figgy!

One of the first things you did when you transferred to Pittsburgh for your intern year was check out the new location for the same clichés. The first day was hell, so you didn’t get to do any snooping. Instead, you were too focused on hitting the ground sprinting, practically flying, instead of running. Mass casualty event and one too many patients that had too much fun flirting with you and the realization of just how understaffed and underfunded the Pitt was. At least you got paid.

And at least you met Mel. 

After that first day, things got better. Maybe not easier, but better. They didn’t get easier for a long time, actually, because finding your footing was a process you despised but apparently needed to go through multiple rounds before it really got stuck in your head. You were practically a certified resident now and the crew at the Pitt was certainly nicer than the one in Tampa, which also helped. No more lying, no more excuses, no more being left out. 

Which led you to the speedy conclusion that, yes, sometimes stereotypes happened for a reason. 

You still didn’t do the partying. (Readjusting for the fourth time, remember?)

The hook-up thing, though? It happened to you two months in.

Completely on accident. You and Mel had become fast friends–sticking to each other when it seemed like no one else really gelled as well. She was funny. Kind of in an oblivious way, sure, but she made you laugh. A lot. And she was supportive in all of your learning processes. Quite a good teacher if she felt comfortable enough. Big family person, which you admired. You could stare at her for hours, which… maybe should’ve been the first sign that it wasn’t just friendly. It wasn’t the most normal thing in the world to think about fucking one of your closest friends regularly.

But then it happened. 

Her sister, Becca, had to stay late at her care facility for an Arts and Crafts activity night, so Mel came over to your place for dinner. Which ended with you bent over your kitchen counter while Mel fingered you from behind, mouth hot on yours. You’d had to pack up the food in tupperwares and eat at Mel’s apartment after picking Becca up, a result of getting too carried away while killing time for her event to end. 

It wasn’t killing time when your pussy was on hers at the end of the night, though.

When you arrived at the PTMC the next day in the same scrubs as the day before, quite a few noticed, even if you denied, denied, denied. Collins told you about how she and Robby had been a thing for a while. Dana had informed you that she met her husband through the resident she’d gotten tangled up with the year after she joined the team. And McKay apparently felt the need to fill you in on her rebound from her ex-husband. A doctor named Julia, who apparently finished her residency and was now up in Maine. 

All of them with the same underlying message: Be careful. 

Which you should’ve taken more seriously. Considering this is the third time this week you’re waking up in Melissa King’s bed. 

“I was thinking,” she says, shifting on her toes nervously around you as you brush your teeth in front of her single sink. The bathroom that connects to her bedroom is tiny, but it has all of the necessities: toilet, shower, sink. “Can I clear out a drawer in my dresser for you?”

You blink. Cautiously, one of your hands holds back your hair as you spit in the faux porcelain basin and rinse the toothbrush. “Why?” you ask slowly, after your mouth feels sufficiently clean, something alert and careful creeping into your tone. In the mirror, Mel shakes her head quickly, hands clasping in front of her chest. 

“It’s just–” She pauses, takes a deep breath. Still avoids your eyes as she starts back up again. “You’ve been, um, spending a lot of consecutive nights here for the past five months and–”

“We’re not dating, Mel.”

It was the wrong thing to say. For obvious reasons and not-so-obvious reasons. The most obvious being that it was sort of mean. From a setting boundaries standpoint, maybe less so, but from a standpoint of someone you were regularly intimate with, it probably felt like a slap to the face. That’s what you would imagine it would feel like if you were in Mel’s place. It’s what it feels like as soon as the words leave your mouth. It’s what it looks like when her nose crinkles slightly and she looks down at her hands. 

The not-so-obvious reason: you said it because you’re bitter. The thought of having a designated drawer at her place is so nice. It’s domestic and personal and what you want, but it’s also a reminder of what you don’t have. You don’t have her like that. Because if you did, then maybe this time wouldn’t have been wasted with the label of ‘Casual.’ You weren’t a casual person. You didn’t do hook-ups, or stereotypes, yet here you were drinking coffee in Mel’s kitchen while she checked to make sure Becca was up and getting ready. 

Bitter. The word loops in your head like the sensory signals to your brain with every sip you take from the mug supposedly bought at some Portland flea market you’d deemed your favorite. 

As Mel skirts past the corner into the kitchen, the space between her eyebrows still has that little crease between them. It hasn’t left since those four words left your mouth. She doesn’t seem mad, you don’t think she’s capable of mad, but she’s moving with an urgency you’ve never seen her wear before. 

You set the mug on the counter as you realize she’s beelining for you. “Everything okay with Becca–”

She kisses you. Hard. Hard enough to have your eyes snapping shut on instinct as her hands cup your face. She tastes like the sensitivity relief toothpaste you share in the mornings and nights, where in both scenarios, you’re exhausted. It has you breathless, tongue unsure of what to do for a moment before you settle into the familiar rhythm of kissing her back. Your neck is twisted at an awkward angle as Mel stands half-behind you, your hipbones pressing into the edge of the countertop. Maybe it’s the suddenness of it all, or the slight pain as you stumble against the dull outline, but your body responds naturally. Heat in your lower belly. A tiny noise into her mouth. 

One of Mel’s hands moves to the side of your neck, thumb brushing along the skin in what was probably a comforting gesture. To you, because of the abruptness, and for her, because she said she always got too excited when she kissed you. Needed something to soothe herself. It digs in just a bit harder than usual. Her other hand, into your scrub bottoms. The knot of the drawstrings loosens. Her thumb brushes over the waistband, sensitive skin spasming at the softness of her finger. Over the front of your panties. 

She bites at your lower lip. 

The sharpness of teeth has you jerking away, panting a little as her hand slips out from your pants, leaving the bow practically undone. 

You look at her for a moment, eyebrows furrowed and mouth turned down at the corners after you pressed your bottom lip into your mouth to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. Your lip was wet with her spit. And it wasn’t bleeding, even if part of you kind of hoped it was. Her own eyes trail over your face once. Then, she turns to start her electric kettle–black tea in the mornings to help her wake up. 

“Becca said she’ll be ready to go in exactly seven minutes.” 

She doesn’t say anything else. You stand there, a bit of wetness seeping into your underwear.  

Collins, bless her, at least tries to pull you aside before you’re caught up in the first trauma. You arrive with Mel, per usual, at the same time as an immobilized 16-year-old who had gotten too roughed up during a morning high school football practice. Robby calls you and Collins in before you can get your hair pulled back and before she can say whatever it is she needs to. They encourage you to do the neurological evaluation, assessing consciousness and ability to move arms and legs and sensations. 

So you don’t even notice when Mel slips in. 

You see Robby’s eyes dart as he shifts back and forth on his feet, arms crossed over his chest, but it’s such normal behavior from him that you don’t suspect anything. 

Then, the brushing of fingers at the back of your neck. 

It has you stumbling over your testing of reflexes, head whipping around with the intention of telling the person off or pushing them away, you’re not sure. But it’s just Mel. And she just gives you one of her tiny little smiles, eyes crinkling all cute at the corners as she nods for you to continue. While she continues sweeping your hair back into a ponytail for you.

The sensation is too much–all soft and sweet to the point where you think your own reflexes are about to kick in and you’re going to giggle and hide your face in your hands. But you’re at work, and you’re professional. Not at all what Mel is being as she takes her time. Robby’s and Collins’s eyes on you make your cheeks feel hot as you struggle through the last of the testing. The kid looks confused too, his own eyes darting back and forth from your flushed face and Mel’s hands gently handling your hair. Everyone’s confused.

It reminds you too much of her washing the strands for you in her too-cramped shower. Of how she rubs a lock between her fingers as she falls asleep. Of how she pulls at it when you suck at her clit just right to have her foot kicking at the mattress–

“A-And I want a CT scan of the cervical spine to check for fractures,” you say, trying to stay upright as Mel fastens your hair at the back of your head with a spare hair tie. One of her fingers twirls through it again before she turns and just leaves. “And an MRI to rule out spinal cord or tissue injury,” you finish, tone rushed as you avoid contact with either your attending or senior resident. Or the patient. 

You just go back to the computer to put your orders in before Robby can even approve your case. Or before Collins can tell you what she needed to.

Because now you’re wet again and your brain keeps replaying what it’s like to give Melissa King head.

Just an hour before lunchtime, you’re still thinking about it. Even as you try to finish some charting in the central nurse’s station. Santos and Javadi are trying to catch up too, Whitaker is talking to Dana about something, and you haven’t seen Mel since the whole… thing in front of Robby and Collins. You shouldn’t be surprised. She’s an amazing doctor, probably dealing with lots of cases. 

What you are surprised about, though, is how good she’s gotten at sneaking up on you.

A sense of deja vu washes over you when a finger gently pokes at your neck. 

“What’s that?” 

It’s the loudest you’ve heard her say anything, maybe ever. So, naturally, everyone within a ten-foot radius decides they just have to see what has Mel so surprised. Even though she’s not. She’s a horrible liar, and her voice always reflects it. Everyone just has to look at the hickey on your neck.

Before you even have the chance to go wide-eyed, Santos laughs.

That morning. Mel’s thumb on your neck. Not soothing, but rather, wiping away concealer. 

You don’t have the ability to glare at her as your heart stutters in your chest and something in your gut plummets. All you can manage to do as Santos cackles and Javadi smiles widely, that kind of wild look in her eyes that only surfaced when drama was afoot, lighting up, is push Mel’s hand away to cover your neck awkwardly. Dana smirks like she’s suppressing her own mirth, but at least Whitaker is nice enough to offer a sympathetic head tilt as Mel hovers.

“Did someone have a little too much fun last night?” Santos asks when her amusement has faded enough and it’s taken you too long to respond to Mel.

“I–” you try, convinced that maybe you didn’t need to put on blush this morning since Mel had apparently made it her mission to do all of the product’s work herself. “It’s a curling iron burn…”

Dana actually does bark out a laugh this time, mumbling something about “You kids…” before peeling off somewhere else.

Next to you, Mel’s still standing too close, her shoulder brushing against yours and sending a shiver along your spine. You know that the bruise is nasty, too. It was where she bit you while cumming on your thigh, her fingers working you to your own orgasm. She had wanted to stay quiet so she could hear you, and– You were going to kill her.

Mel just tilts her head, hands folding in front of her. “I don’t have a curling iron.”

You’re shooting up from your rolling stool, not even bothering to exit out of your charting as Santos practically howls with laughter.

By the time you have an hour left on your shift, you’re at your wits' end. 

Mel is everywhere.

Even as you try to actively avoid her, because every time you’re in the same room, every time you meet her eyes, she suddenly has something to say that has suggestive undertones only you can pick up on, or someplace on you she just needs to touch. Lower back, your stomach, thighs, and, apparently her favorite today, your neck. Your underwear is ruined. You could practically sob with relief at the thought of curling up in Mel’s bed. Your nerves are thrumming with unused energy from constantly being in the strange state between arousal and embarrassment.

“You’re jumpier than usual,” Mel observes, light in the way it always is as you practically fall into the lockers from how quickly you spin around.

You’d been trying to have a moment to yourself, to collect your thoughts and take a few deep breaths considering… everything that had to do with the day you’d had. But Mel had a sixth sense for you and apparently, she always knew exactly where to find you.

God, even just being by her was enough to turn you on right now.

A breath of a laugh leaves you, hand pressing to your forehead and eyes closing as you try to slow your heart rate. “I wonder why,” you finally manage, peeking your eyes back open to see her staring at you. Her mouth in a firm line. No smiles, no arched eyebrows–just her. Observing. Cautiously, you move again to close your locker, the hinges squeaking slightly.

“Santos is looking for you.”

“Yeah, so she can interrogate me,” you mumble under your breath, shifting again to rest your shoulder against the door of your locker. 

“No, I think it’s actually for a case,” Mel hums. And you wanted to describe it as casual, because that’s what it’s trying to be (you think), but you were really starting to hate associating that word with anything related to her. She lifts her hand and points at your mouth. “Did you put lip balm on?”

You blink, not even surprised at how she was jumping around between topics now. Her conversational nonlinearity has been a constant all day and you haven’t been able to predict any of her movements or motivations either. “Yeah,” you sigh.

“Can I have some?”

Straightening up again, you move to open your locker back up. Mel’s hand catches yours quickly, though, turning you back to her as she kisses you.

A small peck. Barely there–pressure, warmth, poof. So fast you can barely even process that it happened, but it did. 

In the middle of the hallway. In public. At your workplace. Your very public, very rule-bound workplace.

Hastily, you shove a hand at her chest even if you’re already separated. “Are you crazy–”

“Is that a new flavor?” she asks. You stare at her blankly, hand still hovering between the two of you as your brows pinch together and your lips part slightly, almost tempted to drop. Mel just tilts her head like a puppy looking at its owner. “We’ll have to get the mint one again. I don’t like this one.” And then she’s off, leaving you standing there, on your own by the lockers, stunned and stuck in place.

Since she’s so quick today, you don’t bother trying to be discreet when you pass by her again. Instead, you grab her wrist like she’d done with yours maybe half an hour ago, and drag her along behind you into the women’s bathroom. Drag was too harsh of a word, though, considering she trailed willingly, grinning as you whirl to face her as soon as the door swings shut.

“What are you doing?” you snap, pent up energy on the verge of exploding as she just smiles at you.

“I’m acting like I normally do.”

“Yeah,” you say, letting go of her wrist to cross your arms over your stomach like an attempt at holding yourself together. “At home. Not here, not at work.”

Mel takes a tiny step forward, eyebrows lifting in the corners as she carefully takes both of your biceps in her hands. “I’m not… Nothing made you uncomfortable, right?”

“No,” you rush out with a tiny shake of your head. No matter what you were feeling, you didn’t want her to be worried. Or upset, especially after what you’d said that morning that had been weighing on your mind all day. And you probably would’ve apologized the first chance you had, tried to talk it out with her between cases because, again, you hated when she was upset, if she hadn’t made it her personal mission to torment you all day. 

You uncross your arms, reaching to wind them around her neck as you tilt your head a little. “Just– really horny.”

“Oh–” You lean up to kiss her, quick and needy, only for her hands to find your waist, squeezing softly to stop you. Any kind of ease that had managed to wind its way into your heart immediately shifts into annoyance.

You pull back just enough to look at her.

“Don’t act like that’s not what you were trying to do,” you say, heat creeping into your tone.

Mel presses her lips together, and you can see the way her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek as she tries to suppress a smile. “Are you coming over again tonight?”

You hum a little, hands sliding from her back to rest on her shoulders. 

“Only if you clear out that drawer for me.”

This time, Mel does smile, the sight having something bright and warm sparking to life in your chest, immediate and stupidly fond. Her smile fades a little after a moment, though. It has your hands rubbing over her shoulders in an attempt to comfort her as you feel her posture shift. “I don’t…” she starts, then exhales. “I don’t want to have sex tonight, though.”

You feel your own smile drop. Not at the fact that she didn’t want to, that part is fine. At the fact that after teasing you all day, you weren’t going to get any relief.

“Are you serious,” you mumble.