Diva_19

He was a late addition to the friend group. He was always someone you three passed by, no one important enough to take another look at. Until Nicky decided he was. Her last boyfriend was a too old asshole who picked her up in the truck he works construction in. So, when she popped out with an age appropriate one, with good grades, manners, and a soft way of speaking… you didn’t like him. He was too good to be true and the last thing you needed was your sweet Nicky Belmont getting her heartbroken. 

“You called me a fat lard.” 

Sammy cackles, “that was so fucking funny.” She takes her free hand and high fives you. 

“What about it, fat lard?” You turn to J with a curious look. 

He schools you with a bored expression, not amused by the repeated insult. “I didn’t take it to heart because I’d seen the way you were. You didn’t like it when Mrs. Steven was nice to other students after being nice to you.” 

Mrs. Steven’s being your new third grade teacher after transferring. You grew attached to people in ways that most would say are unhealthy. And it is unhealthy, that much is obvious. Mrs. Steven was unbelievably sweet to you. Her voice was soft in a way your mothers wasn’t when she was too upset about what guy ghosted her on those dating sites she used, which was often. Where your mother tugged at your arm to pull you with her, annoyed by your slow pace because you kept stopping to look at flowers, Mrs. Steven let you caress whatever it is that caught your eye. 

You grew attached. And the first time you saw her treating another student in the same manner, you lost it. Screaming and crying and using the curse words you heard your mother yell at the men in her life. She was your Mrs. Steven and it hurt you to know that you weren’t her all. 

You hum, nodding at the memory. “Ha. I forgot you were in that class with me.” Sammy tosses you the ball now and it lands on your lap with a thud. “What does that have to do with anything though?” 

He shrugs. “You want the people you love to love you more. And you want it for yourself.” 

You instantly deny it, “what? You’re making me sound selfish. Shut up.” 

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.” He continues, “you love hard. It’s sweet. It’s what I like most about you. But you cling onto versions of people that you make up in your head. And Pope isn’t a good guy but you’ve got it in your head that he is. And it’s crashing down on you. And you’re making yourself cry over TikTok’s for it.” 

Sammy’s nodding and you glare at her, “you too, skinny lard?” You gasp. 

Sammy snorts out a laugh, “I mean… you were ready to break into J’s house when we first found out about him.” 

Nicky laughs into her pillow, mumbling, “oh, yeah, when we found his apartment on Redfin.” 

He scoffs. “You guys are freaks.” She fully sits up, letting Nicky’s head fall onto his lap as she snuggles up into him, ignoring you now. “My point is… stop putting Pope up on a pedestal.” He sighs, “if you must pick him… see him as Andrew.” 

You’re confused and mixed with your heartbreak, it’s frustrating you. “That makes no fucking sense.” 

Sammy catches the ball as you toss it back at her. “Yeah, you lost me there, white boy.” 

He huffs, frustrated with you for not understanding. “Pope is for everyone else. Who people see and experience. Experience Andrew.” 

“Literally, shut the fuck up.” 

—

You’re shoved to the back of the van again. Baz murmured something about having to leave a day early, so he was gone. And it’s back to everyone’s previous seat. Pope’s the first one in and after the break you’ve had, you didn’t think he’d sit so close to you like before. 

You scoff as he presses himself next to you, looking straight ahead in the empty van. “Scoot over.” 

“No.” 

“We’re not doing this again.” You groan, “scoot over.”

“Listen to me first.” 

That earns an eye roll from you. “I don’t want to.” 

“That’s too damn bad. I’m speaking.” 

“Lalalalalalala—“ 

“Listen to me—“ 

“No! Lalalalala—“ 

“Listen to me,” he snarls, turning to you fully, his hand gripping your wrist. His tone startles you but it works, quieting you. “I want you.” 

Your body turns into static. You’re stuck, frozen as you gape at him, unable to speak. 

“I want you more than anyone I’ve ever wanted… in a real way.” He’s admitting this so freely, it’s astounding to you that this is the man J tells you speaks better with his fists than his words. “And I feel like I mess up our chances when I’m near you.” 

“That’s not—“ 

“Let me speak.” You purse your lips at his words, nodding. “It is true. Because you’re too good for me. You're smart. And funny in a way that I don’t fully understand. And you’re young. Too young.” 

“I’m not that young.” 

“You are. You are that young. You’re the same damn age as my nephew, that’s not okay.” 

“But I want you, too, Pope.” You’re pleading with him, desperate and afraid that this is him cutting you off. “Stop talking like that.” 

“What upsets you so much about me being with another woman?” 

You bite your bottom lip, nervous at the question. What upsets you? Not just the fact that he’s who you want for the rest of your life. Not just the fact that you don’t share who you love so fiercely. “You’re going to see what’s out there for you.” The admittance isn’t easy but you feel the weight off your shoulders instantly. 

He sighs. Not in annoyance, but relief. “You’re out there for me.” 

“Too out there, I’ve been told.” 

“I like how out there you are.” 

A pause, “did you like it? Being with her?” 

“I wasn’t,” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t with her. It was nothing.” 

“Just… tell me.” 

His hands are rubbing at his jeans, wiping the sweat off of them. “I did like it. I didn’t deny her. I didn’t say no. I wanted to feel good.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“I have to be honest.” 

“I think I prefer it when men lie to me.” 

“I won’t.” 

You sigh, “okay.” 

“Okay?” He repeats. 

You nod, “okay.” 

And then, he says something that makes you cackle. “The Fault in Our Stars core.” 

“Uncle Pope,” Lena whines as she gets on the van, tugging her sweater up her shoulders as it falls, too big for her. “Daddy said I have to stay with Grandma. Can you stay with me instead? I want to be at my house.”

Pope turns to his niece, nodding. “Course. I’ll call your dad.” 

Everyone is climbing into the van now. Nicky in the passenger seat, J driving, and Lena and Sammy are holding hands like they did on the way here. 

Pope isn’t annoyingly pressed up against you. Instead, he’s leaning into you, his hand in yours as the van jostles a bit. When you settle on his shoulder, letting sleep overcome you, his lips meet your temple, inhaling the scent of you. 

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

Callum looks a lot like Tangerine. They're the same height, with piercing blue eyes and curly brown hair. He's not as handsome, but you didn't hope he would be. It feels weird in the beginning, having some other man touch you. Tangerine can see it on your face and he swipes his hand across your neck, pushing back your hair as he kisses your sensitive skin. 

"Shh, relax, darlin'," he says as Callum's hands grip your thighs, parting them, and he kisses inside them. You whine, leaning into your boyfriend as you focus on the sound of his voice. "This is what ya wanted, innit?" Tangerine's breath hits your ear and you flinch, almost laughing as the sensation sends shivers through you.

You nod but gasp in surprise when Callum kisses your pussy and on instinct, you almost slam your thighs closed around the poor man's face. Tangerine acts quickly and spreads your legs, scolding you with a nip at your earlobe which earns him a whimper.

"Keep 'em open for him, luv," he says, nodding at Callum to continue, "Be a good girl for me. We have a guest, hmm." You can feel his grin as his hand slides underneath your shirt—his shirt—and palms at your naked breast. Tangerine shifts, adjusting his position against the headboard to keep you still. 

You relax, feeling his familiar hands on your skin. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on both sensations. You can hear Tangerine give Callum some pointers but after a while, you become impatient. He isn't making you feel good. Tangerine's thumb and index rolls one of your nipples, earning more moans than Callum's tongue on your clit. 

Tangerine hums in amusement. "What's wrong, angel?" he laughs. Callum senses the shift and works harder on your poor cunt, which only feels worse and your boyfriend reacts quickly when he sees the expression you make. "Oi, you. Up. Now." 

Clearly, there's been an agreement before this because Callum immediately sits up, chin covered in your juices. He looks embarrassed. "Invited ya here to make my girl feel good, and you're fuckin' it up. Move." 

You gasp, a little lightheaded as Tangerine moves you off him and hooks his arms around your thighs. Roughly, he pulls you flush against him as he sits on the bed, replacing where Callum had been lying. Callum stands, shuffling to the side, now palming his dick through his boxers. 

You look up at Tangerine, eyes needy and glossy as he presses his cock to your folds. You whine, grasping his arms. You've completely forgotten about Callum as soon as Tangerine is in your line of vision and knowing this makes him grin. 

"Hi luv," he presses a kiss to your lips as he pushes his cock inside you, his nose bumping against yours. "There, yeah, my good girl," he praises, seeing the look of pleasure on your face. 

He fucks into your for a while, enjoying the whimpers you make and he decides to tease you. "He couldn't satisfy ya like I can, hm?" You nod at his words, nails digging into Tangerine's arms. "Do ya want him to try again, darlin'?"

He doesn't wait for you to finish and turns to Callum, keeping his thrusts even, "Ya wanna try again?" he asks with a laugh. 

Callum nods, groaning. He's transfixed on the way Tangerine fucks into you. 

"You want his tongue again, luv? Or his cock this time, hm?" 

You barely hear the question but you're still shaking your head no. Tangerine's grin widens. "What's that? No?" He punctuates the word with particular hard thrust. 

"N-no," you whimper. Your hand moves down Tangerine's back now, feeling yourself lose control. You only want him. You don't need another man's cock. You don't want it. "Only you," you breathe, whimpering. "Please."

Tangerine's heart swells and he's never felt more cocky in his life. He glances behind his shoulder, grinning at Callum, and tilts his head. "Guess she doesn't want ya, mate. You can stay and watch if you want but from now on, she's mine," he turns to you again, watching your expression as you squirm for him, "only mine," he says with a grunt, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix as you moan out in pleasure.

"Yours," you whine, eyes teary. 

You're his and only his.  

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.

"—you take stuff too personally sometimes, you know? Like sometimes you just need to let it go."

It hasn't left you all day. A stupid comment made during lunch by one of your friends, tossed your way without a second thought, hardly pausing before they asked you to pass the napkins to them.

The knotted and messy feeling stays low in your stomach, even once the conversation shifted to something less directed towards you.

It normally doesn't bother you.

You know that you can be a cry baby. You've always felt deeply about things. But you've also accepted that being sensitive is just who you are.

It's not wrong. It's not right. It just... is.

You're the friend that gets called when sympathy is needed. The person who always sniffles through movies. The first person to plan everyone's birthday.

Taking things personally became your superpower, in a way. You stopped thinking about it negatively.

And now—

You're lingering in the space between the living room and the kitchen. The Netflix logo is paused on the television screen—a documentary that you had waited specifically to have Brendon watch with you.

Brendon, laid back against the couch with one arm slung across the back. His opposite hand is scrolling the iPad, reading an article off of the gargantuan screen as he waits for you to return.

He asked you about lunch earlier, and if you had a good time catching up with your friend. And you did enjoy your time with your friend—but you hadn't told Brendon about how their comment made you feel.

You finally walk back to the couch, hands holding a large bowl of freshly-popped popcorn in front of you. You hesitate to the side, not sitting down. "Brendon?"

Brendon. Not Bren, or any other form of a name that you've given him during the length of your relationship.

He looks up from where he's reading, clearly interested in the change of your tone. "Yes?"

It's stupid, you think, what you're about to ask him. But you've always known him to be honest, even to a fault. When he first asked you out on a date, there was no confusing how he felt about you. When he asks you to let him handle things, he makes it known that it's because he cares about you.

Your fingers fidget against the bowl, thinking about how you're really about to ask for validation from him, before you make yourself stop. Just rip the bandaid off. "Do you think I'm sensitive?"

His brows furrow. He looks like he doesn't understand your question. "What?"

"You know. Do you think I take things too personally?"

Brendon squints, like you're a puzzle he's trying to figure out. "Yes?"

Even though it's a question, not a statement, you still feel your heart drop a bit. Of course he would think you're too sensitive, especially compared to him.

"Oh." You look down at the popcorn bowl. The buttery kernels stare back.

"Hey." Brendon places his iPad on the side table, straightening his posture. "What's wrong?"

If you were deflated and bothered before asking your question, it was doubled now. "Nothing. It's just, Mo mentioned it during lunch—that I need to let things go, and I'm too sensitive, and—"

"—ask me if it bothers me."

Now it was your turn to hesitate, to look at Brendon and decide if he was setting up a joke.

This isn't the way Brendon jokes, you know. Never at your expense.

"Does it?" You ask. "Bother you?"

"No." His mouth twitches, a barely-there hint of a smile. He pats the space on his lap, now that it's free from the iPad, and extends a palm towards you. "Come here."

There's something, always, to be said about the simpleness in Brendon's commands; never quite harsh, never demanding, but enough to make you listen. To know that, yes, here is where I should go, because I trust him. Here is where I should be, because I want to be.

You step forward, pausing next to his knee. Brendon looks up at you, waiting for you to move. You wish you could take a snapshot of all the rare moments when you stand over him, where his blue eyes stayed steady on you as if he were stuck in your orbit.

You relent. Leaving the popcorn bucket on the coffee table, you lift a knee so that it braces against the couch. Then the other, until your palms are against his shoulders and you let your weight sink until you're straddling his lap. Brendon's hands settle against your hips, firmly holding to help you keep your balance.

He takes his time before he speaks again. You don't ask him to rush. His thumbs draw soft circles against the skin that peeks out from your shirt, and you let him.

"I spent three hours today placing pins in the femur of a fourteen year old patient," he says. "And their pre-op, the parents kept telling me about how their kid is a great gymnast. That all they wanna do is compete again and go to the Olympics one day."

Oh.

It feels silly then, your problem.

"Will she?" You ask, brows furrowing as you imagine the scene in the hospital room. Even without the specifics, you could imagine a young girl, and her parents, and how the atmosphere must've felt.

"It was a good surgery," Brendon answers. The smile on his face is different from when he first called you over—no longer amused, just hanging on. "But I don't know. With rehab, maybe."

Letting out a small breath, you feel your heart squeeze at the thought of a teenager needing rehab to dream about having a dream again.

Brendon reaches up, brushing his fingers against your brow. His touch lingers for a beat, then his hands are against your hips again. "Then a trauma came in. An MVC. And I spent the rest of my shift consulting on surgeries that wouldn't even be needed if everyone could just wear their seatbelt."

After a moment, Brendon gives your hips a small squeeze. Your hands move from his shoulder, down to his forearms. You hold the muscle, and he looks at you like he's been transported back to his living room from the OR.

"My point is, I look forward to coming home and being nice to my girlfriend," he says. "And I like that she takes things personally, and looks like she cares about my patients that she doesn't even know, and—what else did Mo say?"

You try to hide your face beneath your hands. Brendon catches your wrists, muttering a uh-uh.

“She said I'm too sensitive.”

"And that she's too sensitive," Brendon repeats. He lowers your hands until they're between you. "Because after doing all of that all day, why on Earth would I want you to be harder?"

Your eyes feel watery. Your face, warm. "But—"

"No."

Embarrassed, you laugh. Brendon thumbs underneath your eye, brushing away the gathered moisture.

Your shoulders loosen, and Brendon doesn't stop you this time when you tuck your face against the side of his neck.

The knot in your stomach finally feels like it's untying.

"Thank you," you tell him, words muffling against his skin.

"Mm." It's a small, practical response—just enough to let you know that he's heard you.

When you pull away, it's not rushed. Brendon tilts his head to see you in the proximity, unflinching.

You're always poking fun at him. Talking about how his knees are seconds away from giving out and how he'll be in a nursing home by the time you reach thirty. 

Once, while the two of you are laying in his bed, you’ve got that pretty, post-sex look lingering on your face. You twist one of his messy curls around your finger absentmindedly and say, "You know, I could fix the grey for you. Or are you going for more of a silver fox look intentionally?"

Tommy snorts and laughs and shakes his head because he's only got maybe ten grey hairs on his whole head. "Fuckin' brat," he mutters, pulling you in by the back of the neck to taste your laughter.

There's another instance, too. One of those rare days where they actually finish early at the job site. Tommy uses the free time to pull you from work under the guise of a family emergency, and takes you out for lunch.

Some place that just opened down town with a rustic feel to it, full of windows and exposed aesthetic pipes that have no real use. The waitress is casual but nice. And she smiles when she sees the two of you and exclaims, "Aw! A daddy daughter day! How sweet!"

You and Tommy lock eyes from across the table and hold back your laughter, but neither of you correct her. And as he orders, Tommy can feel your stare. Gaze heavy and wanting and familiar. There's that look in your eyes you always get when you've had one too many on a night out and your mind only continues to process one thing.

He can't fight off the smile that threatens when he glances up at you mid-order. Because you look nothing short of ravenous. And the moment the waitress walks away, you're leaning over the table and kissing him hard.

Licking into his mouth without shame, holding a firm grip on his jaw. It's the kind of kiss that has his blood running hot and his breath coming fast. If you weren't in public, if you were having lunch at his place instead, Tommy thinks he'd take you right here on the fucking table. Shove your jeans down just enough so he could slide in easy, right between your thighs.

But instead, when you pull away, Tommy lingers in your space. Breathes in your exhalation and when you laugh he does, too.

You smile wide and whisper so only the two of you can hear it, "Thanks for lunch, daddy."

And just like that, everything changes.

The dynamic between you changes, and Tommy does, too. Like, on a cell-based, molecular level, he changes.

Because he's never really been into that kinda thing. Sure, he's heard it a time or two. But it's always gone in one ear and out the other. Never really piqued his interest. not until now. Not until he hears the word daddy in your honeyed mouth, said with your sweet, saccharine tongue.

Before the waitress even comes back to the table with your drinks, you and Tommy are gone. Slipped out the front door without a word and back into his truck which he moves to the empty end of the parking lot, away from prying eyes.

And he knows you deserve better than this. Better than a dark alley fuck where you’re frantically unbuckling his belt and climbing into his lap with your skirt pushed up around your hips and a rip in your tights.

But you’re more desperate for him at this moment than you’ve ever been, and Tommy realizes with stark clarity that he may have met his match with you. More than just a casual girlfriend he sees on the weekend. A woman he wants to keep.

He takes you right then and there. Slams up into you with your legs spread wide and your arms hooked around the steering wheel. You’re so fucking wet that the sound of each thrust reverberates against the steel walls of his truck. The windows fog over and you find release with one of his hands wrapped around your neck and the other squeezing the supple flesh of your ass so hard it leaves bruises in the shape of his fingerprints.

You don't talk about it afterwards.

Not at first, anyway.

But two weeks later, you're spending the weekend at his apartment. The third weekend in a row where the two of you put your phones on silent and order take out for dinner every night and smoke shitty weed all afternoon. Two full days of nothing but hedonism.

It's one of those nights that you both maybe take it a little far. Both sober enough to be conscious of your words and actions, but so relaxed that inhibition no longer exists.

You're holding a bottle of whiskey by the neck, standing between his spread thighs as he sits on the edge of his bed. You're laughing at some stupid joke he made, pretty eyes bright and full of elation.

You take a swig from the bottle and Tommy says, "Gimme some."

And you smirk down at him with the whiskey still held in your mouth. Tommy doesn't understand right away, but he does when you cradle his jaw and tug at his bottom lip with the pad of your thumb.

He chuckles low. not surprised but a little dazed. His eyes gloss over with the haziness of lust, and Tommy Miller opens his mouth for you without a second thought.

You lean in close, lips hovering over his, and carefully spit the whiskey into his waiting mouth with this look on your face. Like you've got a craving only he can satisfy, despite the fact that he's been inside you no less than five times in the last twenty four hours.

His pretty, insatiable little girl.

The whiskey is strong and tastes like you and makes him feel all dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. Tommy holds eye contact as he swallows, the smallest drop escaping from the corner of his mouth and dripping down his chin.

You waste no time in cleaning up his mess, running your warm tongue along his skin and sighing at the flavor.

"I've got a question for you," Tommy says, hands on the backs of your thighs. "An' you can't lie to me. Yeah?"

You sit the bottle on his nightstand and lay your hands loosely over his shoulders. "Ask it."

Tommy licks his lips, a little nervous just to bring it up. But he pushes that aside the moment those memories of that day in his truck flash through his mind. The sounds you'd made, the way you'd cried out his name, the way you'd trembled in his lap. "You remember the day a couple weeks ago that I got out early?"

"When we went out for lunch?"

Tommy nods. "Mhm. An' you remember how the waitress...she thought I was your daddy?"

You avert your gaze then, almost like you're bashful. But the smirk that tugs the corners of your pretty lips lets Tommy know that you do remember. Probably just as clearly as he does. Your voice is a little quieter than before as you ask, "What about it?"

"You...d'you like that? Hm? S'that what you want? Want me to be your daddy?"

Just talking about it stirs something deep within him.

You don't answer right away. Your teeth worry your bottom lip and your thighs press together and Tommy thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear you say it. Needs you to say the words.

And you try, but it takes a minute for you to gather the courage. "I...uhm. yeah. I mean, I...I liked it. But I wasn't sure how you felt, so I didn't bring it up because...I don't know. I guess I just got a little..."

"Shy?" 

You nod, and Tommy turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

"S'alright, baby. Ain't got nothin' to worry about with me. Just wanna take care of ya." He shifts backwards, moving to sit fully on the bed, tugging you with him. "C'mere. Let me show you."

He leans back against the headboard, and you crawl across the mattress until you're on all fours in front of him.

Tommy takes your face in his hands, squeezing your cheeks together gently, and brings your mouth to his for a searing kiss. He deepens it, licking your tongue, swallowing up the taste of whiskey and honey and forbidden fruit.

But it's over too quickly.

He extends his strong legs and pats the space between them. "Right here, sweetheart."

You obey wordlessly, coming to sit in his lap, back pressed to his chest. You're wearing only one of his old, worn-in t-shirts, and Tommy's grateful for it.

Makes it a whole lot easier for him when he parts your thighs, setting your feet on the outside of his knees. He slips his calloused hands beneath your shirt and feels your soft skin, memorizing the curves of your waist, letting himself savor the softness of your belly.

He moves his hands up further, until he's palming your heavy breasts, massaging carefully, touching you like you're something holy. His thumbs stroke gently over the peaks of your nipples and Tommy grins when you let out a gasp in response. 

“So sensitive,” he says, lips brushing your ear, breath warm against your skin. He kisses the junction of your throat and touches you slowly, almost teasingly. “Just wanna make you feel good. Don’t matter how. hm?”

Tommy slowly slides one hand down your torso, lifting the hem of his t-shirt that you wear to expose your panties—soft, pink cotton that makes his mouth water. 

He drags his fingers along the smooth edge, toying with the cute little bow at the center. “Can daddy touch you here, baby?”

You giggle softly and turn your head, hiding your pretty face in the hollow of his neck. He can feel your smile against the skin of his collar bone, but he doesn’t move any further. not until you fight off your embarrassment to nod, legs falling open just a little further. 

And once you do, Tommy's fingers ghost down the center of your panties. He palms you over the fabric, curling his fingers and dragging his knuckles gently over the seam of your cunt. Already the fabric begins to dampen, clinging to your skin. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he whispers. “Got no idea what you do to me, do you?”

He teases you just like that, with slow, featherlight movements until your breathing grows heavy and you start to squirm in his lap. When you start to tilt your hips towards his hand, seeking out more friction, you can feel his dark laughter against your spine as it rumbles through his chest.

“Shh, I know,” he coos. “You gotta tell me what you want. Hm? Use your words.”

“I want一” you groan in frustration, laying your head back against his shoulder now, hips chasing his intentionally light touch. “Want you to touch me. Want you to make me come, Tommy, please.”

His smile is nothing short of sinister as he urges, “Please, what?”

“Please daddy,” you correct.

And he swears he can feel your clit pulse beneath his hand as you say it. He would love nothing more than to draw this out. To really make you fucking beg for it. For his fingers, his mouth, his love. And Tommy promises himself he will do just that later, but right now? His cock is aching for you, swollen and leaking at the tip, pressed snug against the curve of your ass. “Good job, baby,” he praises. “S’perfect.”

Tommy hooks a single finger beneath the edge of your panties, pulling the fabric to the side, groaning low as he watches your arousal stick to the cotton. You’re so wet. warm and needy, all for him. The prettiest little girl to ever exist and somehow, impossibly, right in his grasp.

“Christ,” he hisses. “Look at you.” he slides a finger through your slick and then brings it to his mouth, humming as he sucks the essence of you off his own skin, the heady taste blooming across his tongue like ambrosia.

You whimper as you watch it up close. “Please, I need you, I…”

Tommy presses a tender kiss to your temple. “I know you do. M’right here, yeah? Daddy's gonna make you feel better.”

He starts with your clit. Circles it slowly at first, building up pressure and momentum, movements free and smooth by the obscene amount of wetness that’s gathered between your legs. Your moans are music to his ears. Pleading, desperate cries of more, more, more. Always more. His insatiable little girl.

And then he slides a finger inside of you. Just one, curling it upwards, pressing in deep and feeling the velvety warmth he’s grown so familiar with. You wrap your hands around his arm and squeeze, holding on tight, sighing in content, happy just to be filled with something.

When he adds a second finger, Tommy creates a wet path with his tongue up the side of your neck and says, “Wanna see you come just like this, sweetheart. Can you do that for me? Hm? Make me proud?”

You nod, but Tommy doesn’t think you’re processing much after he starts to move his fingers inside of you. Your eyes go all glassy in that way he loves and your spine arches, pressing your ass even harder up against his aching cock. Your nails leave cute indents in the skin of his forearm, clutching him for safety. “Yes, yes, please, daddy. Please, I just want一hmm.”

Tommy presses the heel of his palm against your clit, sliding over it with each upwards thrust of his fingers. You’re so fucking beautiful like this. And he’s got the most perfect view. Better than any visual in any porno he’s ever seen.

It doesn’t take long. Your desire is high, and he knows just how you like to be touched. Knows to fuck you hard over fast, knows to hold you tight, knows just how much you like all those filthy words he whispers in your ear.

And right now? Oh, Tommy lays it on thick.

“You hear that, baby? Makin’ a big fuckin’ mess all over the sheets. So fuckin’ wet. All sticky and messy for daddy, huh? An’ so tight. Don’t know what I did to deserve pussy this good. But what I do know is it’s mine now, ain’t it? Pretty little thing. All mine. Say it.”

He knows you’re close. Can feel it in the way you writhe, muscles going tight, chasing that high. “It's yours, daddy. All yours. Please don’t stop I’m gonna—”

“I know, pretty girl. G’on. Come for me.” 

A heart beat passes and you get all quiet on him for a single second, holding your breath deep in your lungs. And on the exhale, it hits hard. You're a moaning mess in his hands, thighs clamping together, sultry moans falling from your honeyed tongue. 

“That's it, there you go,” he encourages, pressing his fingers harder against that soft spot inside you. 

Tommy doesn’t slow until your breathing evens out, draining every last drop of bliss from your bones. Your thighs tremble with aftershocks, but it’s not enough. 

He's a selfish man, your daddy. And he wants more. 

So he pushes you forward until you press your face to the mattress, arms outstretched in front of you, ass perched up and ripe for the taking.

Tommy gropes the supple flesh, palming and squeezing affectionately. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs. He runs his thumb through your slick folds, admiring the mess he’s made of you. “She’s so wet, baby. Looks like she needs a little help, hm?”

“Yes, yes. Please. Need you inside, wanna feel you.”

The words are beautifully spoken, dripping with want and desire that’s been taken to new heights. Tommy thinks he’s been a fool to have not seen it before. He thinks he should’ve taken on this role for you a hell of a lot sooner. 

“Y’know, my hands are a little tired now, baby.” Tommy's mouth curls up at the corners as he leans forward on his knees and pushes his boxers down just enough to free himself. His dick is flushed and glossy at the tip, hard as stone. He takes it in his hand and slides the head over your wet cunt. “Is it okay if daddy takes care of ya with somethin’ a little bigger?”

Your spine bends as you arch back, pressing yourself against him, spreading your slick over his cock. The friction and warmth of it makes Tommy grit his teeth to hold back the low groan that threatens. “Yes. I want it. I need it.”

He doesn’t waste anymore time, spreading you open and pressing gently inside. You let out this little sigh of relief at being filled and it warms both his heart and that space low in his belly. “There you go, sweetheart,” he says, sinking in all the way, watching as your pussy squeezes tight around him. 

Tommy pulls out slowly, almost all the way, just to slide in a little harder this time. “God, Tommy. You're so—”

He clicks his tongue. “Nuh-uh. What’s my name, baby? Hm? Say it.”

You suddenly get all shy and bashful, and tommy thinks it looks real fucking cute when you turn your head and press your face into the blanket to hide your embarrassment. 

His only response is to grin and shove himself in deeper, chuckling low when you let out a whimper in surprise. He sets a punishing pace; steady and relentless, watching you writhe beneath him. “Oh, I know,” he coos. “But you’re doin’ so good. Talk to me, pretty girl. Tell me who you belong to. Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours,” you cry out. The word is broken in your mouth, so sensitive as your velvet warmth pulses around him. High still from your release, and yet tommy can feel another quickly approaching. “It's yours.”

“Yours, what?” he urges, grunting between each punishing thrust. His hands dig hard into your hips, massaging all your softness.

“S’yours, daddy,” you finally say.

And god. It’s so fucking beautiful. So euphoric that Tommy feels like he’s lost time. Wishes that he would’ve caught on months ago to this little curiosity of yours.

“That's right,” he says, leaning forward. he brackets you with his chest to your back, kissing the nape of your neck and slipping a hand beneath you. It takes only a second for him to find your clit and he groans when it pulses beneath his fingers. “S’all mine. Daddy’s girl, ain’t you?” 

“Yes—yes, god—don’t stop don’t stop, I’m s’fucking—” your words are slurred and pretty as they roll off your tongue.

Tommy takes pride in it. In the way he’s fucked you dumb. “Fuckin’ right you are,” he grits out, keeping his rhythm steady as sweat begins to bead at his hairline. “Give it to me, baby. Come for your daddy.” 

He can feel you clench around him as your orgasm rocks through you, muscles wound real tight, squeezing his cock so fucking good it blurs his vision. He circles your clit in slow, methodical strokes, feeling it throb beneath his fingers. 

It only takes a few seconds before your hands curl in the sheets and you arch your ass back into him. Tommy fucks you a little harder with the new angle, reaching even deeper. “Oh my god, please pleaseplease—hmm—!”

“Shit,” he hisses. A low sound vibrates through his chest, unable to hold it back as pleasure takes hold. His pace falters as he fills you up. Tommy leans back to watch the sight of it; his cock glossy as it mixes with your arousal, pulsing with the added imagery of the mess he’s made of you.

He doesn’t pull out until he’s well and truly spent. He kisses each of your shoulder blades and gently eases back before falling into the comfort of his bed.

You lean forward, a silly smile on your face, looking all pretty and fucked out. A giggle passes through your lips and it makes Tommy laugh. 

“You good?”

You nod, breathing hard, and turn over on your back. “Never better,” you say.

He chuckles low and picks up the half-smoked joint from the ash tray on his bedside table. You watch him, arms tucked behind your head, as he sparks the lighter and inhales deep. Tommy gives you that crooked smile he always wears as he blows the smoke towards the cracked window. “C’mere,” he says. “Come give daddy a kiss.”

And without a moment's hesitation, you come crawling into his lap to slot your mouth against his. It's soft and easy and Tommy thinks, yeah. He's never been better, either. 

When you pull away, it’s only to ask, “Hey—are you busy later?”

“What, you mean like tomorrow?” His brows furrow. “There somethin’ you wanna do?”

“No, I mean like, for the rest of your life.”

He laughs.

He knows it's effecting you, too. Can see the way your shoulders deflate while you sit in the passenger seat, the backs of your thighs sticking to the leather beneath you.

The iced coffee he'd got you this morning sweats in the cup holder, ice nearly gone before you're even halfway done drinking it. He'd gotten it for you in hopes of keeping the peace today.

All you had to do was get groceries and do a couple loads of laundry at the laundromat. Errands that Tommy often finds enjoyment out of doing with you most days. A Sunday afternoon ritual he'd come to love.

But when it's hot like this? You're both irritable and quick to anger. All it takes is one thing to go wrong and you're snapping at each other, frustration building with the temperature.

And to no one's surprise, you start bickering first thing.

While you carry the bag of detergent and quarters, Tommy carries the basket of clothes down from you shared apartment. He puts it in the back seat of his truck at a weird angle, and you try to warn him, but your warning only serves to provoke him.

"Has nothing to do with the angle, it's this stupid fucking basket."

You roll your eyes, angrily shoving a pair of jeans back into place. "Sure, yeah. It's definitely the basket that's been the same size and shape for the last two years. Makes sense."

His jaw ticks, and the thought crosses his mind to take you over his knee. His bratty girl and her smart ass mouth.

But he keeps quiet.

You accidentally drop the bag of quarters in the laundromat, and Tommy spends five minutes of his life chasing them around on a floor that probably hasn't been properly mopped in months.

When you see the irritation plain as day on his face you say, "I didn't mean to drop them. Don't get mad."

"I'm not mad," he argues. "Never said I was."

"Yeah, well. You look mad."

"I'm not."

"Then why do you look it?"

"Can we just put the quarters in the fucking machine?"

You scoff. "You curse at me like that again and we're gonna have a fucking problem."

It's so stupid, such a silly argument, that it makes Tommy laugh.

Your brows furrow in disbelief at first but then you laugh, too. And it lightens the mood, if only for a while.

The two of you sit in the air conditioning of the laundromat until your clothes are folded and neatly put back in the basket, no further damage made to the easy energy you've created.

But the moment you're back outside in the grueling heat, the tension returns.

The two of you are discussing what sounds good for dinner this week on the way to the grocery store when he says, "We've gotta pick up cake mix, too. You still gonna make one for Mike's birthday so I can bring it in to him Wednesday?"

"Wednesday?" Your nose scrunches in that cute, frustrated way he loves. "You told me it was Friday. I was going to go to that bakery in San Marcos to get that pistachio frosting he said he likes—"

"Can't you do that tomorrow?"

"No, tomorrow is Sarah's recital."

"Okay, so Tuesday then."

"And get home at nine and be up until midnight making a damn cake?"

Tommy sighs. "So skip the pistachio frosting. What's wrong with vanilla?"

"It's his fiftieth birthday, Tommy. You should've warned me ahead of time—"

"I did. Twice, matter of fact."

"You told me it was on Friday."

"No I didn't. Why would I say that?"

"I don't know, you tell me!"

His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. He hates arguing with you at all, and it's even worse when it's arguments like this.

It feels like you're fighting against each other instead of with each other. Like you're on opposing sides and not two people in love working together to solve a problem.

He makes the decision right then and there, stopping in the middle of the road and pulling into a random driveway to turn the truck around.

"What are you doing?"

"Turning around."

"Oh my god," you huff. "No shit. Where are we going? Tommy, we need groceries. We're out of milk and eggs and the cake—!"

"The store's not closin' anytime soon. And I'm not doin' this today. S'too fuckin' hot out. So just sit there and let me drive," he says. And for good measure adds, "Please."

You fold your arms over your chest, bratty little thing that you are.

But it's okay, Tommy doesn't mind. He knows it's not you, it's the heat. It's the sweat on your skin and the humidity that sticks like glue and the uncomfortable weight of it all.

There's a boat launch a short fifteen minute drive away. Joel and Tommy used to rent boats there to go fishing all the time. They hadn't been back in a while, a couple of years at least.

But today's the perfect day.

When he pulls into the dirt lot just outside the small, wood cabin office building, Tommy unbuckles and climbs out of his truck. He levels you with a stare and says, "Don't move."

"Wasn't gonna," you argue. "Just gonna sit here and let you drive, Tommy. Just like you wanted."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he hisses, shaking his head.

Inside the cabin is blessedly air conditioned. It's a small, one room building with cluttered paperwork on a desk and a cash register that looks like it's from the eighties. An old woman sits behind it with a pair of floral framed reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose and a book in her hand titled The Dirty Cowboy.

It makes Tommy chuckle softly to himself. Reminds him of all those filthy books you read on your phone before bed. "You guys got any rentals available for today?"

The woman looks up at him over her worn paperback. "Got a pontoon, a center cabin and a bowrider left. An' no extra poles, so I hope you've got your own. What d'ya want?"

"Let's go with the center cabin."

"You got cash?"

"Sure do." Tommy pulls his wallet from his pocket and hands over the cash once she reads off a total. He waits patiently as she prints out a few pages on what he assumes is the slowest printer still in use and sets it in front of him with a fuzzy red pen.

"Gotta sign the waiver and take a life jacket for each passenger," she says. "There's some extras around back."

Tommy does what he needs to. Dates and signs and leaves a copy of his ID. When she hands him the keys, he leaves the cabin with a newfound relief.

He finds you with your feet on the dash and every AC vent in the car turned towards you, scrolling on your phone with a crease between your brows. Tommy pulls the door open and says, "C'mon."

That snarky little tone still resides in your voice when you ask, "What are we doing?"

"Goin' out on the lake," he answers, unbuckling your seatbelt and tugging you out of the truck. He tosses his cellphone onto the floor at your feet. "Let's go."

"Tommy, I don't want—!"

"Baby." He closes his eyes and takes a slow, steadying breath. The heat is already getting to him again, the sun unbearably hot at his back. "I'm gonna need you to just trust me. Leave your phone, ya won't need it."

That scowl still remains, but you no longer argue. You let him take your hand in his and lock the truck behind you.

Tommy leads you around the back of the cabin and plucks two life jackets from the racks before starting down the familiar path to the lake. It's not a long walk, but it feels that way. Sweat trickles down his spine and his breath feels hollow.

He finds the boat tied to the end of one of the docks and doesn't give you time to argue some more before he begins to untie the rope. Tommy tosses the frayed jute cord into the front of the boat, climbs in, and holds out his hand for you to take. "C'mon."

"We have stuff that needs to get done today, Tommy," you tell him, hand on your hip. The sunshine reflects off of your hair and he thinks you look so fucking pretty like that it almost makes the hellish temperature worth it.

"Our errands aren't goin' anywhere."

"We still need to get groceries—"

"The store will be open late."

"—and put away laundry—"

"Baby."

"—and I promised Sarah I'd—"

"Baby, get in the damn boat."

"It's just so hot and I need to—!"

"You think I don't know what you need?"

The question silences you, and your eyes soften just slightly. "That's not what I'm trying to say, I—"

Tommy takes your hands in his, pulling you forward. "C'mon."

You let him pull you begrudgingly onto the deck, mumbling those smart ass remarks under your breath all the while.

Tommy just laughs. Puts the key in the ignition switch and settles into the seat behind the wheel in the cabin. It roars to life, propellers spinning beneath the water. He pats his thigh twice and says, "Get over here, brat."

"I'm not a brat," you argue, coming up to his side and sitting in his lap right where he likes you. Even when you say it, your mouth turns up at the corners.

"Mhm, sure," Tommy teases, voice thick with sarcasm. He squeezes the hand throttle behind the wheel and the boat surges forward through the water.

And the wind—god. It might be the most soothing thing he's ever felt in his entire fucking life. It cools the sweat that sticks to his skin, lifting the collar of his shirt and reaching beneath the fabric.

Tommy sees you visibly relax at the sensation and knows he made the right choice, bringing you here today.

Silence settles between you as he drives further and further away from the dock. The sun still shines painfully bright in the clear blue sky, but with the chill of the water spray it feels far less daunting.

He turns the radio on and the soft, bluesy ballad of a Santana song plays through the open space. The lake is surprisingly empty for a day like today, but Tommy finds himself grateful for it.

He slows the boat to a stop a handful of miles out, until he can no longer see the shore or the docks or any other boats. He stands to his feet, pulling you up with him, and says, "Take off your clothes."

You shake your head, but when you speak there's ease in it for the first time since you'd left the apartment this afternoon. "I don't really want to swim today," you confess.

But Tommy's not having it. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, toeing off his boots next. "Wasn't askin', sweetheart."

With a sigh, you say, "I'll admit it, the boat is nice. It's cooler out here and I don't feel like I'm dying in the heat anymore, but I don't want to get in the water. I'll just…I'll watch you. How's that?"

Tommy undoes his belt buckle with a clink and shoves his jeans down his thighs, leaving his boxers. He wears one of those big, toothy grins as he explains, "You can either get undressed or you can get in fully clothed. Your choice."

"I said—!"

He shrugs. "Suit yourself."

And without another word, Tommy squeezes you in an embrace and hauls you overboard with him.

The water is cold. Not just cool, but borderline freezing. It feels so refreshing that he lets out a low groan when he breaches the surface, letting out a breath that's been stuck in his lungs for what feels like hours.

You come up for air half a second after he does, wiping water from your face. Droplets cling to your eyelashes and all Tommy can do is smile wide.

Because he thinks you're the most beautiful woman to ever live, and he will never take for granted that even on the hottest day of the year, you still choose him to do laundry with.

"You're the worst," you say, but there's no salt to your words. There's a smile on your face and laughter on the tip of your tongue instead. The tension that's been building all day dissipates, washed away by the cold water.

Tommy nods and takes your face in his hands. "Mhm," he says. "You're right. I am the worst. Tell me more."

"You get this awful attitude when it gets hot out. You know that?"

It makes him laugh hard enough that his shoulders shake. "We got that in common, sweet girl."

"Nuh-uh. Not me. I'm an angel, actually."

He leans forward, grin still on his wet lips when he presses them to yours. "Yeah you are," he mutters. "My bratty, angel girl." He kisses you again, this time at the corner of your mouth. And then he kisses your cheek, your temple, the tip of your nose, , the tickling hairs of his mustache making you giggle.

"M'sorry I've been mean today," you say with sorrowful eyes.

Tommy wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you close, delighting in the way your soft, warm skin glides easily against his underwater. "I'm sorry too, baby. S'alright. Just the heat."

You nod in agreement and reach behind his head to pull the elastic band from his hair. "Yeah, I know," you say. "But I'm still sorry. And I love you."

"Even though I'm the worst?"

With a laugh, you shake your head and pull away from him, swimming towards the back end of the boat.

Tommy watches, floating on his back with his arms outstretched, as you pull yourself up over the hull and onto the deck.

You peel your top off, wring the water out of it, and lay it over the leather seat at the front of the boat. Your jean shorts are next, and then your sandals, leaving you in nothing but your sports bra and a flimsy pair of blue panties.

The fabric clings to your wet skin so closely that Tommy can almost see right through them, to that pretty pussy that lies beneath. It makes him feel hot in an entirely different way.

"Don't stop on my account," he urges, a playful tone in his voice. "If I knew takin' you to the lake would get me a free striptease we would'a been here hours ago."

You scoff and say, "Shut up."

But Tommy sees it; the way your pulse picks up, the way your thighs press together, the way you consider it, just for a fleeting second.

But you leave the last two articles of clothing on before jumping right back into the water.

Tommy's not sure how long you stay out in the lake. You do back flips under the water and splash each other and kiss with slippery mouths.

He takes to doing cannonballs off the side of the boat and your laughter echoes across the water's surface. An Aerosmith song comes on the radio and you both sing along so loudly that he forgets all about the heat and the frustration and your bickering.

By the time you decide you're finished, the muscles in his legs are tired and the tips of his fingers are pruned.

Tommy helps you back into the boat and drops down onto the leather bench near the front of the deck. He spreads his legs wide and drapes his arms over the edge, head tilted back just slightly. Water drips off his skin, sliding down his neck and the broad expanse of his shoulders. "C'mere," he orders.

There's no argument to be had, not this time. You simply walk over to him, leaving little wet footprints in your wake, and stand between his spread knees.

"You feelin' better?"

With a nod, you admit, "Yeah, a little."

"Just a little?" Tommy playfully clicks his tongue. "Now, that just ain't gonna work."

You narrow your pretty eyes at him, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"Why don't you g'head an' take off your clothes, baby," he says. And when you begin to protest he adds, "Need to get dry before we head back, don't we?"

You see right through him, shaking your head. But you do as he instructs, struggling for only a second before tugging the wet fabric of your bra up and over your head.

Tommy just watches, leaning back, enjoying the sweetest view of his bratty girl listening so well. He's not shy in his assessment, eyes roaming greedily over the swells of your breasts and the hardened peaks of your nipples.

And when you peel your panties down your legs, Tommy's cock stirs beneath his boxers. You ring the water out of them and lay them out to dry.

"I oughta get dry, too," he says. "Wanna give your old man a hand?"

He watches it happen in real time, that shift in you. Watches what begins as suggestive amusement turn into want. Your pupils flare and your lips part just so.

You drop to your knees slowly, each breath a manual inhale. And then you slide your hands up his calves, still dripping with water. They move over the bend of his knee and through the coarse hair that litters his thighs. And when you finally reach the waistband of his boxers, your fingers curl around the edge to tug them off.

Tommy lifts his hips, and that's the only assistance he allows himself to give. His cock hangs heavy and hard between you, resting against the softness of his belly.

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and he hears the silent question before you ask it.

"G'head, baby. Give me a little kiss." He thinks that sweet smile you give him in response is real cute. And it's even cuter when you take his cock in your hand and lean forward to lick a long, wet stripe up the underside of him.

The muscles in his thighs flex at the sensation, at the sight of you. Naked and pretty and on your knees for him, with all that worship in your eyes that always makes him feel weak.

Your tongue laves over every hardened inch of him, following the path of each vein, swirling around the tip and coating him in a different sort of wet. Your spit is warm and slippery, providing the perfect amount of ease when you take him into your waiting mouth.

Tommy's head falls back even further as you swallow him down. He groans low, fingers curling tight around the edge of the boat to try and fight off his urge to touch you. To hold your pretty face in his hands and rest his fingers against the side of your throat to feel himself inside it.

But he wants it to be you. All you.

So Tommy just lets you suck his cock, lets you enjoy it the way you want to. Spit pools at the corners of your mouth and you whimper around him, the sound ratcheting his pleasure even higher.

"Yeah," he muses. "That's it. So fuckin' pretty with my cock in your mouth, baby. Look at ya. Fuckin' droolin' on it."

You look up at him through your lashes, and smile around his length. Tommy thinks he could fall off the edge right then and there, just seeing how happy you are to taste him, how pleased you look with him in your mouth.

But he resists, pulling his hips back just slightly to say, "S'enough, now. Get on up here."

You do as he says, wiping the spit from your mouth with the back of your hand. When you climb into his lap, knees on either side of his wide thighs, Tommy stops you just before you're fully seated.

"Hang on now, greedy girl," he says. "Lemme see her."

Carefully, you place your hands on the edge of his knees and arch your spine, giving him the most beautiful view.

Tommy can't resist touching you. Not this time, not when you look like this. He gently squeezes your breasts in his hands, smoothing away the water droplets that still sit on top of your soft skin.

His thumbs ghost across your nipples before he glides his palms down your torso, over the dip of your navel, and then finally—blessedly—between your legs.

"Oh, baby," he sighs. Tommy gathers his saliva at the front of his mouth and brings his hand to his lips. "No wonder why you're only feelin' a little bit better." He spits on his fingers before bringing them to your clit, already pulsing the moment he touches you.

You moan when he begins to stroke gently at your pussy, spreading his spit and your slick. His fingers move slowly, just feeling you without true intent, gliding through your arousal.

When he slides his hand a little lower and begins to circle your entrance with the pad of his middle finger, your hips begin to move. Trying desperately to pull him inside, muscles clenching around nothing.

Tommy just grins. Chuckles low when you start to whine, nails digging into the skin of his thighs. "You want it?"

You nod comes feverish and instantaneous. "Please," you moan. "I need it."

He thinks you sound so pretty, begging like that. He moves his fingers back up to your clit, stroking with just enough pressure that you gasp in relief.

But as soon as he gives, he takes away.

Tommy removes his touch completely, stretching his arms back over the boat's edge, resting casual and cocky the way he always is. "Go 'head, baby. Take what ya need."

You don't waste a second, scooting up his lap. You take his cock in your hand and line it up with your entrance before sinking down on him fully.

The sensation of it nearly knocks him on his ass; the tight, wet grip of your cunt around him. His fingers flex against the leather seat, and you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders.

It starts easy. A gentle rocking of your hips, his cock pressing in deep, the swollen head flush against the tip of your cervix.

But each movement grows more and more desperate, your sounds echoing across the lake. "Such a cute little thing," he says, eyes dark and lids hooded. "Takin' it so good. You feel me in there, baby? Stretchin' you real wide?"

"Mmhm," is all you can manage right away, breath coming fast, chest heaving with each ragged inhale. "Feels so…god—feels so good, Tommy. So big."

You start getting real whimpery, slick dripping down his cock, wet sounds coming from between your legs.

Right about now is when Tommy will normally take over, thrusting up into you, giving you the roughness you always seek.

But he stays still today. Let's you roll your hips over his, fucking yourself on his thick length until you're begging him. "Please, Tommy—touch me."

He cruelly clicks his tongue. "Had the energy to give me all that attitude this morning, didn't ya? Still got stuff to do today, sweet girl. Gotta tire you out before we head back."

A sweetest sounding groan leaves your mouth. "But—please!"

Tommy's real weak when it comes to you. The temptation to give in is there, building inside his chest, right beside the warmth of impending release. "Nuh-uh," he says. "You wanna cum? You're gonna work for it this time. Not gonna have all that sass by the time you're done. Gotta sweat it out, little girl."

You're still moving, still grinding yourself down on his cock, pace ragged and out of rhythm now. "Tommy please, I can't—!"

"Yeah you can," he encourages, taking one a low, condescending tone. "Got full faith in ya. C'mon baby, you're almost there. She's squeezin' me."

He can feel the tension in your thighs and the way your fingers dig into the hard muscles at his shoulders. "Will you at least—" you stop, a moan tearing its way through your chest. "—kiss me. Please, just a kiss. Need to feel you, to taste you."

The request is so spoken so softly, so sweetly, that it send a shock of delight down his spine. And Tommy—God. He can do nothing to resist it. "'Course I can give you a kiss, sweet girl," he says.

Tommy leans in, and the moment he touches his lips to yours he can feel the velvety walls of your cunt clench around him.

He kisses you deep, tongue slipping into your mouth, licking and sliding against yours. You moan his name and it sounds so fucking pretty that his fingers find your clit on instinct.

He strokes it in small, tight circles. And only a few seconds later, you're falling off the edge. Thighs shaking, whimpering into his mouth, riding him as hard as your strength will allow.

"So fuckin' pretty," he whispers. "Such a good girl for me when you're all full, huh? Oughta make you work for it more often."

"Feels so good—hmm."

"You're my good girl, baby. Ain't that right?"

"Yes, yes. I'm your good girl, I'm—oh, god—"

"Uh-huh. That's right. Mine. My baby."

His.

Tommy follows you off the precipice, his release rushing up to greet him, that tight coil around his spine pulling taught just to snap.

A low groan rumbles through his chest as he fills you with his release, so much of it that it spills out of you and drips onto the thatch of dark hair between his legs.

You roll your hips a few more times, until you're spent and aching, before collapsing on top of him entirely.

Your shoulders drop and your muscles go slack, head falling into the crook of his neck.

Tommy laughs and finally touches you, arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close, fingertips stroking lazily over the relaxed curve of your spine. "You're alright," he says. "I've got ya."

He's not sure how much time passes. Tommy just holds you for as long as you need, cock still twitching inside you, the mixture of your release and his dripping down the inside of his thighs. He lets you catch your breath, and doesn't move until you do.

When you finally ease yourself off of him and stand to your feet, you do so on shaky legs. The heat has dried your shorts and top now, and you pull them back on while Tommy does the same with his jeans.

Once you're dressed he asks, "You ready to head back?"

You nod soundlessly, an ease on your face. Tommy sits behind the wheel of the boat and flips the ignition switch, and this time he doesn't even have to ask for you. You just come to him without a word, sitting in his lap and resting your head on his shoulder.

Tommy kisses your temple with a syrupy smile. "Feelin' better?"

The answer this time is paired with a soft, sleepy sigh. "Much better. Thank you."

His heart swells. And even though the heat persists, warming him back up already, Tommy feels himself relax fully for the first time all day.

"Ain't gotta thank me, baby," he says. "M'always gonna make you feel better."

He just sat there, watching your thumbnail from the landing page, the little green bubble beside your username glowing — a beacon. Tempting him. Mocking him. His whole body ached with want, every nerve screaming at him to click.

But he didn’t.

He stared until the bubble finally flickered grey, the screen going dark. Only then did he shut his laptop, heart hammering.

On your side, the session ended with your usual little sign-off, tips scrolling in a chaotic blur. You leaned back, stretching, sweat still prickling at your neck.

Then your gaze flicked to the profile viewer panel.

There it was. That username. Brooklyn_1917. Logged in. Present. Green bubble glowing.

But not in your stream.

The ache settled low in your stomach. He’d been there, hovering. Watching the doorway but refusing to walk through. You shut the page with a shaky laugh, muttering to yourself, “Guess you didn’t miss me tonight.”

That happened a couple more times in the span of two weeks. You saw him online, he would read the stream caption on the thumbnail on your profile and not join. You'd end the stream frustrated and pouty. He'd go try to jerk off in the shower without your voice in his head and failed to cum if he succeeded in keeping the thoughts of you away.

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, laptop on the nightstand, unopened. His hands were fisted in his sheets, jaw aching from how hard he clenched it.

He wasn’t going to do it. Not again.

He’d promised himself after that night at O’Malley’s, after he tried to transfer you from his lab and failed, that he’d stop. He was your professor. You were his best student. He had no right.

But then he thought about the way you’d looked up at him in the lab today, goggles perched crookedly on your head, asking for his input on your assay results with that eager little crease in your brow.

You’re still my favorite.

The words replayed like a heartbeat, steady, unstoppable.

You're mine too, sweetheart.

His resolve cracked.

With a low curse, he snapped the laptop open, fingers flying on autopilot. The site loaded instantly — your profile glowing like shiny artifact in Indiana Jones. Live.

And when your voice spilled through his headphones, sweet and low, his chest clenched so hard it hurt.

“Missed you, babies,” you whispered, breathy against the mic. “Think you can keep up with me tonight?”

On your screen, your viewer list updated. Brooklyn_1917 has joined.

The moment it flashed on the viewer list, Bucky knew he was fucked. His hand was already shoving his sweats down, cock heavy and aching, precum wetting the tip.

And then you started talking.

“Mmm, look who finally showed up,” you purred, dragging your fingers down your stomach, nails scraping lightly as you spread your thighs for the camera. The lace between your legs was damp, clinging. “Had me thinking you didn’t want me anymore.”

The chat went wild, but Bucky’s eyes locked on you alone. His fist wrapped around himself, stroking slow, biting down a groan.

“Missed you so much,” you whispered, slipping the lace aside to reveal glistening folds. The toy buzzed to life in your other hand. “Been so fucking needy. Could’ve cried when you didn’t log in.”

Bucky’s head fell back, jaw tight. Christ. You were aiming it right at him. You knew. You knew.

Was it smart to do that? No. You told him you didn't mind, that you could stay in his lab and stay professional. Hell, you suggested that he just stop watching the streams, so why did it sting so hard when he actually stopped?

And why did it feel euphoric when he joined again? Three weeks until the end of the semester, and he couldn't wait 22 more days?

You sank the toy against your clit, moaning loud enough to make the chat explode. “Oh, fuck, I needed this. Needed you.” Your free hand tugged at your top, pulling it down until your breasts spilled free, nipples tight in the cool air.

“You like watching me play with myself, Brooklyn?” you teased, pinching one nipple until you hissed. “Bet you missed it. Bet you missed me whining your name while you stroked your cock.”

The comments scrolled fast: SweetTooth92: “god she’s filthy tonight” BlueScreen69 tipped $60: “show us how wet you are baby”

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $150. “I missed every bit of you.”

Your stomach flipped at the message. You whined louder, spreading yourself with two fingers so the toy could grind deeper, slick shining under the lights. “Then don’t leave me again,” you gasped. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Bucky’s strokes turned desperate, pre-come slicking his fist. Seeing you spread open, begging into the mic, voice trembling— it broke every scrap of restraint he had left.

You moaned, hips grinding hard against the buzzing toy. “Yes—yes, fuck, I’ll be good, Brooklyn, just—ahhh—” You gasped, voice pitching high, deliberately whining the way you knew drove him mad.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you babbled, toy circling ruthless. “So close, please let me cum—please, I’ll be your good girl, I’ll do anything—” You were begging. For him. For Brooklyn.

His breath punched out of him in a low, guttural growl as his release tore through him, hot and violent, spilling across his stomach in messy streaks.

You whimpered his name as you shattered, body convulsing around the toy, slick dripping down your thighs. The orgasm hit hard, raw, spilling over into little sobs as your fingers shook.

The chat went berserk — endless tips, praise scrolling too fast to read. But you only cared about one viewer. Your eyes fluttered open, catching the glowing name in your list. Still green. Still there.

“Mmmm, good boy.” you whispered into the mic, shaky and soft, like a secret only for him.

The building was nearly empty. Halls echoing, lights dim, the hum of incubators the only sound. You’d promised yourself you’d leave three hours ago… but the assays weren’t quite done. And if you could just get one more run tonight, your data set would be complete.

AirPods in, music buzzing low, you were lost in the rhythm of pipetting and labeling. Lab coat snug, safety goggles pushed up into your hair, you barely noticed how late it had gotten until you finally packaged the fresh plates for incubation.

Reports stacked in your hands, you slipped them under your arm. Barnes always said he wanted updates dropped off promptly, and you were already heading past his office. Quick, easy. He’d never know how late you’d stayed.

Bucky sat slumped in his office chair, long after the faculty wing had emptied. He’d been grading until his eyes blurred, the silence pressing in heavy. A refill of coffee had gone wrong — the cup tipped, spilling hot liquid down his shirt and across his slacks.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pushing back from the desk.

Now he stood at the side table, blotting at his shirt with paper towels. Buttons undone, tie loose, belt unbuckled as he tried to mop the mess off his thighs. The scent of stale coffee clung sharp in the air.

He thought he was alone. Everyone was gone. No reason to think otherwise.

You breezed in, humming faintly with your AirPods still in, lab coat hanging open over your clothes, goggles perched crooked on your head. Reports stacked neatly in your hands, you crossed to his desk, set them down with practiced ease—

And froze.

He wasn’t at the desk.

He was across the room, shirt half-open, pants undone, hair loose around his face as he pressed a wad of napkins to his hip.

You blinked, pulled one AirPod free. “…Professor?”

Bucky’s head snapped up, chest heaving, jaw clenching. “Christ—Y/N.”

You stood there, wide-eyed, goggles still pushed into your hair, a little flushed from the lab’s heat. Absolutely, devastatingly adorable.

And he nearly groaned aloud.

The image was seared into him — you in that damn lab coat, cheeks pink, the faint smell of ethanol and agar still clinging to you. His perfect, brilliant student, standing in his office like you owned it, while he stood there half-undone.

He forced his voice steady. “You shouldn’t be here this late.”

You glanced at the reports, then back at him. “I just finished the extra assays. Wanted to drop these off.”

Extra assays. You’d been working yourself into the ground, chasing perfect data. He should’ve been proud, should’ve been lecturing you about overextending. But all he could think about was how your lab coat gaped open at the front, the curve of your sweater underneath, the faint perfume of ethanol and something sweet that was just… you.

Fuck, sweetheart, if you only knew what I want to do to you right now.

He saw it — a flash, a filthy daydream — you dropping the reports and climbing into his lap, that lab coat slipping from your shoulders as you straddled him. His hand fisting in your hair, tugging those goggles down around your throat while you rode his cock, moaning his name until your voice broke.

The fantasy hit him so hard he almost stepped toward you. Almost reached out, almost ruined everything.

You tilted your head, lips quirking faintly. “Spill something?”

I could clean it up with my mo-

He swallowed hard, his hand still gripping the napkins at his thigh. “…Coffee.”

For a long, unbearable second, the room was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights.

And all he could think was that if you took one step closer, he’d lose the last scrap of restraint holding him together.

You lingered just a second longer, gaze flicking from the undone buttons of his shirt to the napkins in his hand. Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, you gave him a little smile.

“Well… good thing it was coffee and not hydrochloric acid.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. His knuckles whitened around the wad of paper towels.

You slid your AirPod back in, tapping the reports on his desk as you turned toward the door. “Night, Professor. Thanks for letting me keep the incubators so late.”

And just like that — lab coat swishing, goggles still perched crooked in your hair — you were gone.

The door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the heavy silence.

Bucky slumped back against the table, breathing hard. His cock throbbed painfully against his undone waistband, every nerve in his body screaming with the memory of your flushed cheeks, the way you’d called him Professor so casually.

But the reports still sat neatly stacked on his desk, color-coded tabs poking out. Proof that while he was unraveling, you were thriving.

And he couldn’t decide if that made him want to laugh, groan, or break something.

Bucky sat at his desk, the glow of his laptop washing his face in cold blue. His cursor hovered in the search bar, chest tight, pulse loud in his ears.

One more time. Just one more.

He typed your username with practiced precision, fingers moving on autopilot. The keystrokes felt ritualistic by now, something sacred he could do blindfolded.

Enter.

Nothing.

Profile not found.

He froze. His breath caught, disbelief buzzing in his ears. He refreshed. Searched again. And again.

Nothing.

No pink glow. No list of scheduled streams. No voice spilling through his headphones with that breathy little laugh.

Gone.

Like you’d never existed there at all.

A pit opened deep in his gut. His secret ritual — the thing that had kept him breathing through endless nights, the thing that was half-guilt and half-salvation — ripped away in a single click.

No more late-night streams. No more teasing lilt. No more whines pitched high, begging please, Professor into the mic just for him.

It was over.

He slumped back in his chair, dragging both hands down his face, fingertips pressing into his eyes until colors sparked behind his lids.

Finals tomorrow. One last day. One last chance to see you sitting front row, notes neat, gaze steady, pretending like you weren’t the same girl who used to cry for him through tiny laptop speakers.

And then? You’d walk out of his classroom. Out of his life.

And he’d lose you — completely, utterly — before he ever really had you.

The exam hall was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums until even the scratch of pens sounded obscene. Students hunched over their desks, pale and twitchy, shoulders curved into question booklets like their lives depended on it.

Except you.

Front row, middle seat — exactly where you’d been all semester. Your posture was steady, legs crossed neatly under the desk, hair tucked behind your ear as you bent over the exam. Calm. Collected. Your pen moved in smooth, unbroken strokes. Every metabolic pathway diagram crisp, every essay answer structured like you’d been rehearsing them for weeks.

Bucky paced the rows, exam key heavy in his pocket, coffee bitter on his tongue. He told himself to focus on the room — to keep his eyes moving, to be the stern, intimidating professor everyone hated but respected.

But his gaze kept snagging on you.

On the little crease between your brows when you paused to reread a question. On the way your fingers tapped your pen against your lip before you started writing again. On the curve of your calves under the desk when you shifted your legs, your skirt sliding higher with the motion.

His chest grew tighter with every stolen glance.

For two hours, he fought a war inside his head.

One part of him was the professor, memorizing the clock, listening for the rustle of turned pages, watching for any sign of cheating. The other part — the darker, hungrier part — spun filthy little daydreams behind his eyes.

He saw you spread across his desk, exam papers scattered around you, his cock buried deep as you begged “Please, Bucky, I’ll be good, I’ll get an A, please let me cum—”

He saw himself bending over you from behind, your skirt bunched at your waist, your pen clattering to the floor while he fucked you through every answer you’d diagrammed so carefully.

He saw your neat handwriting trembling into messy scrawl as he whispered in your ear, “That’s right, sweetheart, write my name down as the right fucking answer.”

Every time your pen paused, he felt a rush of blood headed south of his belt. Every time you shifted in your seat, his palms itched to grip your hips and hold you down.

By the time the clock struck, he was wrecked.

“Time,” he called, voice hoarse.

The sound of papers rustling was deafening in the silence. Students shuffled forward, dropping their exams in messy stacks on the desk before rushing for the door like prisoners freed.

And then there was you.

The last to rise.

You walked slow, exam clutched neatly in your hand, your expression calm but faintly warm. Approaching his desk, you set the paper down, fingertips brushing the top page like you were smoothing it.

Your eyes flicked up. Just for a second. Sheepish. Shy. The barest curve of a smile playing on your lips.

And then you turned, walking out without a word, the swing of your lab coat hem brushing against your calves.

Bucky’s throat was dry. His eyes dropped to your paper. At the very bottom corner of the last page, drawn in careful pen strokes, was a tiny heart.

So small he almost missed it. His breath caught. His chest constricted like a fist had closed around it. And then you were gone.

Gone from the room. Gone from his class. Gone from his reach. Leaving him alone at the desk, staring at the heart like it was both a confession and a farewell.

The halls were hollowed out, stripped of their usual chaos. No voices, no footsteps, just the hum of vents and the echo of Bucky’s shoes as he dragged himself down the corridor. His jacket hung loose in his hand, his whole body weighted with exhaustion.

All he wanted was to collapse into his chair, stare at the tiny heart you’d doodled at the bottom of your exam, and figure out how he was supposed to survive never having you again.

But when he pushed his office door open—

You were already there.

Sitting in his chair, knees tucked under you, claw clip in your hair, exam bluebooks stacked neatly in front of you.

You looked up with a grin that stole his breath. “Oh my god, I thought you’d never get here. I was dying waiting for you to grade those.

Bucky froze in the doorway, heart slamming against his ribs. “…What are you doing here?” He walked a couple more steps into his office and closed the door behind him.

You shrugged, spinning lazily in his chair. “I figured you’d come back. Thought I’d keep you company while you, y’know, put me out of my misery.” You gestured at the stack of exams. “Tell me if I aced it or not.”

His throat worked, finally. “Y/N…”

You tilted your head, eyes glinting. “I think I did pretty well, but.. You never know.”

The air thickened, heavy with everything unsaid — your heart on the page, his username burned into memory, a semester’s worth of restraint trembling on the edge, all of the nights both of you got off together separately.

And then you stood. Slow. Deliberate. Steps closing the distance between you until he could smell the sweetness of your perfume beneath your sweater.

“I’m not your student anymore,” you whispered. Your voice was low, heavy like a hungry jaguar circling its prey. “And my research? Already submitted.” You smiled faintly, wickedly. “Publishable, you said. So I don’t have to be in the lab under you anymore…”

Your hands pressed to his chest, firm enough to guide him back until the back of his knees hit the armchair. He dropped into it with a low grunt, too stunned to resist.

“…I can just be here.” You straddled him with a smooth swing of your leg, skirt flaring as you settled into his lap. Your voice dropped even more, sultry, familiar in a way that made him throb instantly. “…On top of you instead.”

His hands clamped hard to the armrests, knuckles white, every nerve in his body screaming. “Jesus Christ,” he rasped, eyes devouring you.

You giggled, lips grazing his jaw. “Relax. Not breaking the rules now.” You put his hands on your hips. "Y'can touch me."

That snapped him. His grip shifted, palms seizing on your hips, dragging you flush to the thick length straining against his slacks. You gasped, your fingers curling in his shirt, working on the buttons while he captures your lips in a kiss that answered your question from months ago, how good Brooklyn_1917 would be in bed.

His voice was wrecked, raw. “You have any idea what you’ve done to me all semester? Sitting there in my class, raising your hand, looking so damn perfect while I was trying not to think about how you sounded moaning my name?”

You whimpered, rolling your hips against him. “I thought about you too. Every time. Wanted you so bad.” More buttons undone and your nails scraped the skin on his chest.

He groaned, hand snapping up to grip your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Don’t answer. Just—fuck.” His mouth crashed against yours, hungry, weeks of restraint devoured in a single kiss.

Your moan vibrated against his tongue, your grind desperate against the hard line of his cock.

He tore his mouth away, panting. “Up. Take it off.” You lifted your arms and your sweater was tugged overhead. He helped, impatient, hands roaming every inch of bare skin he revealed.

“God, look at you,” he muttered, kissing down your throat, biting just enough to make you whine. “Smartest girl in the room. My perfect student. And now you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, grinding down.

His fingers slipped between your thighs, finding you slick. You cried out, clutching his shoulders as he teased your clit. “Already wet for me,” he groaned, sliding two fingers inside, curling them expertly. “Knew you would be. Always so eager to please, huh? Just like in class.” God, if only he could bottle up your breathless little gasps.

“Y-yes, Professor—”

He growled low in his chest, pumping harder. “Not your professor anymore. Say my name.”

“Bucky,” you moaned, back arching. “Bucky—please, more—”

“That’s it.” He kissed you hard again, filthy praise spilling between your mouths. “Good girl. That’s my girl.”

You clenched, trembling, chasing his hand while you undid his belt and fly—until he pulled away, pulling at his slacks with a curse. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, leaking at the tip.

Your eyes widened, pupils blown. “Please.”

He lined himself up, dragging the head through your slick before pulling you down slow. Both of you gasped as he filled you, the stretch perfect, obscene, and the sting of him would haunt the deepest parts of your brain forever.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel even better than I dreamed.”

You whimpered, rocking against him, nails raking his shoulders. “Can I move, please—need you—”

And then moved you on him, hands on your hip and thigh, controlling the way you rocked back and forth on his cock. Hard. Deep. Each thrust rattled the chair, your cries swallowed by his mouth as he fucked up into you like he’d been waiting for it forever.

“That’s it,” he panted, snapping his hips. “Take it. My good girl, taking me so well.”

“Bucky—oh my god—” It was a mixture of whine and moan, something quiet to not draw attention to his office but so loud in his head you might as well have been screaming for him.

“Say it.”

“I’m your good girl,” you gasped, clutching him tighter. “I’m your good girl—”

The chair groaned under the force of his thrusts, your body bouncing in his lap, the wet slap of skin filling the quiet of his office.

Bucky’s jaw was tight, sweat running down his temple. He’d spent months denying himself this, months tearing himself apart every time you walked into class, brilliant and untouchable. Now you were wrapped around his cock, and he was drowning in you.

“Fuck—” he growled, teeth grazing your throat. “I can’t—I need you somewhere else—”

Before you could ask, his hands locked under your thighs. With one guttural grunt, he stood, lifting you easily, still buried deep inside.

You gasped, arms flying around his neck, the sudden shift making your walls squeeze tight around him. “Oh—oh my god—”

“Hold on,” he rasped, stalking across the room.

The desk loomed — polished mahogany, neat stacks of papers shoved aside with one sweep of his forearm. He laid you out flat, never pulling out, the wood cool against your back as his body pressed you down.

Then he drew back and slammed home, cock splitting you open deeper than before. You cried out, legs flying up to hook around his waist.

“Bucky!”

“That’s it,” he grunted, pounding into you, desk creaking under the force. His hand braced against the edge, the other gripping your jaw so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. “Look at me while I fuck you. You’re mine now. You hear me? Mine.”

“Yes—yours—” you sobbed, every thrust rattling through you.

He bent his head, sucking your nipple into his mouth, tugging it until you squealed, then soothing it with his tongue. “Taste so good,” he groaned against your skin. “Could spend all night worshipping you.”

He groaned, snapping harder, the rhythm brutal and perfect. “God, you feel so good. So fucking tight, spread out on my desk taking my cock like you were made for it.”

Your nails clawed the polished wood, your body arching as his thumb found your clit, ruthless and precise. “Please—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he ordered, hips slamming into you. “Cum for me. Cum all over my desk.”

Your moan broke, body convulsing around him, pulsing and clenching so hard he saw stars. He drove into you harder, groaning against your throat, "Fuck- where do you-"

"Inside. Please, come inside of-" And before you could even finish your sentence he was spilling deep inside, grinding you down to take every drop.

The office filled with ragged breaths, your limp body draped against his desk, his cock still buried deep inside while he was over you. He kissed your temple, whispering hoarse and quietly. “Good girl. My perfect girl.”

You smiled, dazed, glowing. “Told you… I thrive on your praise.”

His laugh was hoarse, wrecked. He tugged you forward and fell back on his office chair, you sitting on his lap like a prized possession while he savored the weight of you, the ache in his muscles, the dizzying relief of finally touching you.

Neither of you moved.

You just looked at each other.

Your breath was uneven, lashes damp, lips kiss-swollen. But your eyes—soft, glassy, certain—never wavered from his.

Bucky’s hand trembled where it held your waist, thumb stroking without him realizing. He’d fucked you like a man starved, spilled inside you like he’d been waiting his whole damn life—but this part, this silence, was what finally undid him.

Because you weren’t just some fantasy behind a screen anymore. You weren’t just the brilliant girl in the front row. You were real, warm, in his lap, still clenching faintly around him.

And you wanted him. His chest ached with it.

“Y/N,” he rasped, voice hoarse, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea what this means?”

You tilted your head, a slow smile curving your lips. “That you’re mine now?”

His jaw flexed, a laugh catching in his throat. God, you were still teasing—still insatiable. But there was heat in your gaze, too. Something that matched the weight in his chest.

“I can’t… go back,” he admitted, voice low, raw. His forehead touched yours, his breath mingling with yours. “Not after this.”

Your fingers trailed up his chest, nails grazing lightly. “Good.” You kissed him soft, lingering, before whispering against his mouth. “Because I don’t want you to.”

The words sank in, heavy and final, and the reality of it hit him square in the chest. This wasn’t just some release after months of restraint. It was everything.

And even with your body still trembling against him, even with his cock still buried inside you, you shifted in his lap, rolling your hips with a needy little moan.

“Still hard,” you whispered, eyes glinting, wicked and sweet all at once. Bucky’s jaw dropped, his laugh breaking on a groan as you clenched around him again, on purpose this time.

And then — buzz. Your phone lit up on his desk, screen glowing.

You stretched an arm, still lazily perched on his cock, and grabbed it. Your eyes flicked down — and then your whole face lit up.

“Yay!” you chirped, bouncing happily in his lap.

Bucky groaned, head tipping back as the sudden movement clenched around him. “Sweetheart—”

“The registrar approved my enrollment!” you beamed, waving the phone like proof. “I got into your cancer biology class!”

He froze. Then tipped his head back with a guttural groan that was half-despair, half-disbelief. “Aw, c’mon.”

You giggled, kissing him quick, playful, your hips still shifting against him just to watch him squirm. “What? You said I’m your perfect girl. Guess you’re stuck with me another semester, Professor.”

He pinched your hip, narrowing his eyes even as the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You nipped his jaw, grinning. “Mmm… more like keep you alive.”

The chair creaked beneath you, his cock still pulsing inside, your laughter bubbling into his chest.

And Bucky thought, not for the first time — you really might be the end of him.

The campus walkway blurred around you. Students swarmed between buildings, clutching textbooks and coffee cups, laughter carrying on the crisp air.

You moved through it like you were underwater.

Every step felt heavy, every sound too sharp — the slam of a door, the squeal of a bike brake, someone’s laughter behind you. Normally you’d have been reviewing your notes on your phone, earbuds in, already prepping for physics. Instead, your mind replayed the same flashing loop.

Blurred images of what Professor Barnes looked like jerking off to your streams every week.

Did he know? Had he made the connection? He kept showing up to your streams and still tipped generously, he wouldn't do that if he knew, right? He wouldn't bait you to make you tell the world of your most impure thoughts you've had about him...

Except he would.

Your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t breathe deep enough. The ground tilted when you reached the physics building, and you had to pause, pressing your palm flat to the wall before stepping inside, clutching your backpack like it might anchor you. Your heart was pounding so loud it almost drowned out the blood rushing in your ears.

The room smelled faintly of dry erase markers and dust. Peter was already there, waving you over with his usual eager grin. “Hey! Saved you a seat.”

You dropped into it, your bag sliding down with a heavy thump, and he glanced at you curiously. “Everything okay? You look…” He tilted his head, frowning. “…kinda zoned out.”

You blinked at him, lips parting. Zoned out? That was one way to put it. How were you supposed to explain that your molecular biology professor — the one you admired, the one you wanted to impress more than anyone — had been watching you spread your legs on camera all summer?

Your laugh came out brittle. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

Peter raised a brow. “Tired as in, stayed up late studying?”

You flushed, stomach twisting. If only he knew.

Professor Banner started droning at the front of the room, equations scrawling across the whiteboard, but the symbols swam in your vision. All you could see was Bucky’s office. His jacket slung over the chair. His laptop still glowing.

Peter nudged you, whispering, “Hey. Seriously. You sure you’re okay?” He glanced over your empty Google doc, which would usually be filled with in-class notes by now.

You forced your eyes back to the board, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Just—brain fog. Should've drank more caffeine.”

But your thoughts wouldn’t settle. They spiraled and spiraled.

He knows your body better than anyone on campus, and he doesn’t even know you know.

You can’t tell Wanda, she’ll flip.

He heard you cry. He heard you beg.

And tomorrow, you’ll sit in his class again like nothing happened.

Fuck.

You're expected to sit in class like you haven't been taking orders from him all summer and letting him edge you, tell you how to touch yourself, how to cum.

Your fingers were frozen hovering over the laptop keyboard, not a single thought that didn't involve Bucky swimming in your mind. You felt the damn butterflies again, and this time it felt like they were fighting to get out like a caged feral cat.

Peter frowned, whispering again, “You’ve never zoned out like this. You usually make me feel dumb with your perfect notes.”

You swallowed hard, managing a thin smile. “Guess today’s your lucky day.”

But inside, your pulse thundered. The secret roared too loud to ignore.

The class ended in a blur, and you gave Peter and Sharon an excuse of a tummy ache to get back to your dorm quicker. When you made it, you dropped your bag and paced the length of your tiny dorm room, nails digging into your palms.

God, if Wanda ever found out— If anyone ever found out—

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, groaning.

You weren’t mad. You weren’t even really scared. You were… spinning. Caught between humiliation, thrill, disbelief. Every time you replayed one of his lectures in your head, the timbre of his voice twisted with the memory of his typed words glowing on your screen.

“Stop hurting yourself, baby. Cum for me. Right now.”

Your stomach flipped. Your thighs clenched. You sat hard on the edge of your bed, covering your mouth to muffle the noise threatening to break out of you. Because saying it out loud would make it real — and you weren’t ready for that.

So instead, you folded in on yourself, let the secret dig deeper, a shard of glass you couldn’t spit out.

And tomorrow, you’d still walk into class. Sit front row. Open your notebook. Pretend your professor wasn’t the man who’d been getting you off all summer.

And in an attempt to keep yourself from swirling into insanity, you focused on lab work, research, the thing that you started this cam business for: your future. You tried to keep the streams going, but every time you logged on you found yourself anticipating for Bucky to join more and more, and that was wrong.

You weren't about to spit where you eat. But God did you want to spit on his c-

Bucky sat at his desk in the dark, laptop open to the streaming site. The baby pink glow of the interface lit his face as he refreshed the page.

No new stream.

Not tonight. Not last night. Not the week before.

Two weeks. Two weeks of your hand up in the air in class, of you doing more experiments than grad students in his lab, bringing in mountains of data to go through every single day, acing lab reports making it hard for him to be nonchalant about your brain or anything else about you.

The lab was nearly empty, the hum of incubators and the faint whir of the centrifuge filling the silence. Outside, the campus was dark, streetlamps casting long shadows through the window.

You were bent over your bench, goggles crooked on your head, pipette steady as you measured out samples. The late-night hours always made you hum under your breath, soft little tunes that kept you focused.

Focused on anything except his presence in the same cramped lab.

Bucky stood a few feet away, pretending to sort through a stack of articles, but really he was just… watching.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw clenched when you pushed your goggles up with the back of your wrist, or the way his chest tightened when you muttered softly, “Fifteen more minutes, c’mon…” like you were coaxing the experiment to life.

He walked over and leaned in slightly, eyes skimming over your notebook. “Your data’s clean. You’ll be able to replicate it.”

It should’ve been simple feedback. Professional. Neutral. But his tone snagged something inside you — the same tone he’d used once in a chat box, tipping you after you’d begged yourself raw.

Your thighs pressed together under your lab coat. Your throat went dry.

He held your gaze a second too long. His mouth parted, just barely. Then he looked away, scribbling something in the margins of a paper that didn’t need his attention, walking back to his stool to stare at spreadsheets from his grad students on his work laptop.

And so the next couple of weeks went by like that.

His jaw flexed, hand tightening around the glass of whiskey beside him. He told himself he didn’t care. That you we're just some camgirl he’d stumbled on. That it didn’t matter if you came back or not.

But the hollow ache in his chest said otherwise.

He found himself scrolling through your archived streams, replaying snippets just to hear your voice—the breathless whines, the soft moans, the way you gasped Brooklyn like it meant everything.

And then, every damn morning, he walked into class and there you were: front row, middle seat, notebooks color-coded, hand always raised. Oblivious. Untouchable.

You laughed with Wanda in the hallways, argued passionately in lab, brought him annotated papers for research, and presented pristine sets of data that if he hadn't been there when you thoroughly collected them, he'd think they weren't real.

And he sat there behind the safety of his title, acting like nothing was wrong, while inside he was unraveling.

Each night he logged back in, hoping. And each night, nothing.

He caught himself staring too long sometimes. The way your hand hovered in the air, impatient. The way your lips pressed into a pout when he ignored you. The way you chewed your pen cap when you were deep in thought.

And you were everywhere. Library in a study room if he was just borrowing a book for some diagram copies? There. Lab late at night? There. Deep inside his brain when he was trying to sleep but kept picturing bending you over his mahogany desk and ripping your tights in half? Also there. Definitely there.

All of it dragged him back to those nights online. To the way you squirmed for him, begged for him, called him Professor without even knowing.

Now he couldn’t get that fix. Couldn’t hear you whisper filth into your mic. All he got was the sharp, eager student version of you—polished, professional, relentless in your brilliance.

And it was driving him insane.

A couple nights later, he refreshed the page again. Still nothing. His username—Brooklyn_1917—sat at the top of the screen, mocking him.

“C’mon, doll,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. “Where the hell are you?”

The site was quiet. His apartment was quieter. And for the first time all semester, Professor Barnes realized he’d gotten addicted. Not just to the streams. Not just to the fantasy.

To you.

You were hunched over your bench, gloved hands steady as you labeled petri dishes, when Bucky’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Y/N.” You looked up, heart leaping when you saw him standing there with a stack of printouts. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was something sharp in his eyes.

He set the papers down beside you, tapping the top page. “I’ve been running the preliminary data from your MRSA assays.”

You straightened, tugging your gloves off. “And?”

He studied you for a moment, then said, “If the replication holds, this could be publishable. We’d need to rerun everything—double, triple, more. But the pattern’s there.”

Your jaw dropped. “Publishable?”

“Potentially,” he said gruffly, like it wasn’t a big deal. But his lips twitched when he saw your face light up.

You bounced on your toes, practically vibrating. “Oh my god. Oh my god. This—Professor, this is—” You bit back a squeal, trying to compose yourself, but your grin gave you away.

He raised a brow. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We need clean replication, every time. Start fresh with a new batch tomorrow.”

“Of course,” you nodded rapidly, already pulling your planner toward you. “I’ll get started right away. Thank you, Professor. Really.”

He grunted, turning away, but the tightness in his chest stayed long after he left the lab.

The lounge was quiet that morning, sunlight pouring through the big windows. Wanda was curled up on the couch with a mug of tea, flipping through her psych notes when you practically burst through the door, notebook clutched to your chest.

“Wandaaaaa!”

She looked up, startled, then smirked when she saw your face. “Okay, what’s got you all sunshine and rainbows before nine a.m.?”

You plopped down beside her, bouncing on the cushion. “Barnes said… my project might be publishable.”

Her eyes went wide. “Wait—like, in an actual journal?”

You nodded furiously, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “Yes! He said the data looks promising, and if I replicate it enough times, we could submit. Can you imagine? An undergrad publication? That would look amazing on my applications.”

Wanda let out a laugh, wrapping an arm around you. “Oh my god, Y/N, that’s huge! No wonder you’re glowing like you just got laid.”

You smacked her arm playfully. “Shut up. This is serious!”

She giggled, sipping her tea. “I know, I know. I’m proud of you, little psycho. All that color-coded madness actually paid off.”

You flopped back against the couch, still buzzing. “I can’t believe it. All those late nights, all the work—it’s actually working.”

Wanda gave you a sly look over her mug. “Mhm. Well, don’t forget to thank Mr. Brooklyn in your prayers tonight. Seems like both your professors are keeping you real motivated.”

Your face heated instantly. “Wanda!” You've been trying so hard to be good and not think about him like that. You haven't even gotten onto your stream in a few weeks.

She laughed, stretching out her legs. “What? I’m just saying—maybe he was right all along, calling you his good girl.”

You groaned, burying your face in your notebook to hide your smile. But deep down, you knew she wasn’t wrong.

The bar smelled like spilled beer and fried food, sticky under your shoes as you and your friends squeezed into a booth. Neon lights buzzed overhead, the music loud enough to blur the chatter into a constant hum.

Sharon returned triumphantly with a tray of shots, slamming it onto the table hard enough that liquid sloshed over the rims. “Shots!”

You laughed, cheeks already warm from the gin cocktail Wanda had insisted you chug earlier, and grabbed one. The tequila burned down your throat, heat curling in your chest as Peter made a face across from you.

“I like drunk Y/N,” he said, wagging a finger at you like he’d discovered something. “Way less terrifying when you’re not reciting metabolic pathways at me.”

You gasped in mock offense, swatting his hand. “Shut up. I’m fun.”

“Fun,” Wanda echoed, smirking as she sipped her drink. “Fun and tipsy. Wonder what your precious Professor Barnes would say if he saw you like this.”

Her words hit harder than they should have. You rolled your eyes dramatically, though the sting stayed lodged under your ribs. “He wouldn’t care. He doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

The words slipped out too fast, too raw.

Wanda’s brows shot up. Sharon let out a low whistle. Peter blinked between you all, catching on slowly.

“Ohhh,” Wanda drawled, grinning wickedly. “So that’s why we’re here. Our golden girl’s feeling neglected. Professor’s pet isn’t getting her fix of praise.” She pouted, lovingly teasing you.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughing anyway. “You guys are the worst.”

But inside? The words ached.

For weeks you’d been flawless. Notes color-coded, assays perfect, reports meticulous. Normally he gave you curt nods, the clipped “good work” that you lived for. Little scraps of approval you tucked away like treasure.

But lately? Nothing.

In lecture, he skipped over your raised hand like you weren’t even there. In lab, he breezed past your bench without so much as a glance. Your last office hour, he cut short after ten minutes, muttering something about a meeting that probably didn’t exist.

And you couldn’t figure out why.

Wasn’t he the professor who demanded more? Who pushed harder, who seemed to respect you most when you chased him down with questions? So why was he pulling away now, when you were giving him your best?

You downed another shot, warmth spreading under your skin, drowning out the sharp edge of your thoughts.

“Whatever,” you said, louder this time, shaking your head. “Tonight, I don’t care. Tonight I’m just… me.”

Wanda raised her glass. “To you.”

You clinked it, laughing, but inside your chest, the ache throbbed on.

Bucky nursed his beer at a corner booth, the condensation dripping down his fingers. Steve sat across from him, arms folded as Sam launched into another rant about clueless advisees. Nat was perched beside Bucky with her whiskey, sharp smile flashing whenever Sam got particularly dramatic.

Faculty happy hour. A ritual.

Bucky was half-listening, his mind miles away, when his gaze snagged across the bar.

And there you were.

Tipsy, hair falling loose around your face, laughter spilling unguarded as Wanda leaned into your side. Peter flailed through a dance move that made you snort into your drink, Sharon recording the whole mess with her phone.

Your smile hit him like a punch. Bright, free, a version of you he’d never seen under the harsh fluorescents of the lab. Could only dream of it through the streams.

His chest tightened, grip flexing on his glass. Christ.

Steve followed his line of sight, brow lifting. “Isn’t that one of yours?”

Bucky tore his eyes away, jaw taut. “…Yeah. Looks like it.”

Sam grinned, catching on instantly. “Well, well. Barnes’ star pupil’s got a wild side.”

Nat swirled her whiskey, smirking. “Careful, professor. Students aren’t supposed to see you outside the classroom.”

But then you saw him.

Across the crowded bar, your eyes locked with his. For a moment, your grin faltered — surprise flickering, softening your glow.

His stomach dropped.

You stumbled back from the bar with another round, Wanda giggling, Peter mid-rant about organic chem, Sharon cackling behind her phone. You plopped the drinks down with clumsy triumph, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

“This one’s mine,” you declared, grabbing a neon cocktail and slurping noisily through the straw.

Bucky tried to focus back on Steve, on Sam, but every nerve in him tracked you across the room.

When he finally stood at the bar to order another drink, he didn’t notice you had drifted over until you slid into the empty stool beside him.

“Professor,” you sing-songed, voice syrupy-sweet with tipsy boldness.

He stiffened, turning slowly. “Y/N.” Accidentally spilling a little bit of his drink in surprise. You leaned over the bar and snagged a napkin from behind the counter, giving it to him to wipe it down.

You leaned your elbow on the counter, blinking up at him through heavy lashes. Then you said it — the exact line, soft and blurred with drink, that had once slipped out of his headphones in the dead of night.

“You know me…” You paused for dramatic effect, straw dangling from your fingers. “... I’m always prepared.”

His blood ran cold. His eyes went wide.

You gasped in mock offense, slapping the counter. “Ohhh my god. I knew it!”

“Y/N—” His voice was low, desperate, but you were already giggling, waving a floppy hand.

“Relax,” you slurred, leaning closer, your hair brushing his sleeve. “I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

He froze, breath caught in his chest.

Then you tilted your head, looking right into him with that dreamy, dazed look — cheeks flushed, eyes shining. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the bar dissolved.

“…You’re my favorite, you know.” you whispered, like a secret slipping free, softer than the music thumping around you.

Bucky’s throat went dry, chest clenching hard enough to hurt.

But before he could even find words, you giggled again, pushed off the stool, and tottered back toward Wanda and Peter, neon drink in hand.

“Gotta finish my drink,” you chirped over your shoulder.

And he was left standing there, pulse hammering, the world tilted on its axis.

The night air was damp, cool against your flushed cheeks. The bar’s neon glow bled onto the sidewalk, pink and green reflected in puddles near the curb. You stood near the lamppost, swaying a little, phone clutched in your hand as the Uber app spun uselessly.

“Two minutes away,” you muttered to yourself, staring at the little car icon inching along. Behind you, the door creaked open. Boots scuffed against concrete.

“Y/N.” His voice — deep, gravelly, unmistakable.

You turned and Professor Barnes stood there, jacket thrown over one shoulder, shoulders tense, blue eyes fixed on you with something caught between panic and restraint.

“Professor,” you said softly, smiling a little, tipsy warmth curling through you. “Fancy seeing you out here.”

He frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here alone this late.”

You giggled, holding up your phone. “Relax. I’m waiting for an Uber.” You tilted your head, squinting at him. “You’re all… serious. You always are.”

His jaw clenched. “Y/N—about what you said inside—”

You cut him off with a little sigh, leaning back against the lamppost. “I get it. Why you avoid me.” Your voice dropped, quieter, honest in a way that sobered the air. “I mean… it makes sense. But it makes me sad, too. Because I…” Your throat tightened. “I really like when you notice me.”

You looked up at him through glazed eyes, dreamy and unguarded. “I know why you’re pulling away. And it’s okay.” You smiled faintly, a crooked, tipsy curve. “I just wish… I didn’t make you look away.”

He swallowed hard, the lamplight catching on the silver at his temples. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure I do.” Swaying closer, your perfume cutting through the sharp night air, your eyes glinting with mischief and softness all at once.

You leaned back against the lamppost, phone buzzing faintly in your hand. “That’s my ride,” you murmured, glancing at the screen. Then your gaze slid back to him, soft, unguarded. 

And before he could find words — before he could beg you not to look at him like that — headlights swept the curb. You giggled, tugging the car door open, tossing him a last smile over your shoulder.

“See you in class.” The car pulled away, taillights glowing red in the damp dark. Bucky stood frozen on the sidewalk, fists clenching, heart hammering.

Because you knew.

It was almost like the bar never happened.

Almost.

When you raised your hand in class, Professor Barnes actually called on you again. His “good work” was clipped as ever, but it was there, and you found yourself sitting straighter, smiling faintly as you scribbled notes.

He’d stopped skipping over you. Stopped cutting you out.

And God, the relief stung.

By the time lecture ended, you were already at his desk with your planner open. “Professor? I had a thought about how to frame the methods section for our assay. Do you think we should include the failed runs, or just the clean data?”

He glanced up at you, pen paused mid-mark. For a second, the silence stretched too long, his jaw flexing like he was biting something back. Then he cleared his throat, steady again. “Include them. Transparency strengthens the results.”

You nodded, jotting it down in your neat, looping script. “Got it.”

It felt almost normal again.

The rhythm of the lab returned too — or at least, it looked like it had. You were there early, gloves snapped on, assays prepped ahead of schedule. He hovered near your bench more than the others, asking for your input, letting you walk him through your data sheets before giving a sharp nod of approval.

It should’ve felt like the old pattern, back when you craved those nods like oxygen.

And Bucky?

He’d told himself he could stop. He had to stop. It was over — the streams, the tips, the late-night voice spilling from his laptop. He had his student in front of him every day. That was enough.

But at night, when the lab was quiet and his apartment darker still, he’d sit on the edge of his bed with his laptop closed tight, hands fisted in the sheets, fighting the itch under his skin.

He’d imagine your soft voice whispering into your mic, the pink glow behind you, the toys laid out like instruments. He’d remember the way you sighed in the bar, tipsy and loose — I just wish I didn’t make you look away.

And it was torture.

Because every night he didn’t log in, the wanting grew heavier. And every morning, when you walked into lecture with your color-coded notes and eager eyes, pretending nothing had changed…

…it was harder and harder to pretend he didn’t want to watch you all over again.

The hallway was silent except for the hum of the vending machine and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Bucky stood outside Sam’s door for a long beat, folder clutched like it weighed fifty pounds. Finally, he tapped his knuckles twice.

“Come in,” Sam called, voice distracted.

Inside, his office was warm, messy in a lived-in way. Books stacked in uneven towers, a potted plant drooping in the corner, a photo of his family on the shelf. Sam sat behind his desk, typing furiously, glasses perched low on his nose.

“Barnes,” he said without looking up. “Don’t tell me you failed half your class already. Finals aren’t for a few weeks.”

“Cut it out,” Bucky muttered. He shut the door firmly, shoulders hunched, then dropped into the chair across from Sam. He shoved the folder onto the desk like it was classified intel. “I need you to take one of my students into your lab.”

That got Sam’s attention. He looked up slowly, eyes narrowing. “You?” His lips curled. “Hand off a research kid? Since when?”

Bucky didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on some spot over Sam’s shoulder. Sam leaned back, arms crossing. A grin crept across his face. “Alright, who is it?”

Bucky exhaled sharply. “…Y/N.”

Sam’s brows shot up. “Y/N? The one who sits front row and knows all your answers before you even ask the damn question? The golden child?”

Bucky shifted in his chair, staring at the floor. “Yeah.”

Sam whistled low. “Damn. What’d she do, outsmart you? Make a meme about you on TikTok?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “She… knows something about me.”

Sam’s eyes lit up, leaning forward like he was about to settle into a movie. “Ohhhh, now it’s spicy. What kind of something? You kill a guy in the parking lot and she saw? You got a secret family in Jersey?”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “It’s not like that.”

Sam rested his chin on his hand, smirk widening. “Then spill. You’re acting like she’s got blackmail material on you.”

Silence.

Finally, Bucky muttered, “…She knows I’m Brooklyn_1917.”

Sam blinked. “The hell is that? Some underground poker alias? Your gamer tag?”

Bucky’s voice was gravel. “…It’s my username.”

Sam squinted. “On what?”

Bucky rubbed his face harder. “…On a site.”

Now Sam was grinning like a wolf. “A site. Uh-huh. Go on.”

Bucky’s words were barely audible. “A cam site.”

Sam blinked again. Then his grin split wide. “Ohhhhh shit. Wait. You’re telling me… Mister 1.2 on RateMyProfessor… spends his nights tipping camgirls under Brooklyn_1917?”

“It's not girls as in multiple... Just...” Bucky hissed, shoulders tense.

Sam slapped his desk, laughing so hard his chair squeaked. “I cannot believe this. Barnes, you’ve been jerking it to a username all semester?”

Bucky flushed scarlet. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, it’s exactly like that.” Sam wheezed, wiping tears. “Let me guess—she found out? That’s why you’re in here looking like you swallowed a grenade?”

“…Yeah.”

Sam shook his head, still chuckling. “Goddamn. I knew you were intense, but this? Next level.”

Bucky leaned forward, snapping, “Are you gonna help me or not?”

Sam leaned back, steepling his fingers like a smug king. “Depends. What’s in it for me?”

“Sam—”

“Relax,” Sam cut him off. “I’ll take her. She’s sharp, she’ll kill it in my lab. But Barnes?” He grinned, merciless. “You owe me. Big time. And I am never letting you live down that your camgirl crush turned out to be your best student.”

Bucky stood abruptly, hands shoved into his pockets. “Fuck you.”

Sam raised his glass of water in salute. “Don’t worry, man. You’ve already fucked yourself.”

Bucky stormed out, Sam’s laughter echoing down the hall.

The research lab was hushed, your bench was as neat as ever — pipette boxes stacked, notes spread in clean lines, printouts highlighted within an inch of their life. Your hair was tied back, goggles perched on your head, the sleeve of your lab coat smudged faintly with graphite from where you’d leaned on your notes.

Bucky lingered at the doorway, throat tight. “Y/N.”

You looked up, startled for a moment, then smiled brightly. “Professor.”

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, jaw flexing. “I think it’s best if you go work under a different professor. I talked to Wilson. He’s willing to oversee your project.”

The smile slipped, brows knitting. “…Okay, but I don’t wanna work under him. I wanna work under you.”

The pun wasn’t lost on him. It landed like a punch in his chest. He looked down, muttering, “You know why I’m saying this.”

You tilted your head, lips quirking as the pieces fit together. “Yeah...”

His breath caught. “Yeah.”

You leaned back against the bench, folding your arms. Calm. Certain. “Then just stop watching the stream. It’s fine. Do you want me to block you, is that it?”

Bucky froze. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. He’d braced for panic, maybe anger, definitely embarrassment. Not this... even, matter-of-fact tone.

You shrugged, gaze steady. “Look, I need your brain to be the one that guides this. Please? You’re literally the smartest person in this building, and I’m not just saying that because you’ve seen me shove a dildo up my—”

His hand shot out, clapping over your mouth. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, eyes darting wildly to the empty corners of the lab. “Don't be so loud.”

You dissolved into giggles behind his palm, eyes sparkling with mischief. Slowly, he lowered his hand, face flushed, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“Chill out,” you teased softly. “I'm not telling anyone. Promise.”

Before he could recover, you flipped open your notebook and slid it toward him. “Can you look at these data points? I think the standard deviations are too high.”

He stared, dumbfounded. Whiplash roaring through him — one second you’re casually acknowledging the filthiest thing about him, the next you’re all business, pencil tapping the page, waiting for his analysis.

You looked at him expectantly, voice bright, professional. “So? Do we rerun it, or is the deviation acceptable?”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “I’m in so much fucking trouble.”

But he leaned over your notebook anyway, because of course he did.

“The research assistant position,” you said, grinning. “Professor Barnes said I can start next week in his lab.” Your smile was beaming. You'd think you won the lottery, not a ticket to academic guillotine.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Peter groaned, dramatically dropping his highlighter. “You’re insane. Absolutely clinically insane. You should be in a padded room on a grippy sock vacation.”

Wanda threw a pillow at you. “What the hell, Y/N? We’re all here trying to survive his class, and you want extra time with him? Are you feverish?”

Sharon furrowed her brows, not understanding why you'd put yourself through such medieval torture. “You volunteered to work under Barnes? The same Barnes who assigns three chapters per lecture and looks like he could kill you with a pipette?”

You shrugged, still buzzing with excitement. “He can't be worse than our chemistry prof last semester—"

Wanda interrupted you. "Her RateMyProfessor was a solid 1.5. Your knight in a shining lab coat is lower than her."

Your just kept going, glaring at her. "It’s a good opportunity! Hands-on work, resume builder, actual lab experience with resistance testing. Do you know how rare that is for undergrads?”

Wanda sat up, pointing accusingly. “No, see, you’re saying words like ‘resume builder’ when the rest of us are just trying not to cry in his lab practicals. You’re built different.”

Peter clutched his chest like you’d wounded him personally. “I barely survived his lecture today, and you’re like, ‘Yes, please, drill me with more cellular pathways, Professor.’” He even made his voice a little higher, the dipshit.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, first of all, you're so not the one to make fun of somebody for sucking up to a professor Mr. "I'll Do Anything You Need Dr. Stark! Please adopt me!"" And you laughed at the blush that accompanied the eye roll you earned from him. "It’s not that bad. He’s tough, yeah, but he’s… brilliant. Honestly, I kind of like it.”

Sharon gave you a side-eye. “That’s one word for it. Another word is terrifying.”

Wanda smirked, tossing another pillow at you. “Beautiful psychopath. That’s what you are. And when you’re knee-deep in Petri dishes, don’t come crying to me.”

You grinned, clutching your planner tighter. “Fine. But when I’m in med school and you’re all jealous of my publications, I expect groveling.” You looked at your phone to check the time.

Peter groaned again, flopping back onto the floor. “Ugh. Our friend has become Barnes’ chosen one. We’re doomed.”

Wanda just shook her head, laughing. “Yep. Teacher’s pet.”

"Whatever, I gotta go do my physics report but meet you guys at the Beantown for dinner?" You raised a brow in question, and as soon as you got nods of agreement, you walked to the next building over, parked yourself in a nice study room, and typed three entire pages on last weeks experiment about reflection and refraction of waves.

The library was quiet except for the low hum of the copy machine and the rustle of pages. Your table was a mess of color-coded notes, highlighters, and a planner full of deadlines. You were supposed to be reviewing metabolic pathways after you got done with physics— glycolysis, the citric acid cycle — but your concentration had slipped.

Because across the room, at the department copier, stood Professor Barnes.

Sleeves rolled, tie loose, hair pushed back with a little strand falling over his eyes when he bent forward or looked down. A stack of lab assignments rested at his hip as he worked through the machine’s clunky rhythm, pressing buttons with steady, deliberate motions.

Your pen stilled in your hand.

God, he was hot. Not in the way campus boys were — all swagger and cheap cologne — but in a way that made your chest tighten. Yeah, yeah, he was terrifying in a "you can tank my med school application" kind of way, but he wasn't just that.

Solid, sharp, like he carried entire libraries in his head. You told yourself it was admiration, academic, nothing more. You just liked how smart he was. How steady. How every time he lectured, the words clicked like puzzle pieces falling into place.

But sitting there, watching the muscles shift under his shirt as he leaned to pull a fresh stack of papers— Your brain wandered.

You pictured him turning, catching you staring, and instead of frowning the way he sometimes did in class, his mouth would curve slow. Knowing. Like he’d caught you.

You imagined him crossing the space between you, papers forgotten, the strand of hair sliding down a little further. His hand braced against your table, leaning down so close you’d smell the faint trace of coffee and tobacco vanilla cologne clinging to him.

“You’re supposed to be studying,” he’d murmur, low enough for just you. “But all you’re doing is looking at me.”

Your thighs squeezed under the table before you could stop yourself. Heat crawled up your neck, and you shook your head, snapping back to reality.

Across the room, the real Professor Barnes stacked his copies, straightened them with a sharp tap on the counter, and headed toward the exit without a glance your way.

You exhaled hard, forcing your eyes back to your notes.

He was just your professor. Nothing else. Still—your heart thudded against your ribs, traitorous, as if your body knew better.

Bucky, on the other hand, had to make a conscious effort to not glance towards what he felt was the longest someone had stared at him his whole life. He felt hunger, not for food, brewing deep in his chest the more he stayed under your gaze.

When he walked out of the library with 52 individually stapled lab assignments, he felt like he hadn't inhaled a breath of oxygen and nitrogen in 12 minutes.

The pink-purple glow of your LEDs painted you in soft color as you leaned back on the bed, new angle this time, still cutting off at your neck, but now they could see the city glow over your curves as well, pale pink lace clinging to all the right places in a balconette bra and matching thong, slightly deeper pink going in patterns over your crocs and breasts. You’d been talking with the chat for a while, teasing, sliding your fingers lazily over your stomach instead of getting right to the good stuff.

“Mmm, I know, I know,” you laughed, reading the flood of comments. “I’m stalling. But I’ve had such a long week—labs, exams, professors trying to murder us with work…”

The chat blew up.

SweetTooth92: “Skip the school talk, baby, take it off.”

BlueScreen69: “Fuck your professors, bet they’re boring anyway.”

CamBabyDoll98: “Unless one of them’s hot 👀.”

You smirked, biting your lip. “…Okay, so maybe one of them isn’t boring.” You sighed, your mind just went there. To his tie slightly undone, to the way his arm flexed when he grabbed the thick stack of papers out of his bag, to the stern expression on his face most of the time...

The chat went absolutely feral.

SweetTooth92: “WAIT WHAT???”

BlueScreen69: “Tell us more, fuck, just keep talking.”

CamFan9000 tipped $50. “Hot professor fantasy? Don’t hold out.”

You giggled, tucking your hair behind your ear, body arching subtly for the camera. Your hands travelled down to your collarbones, and then your breasts, over the nipples. “I mean… I do have this one professor. He’s…” You trailed off with a dreamy little sigh. “…definitely hot.”

The notifications started pouring in, chat demanding details.

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $75. “What’s he like, doll? Tell us.”

Your stomach fluttered. Brooklyn always knew how to draw things out of you. Always so patient, you'd tell him state secrets if he'd asked for them. You licked your lips, fingers brushing the waistband of your panties.

“He’s… smart. Like, scary smart. Doesn’t even look at notes half the time, just… rattles everything off, nonstop.” Your voice dipped into something softer. “Relentless. He’s strict, too. Intimidating. But…” you shivered, thighs pressing together, “that kind of makes it hot.”

The chat exploded.

BlueScreen69: “Bruh she wants to fuck her prof 😭😭.”

SweetTooth92 tipped $30. “You’re killing me, baby, tell us what you’d do to him.”

Your cheeks heated, and you laughed nervously. “God, you’re all terrible. I can’t believe I’m even saying this out loud.”

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $90. “Say it. Tell us what you want, sweetheart.”

You moaned softly, hand finally slipping beneath your panties, voice growing breathy. “I just… I think about him cornering me in the library late at night... pinning me to the desk. Telling me I have to earn my grades. About him—fuck—making me wait until class is over before he touches me.”

The chat went insane.

BlueScreen69: “HOLY SHIT”

CamBabyDoll98: “YESSS PROFESSOR FANTASY YESSS.”

You gasped as your fingers found your clit, hips lifting slightly. “Mmm, you like that? You like knowing I think ah-bout my professor while I touch myself?”

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $100. “Good girl. Tell us more about what you want him to do to you.”

Across town, Bucky sat stiff in his chair, cock rock-hard in his fist, chest heaving as your words poured out of the laptop speaker. His student. His front row pet. Fantasizing about him live, for everyone to hear. Did you fantasize this way about him all alone too? Did you do it during class?

He stroked faster, gritting his teeth as you whined into the mic. “I want him to bend me over the desk in his office." Now why would you put that image in his head? "Fuck me until I can’t think straight. Make me—ahhh—say ‘thank you, Professor’ with his cock still inside me—”

Bucky groaned, loud, spilling over his fist as your moans filled the air, the chat a wall of unhinged messages.

And you had no idea.

No idea that the professor you were confessing about—strict, intimidating, impossibly hot—was sitting in the dark, watching you come undone, and already thinking about how he’d never look at you the same again.

The board was covered in pathways, signal cascades branching like spiderwebs. Bucky paced at the front, marker in hand, eyes scanning the rows.

“Alright,” he said, voice steady, commanding. “Somebody walk me through the mechanism of action for beta-lactam antibiotics. Don’t all jump at once.”

Your hand shot up immediately, sharp and certain, notebook open in front of you with color-coded notes and neat diagrams. And you didn't even glance down.

He saw it. Of course he saw it.

But his eyes slid right past you. “You,” he pointed to a nervous guy three rows back. “Go ahead.” The poor kid stammered, voice cracking, halfway through before sputtering out. It annoyed Bucky, but, really, it was self inflicted.

Bucky corrected him smoothly, once the kid answered a half-assed attempt at not pissing him off, writing the answer on the board. “Next question. Resistance mechanisms. Anyone?”

Your hand was already back in the air, lips pressed tight in determination. Your eyes were eager to respond, he could see it. Hunger for validation. Validation he couldn't give you just yet.

Bucky’s chest tightened at the sight — the way you leaned forward in your seat, the faint crease between your brows, the spark in your eyes that said pick me, I know this, I’m ready.

He smirked to himself, subtle enough that no one but him would notice. “You. Back row.”

A girl nearly dropped her pen. “Uh—um—efflux pumps? And… altered binding proteins?” She couldn't have stuttered more if she was a character in Billy Madison. Funny though, he didn't ask if she was asking a question back.

“Good,” he said, nodding. “Incomplete, but closer.”

What a dick.

From the corner of his eye, he saw you drop your hand, fussy and frustrated, your lips pressing into a pout. The exact same face he'd imagined you made on stream last week when he tipped enough to not let you cum.

His cock stirred traitorously in his slacks and the hair on the back of his neck stood up a little. He was liking this too much for someone who knew how inappropriate it was to have the reasons he did for doing that to you.

One more. He couldn’t resist.

“Last one,” he said, turning back to the room. “What’s one clinical implication of MRSA resistance?”

Your hand shot up again, eager, practically vibrating with impatience. He could practically hear your voice in his head — whining, breathy, Please, Brooklyn, let me—

He gritted his teeth. “And someone other than Y/N better answer this.”

At least he acknowledged you're not a complete idiot, you thought.

Groans and shuffling spread through the room. No one raised a hand. Not a single voice offered. Except you, arm still high, your brow furrowed, lips parted like come on, I know this, call on me already. God, you were squirming in your seat, just like you squirmed on camera begging for him.

Finally, he let the silence drag long enough, then sighed. “Nobody?” His gaze cut to you at last. “…Fine. Y/N.”

“Oncogenesis,” you snapped, a little sharper than usual. “Uncontrolled cell proliferation and cancer development. Especially when Ras is locked in the ‘on’ state.” The way your voice sounded when you answered sure, out loud, was almost like the sigh of relief he knew you'd let out after denying you orgasms a couple of times.

“Correct.” His mouth twitched as he turned back to the board. “See? Was that so hard?”

The room groaned again. But he didn’t care. Because the only thing he could think about was how much he loved watching you squirm for him — in lecture, in lab, on live.

And how he loved teetering on the edge of impropriety.

The little "ping" on his laptop went off right as he was finishing brushing his teeth, just waiting for you to log on. Soft pink hue illuminating a red lace set tonight, one he could only imagine taking off with his teeth. The chat lit up instantly, usernames scrolling fast, tips chiming in one after another.

“Hey, babies,” you purred, fingers brushing the edge of your thigh. “God, what a week. I swear, I think one of my professors is actually trying to kill us.”

The chat followed suit, several messages here and there, but you only wanted to hear from one guy.

You smirked, tugging your robe off your shoulders. “Oh, he’s hot. Don’t get me wrong. But he’s such a jerk. Like, I raise my hand every single time, and what does he do? Calls on literally everyone else just to watch me squirm. Makes me sit there, all flustered.”

The chat blew up.

CamBabyDoll98: “OHHH SO YOU LIKE HIM.”

BlueScreen69: “FUCKKKKK THAT’S HOT.”

Hard4U: “Tell us more about your mean prof fantasy 👅.”

You bit your lip, letting your hand slip down between your thighs, already slick from just thinking about it. “Mmmm, it’s not even a fantasy, though. He is a jerk. But maybe that’s what makes it hot." You sighed, going to your little dreamland where he fucks you against the floor to ceiling window in his office, at night with the lights on so whoever walks by on the street gets a view. "The way he looks at me when he finally calls on me, like he knows I’m desperate to answer.”

Across town, Bucky sat frozen in front of his laptop, his cock throbbing in his fist, your words tearing through him like fire.

He did know. He did it on purpose. And now you were telling a thousand strangers about it.

The chat tipped like crazy, begging for more, and you slid your panties down, pulling the rose toy into frame.

“Want me to show you what it feels like?” you whispered, pressing it to your clit. Your back arched instantly, a moan spilling into the mic. “Oh, fuck—imagine it’s him—making me wait, making me beg…”

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $90. “You'd beg so pretty for him, wouldn't you?”

You gasped, thighs shaking, hips rocking helplessly. “I want him to bend me over his desk, fuck me until I can’t think straight. Make me—ahhh—say I’m a good girl just for him.”

You shoved the dildo inside, the rose toy buzzing mercilessly, your voice breaking into high-pitched whimpers. “Fuck—oh god, he’s so mean, but he’s so—Professor B—" You had to bite your lip to prevent from saying his name, cutting yourself off mid sentence. "ohhh—fuck, fuck—!”

Your moans filled the mic as you made yourself come, body arching, legs trembling, the toys working you through wave after wave. And in his apartment, Bucky spilled over his fist with a ragged groan, nearly shaking apart at the sound of you moaning that word—Professor—live, loud, raw.

Did you almost say his name? No, couldn't be. He was delirious on desire, not enough blood in his brain, and too much in his cock.

The chat was chaos, spamming tips and hearts, but all Bucky heard was you. And he knew, with bone-deep certainty, he was completely fucked.

After he cleaned up, it was time for his actual job. Grading. Paper after paper of students who almost not but quite grasped the subject, or did and just half-assed (which for him it was almost worse than not comprehending it at all).

Then he hit yours.

Perfect handwriting. Color-coded notes. Every diagram crisp, arrows sharp, explanations thorough. Was that glitter gel fine point pen ink? You’d even cited a paper he hadn’t expected undergrads to know.

He felt his chest tighten. Of course.

He started marking. A missing label here. “A little vague” scrawled next to an otherwise solid answer. A deduction on a perfectly correct diagram because the scale wasn’t labeled.

By the end, your grade was still high—an A- instead of the A+ you’d earned—but lower than it should have been.

He leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. If I let her ace everything, they’ll know. They’ll think I’m giving her special treatment. Christ, Wilson would never let me hear the end of it.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t about Sam. It was about you. About the way your voice sounded on a live stream, breaking into sobs as you came. About the fact that if he let himself, he’d put you on a pedestal no one else could reach. And find his God given solace at an altar he'd build with his own two hands.

So he graded you harder. Because it was the only way he knew how to pretend he wasn’t already compromised.

Two days after that, he passed the papers back, giving out each student their paper face down while he talked about next week's lab. Once you saw your grade, your face fell slightly. You bit your lip, annoyance flickering across your face. It wasn’t wrong, not exactly. But it wasn’t fair, either.

Up at the podium once he was done, Bucky’s gaze snagged on you—front row, brow creased, lips pressed tight. Exactly like when he ignored your raised hand, making you squirm.

He felt blood rush south again. Could he behave like a normal fucking person for once? It's a scowl on your face over being dissatisfied with a grade, it's not like you're pulling up the sweater you have on and flashing him your tits.

But if you were—

He looked away fast, clearing his throat. “If you’re not happy with your grade, my office hours are posted, come by tomorrow between eleven and one. Let's not waste class time arguing.”

Your hand twitched toward the air—then fell back to your notebook. But your cheeks flushed, a stubborn set in your jaw. You were absolutely going to his office hours.

And Bucky knew he’d set himself up for disaster.

Sam leaned back in the booth at the Ghost Light Tavern, sipping his beer with a grin while the bar played every single sport available on four separate TV's that night. “So, Barnes, how many kids dropped already?”

Bucky grunted. “Four.” He stole a fry from Steve's plate and earned a chuckle.

Nat smirked. “Only four? Losing your touch.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “I actually heard the opposite. Couple of my advisees say your class is brutal, yeah, but cool. One of them said you’re the reason she’s even thinking about grad school.”

Sam clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Oh my god. Barnes, inspiring the youth? What’s next—RateMyProfessor rating climbs above a 1.5?”

Nat raised her whiskey. “Don’t jinx it.”

Bucky muttered into his glass, “Still 1.2.”

Sam smirked. “Should be a 0.2. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Bucky rolled his eyes so hard it hurt, taking another bite of his chicken wrap to avoid saying something back.

You clutched your graded exam as you climbed the stairs to Professor Barnes’ office. 10:58am. You weren’t mad, exactly — but you were annoyed. An A- with half a dozen “too vague” marks on answers you knew were right? If you were going to survive this class and work in his research lab, you needed to know what the hell you were doing wrong.

The hallway was quiet, only the hum of the vending machine at the end. His office door was half-open. You knocked lightly at 11am sharp.

“Professor?” Your voice called out anticipating a nonchalant hum full of superiority behind it.

No answer.

You pushed the door a little wider. Empty. The room smelled faintly of coffee and printer toner, the kind of quiet academic space that hummed with late nights and too many deadlines.

His desk was heavy oak, scarred with scratches from years of elbows and paper clips, stacked with uneven piles of journals, lab notebooks, and drafts of research articles. Some were neatly bound, others marked with sharp red slashes of pen.

You hesitated, hovering in the doorway. But that didn't last long. It was office hours.. He wouldn't mind if you waited on the chair across from his for a couple minutes, right?

It felt like ages, while you took in the atmosphere of his office.

On the wall to the left of his chair hung three framed degrees: one from Columbia, one from MIT, and one from a program abroad — his name sharp in calligraphy, “James B. Barnes, Ph.D.” Each frame gleamed like he’d polished them himself. Beside them, a corkboard was pinned with schedules, diagrams of plasmids, and printouts from recent journal articles, the corners curling from thumbtacks.

But there were softer touches too. A photograph of him and Steve, younger, grinning arm-in-arm in front of some conference banner. Another of him and Sam at a faculty event, both mid-laugh with glasses in hand. A smaller frame tucked off to the side showed Natasha perched on the edge of a lab bench, smirking at the camera while Bucky stood beside her in a rare smile.

On the desk itself, amidst the chaos of papers, sat a single photo in a modest frame: a fluffy white cat lounging in a sunbeam.

His chair sat pushed back, his jacket slung across the backrest, sleeves folded in the same sharp roll he always wore to class. A coffee cup balanced on a stack of grading, the ring staining the top page.

And the laptop — still glowing faintly — sat half-hidden behind the clutter. Open, waiting, blue light inviting your eyes in like every other part of the decoration.

Then your eyes flicked to the top right corner of the screen. Gmail. Logged in. Username:

brooklyn_1917

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor so fast you're amazed it didn't leave a hole behind as evidence.

No. No fucking way.

You gripped the exam paper tighter, heart hammering in your chest. It couldn’t be. Couldn’t. But that was for sure a username that was burned into your tongue.

Your brain scrambled, connecting dots you hadn’t wanted to connect. His voice in lecture, sharp and gruff. The way he ignored your hand, made you squirm. The way Brooklyn always knew how to keep you begging, whining, mean in just the right way.

It was him.

Professor Barnes.

Your jerk professor. Your fantasy. Your number-one tipper, the man who bought you Louboutins, the one who made you hold back until you cried.

You sunk deeper into the chair, avoiding looking even into the vicinity of the laptop, the exam paper crumpling in your fist. Heat rushed to your face, your skin prickling, your pulse roaring in your ears.

You hadn’t noticed the footsteps in the hall until he was suddenly there — Bucky, leaning in the doorway with a coffee in one hand, brows knitting when he saw you.

“Something wrong?”

Your head turned and your eyes snapped to his. His gaze was nonchalant, like this was just another session of office hours, with just another student. But you swore you saw the tiniest flicker of recognition.

Your mouth went dry. Words tangled on your tongue.

“No,” you managed finally, voice thinner than you liked. “Just—waiting.” You gestured vaguely at the paper in your hands, knuckles white around it.

His gaze dropped to the crumpled exam, then back up to your face. He moved to sit and sat his coffee down on his desk closing the laptop with one practiced motion.

“Alright,” he said, gesturing to the paper in your hands. “Let’s talk about your grade.”

And your stomach twisted, because now you knew.

And he didn’t know that you knew.

Yet.

The chair felt suddenly too small, the air in his office too heavy. He leaned over the desk a bit, queueing you to lean closer while he pointed all of the spots that, cumulatively, took 7% of your A+, long legs stretched under the desk, sleeves rolled up. He looked every bit the intimidating professor he always did.

Except he wasn't just that now.

You knew exactly how he liked to make you squirm.

“Hands off, good girl. Wait for me.”

“You don’t always get to be ahead.”

“Cum for me, sweetheart. Now.”

“So,” Bucky said, voice low and even, “you wanted to talk about your grade.” He flipped through the pages, pen in hand. “You did well overall. But there were places where your answers were too vague.”

You blinked at him, mouth dry. “Too vague?”

He tapped a section you’d underlined neatly. “Here. You mentioned efflux pumps, but didn’t specify the class of antibiotics they’re most associated with. You’re not wrong, but you didn’t go far enough.”

You stared at the page, his pen tapping just inches from your handwriting, but all you could hear was his voice in your head, guttural and commanding. “Not far enough. Don’t cum yet.”

Your thighs pressed together under the desk, pulse skipping.

“And here,” he continued, flipping another page. “You diagrammed the pathway correctly, but you didn’t label the phosphorylation sites. That’s points off.”

You swallowed, hard. “Right. Phosphorylation sites.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you cleared your throat fast. “I’ll, um, be more specific next time.”

His eyes flicked up at you, sharp, assessing. For a split second, you swore he saw right through you.

“Good,” he said finally, setting the paper down. “That’s the standard I expect in this class.”

You nodded, trying to look serious, professional. But your brain betrayed you again:

“Good girl.”

“Teacher’s pet.”

“Spread your legs in those heels for me.”

You shifted in your seat, heat crawling up your neck. “Anything else?” he asked, tone clipped, bringing you back from your daydream.

You shook your head a little too quickly. “No, Professor. That’s… that’s it.”

He leaned back, studying you for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright. See you in lab.”

You stood too fast, the chair scraping the floor. Your pulse thundered as you grabbed your bag and bolted for the door, muttering a quick, “Thank you.” You tried to get out of that office as fast as you could, which always goes well for someone, so your bag had to get caught in the chair and you bumped the small coffee table that sat in front of the navy blue leather couch. "I'll-" You cleared your throat, with the flush of your cheeks getting even worse. "I'll see you in lab."

By the time you hit the hallway, your heart was pounding like you’d just run a mile, because focusing on your grade had been impossible when all you could think about was what he’d typed to you in the dark.

And worse—you realized now—you wanted to see what else he’d say if you let him keep playing this game.

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You’re perched on Pope’s bed, back and posture stiff, unsure of how to act. Should you even been inside of his room without asking? What if he didn’t want to makeout with you tonight? Are you taking advantage of him? Does he even want to makeout with you at all? 

What are you talking about? He fingered you. If he can shove his fingers in you, he can definitely push his lips to yours… right?  

You drop yourself dramatically onto his bed with a loud groan, your mind racing. What if? Why? Why not? Will he? Won’t he? It won’t stop. 

“You look like a fish out of water.” His familiar voice has you sitting up, eyes wide in shock. 

“Geez,” you huff, embarrassed by the way you were flopping around in his perfectly made bed. Which is now unmade. “I need you to get louder shoes. Ones that squeak. Or the light up ones so I know when you’re coming.” 

He shrugs, leaning against the shut door of his bedroom. “How else am I supposed to catch you doing weird shit?”

“Haha.” You deadpan. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting here forever.” 

“Handling something.” 

You grin, leaning back on your arms. “Oooooh, did you beat up your brother for me?” It’s a tease. You don’t truly believe he’d get into a fight with his brother over you.

You may joke like you are, but you’re not stupid. The web of odd familial ties in the Cody family are… borderline incestuos. Weird. Confusing. And you don’t doubt that it’s all Janine Cody’s fault. She has a way of making anyone in a room with her feel powerless. You see it with the gardeners she watches over as they work, the way she speaks to her sons, even her lawyer who isn’t around often, but you’ve seen a few times. 

Conversing with the woman feels like she’s ripping your chest open and grabbing at everything she can, inspecting you. As terrible as it makes you feel, you try to push that back on your schedule for Lena until the very last second, even to the point where Lena can’t see the woman from the constant activities you take the little girl to. 

“No.” Is his lacking response. 

You sigh dramatically, “and here I thought you were my knight in shining armor.” 

“I’m not that.” 

“Clearly.” 

The silence isn’t awkward but the way his hands are rubbing at his jeans, tells you that he does believe it to be so. You stand, tugging at your t-shirt to fall over your body. “So, you—” 

“Do you think we can reschedule?” His voice sounds almost shaky. Almost, not quite nervous, more ashamed. He clears his throat, “I don’t think I'm up for—“ 

You nod, immediately feeling the guilt eat away at you. “Of course, Pope.” You take a step back, sitting back down on the bed, afraid to make him feel afraid. “You don’t even have to makeout with me at all. I was only joking. Well… half-joking.” 

He sighs, bothered by your words. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to makeout with you. Just… another day.” 

“I didn’t say that you didn’t—“ 

“Stop talking.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I don’t think I want to makeout with you anymore.” He admits. 

“Jesus.” You cackle, “what’s up your ass?” 

“You.” 

“Oh, baby, I wish I was.” You get up off the bed, making a thrusting motion with your hips, hands out like you’re holding onto somebody. “Get all up in there.” 

He grimaces, “that’s disgusting.” 

“Fine.” You stop, “I’ll leave.” 

“You should.” He agrees. He doesn’t move off the door, still pressed up against it. 

It’s impossible to hold back your grin. “You gonna let me out?” 

He doesn’t speak. His eyes are on you in that intense manner he usually carries. The constipated look, Nicky would say. 

“Hello?” You tease, “anyone in there?” 

“Fuck it…” he breathes low, cutting the distance between you in two steps. His hands are on either side of your face, pulling you into him. And his lips are on yours. 

You don’t spare a second, hands falling to his waist, face tilting to deepen the kiss, noses nudging as you do so. And he delivers on your wish. The kiss is hot and heavy, tongue lapping into your mouth as the back of your knees push against his soft bed. Your hands move from his sides to his chest, then back down to the bottom of his shirt, urging him to remove it. 

He pulls his lips from yours with a loud smack, “no,” he shakes his head, removing your itching fingers from his shirt. “Not that.” 

You groan, leaning your forehead to his chest. “Fine. Can I dry hump you at least?” 

His eyebrows furrow, “are we teenagers?”

You scoff, lifting your head to eye him. “Dry humping is a lost art. I’ve made it my duty to bring it back to light. Think about it. The act is—“

“Shut up.” He groans, annoyed as he grabs your chin and presses his lips to yours again. One of his hands lowers to your waist, down to your hip, and ends at your thigh, gripping your leg high up on his leg. 

“Pope!” You squeal when he drops you onto his bed. “What the fuck?!” 

“What?” He shrugs, not caring. “Swear you told me that you like it when a man manhandles you.” 

“Yeah, I like it when they grope my ass or spin me to push me up against a surface, not throw me like a ragdoll!”

“Miscommunication.” His tone is bored as he grabs your hips, pulling you to lay atop of him, lips meeting yours again. 

You pull from him, sitting up. “Can I take my shirt off?” You ask breathily. 

“W-what? Why?” 

You shrug, “want you to admire my boobs.” 

He looks bewildered, eyes wide and shocked as he looks up at you. “Don’t look so surprised.” You scoff, “I love my boobs. All my friends have seen them.” 

“Wha—“ you tug your shirt off, left in your ugly sports bra. 

“Oh my god, wait!” You cover his eyes with your hands. 

He flinches, but doesn’t push your hands away. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“My bra is ugly.” You groan. “Pretend what you saw was sexy lingerie.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lying back with his eyes covered by your hands. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

“I’ve had this bra since I was a freshman.” 

“… in college?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” He admits, “that’s kinda gross.” 

You scoff, moving your hand from his eyes to pinch his nose. “It is not. I wash it regularly and I’ve only had to stitch one slit since then. And bras are expensive. You can only talk shit if you buy me new ones.” 

“I will.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I will. What’s your size?” 

“Big as fuck.” 

He scoffs, moving your hand from his eyes, sitting up and moving you to straddle his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. His big hands are gripping your hips, securing you on him. Without skipping a beat, “take it off.” 

You don’t hesitate to tug the piece off, tits spilling out for him. You hear the way his breath hitches, eyes dancing on your chest. He won’t look away, even when you wiggle on his lap. “Hello? My face is up here.” You sing, desperate to get him to look at you. “You know, this is a lot more than a sloppy makeout. If I were a freaky person, I would say you’re trying to sl—“ 

“Oh, god…” he breathes, moving you off of his lap and getting up off the bed himself. 

You’re scared, watching him carefully as you sit on his bed, tits out. “A-are you okay?” You ask, eyes searching his body for any sign of discomfort. 

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” He’s turning his body away from you, facing the bedroom door. “You should— you should go.” 

But you’re too concerned to follow his wishes. Instead, you sit up and reach over to him, noticing the way his body is shaking. “Pope…?” You place your hand on his bicep, desperate to help him.

He flinches away, “just go.” 

authors note . . . to my big bitches (me) he can and will toss you around. don’t let no twig man stop u

Every time Wanda was out for two hours or more, this is where you ended up. On your bed with your camera on the tripod, long cord connected to your laptop, back to the back wall of your dorm room and the soft pink LED lights glowing in your dorm room, the angle carefully picked. No face, never your face—just the lace, the skin, the body they all logged in for.

“Missed me?” you teased, settling onto your knees, hands resting softly on thighs that you had just moisturized 30 minutes prior with lotion that gave you the best glow on them, for cinematic purposes. “Classes started this week, and let me tell you… I’m already drowning in work. So you better make this worth my time.”

The chat went feral. Little heart bubbles, exclamation points, and a few different messages came in.

SweetTooth92: “Fuck school, just do this full time.”

BlueScreen69: “Don’t tease, just strip.”

CamFan9000: “Bet none of your profs are as hot as you.”

You laughed, low and warm, tugging at the strap of your bra, light pink lace this time, but not pulling it down. “Mmmm, tempting. But my professors? Definitely not hot. Intimidating, maybe.”

SweetTooth92 tipped $50. “Show us you’re not intimidated, babe.”

You smirked, sliding your bra slowly down one shoulder. “Intimidated? Not me. I’m a good student. Always ahead.” The familiar ping that followed made your stomach flutter.

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $100. “That’s my girl. Always prepared.”

You bit back a smile. Why? You don't know. He couldn't see you anyway, but something about him made you almost coy. Brooklyn always knew exactly what to say—steady, encouraging, never vulgar. Like he was watching for you, not just the show.

“Mmmm, you like that I’m a good student, Brooklyn?” you purred, peeling the bra from your back after undoing the clasp, revealing skin, your breasts, and hard nipples that got even harder when hit with the AC. “Guess that makes me teacher’s pet.”

The chat blew up—jealous usernames competing.

BlueScreen69: “Bet you’re a bad girl really.”

CamFan9000 tipped $30. “Prove it. Fingers now.”

You hummed, sliding a hand down your stomach, just grazing the waistband of your panties. “Bad girl? Mmm, maybe. Or maybe I just like to show off how much I can handle.”

Another ping.

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $120. “You know how I like it, baby. C'mon.”

God, you loved how he always tipped heavy just to hear you drag it out. You leaned closer to the mic, tracing lazy circles over your panties. “You want me to talk? Drag this out?" The breathy giggle you let out was enough to bring a rush of blood south in Bucky's body so fast he was surprised he didn't go into hypovolemic shock. "Okay... What do you want to hear?”

The chat erupted with answers, letters drowning one another out—except his. His messages, calm and deliberate, scrolled steady between the chaos.

Brooklyn_1917: “Tell me about your week.”

That made you laugh softly, breath catching as your fingers dipped lower. “You want to hear about school while I touch myself? You’re ridiculous.”

But you talked anyway, voice lilting between moans. “One of my professors' insane. He goes through material like he’s trying to break us. Everyone else is drowning, but I’m fine. I read ahead, took notes, asked questions. You know me. Always prepared.” The way you quoted him back to himself got a little groan caught in his throat while he fisted himself, slow and steady.

Your panties slipped aside, and the chat lost it.

SweetTooth92: “Fuck, yes, touch that pussy.”

BlueScreen69: “Moan louder, baby.”

You moaned for them, letting your fingers circle your clit, head tilting back against the wall.

And across campus, Bucky sat in his apartment, laptop glowing in the dark, his cock hard in his fist as your voice filled the room. His chest tightened at your words—professor, notes, questions—and that strange flicker of familiarity burned sharper. It was like you carved this little time in your day just to entertain him, customized just for him.

“Good girl,” he muttered to himself, stroking slower, matching your rhythm. “Always so good…”

You gasped into the mic, hips grinding against your hand. “Brooklyn—fuck—I’m close already—”

The chat begged, messaged, exploded with demands. But his message slid through, calm as ever:

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $100. “Don’t you dare cum.”

You whimpered into the mic, hips jerking. “Brooklyn, I—please—”

Brooklyn_1917: “Not yet. You don’t always get to be ahead. Wait for me.”

The words cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. You tried to hold back, tried to grind just enough for relief, but he was relentless. Every time you edged close, his next message rolled in—calm, patient, unyielding.

You whined, physically hurting to take your hand away, chest heaving. “You’re mean,” you panted, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “You’re so—so mean—”

Across town, Bucky leaned back in his chair, stroking himself hard and steady, grinning darkly as he muttered, “That’s it, doll. No cumming unless I say.”

And he never said.

You ended the stream aching, unsatisfied, your body wound tight like a live wire.

The lab smelled faintly of ethanol and latex gloves, the hum of centrifuges filling the air. Students filed in nervously, glancing at the setup stations. Bucky prowled the rows, lab manual tucked under one arm, already scowling at the chatter.

You slid onto your stool beside Wanda on the bench closer to his desk, dropping your bag with a little huff. She eyed you instantly. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” you muttered, tugging on your gloves a little too hard. I got edged by a complete stranger last night and now it feels like there's bees in my fucking pants.

No. You couldn't say that. Wanda smirked. “Uh-huh. You’re twitchy as hell. What happened, did you forget your color-coded notes?”

You rolled you eyes and avoided her gaze, focusing too intently on adjusting the microscope. “I’m fine. Just tired.” The cold eyepiece bringing some soothing to you, and doing double duty hiding your face away from her, and Bucky.

He couldn't stop thinking about the stream last night. Did she actually never touch herself? Was she faking it the whole time? There's no way those needy little whines were all acting... He can tell. He kept replaying it in his head over and over again while he milked his cock for all its worth before showering off his post-nut clarity that what he was doing was insanity.

And still, he felt that if he didn't focus on his job, he'd get a hard on thinking about a faceless voice on a stream he knew too well late at night, right in front of 20 college kids in a lab stinking of formaldehyde and agar.

Truth was, you weren’t fine. Your skin felt too hot under the fluorescent lights, every shift in your seat making you squirm. You hadn’t gotten off last night—hadn’t been allowed to—and your body hadn’t forgiven you.

Barnes’ voice boomed over the room. “Today’s lab is microscopy. You’ll each prepare samples and identify structures. Accuracy is everything. Mistakes mean starting over.” He glanced at the clock before glancing back at the class. "Use this first lab to get into the muscle memory of how to handle the instruments, ask if you have questions, and remember we're only here for four hours today, so don't waste time."

Groans rippled. He ignored them.

You bent over the slide, heart racing too fast for something so routine. Your hands shook faintly, and Wanda nudged you. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?” she whispered.

“Shhh,” you hissed back, cheeks heating. "Nothing. I had too big of an energy drink. Shut up."

From the front of the room, Barnes’ eyes flicked to you—front row, always prepared—and caught the way you shifted in your seat, the restless tap of your pen, the distracted flush on your cheeks.

Something in his jaw flexed. She was usually sharp, focused, almost too perfect. Today? She looked… off.

He prowled closer, arms crossed. “Everything alright up here?” Eyebrow raised in suspicion.

You looked up too fast, meeting his gaze. That same rough voice slid over you, and you clenched your thighs under the bench, pulse tripping.

“Yes, Professor,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just—uh—just adjusting.”

He studied you for a long second, gaze sharp, then gave a curt nod. “Don’t let yourself fall behind.”

Your stomach swooped, breath catching. If only he knew.

The lab buzzed with nervous chatter and the faint hum of machines, but you were half in, half out of the work. The microscope blurred when you leaned too close, your gloves squeaked as you fumbled with the slide. You weren’t yourself—too wound up, too restless.

“Careful,” Wanda murmured beside you as you almost smudged your sample with the edge of your glove. “You’re sloppy today.”

You huffed, cheeks heating, and muttered under your breath, “You’re mean.”

It slipped out in the same breathless, whiny tone you’d used last night, kneeling in front of your camera with the toy in your hand, pleading: You’re mean, Brooklyn. So mean.

Bucky, circling the room with his usual sharp gaze, almost froze mid-step. He was distracted putting away BLA broth for bacterial cultures on the shelves by the fridge, wasn't paying much attention to any random chatter going on in the lab, if you wanted to waste precious time with chitchat, he did not care.

But for some reason, the little butterfly in his stomach started to flutter. And he didn't quite know why. And it was driving him insane.

It was like being in a dream where all you wanna do is run, but your legs feel heavy like cinderblocks, and every step takes significantly more effort to be achieved. Like you're breathless before even succeeding, like-

“Focus, ladies,” he said evenly, though his gaze burned hot. “This isn’t high school biology. If you waste time, you’ll fail.”

You startled, instantly back to your notes, flustered and determined to prove yourself. Wanda let out a choked laugh and you nudged her leg under the table with your foot, cause if she didn't stop laughing neither would you.

Bucky turned away sharply, jaw locked. The little itch inside of his skull still there, unreachable.

Fuck.

A few days later in class, the whiteboard was already covered in diagrams of receptors and pathways, arrows pointing in every direction. Bucky turned to face the lecture hall, marker still in hand.

“Okay,” he said, voice carrying easily through the silence. “Question one. What’s the primary difference between receptor tyrosine kinases and G-protein coupled receptors when it comes to initiating a signal cascade?”

Half the class froze like deer in headlights. Your hand shot up immediately, pen still in your other hand, notebook already filled with neatly drawn pathways.

Bucky glanced around the room once, then pointed his marker at you. "Yes?"

You sat straighter, voice clear. “RTKs dimerize and autophosphorylate on tyrosine residues, while GPCRs activate a heterotrimeric G-protein that exchanges GDP for GTP?”

"Are you asking or are you sure?" Fuck him and fuck his intimidating presence and his ginormous fucking brain.

"I'm sure." He waited a beat, partly just to make you sweat, and partly to make the class also make sure they thought about being sure before spewing shit around. Not necessarily in the classroom, but pretty much everywhere else.

“Correct,” he said simply, turning back to the board to underline his diagram. “Second question. What’s one major downstream pathway triggered by activated RTKs that doesn’t overlap with GPCR signaling?”

Silence again. Students looked at their notes, some whispering nervously.

Your hand went up again.

Bucky’s jaw ticked, but he nodded. “Yes, front row.”

“The Ras-MAPK pathway,” you said without hesitation. “RTK activation leads to Ras-GTP, which initiates the MAP kinase cascade.”

No question mark at the end of your sentence this time. He raised a brow, impressed despite himself. “Right again.” Murmurs rippled through the class — a couple students scribbling down your answer like their lives depended on it.

Bucky capped the marker, scanning the room. “Third question. Why is it dangerous for Ras to be locked in the ‘on’ state, and what’s one clinical implication of that?”

Dead silence. No hands. Not even the shuffle of notes.

Except yours — as you raised your arm high, eyes expectant, lips pressed like you already knew he’d cave, Bucky let the silence drag a few beats, scanning the rows. No one moved. Finally, he sighed through his nose.

“And someone other than miss Y/L/N better answer this,” he said, not unkindly — more like a warning shot to the rest of the class. “She can’t be the only one paying attention in here.” If only he knew he was praising an academic validation hungry beast that hadn't been fed almost a week.

But no hands went up. Just shifting in seats and the sound of typing.

You were still sitting there with your hand raised, looking almost annoyed. Like, yeah dude, I know the fucking answer. Are you gonna waste everyone’s time, or let me say it?

Bucky smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Alright, Y/N. Go ahead.”

“Constitutively active Ras keeps signaling cells to proliferate without regulation,” you said crisply. “That’s linked to oncogenesis, especially in certain cancers.”

He paused, studying you for a beat, before nodding once. “…Exactly right.”

The marker squeaked against the board as he underlined oncogenesis. “That’s the kind of answer you need to be able to give by midterms. Don’t rely on one person to carry the room.”

Groans and sighs broke out behind you, but you only smiled faintly, jotting down another note in red ink while Bucky turned back to the board, voice steady.

He finished the class with clear instructions. "Don't memorize, understand the mechanisms. The first lab practical is in exactly a week, and it should be the easiest one of the semester since content has been a breeze."

If he was being sarcastic or not, you really didn't know, all you knew was that it was 11:15am, you we're fucking hungry, and Wanda ditched today's class to go see her brother run cross country at a very important meet, so you'd have to make a copy of your notes for her.

Professor Barnes prowled the rows, sharp-eyed, arms folded behind his back like a drill sergeant. Every so often, he stopped just long enough to glance at a sample or glare at someone's pipetting technique enough that they'd doubt themselves without him even saying anything.

Most students looked like they were about to cry.

You, on the other hand, were practically buzzing.

Slides prepped, stains perfect, your notebook already filling with tidy observations. You’d been waiting for this since the syllabus hit your hands. The adrenaline had you sharp, focused, alive.

When Barnes’ shadow passed over your shoulder, you straightened unconsciously, heart thudding — not from nerves, but from the thrill of knowing you were nailing it.

He lingered for a second, eyes flicking to your pristine prep, the neat labels in the margins. His jaw worked, but he didn’t say a word. Just nodded once and moved on.

You bit back a grin.

The moment the timer rang for the break, the room erupted in groans and complaints. Students filed out clutching their lab coats, muttering about failing, about how unfair it all was. Everyone took gulps of water from their Stanley's, and Owls, and Hydroflasks and whatnot outside, while Bucky prepared the next stations of the practical with the blinds of the lab drawn.

You bounced on your toes as you stripped off the wrapper on a Twix bar, turning to Wanda with a wide grin. “That was so fun.”

Wanda froze mid-wipe of her forehead, staring at you like you’d grown a second head. “Fun? Y/N, what the hell is up your ass? We’re getting beat to death in there.”

You laughed, leaning against the wall right outside of the door, trying to see if you could peak in. “No we’re not. We’ve got this. Slides were clean, stain held perfect, and when we get the second part right, we’ll be ahead of everyone.”

Wanda threw her granola barn wrapper into the trash with a groan. “You are psychotic. Everyone else is one mistake away from a breakdown and you’re—” she gestured at your practically glowing face, “—whatever this is.”

You smirked, snapping your planner shut. “Prepared.”

“Beautiful psychopath,” Wanda muttered, shaking her head as she grabbed her water bottle and took a sip. “Let’s go, Einstein. Time to kill the second half.”

You put the protection goggles back on, grin never fading. “Murder is such a harsh word. I prefer crush it.”

When the second half started, the tension returned — but Bucky’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the contrast. Most students looked pale, stressed, jittery.

And then there was you, front row lab bench, hair tied back, gloves snug, lips curved in a grin like you loved every second of this exam. He should’ve been irritated. Should’ve thought it cocky.

But instead, it hooked in him like a barb.

Most students bolted after the lab practical, muttering about dropping the class, changing careers, or going to beg Wilson for his session. You, however, lingered. Notes tucked under your arm, lab coat folded neatly, nerves fizzing low in your chest.

This was it. Your silent prayer was to leave with your dignity intact, or at least not too beat.

Professor Barnes was at the front bench, stacking manuals, his sleeves rolled high and gel ink smudged faintly at his wrist. He looked up as you approached, brows furrowed like he was already bracing for a complaint.

“Yes?” he asked, voice clipped.

You cleared your throat, shifting your notes. “I—uh—wanted to ask about your research lab. I heard you have one? Small group, faculty-led projects?” The eagerness of your voice was something you hoped he wouldn't notice, or not comment on it.

His brow ticked, faint surprise flashing across his face. Most undergrads avoided extra work like the plague. “I do,” he said slowly. “Why?”

You straightened, pen tapping lightly against your notebook. “I was wondering if you’re looking for any undergrad assistants. Even just grunt work. I think it’d be—” your lips quirked faintly, “—a good resume builder.”

One brow arched. “You know it’s not easy work. Long hours. Lab rats and plate counts, not just shiny publications.”

“I know.” Your voice steadied. “I actually thought… maybe resistance testing? Like MRSA? I read a paper last semester on mecA gene expression under different antibiotic exposures, and I thought it would be interesting to replicate or even expand on it.”

For the first time since you’d stepped into his class, Barnes went completely still. His eyes narrowed, sharp, assessing. Most students barely kept up with the textbook. You were citing literature. Suggesting experiments.

“MRSA resistance testing,” he repeated, slow. “And you think you can handle that.”

You met his gaze evenly. “Yes, Professor. I do.”

For a long moment, he just stared, something unreadable in his expression. Then he sat back against the chair, hands resting on each side of his bag he was putting reports into, crossing his arms.

“…Office hours are Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Stop by next week, and we’ll talk about whether you’re qualified to join the lab. Bring me that paper you read, and your notes.”

Your heart skipped, but you kept your smile polite, professional. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

You turned to leave, pulse racing, already plotting how to polish your notes.

The little bar off campus was dim and noisy, the tables packed with grad students and faculty shaking off the first brutal month of the semester. Bucky sat hunched at a corner table with his beer, sleeves rolled, hair pushed back, looking about as out of place as a wolf at a petting zoo.

Sam lifted his glass with a grin. “To another semester of torturing the youth.”

Nat smirked, clinking her whiskey. “To Barnes making half his class cry before midterms.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, taking a swig. “I don’t make anyone cry. They just can’t keep up.”

Sam snorted. “Man, they hate your class. I passed a group outside the psych building today, all moaning about how ‘Barnes is impossible’ and ‘why’s he gotta assign three chapters before lab even starts.’”

Bucky shrugged. “Good. If they can’t handle three chapters, they don’t belong in molecular biology.”

Steve, ever the peacemaker, cut in with a half-smile. “Funny thing, though—I’ve also heard the opposite. A couple of my advisees said your class is their favorite. Said you actually make it worth the work.”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard. “…Really?”

Steve nodded, sipping his beer. “One even mentioned wanting to get into your research lab.”

Sam let out a bark of laughter. “No shit? Barnes has a fan club?” He leaned across the table, smirking. “Don’t tell me you got yourself a teacher’s pet already.”

Bucky stiffened, jaw working. “I don’t have a—”

Nat cut in smoothly, eyebrow arched. “Oh, you definitely do. There’s always one. The front-row kid with the color-coded notes who answers every damn question.”

Bucky’s stomach tightened. His beer suddenly tasted bitter. Sam grinned like a shark. “Bet they’re the only one keeping your GPA massacre from looking like a crime scene.”

Steve chuckled, nudging Bucky’s arm. “Hey, don’t look so grumpy about it. Having one student who actually thrives? That’s a good thing, Buck.”

Bucky grunted, trying to play it off, but his mind was already spiraling — front row, middle seat, hand always up, voice he couldn’t stop hearing even when he tried.

Sam clinked his glass against Bucky’s with a smirk. “To Professor Barnes and his golden child. May they keep your RateMyProfessor rating above a 1.0.”

Nat laughed. Steve smiled, Bucky forced a sip of his beer, but all he could think about was how right they were.

The next Monday the corridor outside the biology department office smelled faintly of coffee and ethanol, the air humming with the sound of grad students typing furiously. Your shoes gave away your presence with soft thuds on the hard floors, black mini skirt bouncing with every step.

You had on a simple black blouse and a cream cardigan, and tights under the skirt of course. You clutched a neat folder to your chest—resume, annotated paper, color-coded notes—and took a steadying breath before knocking on the half-open door.

“Come in,” came that deep rasp from inside.

Professor Barnes sat at his desk, sleeves rolled, maroon this time.. I mean, if you were paying attention to that, that is. His office was professional, a few trinkets here and there, a signed football Sam gave him for his birthday, his degrees framed and intimidating on the wall, an organized desk worthy of Monica Geller, and some pictures of sweet little moments in life he liked to cherish.

The one sitting on his desk was a white cat, adorable.

A stack of lab reports leaned precariously near his elbow. He glanced up as you stepped in, his gaze sharp but unreadable. “Y/N,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You said you wanted to talk research.”

You nodded quickly, moving to the chair across from him. “Yes, Professor. I brought my resume, the paper I mentioned last week, and some notes I made on possible follow-ups.” You laid the folder down, sliding it across the desk.

His brow furrowed faintly as he opened it. Clean formatting, relevant coursework, volunteer experience in a campus clinic, even summer work with a small genetics lab. Then your notes—meticulous, diagrams and citations tucked into the margins. He recognized the paper immediately: a recent journal article on mecA-mediated methicillin resistance in Staphylococcus aureus.

“You annotated this?” he asked, flipping through.

You nodded. “Yes,” you said, leaning forward, eager. “I pulled some cross-references from PubMed, too. I thought maybe we could replicate one of their resistance assays, then test it against some less common antibiotic classes. See if we find anything novel.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, silent.

"What?" You said something incredibly stupid and he's gonna kick you out of his office and out of this lab too. Had to be, right? That's what the voice inside your head said.

Christ, he thought. She’s not just smart—she’s hungry. Sharp. More prepared than some of his grad students.

He set the folder down, jaw tight. “You understand what you’re asking for? This isn’t a class assignment. It’s long hours. Repetitive assays. Dull data crunching. Most undergrads don’t last a semester.”

You straightened, meeting his gaze evenly. “I’m not most undergrads.”

Something twisted in his chest at the conviction in your voice.

He leaned back, crossing his arms, studying you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then he exhaled slowly. “Fine. You can start next week. Assist the grad students, get a feel for the workflow. If you can keep up, I’ll put you on the MRSA project.”

Your face lit up, grin breaking wide before you could rein it in. “Yes, Professor—thank you. You won’t regret it.”

Bucky looked away, riffling the papers like it was nothing. “We’ll see.”

But as you left—bouncing on your toes, already pulling out your planner to jot the start date—his eyes followed your silhouette out of his office, raking down and stopping at the stomach dropping realization that he'd seen those tights with Short and Sweet embroidered in the back about two night ago on a stream he definitely shouldn't be watching.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No. There's no way. No.

He was delirious, must be, right? It's the chloroform, and the formaldehyde, maybe he has Staph on the brain?

Bucky got up from his chair and closed his office door, locking it. His personal laptop was out of his bag in record time. He connected the AirPods to it and logged onto your page, to rewatch a recorded stream for a few weeks ago.

And the second he heard your voice, your exhausted little giggle, the whiny little moans, his body was conflicted between giving him a boner and a heart attack.

It was you.

You were Brooklyn_1917's good girl.

Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly. 

The thought made you want to break something.

So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right? 

He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes. 

"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.

Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"

"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?" 

He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down. 

Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."

"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"

Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"

"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."

"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper. 

"It ain't your concern." 

"It is my concern when—" and louder again. 

"Enough." 

He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down. 

Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.

"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."

"Don't you dare—"

"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."

The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.

"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."

The words landed like a bucket of cold water.

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"

You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment. 

"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering. 

"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"

"But you didn't tell me."

"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."

"I'm not a cat." You pouted. 

"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"

Now what.

You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid. 

And still so, so fucking wound up.

"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.

"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.

"I don't know what I am."

"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."

"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."

Suddenly he turned you. 

The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.

"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."

You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days. 

Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent. 

"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.

"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.

"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.

"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."

He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.

Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.

"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."

Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. 

The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.

"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.

"You—Joel—only you—"

"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."

Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him. 

But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.

"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."

He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands. 

Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt. 

"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"

"Please what?"

"Don't stop—need you—"

He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you. 

Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.

"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."

You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you. 

Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely. 

He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you. 

After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.

"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"

You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."

Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."

ME DOING REQUESTS FINALLY???? 🫪🫪

You sat back against your pillows, lacy black bra straps dangling, thighs pressed together just enough to keep them begging. The matching black lace of the G-string you were wearing was digging comfortably onto your hip. All they could see was collarbone to knee. Never your face.

This isn't what you'd wanna do for the rest of your life. You want to treat patients, damn it, you can't be putting your face out there. But the money is good enough to keep... some of you out there. Enough of you for usernames to pop within seconds of the website sending automatic notifications to those users that you were online and willing.

“Last night before classes,” you teased, voice breathy and low, almost too sweet for what you were about to do while you traced lazy circles over your lace panties. “Better make it count.”

The tips came in fast:

SweetTooth92 tipped $15. “Missed you so bad, angel. Show me your tits.”

BlueScreen69 tipped $20. “Finger yourself. Don’t waste time.”

Thick4U tipped $40. “Got the toys in tonight?”

You hummed, running your tongue across your lip, tugging one strap down to expose your breast. “Mmm, greedy little boys tonight. Can’t even let me warm up?”

And then it came—your favorite.

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $75. “Take your time, baby. I’ll wait.”

That made you smirk, even though you knew he couldn't see it, heat pooling low in your belly. He always said things like that—never rushing, always pushing you to drag it out. He'd been a regular watcher since the middle of your last semester, once a week he'd be there, saying all the right things, and basically tipping more than anybody.

It made you wonder sometimes, not enough to occupy every crevice of your brain, but enough that during the streams you got a little butterfly in your stomach (which you knew wasn't a butterfly, it was noradrenaline pausing your peristaltic movements).

How was he in real life? He seemed smooth, sure, confident. The type to leave you gasping with your back against a bed or biting down onto a pillow and asking for more. So why would he waste his time watching some random college girl touch herself on camera when he could probably talk anyone into his bed?

You leaned closer to the mic, fingers pinching your nipple until you whimpered. “Mmmm, Brooklyn, you’re dangerous. Always making me want to tease longer.”

The chat went insane with jealousy.

CamFan9000: “She only listens to him.”

SweetTooth92: “Bet she knows him irl.”

BlueScreen69: “Not fair, fuck.”

You laughed, breathy and wrecked already. “Relax. I’ll give all of you a show.”

Sliding your panties down, you spread your thighs facing the camera and revealed slick folds glistening under the LED lights. Your fingers trailed lower, grazing your slit, teasing, then circling your clit just enough to make your thighs twitch. A long, needy moan spilled into the mic and set the chat ablaze.

Somewhere across town, Bucky Barnes groaned low in his chest, hand wrapped around his cock, eyes burning into the glow of his laptop. His knuckles were white gripping his bedsheets, jaw clenched tight as your voice slid over him like silk. Christ, that sound. He stroked slow, steady, waiting. Always waiting for you.

You reached for the rose toy, holding it up to the camera just long enough to rile them, then set it between your thighs. The suction pulled a sharp gasp from your lips, your back arching.

“Fuck—mmmm—it’s—” your words broke into moans as your hips jerked. “So fucking good—”

SweetTooth92 tipped $50. “Ride that toy, baby.”

BlueScreen69 sent a chat. “Stick those fingers inside too. Stretch yourself out.”

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $50. “Slow, sweetheart. Let me hear every sound.”

You shuddered, pressing the toy harder against your clit, free hand trembling as you reached for the thick dildo beside you. “Mmm, but you guys know how I like it slow, should we e-edge tonight? Mmmm?” Your voice faltered when you hit a specially good angle trying to grab the dildo without moving too much.

Bucky’s teeth dug onto his lower lip as his fist worked his cock, precum slicking his hand. The sound of your moans, the sight of you easing that dildo inside inch by inch—it was enough to make him dizzy.

You gasped into the mic, eyes fluttering shut though no one could see. “Ohh—fuck—it’s so much—” you slid deeper, your hips rocking helplessly. “I—oh my god—”

The chat exploded in all caps, frantic and jealous. But you weren’t reading anymore. You were lost, toys working you mercilessly, thighs trembling.

Bucky was nearly growling now, chest heaving as he pumped harder, matching your frantic pace. He whispered hoarse into the empty room, “That’s it, angel, that’s it—fuckin’ take it—”

You shoved the dildo deeper, the rose toy buzzing high against your clit, your moans breaking into cries. “Fuck-fuck—oh god— I can’t—”

Brooklyn_1917 tipped $120. “Cum for me, baby. Let me hear you.”

Your moans came through the mic as you did, back arched, body shaking with the force of it. The toy buzzed mercilessly as your orgasm ripped through you, tears pricking at your lashes, your voice wrecked and raw as you gasped his name over and over.

And in his dimly lit apartment, Bucky came undone with a grown deep in his throat, spilling hot over his fist, muscles locked as if he could tear the sheets apart with his grip. His head fell back, sweat sliding down his temple, heart pounding like he’d just run a warpath, breath heavy.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just the sound of heavy breathing—yours into the mic, his in his darkened silence. He had a slight smirk on his face when he heard you come down too.

"God, that- that was good.." You giggled. Giggled. Like it was the most normal thing, and the sound made his cock twitch in his hand again. Finally, you leaned toward the mic, voice still trembling, sweet and soft. “I’ll be back soon… don’t miss me too much.”

The chat begged for more, desperate. But Bucky sat there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the screen like a man starved.

And under his breath, just for himself, he whispered. “Already do, baby.”

The thing is, Bucky really shouldn't be doing this. He was attractive, in good physical shape, had a good paying job, he was smart, funny... Sure, he took his work a little too seriously, but there's no reason a 43 year old man with his qualities should have such a hard time being compatible with someone.

Everyone was either not smart enough, the chemistry didn't happen, or he got the feeling they just wanted a hookup. And no matter how hard he tried, and he did, he couldn't do hookups. Not when the alternative was to know and map every inch of someone, to make them so pliant and feel so fucking good they have no excuse but to take it, and take it, and-

But to his friends, he was just... picky.

Campus buzzed with the nervous energy of a new semester. Freshmen not knowing where their classes were, finding their cliques, seniors thinking they either owned the campus or giving off the energy that they couldn't wait to get the fuck out of that campus. In the faculty lounge, Professor Barnes nursed a black coffee while flipping through a stack of research papers, trying to decide which one will be the one that terrified the most and the least amount of students at the same time. His tie was already loose, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows.

Steve Rogers—History professor, specifically world history of the 19th and 20th centuries, nicest professor on campus, understanding, patient, perfect teeth and a towering stature, he was the reason most girls on campus became interested in World War I at some point—slid into the chair beside him, dropping a box of doughnuts on the table.

“Don’t look so grim, Buck. It’s the first day. Ease ’em in.”

Bucky snorted, sipping his coffee. “If they can’t handle day one, they won't be cut out for the final project.”

Sam Wilson — intro level biology classes and some upperclassmen courses, famously laid-back, grabbed a glazed doughnut and smirked. “You do realize molecular biology is basically academic bootcamp, right? You’re gonna scare half the freshmen out of their shoes.”

“That’s the point,” Bucky muttered. “Weed out the ones who can’t hack it before the first lab.”

Natasha Romanoff — Political Science for international relations and law majors, arched a brow over her mug. “You ever consider that maybe your intimidation tactic works a little too well? People talk, Barnes. Your class is a myth.”

“Good,” he said simply, gathering his papers. “Let it stay that way.”

“See, my class is full. Again. Because people actually want to learn when they’re not terrified.” Sam spoke through a bite of donut, somehow still keeping it in his mouth.

Nat smirked over the rim of her mug. “Or they just like a professor who lets them watch TED Talks instead of writing twenty-page lab reports and containing a pandemic.”

Bucky grunted, flipping through his calendar. “TED Talks won’t teach them how to survive graduate school.”

Steve nudged the doughnut box toward Bucky. “You could try smiling, you know. First day and all. Make them feel welcome.”

Bucky arched a brow, unimpressed. “They’ll thank me later, when med school doesn’t eat them alive.”

Steve sighed but grinned, clapping Bucky on the shoulder as he got up to get his bag. “Alright, professor hardass. Go terrify some students.”

The classroom buzzed with low chatter as students trickled in. You made your way down the steps and slid into the front row, dead center—habit, really. You’d always done better up front, close enough to hear every detail. It also gives you the perfect opportunity to get noticed in class, answer every question, and land yourself a spot in a lab working under faculty that could maybe, perhaps, write you a stellar letter of recommendation.

But god, you wished you were in Professor Wilson’s section again. You’d had him for Intro, then Genetics, then Biochem. He was sharp, but funny, relaxed. He let people ask wild questions without making them feel stupid. It felt too easy sometimes, but you didn’t feel like your education was suffering.

This though… Molecular Biology with Barnes. The one everyone said was impossible. The one people dropped after two weeks because the workload was insane. You hadn’t been able to get into Wilson’s class—his section was filled before you even refreshed the page at enrollment.

So here you were.

Inside of room 1506B the moment it went still when the door opened.

Professor Barnes strode in, tall and broad-shouldered, a stack of papers under his arm. His hair was pushed back, light sage green sleeves already shoved up his forearms, a black coffee in hand. He looked like he’d fought a war and got out of a modeling catalog all before breakfast.

He set the stack down at the edge of the front row, asking the first student to pass a stack to his right and a stack behind him and so on, gaze sweeping the rows. You felt his eyes skate over you for a heartbeat before moving on, your stomach flipping in response. He didn’t smile. Didn’t fumble. Just radiated quiet authority.

“Welcome to Molecular Biology 401,” he began, voice deep and even, every syllable sharp. “If you signed up for an easy credit, you’re in the wrong room. This course will take everything you’ve got—time, focus, discipline. You’ll have mandatory labs, weekly exams, and research projects. If you think you can coast? You’ll fail.”

Pens scratched furiously around you. A nervous laugh came from the back, quickly silenced by the weight of his stare.

You shifted in your seat, biting the inside of your cheek. God, he was intimidating. The kind of professor who made you sit straighter without even realizing it. You opened a new Google doc and started typing things he said, about the class, the deadlines, a little preview of the research projects, he spent 10 minutes on the final: it would be a project to either create or contain a pandemic, and groups would be assigned to compete with each other.

Under the nerves was something else—you couldn’t help noticing the way his voice carried, the way his broad shoulders filled out his shirt, the faint scar at his jaw, his biceps pulling the sleeve of the shirt so taut—

You typed your notes, telling yourself you were just being observant. Just like any good student.

For the next forty minutes, he laid out the rest of the syllabus, no breaks, no detours. Labs started Monday. Reading assigned immediately. A midterm paper worth a quarter of the grade. Students beside you were already whispering in panic, but you kept your fingers moving, determined.

You’d worked with Wilson for years. You could handle Barnes.

You had to.

When the time ran out, he closed his folder with a snap. “Don’t show up unprepared. It's a disservice to yourself. Next week is real work.”

The room broke into hushed chatter as people filed out, some groaning about switching sections, others already resigned to sleepless nights.

You packed your things slowly, glancing once at him as he erased the board. He didn’t look your way again before you left the room with Wanda hot in your heel.

Still—you couldn’t shake the little twist low in your stomach. The thought that this class was going to be hell.

Your dorm smelled faintly of takeout dumplings and vanilla bean candles, music playing low from Wanda’s phone as the two of you sprawled across your beds. Wanda was peeling her eyeliner off with a makeup wipe, looking about as wrung out as you felt.

“So,” she said, tossing the wipe into the trash. “We survived.”

You groaned, rolling onto your stomach. “Barely. I think my hand’s gonna fall off from all the notes. Who even goes forty straight minutes on a syllabus?”

Wanda snorted. “Professor Barnes does. God, he didn’t even blink. Just walked in, dropped the manual like it weighed ten pounds, and told half the room to quit while they still could.”

“Honestly,” you muttered into your pillow, “I wish I’d gotten Wilson’s section. Three bio classes with him, he’s fun, he makes memes out of Punnett squares. This one?” You sat up, making your voice drop into a gruff imitation. “‘If you think you can coast, you’ll fail.’ Like, chill.”

Wanda cracked up. “No way am I letting him assign me some random partner in lab. We’re pairing up, no arguments.”

You nodded vigorously. “Yeah, we’d be insane not to. No offense, but if I get stuck with some random who doesn’t know how to use a pipette, I’m dropping out.”

She flopped dramatically back on her bed. “Agreed. We’ll survive together. Barnes can’t scare us off that easy.”

You scrolled your phone until you found what you were looking for and you grinned, pulling it up. “Speaking of—look at this.” You turned the screen so Wanda could see the infamous Rate My Professor page.

Professor James Barnes. ⭐ 1.2 out of 5. “This man is the grim reaper of GPAs.” “Hot, but terrifying. Do NOT take unless you hate yourself.” “Once made a kid cry for asking if an assignment was optional.”

Wanda howled, clutching her stomach. “One-point-two?! That’s criminal.” She fell back onto your bed in a fit of giggles. "We're so fucked."

“Honestly, they should put that rating on the course catalog as a warning label,” you laughed. “‘Abandon hope, all ye who enroll.’”

“Hey, at least if he's gonna tank our GPA he's easy on the eyes.” Wanda smirked, waggling her brows.

You rolled your eyes, but heat crept up your neck anyway. “I mean… he is. In a terrifying, I’ll-dock-points-for-breathing-wrong way.” You shook your head and then your facial expression changed from bashful to appalled. "And who's we? He's not taking my GPA." Which just earned you a playful shove.

Wanda went to take a shower and you proceeded to finish putting all your classes' syllabi into your planner, with every due date two days before the actual due date.

The second session of the week started the way the first had ended: no smile, no warm-up, no small talk. Professor Barnes walked in, rolled up sleeves—powder blue this time—, black coffee in hand, and went straight to the board.

“Chapter One,” he said, marker squeaking as he scrawled the title. “Cellular structure and function. This will not be a review. If you expected review, you’re behind already.” He typed something on the computer and his slides popped up on the projector behind him at back of the room.

A few students exchanged wide-eyed looks. Laptops clicked open frantically.

He didn’t slow down, diagrams of organelles filling the screen. His voice was steady but relentless, moving from mitochondria to ER to ribosomes with the precision of a scalpel. By slide five, half the room was visibly flustered. Pens dropped, whispers of “wait, what was that?” floated in the air.

You, though, were ready. You’d read the assigned chapter the night before, highlighted and annotated, your notes already waiting in the margins of your notebook. So instead of scrambling, you followed easily—adding only the things he said that weren’t in the book.

When he paused at the Golgi apparatus, you lifted your hand.

“Yes?” His blue eyes cut to you, sharp but unreadable.

“Are we going to be expected to differentiate between the cis- and trans- faces on the electron micrographs?” you asked. “Or is that level of detail reserved for lab?”

A beat of silence. A few students glanced your way like you’d just spoken another language.

Professor Barnes’ jaw flexed, and for a second, something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or the faintest hint of approval.

“Both,” he said finally, voice low. “You should be able to identify them in micrographs, and you should understand the functional differences when you write your lab reports. Don’t just memorize the diagram. Understand what it does.”

You nodded, jotting it down neatly. His gaze lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary before he turned back to the board.

The pace didn’t let up. He barreled through vesicular transport, autophagy, and lysosomal degradation like the class was an Olympic sprint. Students groaned softly, typing like their lives depended on it. Wanda scribbled beside you, muttering under her breath in Sokovian about how this was insane.

When the class finally ended, Barnes capped his marker, eyes scanning the rows. “Read the next two chapters before Monday. If you wait until after lecture, you’ll fall behind. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Groans erupted. Someone muttered “are you kidding me?” under their breath.

You just slid your notebook into your bag, a little smile tugging at your lips. Because you’d already started chapter two last night.

The science building cafe was a low roar of voices and clattering plastic utensils, the smell of burnt coffee and questionable pasta sauce hanging heavy in the air. Bucky balanced his own belongings—coffee, an apple, and some sandwich—when a voice carried over the noise.

Your voice.

He froze for half a second, the same little prickling at the back of his neck he’d felt during lecture when you asked about cis- and trans-faces of the Golgi. Familiar. Uncomfortably so. He scanned around him, and there you were—front row girl—loading soup into a paper cup, notebook tucked under your arm, giggling with your redhead friend.

You turned, a little to broadly, nearly bumping into him. “Oh! Professor Barnes—hi.”

His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing slightly as if studying you might shake something loose. “Miss…?”

You gave your name, offering a bright smile. “Sorry, almost got all my soup on you—I- we really like your class so far.” The redhead smiled beside you. Stiff smile, like she was letting you get away with a lie.

He blinked, genuinely taken aback. Students didn’t usually like his class. At best, they respected it. More often, they complained, begged for extensions, or fled to Wilson’s section.

“…Did you take one of my classes before?” he asked, suspicion curling in his tone.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t think so? I’ve always been in Professor Wilson’s bio classes. He’s really fun to learn from—funny, you know? Makes it easy.”

Something in Bucky’s jaw flexed. Fun. Funny. Easy. Not words ever attached to him.

You kept going, oblivious. “I tried to get into his upper-level course this semester, but it filled up before I could enroll. So—here I am.” You lifted your soup cup like a toast. “Not complaining, though. Your class is tough, but it feels… I don’t know. Good? I like to work for it.” You swear it wasn't meant to be as dirty as it sounded. Wanda stiffened up more, if that was even possible, to prevent from laughing.

Bucky studied you, the apple in his hand forgotten. There it was again—that voice, scratching against the back of his brain like static. Like a ghost limb he could still feel but not quite touch. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t name it, but something in him reacted all the same.

“…Huh,” he muttered finally. “Well, glad to hear it.”

You smiled again, sweet and guileless, before sliding past toward your table, arm linked with Wanda towards Peter, who was waving you two over with sandwiches in hand.