
“No,” he answered.
It was the closest thing to a promise he could make through a wall. He wanted to say more, but everything else felt too fake.
He didn’t know why, but he had the urge to tell you that you were not an object or a containment problem. He wanted to tell you that if the world had built eight cells for monsters, then fine, let the world call him one, because he had found you in the next cage over and suddenly the world didn’t feel so lonely anymore.
Instead, Dex pressed his palm flat to the wall.
A second later, warmth bloomed under his hand. Not enough to burn, but enough to meet him.
—
Dex getting moved to general population should have made him think about the Fisks.
It should have made him think about the obvious thing first, which was that Vanessa Fisk wanted him dead.
Being moved to genpop was not a transfer. To him, a former FBI agent in a room full of convicts who has also pissed people off by working for the Kingpin, it was a death sentence. Genpop was a fancy term for a room full of men, any one of them purchasable, any one of them stupid or desperate enough to try him with a sharpened toothbrush, a melted piece of plastic, a hand around his throat in the showers.
But when the guards dragged him out of ESH when you were asleep in your cell, that was not what Dex thought about.
He thought, with a sudden, sick clarity, that you were going to be alone.
You would be alone like he had been alone for five months, rotting in a hallway built for people the world didn’t know how to categorize.
Alone with no one but the guards who would never understood your moods.
So he called Matt and offered him a lifeline: tell him who hired him to kill Foggy Nelson in exchange for freedom.
Of course he didn’t think Matt would forgive him. But Matt had believed in the law. And mercy too, whether he wanted it or not. Dex needed both, and hated needing both, and hated more that he was not even asking just for himself.
Need sat wrong in his head. It had always felt like weakness or an exposed artery, as if anyone could just hook a finger into and pull. Needing Matt Murdock was bad enough. Needing Matt Murdock for you was humiliating in a way that Dex didn’t have vocabulary for, because it meant there was something in the world he could not take, kill, steal, or aim to fix.
See, he wanted an appeal for you, too. He had this whole speech of how in another life, Matt would defend him. About isn’t that what good men do? Defend their worst enemies? About I’m bargaining for our life here, counsellor.
Our life. Not mine. Ours.
“Oh,” Matt said. “That’s what this is.”
Dex said nothing.
“So fell in love in prison?” Matt said sarcastically. “Sweetheart, what do you want me to do? Want me to get a couple of murderers out of prison, want me to get an appeal?”
Dex didn’t answer, because answering would have made it sound too… juvenile.
Love was not a strong enough word for a woman he had only known through a concrete wall and had fallen for anyway. It was not right for experiencing snow in a prison cell, or feeling heat through the wall, or your voice talking nonsense at three in the morning. It was not right for the way he had started sleeping closer to your side of the room.
Matt saw enough of it anyway, and maybe that’s why he had a glimmer of sympathy. Maybe it was disgust. Maybe he thought again of Foggy, and before he knew it, Matt was slamming his head on the metal table.
Dex barely had time to register it before pain flared through his mouth and his head snapped hard enough against the metal that the room flashed white, blood filling his mouth.
Then, he felt something small and hard come loose against his tongue.
A tooth.
A projectile.
“Thank you, counsellor,” he smiled.
The guards pulled Dex back, and he let them haul him away, head bowed, blood dripping down his lip, the tooth hidden carefully.
Killing the doctor and the guard was child’s play after that. Navigating the prison with the dead guard’s badge was even easier.
He would break out and kill Fisk in his black and white ball. But for now, he had something else to do in this hell hole.
He wouldn’t escape without you.
Dex moved through Rikers with blood still drying at the corner of his mouth.
When he reached ESH, he killed the two stationed guards with medical tools stolen from the infirmary.
And when he got in, the hallway was frozen.
Ice crawled over the floor in white veins. Frost had swallowed the observation glass. Snow had gathered in the corners like the building had been abandoned for winter. Your food tray sat untouched outside the slot because the mechanism had sealed shut.
Dex stopped outside Cell Two and looked through the narrow panel.
This was the first time that Dex ever really saw you.
He had seen flashes between guards, maybe a reflection from one of the guard’s shields during training drills.
You were curled on the floor in the fireproof straitjacket, knees drawn up as much as the restraints allowed, cheek resting against the concrete. Your hair was messy. Your lips were discolored from the cold, frost clinging to your lashes like a lifeline, delicate as glitter, cruel as evidence.
You looked… smaller than he had imagined, but no less beautiful.
He had built you in his head as strong as weather, a voice bright enough to make lights flicker. But through the glass, you were just a girl in a white straitjacket, cold and alone and trying not to disappear.
Dex pressed his bloody hand to the door.
He looked at the jacket and the lock and and thought of every hand that had put you in there and every person who had looked at you like you were a weapon before you were a human being.
He broke the door open with the stolen keycard first.
When the door gave out, the cold rushed out around him.
You stirred, eyes opening slowly.
For one second, you only stared at him like he couldn’t possibly be real. Like maybe the cold had finally started making things up for you.
Then the frost nearest his feet began to melt.
“Dex?”
You looked confused. As if it was a guess.
That's when you realised… you had never really seen him, either.
He nodded, stepping inside.
Snow fell between you, unnatural and absurd beneath the fluorescent lights. Your eyes moved over his face to the blood on his mouth and the stitches on his forehead. You knew him,, finally, after months of knowing him only as a voice through concrete.
Your voice sounded broken. “Is that what you look like?”
Dex almost smiled, thrilled that you looked anything but disappointed. “Yeah.”
You blinked at him, dazed and trying very hard to make your mouth curve up like this was funny. Like you had not been left alone, and that loneliness without him had turned the building into a snowy wasteland.
He crouched in front of you.
For the first time, there was no wall between you.
Dex reached for the straps.
You flinched, but not because you were afraid of him, but because the last person who reached for the jacket had touched you like you were an object, and you had burned him by accident, and then they had hurt you for it.
Dex saw all of that cross your faces so he stopped.
His hands hovered over the buckles.
“I’m taking it off,” he said, “that’s all.”
You looked at him, considering your choices. Then, just a little, you nodded.
Dex broke the first strap, the fabric strained under his grip before giving in with a harsh snap. The sound echoed through the frozen cell. Your breath caught, and his eyes flicked back to yours immediately, checking if you were okay.
You were.
So he broke the next one.
Then the next.
Each strap breaking felt personal, and each piece tearing loose felt like he was taking something back from everyone who had decided your hands were too dangerous to belong to yourself.
When the last strap snapped, the jacket loosened.
Then your arms slipped free. You did so slowly, like you had forgotten they were ever yours.
Your hands trembled in your lap.
Dex looked at them.
So did you.
You had not seen them for months.
The snow thinned at first, then eventually, it stopped, the last few flakes drifting down and melting before they touched the floor. Warmth bloomed from you in a fragile little wave.
This time, it wasn’t manic heat. Instead it was warmth, like spring breaking after a cold winter.
You lifted one hand carefully, almost shyly, and the first thing you did was touch the scar on Dex’s face.
He went perfectly still.
You brushed the blood at the corner of his mouth with your thumb, your eyes furrowing.
“You came back,” you whispered, which, to Dex translated to: I thought you left me forever.
Dex leaned into your touch before he could stop himself. “Yeah.”
There were alarms somewhere in the distance, but ESH was far away, out of security. It would take them a while to get here. And by the time they did, it would’ve been too late.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
Then your fingers curled lightly against his chin, and before he could think better of it, Dex bent forward and kissed you.
It was small, nothing but a brush of his mouth against yours, warm and bloody from the missing teeth.
You froze for half a second before you kissed him back.
You were sweet and a little clumsy, because your arms were stiff and your hands were shaking and neither of you had any business being tender in a prison cell full of evidence of your sadness and isolation.
When he pulled back, you stared at him.
The frost on the walls ran down in thin silver lines.
Then you smiled, sheepish and dazed, like you were embarrassed by your own warming heart.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” you admitted.
Dex looked at you and he had no answer.
The ruined straitjacket was still in his hands, your fingertips still against his face, and the warmth of your lips lingering on his mouth.
Outside, the prison began to panic. Inside, you smiled at him like he had brought summer with him.
And Dex, who had spent five months alone in a place built for monsters, thought there was no better reason to become one again.
—end.
Extra note: I reread this before posting and realised I may have accidentally written reader as bipolar-coded, which is very me😭😭😭 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder around a decade ago, and it’s manageable now, but this fic ended up feeling way more personal than I expected. This is the first time I’ve ever written mood disorder x mood disorder so I hope I did alright. So please be kind with this one. She’s special to me 🫶
Please send in an ask or message if you want to be added to the dex general / series specific taglist! Comments get lost sometimes! Let me know if I missed anyone!
summary: After spending years overseas with Doctors Without Borders, you finally come back home to Hell's Kitchen. When you meet a guy named Benjamin, you think things are finally going back to normal... except apparently your friends seem to know him, and not in a good way.
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, dex stalks you, fake identity/persona, violence, matt is an older brother figure to you, you and matt grew up in the orphanage together, matt is very overprotective of you (like suffocating really), ptsd/trauma (from doctors w/o borders), problems with eating, nightmares, you're a professor (and a doctor), did i mention dex stalks you?, matt and dex rivalry, slow burn (i absolutely mean that, like it's bad), dex is kinda obsessed with you (duh), dex only listens to you!, karen and foggy, angst, some fluff, light violence, takes place sometime after dd s3 and before ddba s1 but isn't really "canon" to ddba s1, more specific tags with each chapter!
notes: i had an idea when ddba s2 was on our screens every tuesday about dex becoming obsessed with matt's "sister" since he never had seen you before. then it became a full fleged slow burn series (no like slow burn, i don't think they kiss until like chapter 14 y'all) with all of the great qualities of dex - stalking, manipulating, obsession, and more! this is my baby, the only thing i was able to write for months, and i hope people love it as much as i do <3
(01, 01) - homam
(ho-mam'), (ζ) Pegasi, "the lucky star of the hero, or the whisperer."
(01, 02) - dabih
(dā'-be), (β) Capricorni, "the lucky one of the slaughterers," or "the slayer's lucky star."
(01, 03) - alula
(ah-loo'-lah), (ξ¹ and ξ²) Ursae Majoris, "the first leap, or the beginning of a journey."
(01, 04) - nashira
nashira, (γ) Capricorni, "the fortunate one, or the bringer of good tidings."
(01, 05) - algol
(al-gol'), (β) Persei, “the demon star,” or “the ghoul.”
(01, 06) - al rescha
(al resh'-ah), (α) Piscium, “the cord, the knot, or the binding rope.”
(01, 07) - sheraton
(sher-a-tan'), (β) Arietis, "a sign," or "the two signs."
(01, 08) - almach
(al'-mak), (γ) Andromedae, “the lynx, or the star at the turning of the chain.”
(01, 09) - alhena
(al-hee'-nah), (γ) Geminorum, “the brand, the mark, or the star of recognition.”
(01, 10) - sadalachbia
(sad-al-ak'-bee-ah), (γ) Aquarii, “the lucky star of hidden things."
(01, 11) - vega
(ve-ga), (α) Lyrae, “the swooping eagle, or the falling star.”
(01, 12) - zubenelgenubi
(zoo-ben-el-jeh-noo'-bee), (α) Librae, “the star of the false balance.”
(01, 13) - alphard
(al'-fard), (α) Hydrae, “the solitary one, or the star of growth in loneliness.”
(01, 14) - mebsuta
(meb-soo'-tah), (ε) Geminorum, “the outstretched paw, or the star of tenderness.”
(01, 15) - polaris
(poh-lair'-iss), (α) Ursae Minoris, “the North Star, or the star of guidance.”
series taglist: comment/send an ask to be added! if you're already in my dex/main taglist, you'll automatically be tagged in the series :)
