welcome to dreamland

“One of those days, huh?” 

He nods dumbly, eyelids getting heavy as you lead him to the bedroom. 

The day melts away only when he’s underneath you with both hands strung up on the bed posts. His head leans back against the headboard and his lips stay parted as you pump his cock in your hands, whispering sweet praises against his skin. You start kissing his cheek and trail down to his dick, to suck sweetly at the tip while his breath heaves and he pulls against his restraints. 

You suck on his balls and he lets out a moan so broken you think he might be crying. He isn’t–not yet–and you move up his shaft with soft kisses. Your touch stays light until his muscles bulge from the effort of straining against the rope around his wrists and he's spilling down himself in small spurts of cum. 

“Please,” he chokes out and as you look up, you grin. Now he’s crying, eyes glassy with brimming tears and skin flushed red. His chest is still heaving as you sit up to peck his lips. Just as you’re reaching to untie the first wrist, his hands twitch and he, as much as he can, leans away from you.

“Wait, can–You don’t have to untie me.” 

“You’re already ready for another one?”

He shifts in his seat and nods, nervous to ask for more when he hasn’t done anything for you yet. “I know, I just–”

“You know what?” 

“That it’s selfish.” His eyes flit to your lips but he only seems to be reminded of the ropes when they keep him from leaning forwards to kiss you. “I’ll do whatever you want after, I just–I’m so…”

He doesn’t need to say it; he’s still hard, still leaking a little and twitching further upright every second. You wrap your hand back around it and he inhales sharply, but shuts his eyes with blissed-out, whispered thanks as you get him off a second time. 

Even now, staring down at his lap with pained, heavy breaths, he gives you those puppy dog eyes and asks for yet another orgasm. 

“Jesus, Den, you’re insatiable today.”

“I know, I know,” he says sheepishly, head down as he watches you sink back towards his cock. His voice shakes as you lick a stripe towards the tip. “Just–It’s been a–uh–long day.”

“Oh yeah?” You smirk, then hold him in your mouth until saliva is dripping down his shaft. As you suction your cheeks, strained, mewling moans come from the back of his throat.   

“Yeah,” he whines, then whispers. “Needed you. God, need you so bad.” 

Even after slow, sloppy head, as his body shudders with his third orgasm of the night, he’s begging to give you one more. Sometimes, his drug of choice is simpler than saving lives. The hungry look in your eyes and your hands on his body–As good as he feels about being a doctor, nothing even comes close to the way it feels to be yours. 

“Just one, baby, just for you. Last one I swear,” he promises, as you press chaste kisses onto his lips, neck, chest. As he watches you get undressed, his hips roll forward, already chasing his next fix. You ride his wrecked, overstimulated dick while he lets out sobbing moans and praises. 

“Thank you, oh my God. Feels so goddamn good baby, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

When the night ends he’s knocked out and his wrists are red-raw with rope marks, which he prays he can figure out an excuse for before his next shift.

Everybody at work who's paying attention thinks he has a thing for robby and they're not WRONG, but that thing is more paternal. He actually loves sticking around to help the night shift come in just to spare a few glances at Shen. We're Cutiepie4Cutipie in this household. He laughs at all Shen's goofy jokes and wants to make him stupidly sweet iced coffees and have Shen's fingers in his mouth what who said that

Another reason for his crush on Shen is that the first (and only) time he's ever come out is when he, rather hopefully, joined in when he was around Shen and Ellis making gay jokes at each other.

He was ecstatic when Trin started coaching him on how to be hot in a Queer way. I mean she wouldn't have known any other way to coach him but this man surely cannot flirt for the life of him. At least now, even if hes not at a gay bar, there's a 50/50 chance guys will clock him. Or think he's the cutest most nervous little butch on her way to dyke night. Either way a win is a win

He feels a kinship with Thee Midwest princess (chappell roan), and Trin 100% has fought with him over belting After Midnight in the bathroom when it's way too goddamn early in the morning. This one is tru even if u see him as straight. I've decided.

He loves chatting with Victoria about Matteo, but insists to anyone who asks (Trin. it's alway Trin), that he's just trying to be a good friend. He's just interested! In his friend Victoria. Obviously. One time she described a time Matteo called her 'baby', absentmindedly and Dennis couldn't stop imagining it was him instead for the rest of the day.

After that, he had an incredibly confusing dream that made him unable to look Matteo in the eye for weeks. Tbf, everybody's been there. Matteo is the Pitt's no.1 babe.

The more someone means to him, the more terrified he is of them finding out. Even though Trin is the gayest person he's ever met, she's basically his sister at this point. Sister = Family = Can't talk about gay stuff. Obviously she's clocked him anyway, but she's actually kind of afraid to push him on this one

When you stretch for the first time, it's innocent, you swear. The second time, though, where you point your toes and shift them ever so slightly upwards, so they graze his hard-on? That one might be intentional. It happens again and again, his fidgeting and your stretching, just to gently tease the outline of his shaft with your toes. To measure the length of him, biting your lip when he's a little bigger than you expect. 

CGI explosions and car chases rage on in the background, and gradually, Langdon loses all composure, gripping your ankle to grind against the pads of your feet as barely-stifled, stunned, gasping moans slip out of his mouth. He gets whinier as he gets more worked up, though he tries desperately to shut himself up, which only results in more tortured, choked back sounds that make you clench around nothing. 

Before he even realises how close he is, he's shooting warm spurts of cum all over his boxers. The action on screen lulls for a moment and you turn to him, all casual, stretching out even further in his lap.

“Should we order a pizza?” 

And he knows that tonight, you're going to do far more than watch shitty movies.

Pregaming in her apartment, Trinity roots around her fridge for orange juice. When she can’t find any, she tips her head back and yells. “Stop touching my shit, Huckleberry!” 

She settles for the litre of lemonade on the counter, and a chorus of laughter trickles in from the living room. You take another sip of your drink and, lips stretched into a goofy smile, turn to her. 

“Didn’t I watch you chug the orange juice twenty minutes ago?” 

She says your name like a warning. “Don’t test me. I’ll steal every single one of your shots tonight." 

Together, you head back to the living room giggling. Sabrina Carpenter blares from a JBL and Trinity joins her, louder and far more on key than either Emma or Victoria. You collapse onto the sofa, where Dennis watches it all with a soft smile and an empty glass in his hand. When you land beside him, his arm immediately lifts to rest behind you and your body curls against his. 

“Your glass is empty,” you say, squinting. 

Dennis lifts the glass and glares like he’s seeing it for the first time, his smile getting broader as you let out another peal of giggles. Even though he’s already making direct, heavy-lidded eye contact, you poke his face to get his attention, then nudge him with your leg. 

“So, what are you having?” 

He narrows his eyes, leaning in so your shoulder is pressed into his chest. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, grabbing his face and practically climbing into his lap as you take the glass. You tilt his head up to pour what’s left of his drink into his mouth, ignoring the tug of desire as he swallows, staring up at you. Still laughing to yourself and shaking your head, you dance-walk back to the kitchen. Footsteps pad in behind you and a pair of arms wrap around your waist. 

“Boo.” 

“Hi Vicky,” you singsong, pouring vodka shots with one eye shut. Victoria spins you round and fixes you with a stern look. 

“It’s happening again.” 

“What’s that?” you try distracting her by handing her a shot and she does take it, but remains undeterred. 

“You said, and I quote: ‘if it keeps happening, I might as well do something about it’.” She raises her eyebrows and clings to your waist harder. “Well, it’s happening again.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Which, of course, is a complete and bald-faced lie. 

What happens, when you convince Dennis along on these nights out, is that things remain exceedingly polite. Pure, platonic fun. There are nights for messy sex and pregames with Mission Impossible-style gameplans for achieving it. This respectable, platonic night is not one of those nights. It might sound militant but this hard line in the sand protects the sanctity of partying with your friends. From expectations, from tears, from having to equip a vicious side-eye on the dancefloor all night that wards off greasy men. It’s a line that none of you would ever think of blurring. And you don’t. 

However, Dennis is sweet. Pretty eyes, gentle voice, hands that drive you crazy. He holds open doors, he offers money he doesn’t ever have to do menial favours. You’ve seen the tenderness he has with patients and the tactful, firm way he settles disagreements without ever raising his voice. So sure, a few drinks in, it can be extremely hard to forget about all those lines you're trying not to blur. Arms circle round waists, hands wander. A few times you’ve given him a peck in thanks for buying a round of shots. It never goes farther than that and by now, you’re certain you’ve made yourself clear. If Dennis wanted anything to do with you, he would’ve said so. Which is fine. It’s fine. He’s not supposed to want you. 

That’s the reasoning you keep in rotation all the way to a small, crowded club in the middle of town. It’s all relatively unmemorable; your group stands queuing, bathed in neon pink light and two stepping to shake off the nighttime breeze, chainsmoking and swearing that each one is the last. Dennis lights every single cigarette for you, lifting one hand to block out the wind or grab your face to stop you moving. Eventually, he gives up on keeping you still and just takes a few drags for himself, before handing them off to you. 

Inside, you dance. You sing, or rather yell, along to the music. A few more shots and Victoria is done. She signals for a time-out with her hands and, after a few more songs and a loud, babbling trip to the bathroom so she can check her make up is intact, it’s time to go home. Dennis insists on shepherding her home with Emma in a taxi, leaving you and Trinity to stumble through her apartment’s door and take turns lightly charring post-party junk food in the oven. 

“Don’t judge me,” Trin begins, “but I totally think Garcia is about to come over.” 

“As in, your spidey senses are tingling? Or you invited her.” 

“I said don’t judge!” She crunches through an especially burnt patch of her pizza slice and stalks off to her bedroom. 

Dennis comes back when you’re already in your pyjamas, cozied up on the sofa, over a mishmash of blankets and pillows from each of his and Trinity’s spares. Before he's invited, he throws himself down next to you, head leaned back and arms thrown wide. He turns to face you. 

“Party’s over?”

“Looks that way.”

“Are you tired?” 

“Not even a little. Oh, wait!” You hold your plate out to him. It’s piled with freshly baked halloumi fries. Store bought, although you insist they’re just as good as the ones from you and Dennis’ favourite post-shift spot. 

He tries one and nods. The more he chews, the faster his nodding gets. “Shit.” 

“I know, right?” He takes another from the plate. Inexplicably, the half-eaten fry already in his hand is held up to your mouth. Even more inexplicably, you take a bite from it. 

This is how it happens: slow, innocuous intimacy. You get closer and closer until the TV is off and Dennis is running you through the inventory of his bedroom’s desk. It doesn’t get more interesting than a cluster of Monster cans in one corner, yet you still don’t leave. 

“Are you tired?” Dennis asks again, scratching behind his ear. 

“Still no.” You’re perched on the edge of his bed while he sits up against the headboard, hands pressed into the mattress like he wants to spring away any minute now. You move so that you’re cross-legged and facing him. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s just, you seem…” A sudden panic stings through your veins. “Did something happen out there?” 

“No, no. Nothing happened. Me and the girls just…talked.” 

“Oh.” Your shoulders sag as the panic subsides and you let out a nervous laugh. “Phew.” 

“Yeah.” Dennis, who has also since changed, toys with the drawstring on his plaid pyjama pants. “Javadi said something pretty interesting.” 

You force another laugh. “Uh oh.” 

“I don’t know if…She was still pretty drunk.” 

So are you. So his he, you want to say. But that feels an awful lot like arguing in favour of whatever Victoria probably said. Feels an awful lot like doing something about it. Dennis can’t seem to leave it alone though. 

He shuffles forward and copies your posture, so now you’re sitting knee to knee. His hands fidget on his own legs until they make their way to yours, fingers tracing gentle shapes into your skin. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers. You nod and he blinks a few times, gaze unfocused as he furrows his brow. “Is it–Can you say it?” 

“Of course it’s okay, Dennis.” 

He lets out a shaky exhale and his fingers go from tracing to tapping. “You don’t think it’s–”

“What did Vicky actually say to you?” 

For the first time since you entered his room, he looks at you. In his bedroom’s low, warm light, the blue of his eyes is so dark that it’s almost black. It almost distracts you from his anxious lip bite and the way his gaze keeps flitting between your eyes and your lips. He absently picks at a loose thread on your sock and takes a deep breath. 

“She said that we get, uh…Handsy when we’re drunk.” 

“Well, whatever,” you say, all decisive like your pulse isn’t racing. Without thinking, you take his face in your hands. No frills, no caresses, just the heat from your palms seeping into the heat from his cheeks. “It doesn’t bother me.” 

“No, me neither, it’s just that she, uh…She said that it was, um…”

“Spit it out, Whitaker, you’re killing me here.” 

“Sorry. She said–She asked if I was messing with you.” 

Your hands drop and so does your jaw, but all you can do is blink at him.

“Yeah,” he lets out a breathless laugh, “I didn’t know what to say either.” 

He goes back to tracing shapes onto your leg and chewing on his lip. 

“What are you thinking?” 

“Uh,” he laughs shakily. “I’m trying not to. Maybe we should go to sleep.” 

“Why? Are you tired?” 

He chuckles, all breathy and nervous as he meets your eyes for a split second. “Not even a little.” 

You don’t remember when it happened, but his hands have gone from tentative and tracing to running his palms along your thighs. His thumbs make small, soothing circles. Barely anything, but it sends little electric shivers up your spine all the same. 

“Just in case you were wondering,” you say, “this is okay. More would be okay, too. If you wanted.” 

He springs into action as if that’s all he’s been waiting to hear. His arms circle around your waist, tugging you into his lap while he lavishes you with messy, open-mouthed kisses. Along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone. One of his hands runs over as much of your body as he can get a hold of, and the other stays planted on your back. Palm warm, fingers splayed, pressing a grounding pressure as he moves back up to your face, to press your lips to his. While he kisses you, his thumb rubs gently back and forth against your jaw and his tongue presses lazily against yours. As he gets more worked up, his grip starts to falter and you push him gently back onto the mattress. 

You roll your hips, looking down at him and grinning shyly. “Hi.” 

He’s already rock hard underneath you, chest heaving and face splotchy from blushing. You run your hand up his chest and he grabs your wrist, tugging you down to kiss you some more, lapping into your mouth slow but hungry. He twitches and you grind against him again, the whine he lets out practically soaking you through your panties. 

Dennis mutters your name, his hands still roaming all over your body. As you bite down gently on his lip, his hips stutter upwards and he groans. “Am I dreaming?” 

“Shut up,” you say through a peal of giggles. 

“No seriously, this is–God, keep doing that, please.” 

Your hips are still rolling down onto him and you sit up, essentially riding him through both your clothes. “You sure? You don’t want something else?” 

He shakes his head, voice whining and breathy. “This is perfect.” 

“That’s a shame,” you say, pouting. “I kind of wanted more.” 

“Oh my God,” Dennis moans. His back arches under you and his calloused hands slide from your thighs to your waist. “Okay, let’s, uh–let’s do what you want.” 

Leaning back down, you pull off your own shorts and tug down Dennis’pants, moaning into his mouth when your hips press back together and he twitches against you. As his kisses get rougher so do his hands, creeping under your shirt with a bruising pressure to toy with your nipples. 

“Your body,” he mutters into your mouth, “is so fucking perfect. You’re perfect. This is–” 

“Perfect? You hadn’t mentioned it.” 

His laugh turns into another keening moan, in response to your hips slowing but pressing down harder. Wrapping his arms around you to pull you closer, he speaks into your mouth again. “Are you gonna fuck me?”

“Is that what you want, baby? Hm?” He nods but, high on the sight of him biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut, you keep taunting. “You feel how wet I am, right? Wanna feel me all over this big, hard cock? Fuck, it already feels so good, baby. Bet it would feel even better inside me.” 

He lets out a sound halfway between gasp and moan. “Holy shit, please.” 

“Sounds good, huh baby?”

“It–uh, please–It does. Sounds so good. I need you so bad, please let me–” He cuts himself off with another gasping moan. “God, you drive me crazy. I’ve thought about this so many times, it–”

As his own words register, his eyes snap open and he tries, still thrusting against you, to sit up. You let him up but you don’t stop moving, combing your fingers through his hair as he leans back on his hand. His jaw tenses shut, eyes searching your face for a reaction. You make him wait until he can’t hold back anymore and throws his head back, short, grunting moans slipping past his defenses. The muscles in his neck twitch, you lean closer to whisper against them. 

“So you’ve thought about me, huh?” Your grip in his hair tightens. “Do you think about this every time we go out?” 

When he doesn’t answer, you still. “Okay, okay. Yes, yeah. I–Yeah. I do.” 

“If you don’t wanna talk about it, why’d you bring it up?” 

“I do, I just…Isn’t this weird for you? You really wanna hear about this?”

You adjust so that he’s pressing even closer against you and slide your hips along him. “Jesus, of course I do. It’s so hot that you’ve wanted to fuck me for, what, weeks?”

“Uh,” he moans through nervous laughter, watching his own hips buck into you with a dazed expression. “Yeah, um–it’s actually been a little longer, I think.”

“How long, Dennis?” 

“Holy shit, can you say my name again?” 

Though it’s just as agonising for you, once again your movement stills. “Alright, Dennis. How long?” 

He whines and grips your hips, keeping up the friction himself. “Months. About a year. Since, uh–Um, since we met. Fuck, that feels so good. You feel incredible, I’m–holy shit–I think, uh…” 

His words dissolve into mindless moans, fingers still groping at you to keep your hips in place while slides himself against you. Even your mind has gone blank, head first thrown back, then nestled against Dennis’ shoulder while you moan into his neck. You leave bruising kisses up to his jaw, drawing noises out of him that only have you soaking his dick even more. 

“Dennis,” you whisper, “I’m so close.”

“Me too,” he replies shakily. By now one of his hands has made its way to your hair, kneading his fingers into your scalp while he peppers your face with kisses. His lips are deep pink, parted as he pulls away to get a good look at you. Voice quiet and trembling, he babbles all the way to his orgasm. “You’re so beautiful. I wanna cum all over you, I wanna cover you in it. Fuck, baby, I could do this forever. Does it feel good?” 

Still collapsed against him, you nod.

“Shit, baby, I–Look at me?” He says your name. “I need you to look at me. I need to see your face when I–oh shit, that’s it. You’re so pretty.”

As his rhythm gets sloppier, he runs his thumb over your lips. They part instantly and with a distant look, like he still can’t quite believe you're real, he presses his thumb down on your tongue. “Oh my God, oh my God, that is so hot. You are–fuck, that’s it. That’s it, sweetie, suck on it, just like that. I–oh wow, okay, I–I’m–shit.” 

Your cum all over his dick sets him off, a rapid slew of expletives as he leaks and twitches. He pulls his thumb from your mouth but you stay pressed against each other as he softens, both sensitive but so gone that you continue rolling your hips and pressing languid, messy kisses into each others’ mouths. Dennis pulls away only when you hear the front door open and simultaneously freeze.

He’ll scroll through your account almost every night, even though he knows each picture by heart, refreshing and refreshing in the hopes he’ll see something new. As if it’s not enough to see you at work every day, he’ll click on your most recent post to ogle the curve of your smile, swipe his thumb over as much of your skin as he can get his eyes on. It makes him feel like such a creep, pretending to touch you through the phone when he can’t so much as imagine asking you out without breaking out into hives. Eventually he will, he swears. 

One night, he’s doing his nightly scroll, when he sees something that makes his breath stutter to a halt. In a carousel of you and your friends getting up to mayhem, there’s a picture of you in the sunlight, light glinting off your skin and your hair a brand new colour. 

You’re smiling straight at the camera, eyes crinkled shut. Dennis imagines being the one who put that smile there, imagines the familiar, buoyant laughter that would slip past your lips. He stares and only notices the lapsed time when he notices how hard his bottom lip aches from biting down on it. He scrolls to another picture in the same carousel–mirror selfie, you posed seductively with a drink in hand, hair that brand new colour and freshly styled–and palms himself through his boxers. Every time he thinks about what he’s doing, his skin flushes with heat, but he can’t help it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. His hand slips into his boxers, where he runs his fingers lightly over himself, pretending his hands are yours. He whispers your name, flushes with heat again. The phone’s blue glow lights up his pitch-dark bedroom as he squeezes the base of his dick and rubs himself up and down slowly. He imagines kissing you, imagines grabbing fistfuls of your hair, complimenting the new colour and watching you duck your head coyly. God, he wishes you were here right now.

His pace picks up and he squirms in place, chasing more friction. Whenever he gets to his leaking tip, he swipes it with his thumb, forcing a cough to hide the way his moans are fighting to get out. The more he goes, the less he can help it, whining as he slows down again and presses a little harder, using his precum as lube and teasing himself. He imagines your lips on his neck, or by his ear and telling him he’s doing such a good job. So good for you. 

“I will–I’ll be so good for you. Make you feel so good,” he mutters out loud, panting and holding the phone against his chest. Bathed in darkness, he feels emboldened to moan a little louder, though he still does it through a bitten lip. As he twitches in his own hand, he looks back at the picture, at your gorgeous mouth. He thinks again of kissing it, then of having it wrapped around his dick. Warm and wet and moaning softly as your head bobs up and down. 

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “Holy fuck–shit.”

He has to drop the phone when he gets too worked up to keep quiet. Choked, stuttering moans are muffled by his arm thrown over his face, as his hips jut forward haphazardly. His head drops and he strokes himself through the last of his orgasm, burning with humiliation and just as desperate–if not somehow more–than when he started. 

It gets worse when he’s headed to work with Trin the next day. After all the days he’s spent at Amy’s, he owes her a drive in but curses himself for picking today, of all days. She mentions you offhandedly, in conjunction with Nolan, Javadi, a few of your other work friends. He, trying to be just as offhanded, compliments your hair and asks what she thinks. 

“Huckleberry, don’t be such a dude.”

He blanches. “What?” 

“New hair? It always looks like that. Lucky for you, you’re right.” As the two of them get out of the car, she nods at him. “It is pretty.” 

He tries to think nothing of it but the second they go in, Trin sees you. Even dressed down, the new look makes Dennis’ head spin. He stops short, blinking rapidly and gawking in your direction. Trin turns to him with a devilish smile and pats him on the shoulder, squinting and cocking her head. 

“Huh,” she says, all knowing and cunning and totally out to get him. As she walks off, he’s too distracted by you to worry about the absolute torment (which Trin will likely call encouragement) headed his way.