gotta love a little angst

It had been a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of hunt where all the families had been invited. One sacrifice had been picked by Chester Danforth, who held the high seat. Each family had picked a representative for their family (or two, in the case of the twins).  

This hunt was the first time your parents had allowed you to be the representative for your family. You’d been preparing for it your whole life. And you were eager to prove yourself. 

Titus was eager for blood. 

He’d split off from Ursula to cover more ground. And he’d thought it was his lucky night when he’d seen the trail of blood leading into the greenhouse. But instead of finding his prey, wounded and hiding, he found you, knife embedded in the man’s neck. 

You didn’t even flinch as you pulled the blade out, blood spraying from the wound, across your face. There was only a proud glint in your eyes as the man crumpled to the ground. 

Titus wanted to be angry. He’d wanted the kill for himself. But seeing you there, that look in your eye matching his own when he took a life, stole the very breath from his lungs. You were beautiful even with blood spattered across your cheek. 

You finally looked up, meeting Titus’s eye. 

You’d really only heard stories about him. While you socialized in the same circles, you’d had little interaction beyond a polite greeting at events you both were required to be at. 

You shifted your weight from foot to foot. There was something heavy in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite decipher. But it made you nervous. And it made your stomach twist, heat curling between your legs. 

He looked down at the body in between the two of you. He nudged his leg with a heavy boot, looking for any sign of life. When there was none, he grunted in approval. “Two hours,” he said. It had only taken you two hours to find and kill him. “Impressive.”

And from that moment forward, he knew he had to have you. 

Two years later, you were only minutes away from truly being his forever – from becoming Mrs. Danforth. 

You stood in front of the full length mirror, adjusting the lace of your veil. You’d kicked all of your bridesmaids out along with your mother. All you wanted was a moment of peace and quiet before the ceremony to calm your nerves. 

You weren’t having second thoughts. Of course not. You were in love with Titus, desperately so. He completed you in a way you never thought was possible. Wedding planning had simply been taxing. And now that the day was finally here, it was catching up to you.

The sound of floorboards creaking pulled you from your thoughts. You glanced back, expecting it to be your mother telling you it was time. But it wasn’t. It was your groom. 

“Titus, you know you aren’t supposed to see me beforehand,” you chided despite the smile tugging at your lips. It was like he’d known exactly what you needed before you even knew – him. His presence seemed to shut your brain up. 

He shrugged. “That is a stupid tradition,” he said, stepping further into the room. His eyes roved over your dress, taking in the lace and beadwork with an appreciative hum. 

“Tradition is important.” Once he was close enough your hands found their way to his chest, trailing upwards to adjust his bowtie. You pressed a chaste kiss against his lips. “Now you need to go before my mother realizes you’ve been in here and blows a gasket.” 

 “I’ll see you at the altar, Mrs. Danforth,” he whispered before finally pulling away. 

Mrs. Danforth. The sound of that echoed through your brain as your father walked you down the aisle. There were a thousand eyes on you but the only pair you cared about were those hazel ones waiting for you. 

“We are gathered here today,” the officiant started the ceremony. 

You were practically buzzing with energy as you went through your vows. You were eager to be his wife, to be Mrs. Danforth. And soon enough he slipped the ring on your finger and you repeated the action on him. Your ‘I do’s’ were said. 

“You may kiss the bride.” 

And Titus did. 

His hands cradled your face, holding you like you were something precious, before he kissed you hard. He didn’t care who was watching as he devoured you. 

When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless. But he didn’t go far. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes falling shut for just a moment. 

“Mrs. Danforth,” he whispered, breath ghosting against your skin. 

“Mr. Danforth.” You grinned. “Shall we?” 

“We shall.” 

The reception was perfect – just how you’d envisioned it. 

The night was finally winding down. The first of the guests had begun to leave. The rest were scattered around the gardens, a few still on the dance floor, the rest mingling in groups. 

Titus was sitting at your table, sipping on a glass of champagne. He looked around, searching for you. Every moment you’d been apart he’d spent looking at you. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He watched intently as you conspired with your bridesmaids. You were clearly plotting something, all huddled together with hushed voices. 

It was even more evident that you had something up your sleeve as you peeled off from the group, a little grin on your lips. You made a beeline for your now-husband. 

“Hi,” you hummed as you sat next to him. 

“What are you up to?” he asked, straight to the point as always. 

“I have a surprise for you.” 

“A surprise?” 

“Yep,” you said, popping the ‘p’. “A surprise.”

“Hm.” 

He eyed you, tracking your movements as you slid a polaroid, face down, towards him. He picked it up. 

It was a photo of you, wearing white, lacy lingerie and the veil you currently had on. You were laying on his bed, ass up, back arched, with one hand stretched in front of you to show off your wedding ring. 

Titus inhaled sharply at the sight, his pants suddenly feeling tight. 

“D’you like it?” you asked. 

“Of course I like it,” he gritted out. It took every ounce of his self control not to pull you out of that chair and haul you inside. “Now, be a good girl and say goodbye to your guests, then we’re going inside.” 

You nodded eagerly, scrambling to your feet. He didn’t leave your side as the two of you made rounds, thanking your guests for coming. And the moment you were done? He was practically dragging you to the bedroom. 

“Fuckin’ tease,” he muttered, coming up behind you after locking the door. He toyed with the neckline of your dress.  “You have that set on under here?” 

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly. 

“Let’s get you out of this, yeah?” 

His hands meticulously undid the laces and buttons. If it were any other article of clothing, he wouldn’t bother. He’d have already ripped it off of you. But this was your wedding dress – the one you’d spent months grueling over. You’d probably suffocate him in his sleep if he ruined it. 

You stepped out of the dress as it pooled around your ankles. Titus picked it up, draping it across one of the chairs. 

“Get on the bed.” 

The silk comforter was cool against your back as you laid down. Titus approached slowly, like a predator sizing up his prey. He nudged your thighs apart. His eyes locked onto the wet spot on those lacy white panties of yours. They were practically see through now that you’d soaked them thoroughly. 

“Got yourself all worked up, huh?” He pulled your panties to the side. “Fuck, she’s dripping for me.” 

Your hips shifted unconsciously, seeking friction from those thick fingers of his. He rolled his eyes at the impatience but he decided to be nice. It was your wedding night after all. So he dragged a finger through your slick. 

He pulled a breathless noise from your lips as he finally sunk one finger into your aching hole. He pumped it slowly. In and out.

He pushed a second finger in, moving them in a ‘come-hither’ motion. Your head fell back against the pillows, his fingers curling against the spot that always had you seeing stars. He moved his fingers languidly, enjoying the feeling of your silky walls wrapped around him. 

“Titus,” you whined his name, hips bucking into his hand. “Please!”

“Please, what?” he asked, voice dripping with condescension. “Gotta tell me what you want, honey.”

“Want more.” He clicked his tongue. “Want your cock, please.”

“That’s better,” he crooned. 

He pulled his fingers from your cunt, bringing them up to your mouth. You opened up, licking your own arousal off his hand. With his free hand he worked open his pants, pushing them down far enough to free his aching cock. He hissed as your hand wrapped around him. 

You stroked him a few times, before lining his tip up with your entrance. His hips finally met your own. He pulled one of your legs over his shoulder, letting him slip even further in. The other he hooked around his waist. 

Each roll of his hips punched the air from your lungs. Nails dug into his broad shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. The sound of skin against skin and moans filled the room. “So fuckin’ perfect. Such a good wife.” 

His hand slipped between your thighs, thumb landing on your engorged clit. He rubbed slow circles against the bundle of nerves. He could feel you clench around his length with every pass of his finger. 

“‘m gonna cum,” you said. 

“Cum for me, honey. Wanna feel you milk my cock.” His hips moved faster, trying to push you over the edge. And with a few more well angled thrusts he had the knot in your tummy snapping. But he didn’t stop, even as you began to squirm from the overstimulation. 

“Titus–” With his name on your lips, it didn’t take long for him to follow you over the edge, spilling inside of you. 

He stayed there, savoring the warmth of your cunt around his cock for a moment longer, before finally pulling out. You cringed as his cum spilled out of you, dirtying the sheets beneath you. 

Once you’d caught your breath, you started to move, but he clamped his hands down on your hips, keeping you still. 

“Titus,” you drawled. “‘m all sticky.” 

“You can’t move yet. Gotta let it take.” 

You raised an eyebrow. But he wasn’t even looking at you. He was completely transfixed, eyes on your weeping cunt. He lifted your hips slightly, putting a pillow under you to stop his cum from leaking out. 

He finally looked back up at you. “Don’t you want t’give me a baby, honey?”

Oh. Heat crept through your body at his words. 

Finally, you managed to nod. 

“Then we gotta start trying now.” You shifted slightly, already getting worked up all over again at the thought. Titus grinned at the movement. “Does my wife like that? Y’want me to fill you up again? Make certain you get pregnant, honey?” 

“Y-yes, please, Titus.” 

“How can I say no when you ask so nicely?” 

PARTS:

00. introductions

01. more than a feeling

02. night shift

03. gogo juice

04. no place like home

Becca moving out was supposed to be a relief. A decision made between the two sisters to ease the strain on their relationship. Independence for both of them. Instead, the R2 was left dissociating in her car for an unknown amount of time while her sister excitedly moved onto this new stage of her life, in the facility across the lot. She wanted her sister to be happy, and Becca deserved all the freedom she craved. Unfortunately for Mel, she hadn’t realized that in all her years of supporting her sister, she was leaning on her just as much. Now Becca was out there standing on her own with a sunshiny future on the horizon while she was left to stumble and fight for a new center of gravity. As she started the car, she reminded herself of all the positives. Back at the apartment, she’d begin trying everything she couldn’t before. She’d watch anything and everything she wanted on the TV. She’d leave work late without worrying. She’d get a boyfriend or whatever it was she was supposed to be doing at this age. Fuck it, she’d buy an Elf DVD and a baseball bat and work out every bit of pain and sleepless night until the disc was obliterated to mere dust.

But then she did get back home, and she was… hollow. Was this how adulthood was supposed to feel? Why didn’t an invigorating independence flow through her and drive her toward all the things she must have missed over the years? She simply went from lonely to outright alone, and that wasn’t exactly the big change she had intended—well, agreed to. It didn't matter how burned out she was, Mel wanted everything to stay the same, but the second that darn worker at Middle Hill brought up their Independent Living program, Becca was fixated on it. It was all she talked about, and despite all the selfish reasons she could list for why her sister should stay, of course she caved. All Mel wants is for her sister to have every need and want fulfilled, so during the time leading up to her moving out, Mel would think of reasons this would be good for her too. She'd fall asleep attempting to list all those things she surely missed out on or simply hadn't had the chance to try yet, and she told herself this would be a fantastic opportunity. Totally. Sure, she felt nauseated, but this would be good...

It would be good, she reminded herself from wherever her consciousness was floating above her body as it moved from the parking lot to the apartment. She snapped back into place along with the click of the apartment door shutting behind her, and all the good she promised herself melted. Mel was left with nothing but a distant awareness of her own heartbeat and the faint cough-and-rattle of the heat working throughout the building. So, she let her mind sink back into the pocket that turned everything into a blur and wrapped her arms around her middle, one hand rubbing the other arm. When her vision focused again and she was forced back into the world, she took in exactly what her world was made up of. All she saw were the empty spaces where Becca had previously kept her things. The whole universe felt like an empty space with her stuck at the very bottom, which was one of those prime feelings to set her spiraling. She had no one to eat dinner with, no one to keep her moving forward every day. Without Becca, actually, she was the empty space in the apartment. Whatever she had been made up of since their parents passed, it went right along with Becca out that door, and she was left with… nothing. Her breath was faster than she’d like it to be—personally, as a doctor, and as the person experiencing the way the back of her throat burned—but it just kept happening. She visibly cringed over the invisible, knowing the steps she needed to stop this, but she couldn’t reach that thought right now. Mel couldn’t hum with the way her stupid body was gasping for breath; she couldn’t look for something to fidget with, or pull out her phone and listen to music or white noise or watch that digital lava lamp. She was stuck there just past the threshold, seemingly incapable of breathing. Melly Bean … …big breaths …count to… A feminine voice she often worried she was forgetting rang somewhere in her skull; fragments of a song from her childhood in a tone blending maternal playfulness and concern. She squeezed her eyes shut as she twisted her arms and clutched her hands together, gradually working herself off that ledge. As soon as she could feel her legs again, she continued to quietly mutter the words she could remember, ducking her head down as she rushed to her bedroom where she could comfortably fall apart.

ʚɞ

“This could be… a…” Robby trailed off, rotating his hand as he searched for the right words. “…a great time for you, if you let it. You’ll get to just be a girl—woman—for once. Spend time with yourself. You’ll figure it out. Oh, hey! Whitaker, have you heard back about…” Mel jumped when he clapped a hand to her back before leaving, trailing words along with him as he went to discuss blood test results with Whitaker. Okay. Yes. This prompt again. Now Mel could figure out who she was outside of being a caregiver and a sister. Apparently. Did she not seem like her own person? Was it so obvious? This was distressing for her in a very unique way. Who was she? What did she like to do when she wasn’t working? When she was alone? If you asked, she wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint a favorite color, and it made her feel terribly behind in the most basic ways of being a person. She wasn’t necessarily prone to self-deprecation, but there were these moments when that inner voice asked the unfortunately valid question: how could she spend time with herself when no one else wanted to? And she didn’t like the total silence in the apartment as much as she thought she would. But she also didn’t want to be out all the time because she needed doses of isolation to recover from work. She missed the sense of another body in the apartment even if it was late and Becca was only sleeping in the other room. Or maybe doing something by herself. The prompt Robby presented gave her too much space to spiral even further on everything wrong. Poor Mel was uncharacteristically gloomy, to say the least, and, as if things couldn’t get any worse, she was hit with growing financial issues from living alone. This she hadn’t considered before as much as she should have. Her rent had been upped by $200 within the course of a few months since Becca moved out in late autumn. Her logical side argued this wasn’t too bad in comparison to some other landlords, but now that she was covering the cost alone as well as a good chunk of Middle Hill, it felt like they might as well have kicked her out already. At least before, some of Becca’s disability had gone toward the apartment. So, on top of her personal identity crises, she couldn’t stop thinking over the numbers. Every day she circled back to mentally debating with herself about if her sister moving out really had made a massive financial impact on her or if it simply felt that way. “What’s up with you today?” Santos asked, having assessed her coworker with frequent glances from her screen to Mel and back again for 10 minutes now. The near-R3 had been humming in a low tone to herself while staring blankly at her screen, constantly forgetting what she had been meaning to do. Typing. Scowling. Backspacing. “Hm?” “You’re all sad lately. You’re even bumming me out.” “I’m sorry.” “No, you don’t—you don’t have to be sorry. I’m asking what’s wrong,” Trinity reiterated with a breathless laugh, shaking her head over Mel’s response. She let out a breath and briefly made big eyes of exasperation at the screen. “Well, with Becca moving out, things have been kinda different in… not the best way…?” “Oh… damn,” Santos‘ lips pouted outward a bit as she frowned, still typing away. She paused to look over the monitors. “That sucks, I'm sorry. I’m sure you’ll get used to it soon. You might even get to have a life, Mel-aise.” Mel blinked and Trinity was focusing on her screen again, forever stuck in that cycle of catching up on her charts. At that, she circled in her spinning chair, slowly rotating then finally getting up with a sigh. She drifted off to look at the board above the nurse’s station. “Hey, wait, I was just..." Santos tried with a huff of a laugh, sounding distant behind all the noise in Mel’s head while she anxiously twisted her hands together. “Hey, kid,” she heard Dana say, something as simple as a greeting feeling like a magnet scraping a piece of metal through her insides.

“Hello,” she said flatly after a deep breath. She continued to hum to herself, barely catching whatever the charge nurse said next.

These interactions pretty much summed up the entirety of her shift, and most others, as time continued to pass without progress. In fact, it only got worse. With the added money stress, she gradually began breaking her own rule about overtime, forcing herself to work doubles here and there. She had a line drawn in the sand about overworking herself for a reason, after one too many bad experiences following what was usually her trying to prove her worth in a class or workplace. As expected, she was crashing earlier and harder every time until she was isolating in the stairwell again and again. Like… right now… unable to stop the tears as she buried her face in her hands, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. Digging and digging and digging until the pressure on her eyes was too much and she had to stop, focusing on her breathing while blotches of color stained her sight. “Okay, you’re really freaking me out,” a voice came from behind her, making Mel jump. She looked up, adjusting her glasses to find a genuinely concerned Trinity Santos peeking out from behind that proverbial emotional wall of hers. “Mental breakdowns are unofficially reserved for the rest of us—not you. You’re supposed to be our ray of sunshine or whatever.” “Ray of sunshine?” Mel asked, gently surprised and maybe a little pleased even if she didn’t feel like a beam of warmth. She felt like a shaky, clammy weight of some sort. “What’s wrong?” Santos urged in place of an answer, leaning against the wall across from where Mel had curled herself up on the stairs. Mel had every intention to remain evasive, not wanting to make the mistake of saying too much, but it always turned into that when someone bothered to speak to her. By the time she was done ranting, her throat burned while she fought for air and she was squeezing her hands together so tightly they were blanching. “Well... if you get a roommate it would probably help,” Santos offered with a shrug. “I don’t know anyone,” she quavered, tone as miserable and pleading as the look in her doe eyes. “And I don’t want to invite a stranger in because that’s dangerous. I never understood how someone could put out an ad in the paper or online and take someone in. What if this person is a murderer or… or something? I don’t know. I won’t know until it’s already happening and I’ll be wishing I listened to my gut—" “Just… try online, okay? Like a legit site,” Santos encouraged again with a sigh, hands placatingly raised while she pushed away from the wall. “I’ve got some impatient douche in chairs to get to. Try to find a roommate. I’m sure it’ll work out.” “But I—” Mel started, but Santos was already going past the double doors, making her posture deflate. Her expression was slack and sad as she watched the doors creak shut again. ʚɞ “Hey, Mel… you check out any of those search sites I told you about? I texted you a couple links,” Santos said casually, tense as she ignored the eyebrow raise she felt radiating off of Whitaker just outside her periphery. “Oh, I, yes… er—not quite? I did look at them—I really appreciate you doing that; I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I just keep going to them and then I get… overwhelmed,” the blonde explained shakily, hands folded. “Do either of you need a place to stay or a roommate?” She asked in a soft, hopeful tone before she had to see the exasperation she expected from not utilizing the resources Santos was kind enough to send her way. “Sorry, no room at the inn,” Santos drew out her words playfully, lips pressed out in a thoughtful pout until her eyes slid over to Whitaker. The expression he responded with pulled out her teasing smile. Trinity tilted her head, clicking her tongue before adding: “That is, unless a certain someone is as dedicated as he seems to a dead guy’s wife and her baby—” Whitaker started with a playful sneer to compete against her smug frustration. “You’re—" “Then I’d have a room open, Mel-ediction.”

“You’re hilarious,” Whitaker retorted, lips pursed and face still bunched into that expression which was lighthearted deep down. Not that Mel could see that. “Thank you… I’m here all week.” Santos swirled her hand as if about to dip into a bow, instead remaining slouched at the computer with the exact posture she knew was the reason for many patients’ chronic pain. “Can I just… have an answer, please? Instead of listening to you two fight?” Mel asked quietly, nervously picking at the skin around her nails after having spent that whole time looking back and forth between the two. “We’re not fighting,” the pair said at the same time in the same clipped tone. They immediately shared a glare that embodied the “quit copying me” sibling energy that Mel never got to have the angst for. At that, she turned on her heels and walked off from the computers, humming to herself and gripping her hands together.

This was good, actually. Totally okay. A solid reminder that even if her coworkers had a spare room, she unfortunately did not want to be around that kind of bickering at home. Plus, living with them, or with just Santos, would mean moving in with them rather than them moving in since she was the desperate party here. And even if it wasn’t enough, even if it wasn’t what she craved deep down when she thought of “home,” that damn apartment was the only bit of consistency she had left tethering her to this earth. If Mel had to experience the process of moving ever again, she’d probably combust.

ʚɞ

“I thought you didn’t need a lot of sleep and all that crap about your metabolism,” Santos said loudly enough, with a hand clapped down on the staff room table, to make Mel jump in her seat. “I— sorry, uh-uhm..." she scrambled for even a single thought to spare, fixing her glasses from the odd angle they had settled into when she was slumped against the table. Was she drooling? She wiped at the corner of her mouth. Even Mel King wasn’t immune to passing out after yet another double shift, apparently. She hadn’t been this exhausted since medical school. “Alright, so I did some asking around and... I got a couple people who need a place to stay— don’t... make a big deal out of it, please. A simple confirmation of being interested is all I need,” Santos sighed. “I’m sorry?” Mel asked, blinking up at her, the words catching up in her mind by the time Santos was rolling her eyes. “Oh! Oh, you looked for a roommate for me?” “Like I said, don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s whatever. I know them too, so they’re Trinity Approved,” she awkwardly held up two thumbs with her lips pressed in a tight smile. “So, they’re normal. Or—at least not assholes.” “Okay… thank you. That’s really nice.” “It’s whatever. I do have a favorite, though. Maybe, if I’m lucky, you’ll choose her,” Trinity half-joked, reassuring Mel she was only kidding (again) when she saw that hesitant smile.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be great. I only took the most official routes for your sake, Mel-function. I got you, girl.”

ʚɞ

“anyone need a place to stay in Pitt, PA? about to put my coworker on a 72 hr hold if she can’t get a roommate within the next week lol” you read in her “friends only” story, oh-so formally displayed in purple Comic Sans. It was overlaid on a selfie of Trinity doing a duck face and a peace sign with the very dead eyes that confirmed she was still practicing medicine. Good to see she was sticking with it.

Some tiny text in the corner added: “really tho. serious inquiries onlyyy pls text me.”

It was funny in the sense that, of course, this was how the universe would serve you the answer to your prayers: in the form of Trinity Santos’ “LOL no but fr tho” brand of fuckery. It was also fall-to-your-knees-and-sob-in-relief unfunny because you’ve spent the last couple of months fighting to move from SE Pennsylvania to Pittsburgh, and it has been hell. Surely, you had once thought foolishly, it would be as simple as Googling “apartments in Pittsburgh.” Instead, you had been through a series of ghostings, overpriced bullshit, and a scattering of suspicious renters. You were starting to worry it was a sign that you weren’t meant to make this next step in your career, since the only reason you were moving was to work at a friend’s shop.

You had never responded to a story so fast in your life. Selfishly, you hoped that your history with Trin would be enough to get that open room. You could not care less who had the apartment; even if it was a man, you only cared about your half of the rent being doable and that you could stop worrying all day. Even someone obnoxious—you could put up with that.

I just need a roommate. Please. Please. Get me out of this place before I lose my mind.

That was on loop most days, bouncing around in your skull like that DVD screensaver. Right now it was bass-boosted on 3x speed as you paced back and forth in front of your bed, phone laid face up. Your whole body felt fuzzy with nerves like when a limb falls asleep, strangling a plush in your arms through all of this. All for one text to even confirm possibly meeting this person—you don’t think you’ve ever been this desperate for a text back from even a girlfriend before.

“hey! I didn’t realize yu were moving to pittsburgh?! we can suffer together agajn. when can you come meet mel?”

“oh her name’s mel. lol. i’m rushig cause i’m hiding in the bathroom at work 2 text you back.”

ʚɞ

Trinity would play the neutral party that tied you both together. She’d sit at the same table and drink probably a bit too much. That was fine, though, as long as this could work. You didn’t know what to expect. In a work environment like hers, Trin could’ve brought anyone, but you were imagining someone like the two of you if she got along so well with Mel. Maybe tattoos, whether they were small and rare black and grays like hers or scattered all over in passionate color like yours. Maybe piercings. Overall, maybe some presence of alternative style. Maybe none of it to match other than personality. An endearing attitude problem? Maybe a dark sense of humor?

Maybe none of it, but you soothed your queasy stomach with the likelihood that if Trin liked this girl, then you’d have an easy time connecting.

Then you got there and were presented with a nervous blonde, her virgin hair tucked away into a smooth braid. She wore a t-shirt with a small design over one breast of a little frog knight holding up a pencil like a sword and a stethoscope draped around its shoulders. “We chart at dawn!” was placed beside the design in a speech bubble. She ordered Sprite instead of alcohol, and she said things like “geez Louise” and “doozy.”

You still clung to hope, considering the way she smiled at you, but then her expression would become unreadable every time her attention strayed to your tattoos or your piercings. Had you known Mel, you would’ve known she was merely curious and distracted by all the colors and references to different pieces of media. But you didn’t, and you’d dealt with people before doing exactly what she was doing now to purposely make you feel observed and unwelcome.

ʚɞ

It was your fault, really, having attempted an awkward joke with a delivery just like Trinity’s—in that “heyyy, I hardly know you but I'm gonna crack this dumb joke like I know it’s dumb too so I’m totally lightening the mood, right?” kinda way.

Actually, scratch that: it wasn't your fault. Trinity knows exactly how you are and yet she still put you across the human embodiment of a bunny or a golden retriever puppy. So, naturally, as you all scrambled for a relaxed air at that old bar table, you found yourself pointing finger-guns at Mel and joking that having you as a roommate comes with the bonus of discounted piercings—free, if it’s her birthday.

This earned you no less than 20 minutes of piercing horror stories from the past 6 months of her working in the Emergency Department.

“I just never understood it…? I guess?“ Mel concluded her awkward rambling like it was a question, with a shy smile that didn't quite know how to pull at her lips. “Plus, heh, I could barely handle getting my ears pierced.”

Even her hands seemed to have minds of their own, constantly shifting like they also had no clue what to do with themselves. She went to settle her hands on the table for the millionth time, only to pull them away for the millionth time when assaulted by the physical reminder that the surface was still sticky. At some point during all her talking, she had even tried wiping the spot in front of herself, but the napkin stuck and tore, leaving a paper skin to become one with the table.

“No—no offense, I… yeah, that’s just what I know about body… modifications...”

You glanced at Trinity, who was sighing heavily through her nose and chugging her drink. All you could think was how you had been desperate for a place to stay… but maybe not this desperate. Maybe starting over at a new shop while continuing to be stuck at a hotel and anxiously apartment-hunting all at the same time would be okay. The grass is greener over the septic tank, or something like that…

“It’s alright, I guess… Makes sense since your knowledge on the matter is in a vacuum. When they’re done right, people don’t go to the ER because of their piercings,” you point out, your tone sharper than intended, but it did ease your internal tension a bit. Your initial politeness was worn down a little more every minute that blonde had gone on about infection… and nickel allergies… and unsanitary practices… and that one story an attending told her about someone’s abdominal wall being pierced after a very, very poorly executed navel piercing.

“I- well, yes,” Mel’s lips quirked to the side, and she squinted slightly as if physically pained by your accurate point; seeming to take this as yet another ignorant approach to her good and hardy medical knowledge. Her irritation was temporarily smothered by a brief, overwhelmed silence that came over her. She sipped at her Sprite.

This was honestly the last thing you needed, and you hadn’t expected someone Trin vouched for to be yet another ass about your career and, in turn, the way you look. Let me guess, if I or any of my friends showed up to your ER, you’d be assuming some sort of criminal background, you thought during the pause, visibly tapping out as you stared out the window of the bar.

Or pull that “Oh come on getting stuck one more time won’t be so bad! Look at all these tattoos and piercings you have!” crap.

“I’m sorry, I just-“ Mel stopped to let out a little breath, feeling like her skin was crawling over your not seeming to listen to her very valid points and experience. “I feel very aware of certain dangers…?”

“Jesus…” Trinity groaned through an exasperated laugh, getting up from her spot to order more drinks. Mel blinked her wide-eyed gaze at her coworker until she was out of sight, hands folded away from the table.

“I don’t see the appeal with such a high risk of infection and scarring, I guess, is what I mean. So… yeah.”

Sighing softly, you dragged your gaze back to her, looking her over again. Her posture was like that stereotypical lesson of imagining a string pulling you up from the top of your head. You were sure that if you left a stack of books on her head, they would be steady even while she went on and on… and on.

Mel’s hands, however, remained constantly busy being squeezed tightly together or gesturing; or she was toying with them, sometimes holding onto her glass until the sweat on its surface bothered her too much. She was talking again, you think, but her voice was a distant hum with the occasional word poking through as you took in her features, gears starting to turn in your mind.

“That sucks,” you finally spoke again, interrupting whatever she was saying now.

She blinked, tilted her head, and her lips parted like she meant to make some kind of questioning sound, but didn’t.

“You don’t want any piercings, but you have great anatomy for some of the coolest stuff. I had a client the other week who had been saving up for an industrial piercing, which goes through here,” you drew a line from the upper curve of your ear across to the innermost side. She didn’t do very well at hiding her cringe, if she even tried. “But she didn’t have the anatomy for it. You, however, have a very clear cartilage—sorry—helix ridge and…”

You leaned forward, the blonde flinching inward as you reached across the table to rest the pad of your pointer finger on the curve of her ear. She pressed into herself, looking to the side like if she went inward enough, she might be able to see what you were doing.

“You have a good shape to it, too. She unfortunately had an unusual curve to hers that got in the way. I could easily give you an industrial, though.”

“Well, I don’t- o-kay…” she started off strong only to dip down to a whisper once you kept talking.

“See, I could’ve pierced her even with that anatomical quirk. But,” you sighed with a touch of dramatics, arm drawn back again.

“I wouldn’t have been able to align the barbell the way I’d need to, and it would’ve rejected for sure. At best, it would’ve been inflamed until she got it taken out again. At worst, if the healing process was particularly bad—especially from messing with it and not following my aftercare instructions, which is unfortunately very common, doctor—it would’ve gotten infected.”

“I see…” she trails off, a pretty dusting of pink high on her cheekbones. That cute flushing almost made you feel bad about your attitude. Almost.

“So… you just sent her home?” She tentatively asked the simple, clarifying question like a peace offering, all while giving you those puppy eyes. Damn her for showing how guilty she feels for her social stumbling. It makes you feel like an ass for being irritated in the first place. But she had her tangent, shouldn’t you get yours too?

“I am so glad you asked,” you began, and she huffed out a small laugh, looking down at her lap as a half smile tugged at her slender lips.

“No. I couldn’t give her the traditional look, but I could create a similar effect with a few connected helix piercings. I was able to customize a bit, and with the right jewelry, she was happy.”

“‘S nice you could do that…” she nodded, briefly separating her hands to gesture.

“I can also give you a rundown of my supplies and my sterilization processes, if you want. What materials I work with… where I get my gloves… Oh! I’m sure I could really paint a picture with the sharps containers I’m sure you’re familiar with… let’s see…” you trailed off in faux thought, brows pinched together.

“Oh, my certifications on the wall, right next to the permits we have. From passing mandatory health inspections, for example. I could even tell you which candies I keep in case someone’s blood sugar might crash. I avoid the most common food allergens, too. If that helps.“

“No, no, it’s fine—”

“You sure? Cause I can.”

She rapidly shook her head, squeezing her lips together with her gaze cast down. She didn’t plan on looking up again, if ever after this, but that meant she missed the shift in your expression as you realized maybe you went a little too far with your attitude this time. Had she known you longer than the 30-40 minutes or so that she has, she might’ve known you could get snippy when you were stressed. Not to mention that she had unknowingly leaned into a sore spot.

She only raised her eyes again out of curiosity when her Sprite was being moved aside. You laid out a couple of unfolded napkins in front of her, draping a panel over the lip of the table facing her.

“Oh—okay,” she mumbled when you reached for her hands where she had them clutched together in front of her chest, guiding her by her wrists enough to urge her to set them down the way she had clearly wanted to. You then concluded with the sharp clack of the coaster and soda being placed back down in front of her. She jumped a bit from the sound, unsure what to really do with herself over this, but when she glanced at you, you simply pursed your lips at her.

She awkwardly leaned forward to sip from her straw. Then sat back again, her lips tightly pressed together to match yours as she flicked her gaze back up. Then:

“Uhm… Oh! So, do you sell regular earrings at your job…?” she tried in a brighter tone, features lit up by curiosity, and her glasses looking low on her nose with the way she raised her eyebrows so high.

ʚɞ

Two days later, Trinity texted you that Mel wanted to offer you that spare room if you were still interested, tacking on a “lol” before she disappeared into her shift.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ the photos and gif used in this post do not belong to me

The blonde sighed deeply and slumped against the door, dropping her bag in the foyer. The clock over the doorway ticked past the midnight mark. You rose from the couch, adjusting your ridden-up sleep shorts, and stalked towards her quietly, plucking her glasses from the bridge of her nose. You smiled softly and rubbed her temples, humming a careful, “Hi, Melly.”

Mel’s crystalline eyes fluttered open and you watched the stress slowly deflate from her muscles, the girl’s gaze softening within seconds. She mustered up a little grin and leaned into your touch. “Hi.”

“Bad day?”

“Bad, long, tiring, stressful. Every negative word.”

You cooed softly and reached behind her to tug the tie from her braid, hoping that loosening the hair wouldn't tug so hard on her pretty brain. Mel stepped off the door and cupped your cheeks, pressing her lips to yours without warning. You flushed a bit, furrowing your brow in concentration, and you let her take the comfort. She kissed you– well, eagerly wouldn't be the right word to use– something more like determined. Determined to experience one good thing, one thing she had control over, one thing that didn’t ask too much of her. Her mouth still tasted like gum, and she still smelled like body wash, just with a little tinge of sweat. Still prim and proper. Still Mel. 

When she pulled away, she pressed her forehead against yours. “I really missed you today.”

You frowned, chest squeezing. “I missed you too, baby.”

“Sometimes I wish I could just keep you at work. So I could have you nearby.”

“Like a stress toy?” You giggled.

Mel smiled at you and squeezed your hips, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, like a stress toy. Makes sense. You bring my cortisol down.”

“Well, I’m happy to be so useful,” you murmured, leaving little pecks along her jaw. “I made you dinner. Are you hungry?”

“A little. Gotta shower first.”

“I can help,” you offered, and when she gave you a cheeky little look, you blushed and added, “I meant that in a serious way.”

“You want to help me shower? Like, wash my hair?”

You nodded softly, walking her away from the wall. You grinned as she stumbled on her feet, and you waddled backwards, never looking away. “Sure. I’m good at it. I’ll wash it, brush it, feed you dinner…”

“Why?” Mel asked as you wrenched the bathroom door open. 

You finally let go of your grip on her hands to turn the shower on, and you took one more look at her sleepy eyes and run-down frame. She looked so small sometimes, and it made part of you hate that hospital, that ridiculous emergency department that kept her too long and let her go without care. You knew she loved the job, and you knew the doctors meant well. It was just an impossible profession. You admired what she was willing to put herself through, even when you didn’t like it. 

“I just want to take care of you, that’s all.”

Mel leaned against the sink and drew you back in, looping her arms around your waist. She tucked her face into your neck, smelling the leftover notes of your lotion and breathing softly. “You’re really good at it.”

“I know,” you stamped a kiss on her temple. Then, you curled your fingers under the hem of her scrubs. “Can I?”

Mel nodded and raised her arms, and you pulled her scrub top and undershirt off with ease. You let her step out of her own pants while you stripped down, and by the time you were ready, the water was hot. The two of you climbed into the steaming shower and you watched Mel melt under the warmth of the spray. 

You took a few minutes to work the suds of the shampoo through Mel’s hair. She smiled a little when you scratched the nape of her neck with your nails, almost like she was a dog. She just stood there, silent and grateful, as you washed her golden locks and conditioned them, passed the soap over her milky skin, kissed a few freckles here and there. Mel lost track of time as your hands touched her with intention, making sure to press out the knots forming in her back and to get all the product from her hair. You hummed quietly to yourself, some song she didn’t recognize but loved anyway, and when you turned the water off, she frowned. 

“What?”

“Over already?” Mel pouted.

You laughed softly and tugged the curtain open, stepping out to grab her a towel. “What, did you think I’d get tempted and keep you in there?”

The doctor shrugged sheepishly, stealing a glimpse of your supple frame before you cruelly wrapped it up in a towel. 

You only rolled your eyes. “Later, if you’re not too tired. You need to eat first.”

Mel huffed in fake petulance and trotted behind as you walked down the hall to the bedroom. There were fresh pajamas on the bed– something you always did when Mel wasn’t home at the time she was supposed to be. Her heart thumped as she dressed in them, and she admired the way you brushed your hair from the corner of her eye. After a moment, she crawled onto the bed behind you. “Let me do that.”

You snatched the brush back with a grin. “Nope.”

“C’mon,”

“No. I’m done anyway. Turn around.”

Mel grumbled but did as she was told, sitting on the mattress with her back to you. She felt your fingers in her hair once again, gathering it in a thick rope and beginning to pass the brush through it. 

“Do you want to tell me about your day?” You inquired, studying the sheen of the darker pieces lacing her natural color.  

Mel yawned, a bit lulled by your monotonous strokes, and shrugged again. “We had nearly fifteen traumas. There was a pile up on the highway. Another few were freak injuries. And then the computers went down again because admin refuses to replace them, and so all the charting on our tablets wasn’t uploading, and it took us hours after our shift to collect the files from the cloud base and download them into the system… and I forgot my lunch this morning. The soda machine broke. My socks kept slipping down and now I have blisters on my ankles from my sneakers. Just stupid, inconvenient stuff, over and over again.”

You listened as she complained, heart tugging with sympathy. “Jeez… it really just piled on, huh? Did you ever eat?”

“No,” Mel shook her head, “I never got a second.”

You frowned and let her combed hair fall down her back, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. “I’m sorry you had such a rough day, Melly.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle,” she promised. “You made dinner, you said?”

“Mhm. Ziti. I’ll warm it up.”

Mel peeked over her shoulder at you. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” you purred, leaning in to kiss her once more before clambering off the bed and disappearing through the doorway. 

Mel sat for a moment in the quiet of the room, rubbing her eyes and gathering her hair into a wet braid. She could still smell your skin, and she heard your footsteps in the apartment like a comforting ghost. You were always home when she needed you. Always there to take the reins when she’d been holding them too long. Sometimes she would think back to when she still lived with Becca, before the care home and before Becca moved in with Adam, and how there was no passenger seat for her in life. All there seemed to be was coming home to be another caretaker. It wasn't that she didn't love it, but the undeniable toll of never getting a break had nearly destroyed her. It was only when she met you that she realized it was okay to let people in. That maybe they could help, and that passing on responsibility was not necessarily a burden. At least, you never made her think so. You just cooked and smiled and kissed her with all the love in your body. She was so grateful that she couldn’t find it in her to contain it the same way she could keep everything else under wraps. 

Mel’s body buzzed with relief and exhaustion, hunger and need, and so she rose and padded into the kitchen where you stood before the microwave with a spoon in your mouth. Ice cream for you while her dinner heated. Mel quietly spun you around and pulled the spoon from your mouth, and she watched your lips curl like it was a movie frame. 

“I love you,” she whispered. 

Your throat clenched, and you pressed her nose like a button. “I love you too.”

“A lot.”

“How much?” You cocked your head, seeing how her eyes gleamed. Every now and again, Mel got overwhelmingly affectionate, and you would press it out of her like a grape. You adored it. 

“So much,” she cooed, kissing your jaw, your neck, combing through your wet hair with her fingers.

Butterflies rushed you like a wave, making you turn rosy and lean into her nudges. “Use more words,” you joked, breathless and swooning. 

“Sometimes I feel like I could explode,” Mel mumbled. 

You laughed softly and jumped when the microwave rudely interrupted. Mel swatted at you when you attempted to turn and get her food. “You need to eat!”

“Kiss me again,” she whined. 

You chuckled with weak exasperation and grabbed her face, trapping her in a deep kiss, feeling her jaw mold instantly to take all you gave her. She tasted the hint of mint on your tongue from the ice cream, and it made her entirely starving, but not for the plate in the microwave. When you pulled away, she pawed at you. 

“I mean it, Mel, you have to eat,” you urged, wriggling free and grabbing her dinner. You led her over to the couch like she wore a leash, and she crawled up next to you, taking the food dutifully. 

You clung to the fork and she stared at you, hand open. “Gimme.”

“I was gonna do it,” you said. 

“Feed me? I thought you were kidding.”

“Just one bite.”

Mel glanced away, suddenly a bit shy from all the care, but she opened her mouth without another word. You speared some and held it up to her lips, depositing the cheesy bite, and she grunted in approval. She loved your cooking, and for the moment, she put aside her other itch to eat. 

You passed the fork over and watched her, twirling the end of her braid around your finger while flipping through television channels for something boring. You landed on the History Channel, which was running some documentary on medieval castles– you knew she would want to see that, the little dork, so you left it on. Mel gave in and polished off her dinner, and she leaned against you, finally full and satisfied. 

“You should get some rest,” you advised as you took her dish and slid it onto the coffee table. You’d clean it later. 

“I want to see you a little longer.”

“I’m right here.”

“I know,” she smiled, draping herself over you. 

Your stomach fluttered, and you collected her into your arms and laid a bit more comfortably on the couch. It would only be minutes before she passed out, you could tell; it was in her drooping eyes and deep breaths. So, you kissed her forehead and settled in, keeping the remote handy to change the channel when she drifted off. 

“I have to set an alarm,” Mel slurred. 

“I already did, baby,” you whispered, petting her head. “Just close your eyes. I’ll get us to bed in a bit.”

“You’re like an angel,” she teased, and you laughed. 

“I do what I can.”

“I love you,”

“You already said that.”

“I know.”

The two of you laid for a while, Mel slowly succumbing to the weight of sleep, and you watched her lashes wink shut. When she rested, all that distress melted away, and you could see the girl that loved you, and the girl who cared for her patients. Just a warm, knowing face. Beautiful and unafraid. 

You really didn’t want to tell him. In fact, you purposefully avoided his phone calls all morning so he wouldn’t hear your sniffles and coughs.

You knew if he heard even a hint of how raspy you sounded, you knew it was game over—you didn’t mind Dennis being your own personal doctor by any means, but you also didn’t want him to worry himself to death.

But it only got worse, to the point you were somewhat struggling to breathe.

So now you find yourself stepping through the doors of PTMC, already mentally practicing your name repeatedly in your head.

Still, you have to say ‘Whitaker,’ though you hesitate for a moment.

The receptionist immediately connected the dots—so much for an Oscar winning performance.

“Please make sure he doesn’t know. He’ll make himself crazy.” You quickly blurt out, your voice hoarse.

She nods and gives a lopsided smile,

“Someone should come get you soon.”

A beat.

“It’s also nice to meet you—Whitaker loves to brag about you,” she says with admiration.

All you can do is grin back—even through the snot.

When you’re taken back and triaged, you wait in your hospital bed with your head lulled to the side. 107° fever with a strep and Covid test on the way.

The door creaks open and you slowly look up, sneezing almost on cue.

“Why didn’t you call me? Or text me? What if it’s pneumonia?”

You immediately know who it belongs to, especially when you feel a cool hand rest on your forehead which makes Dennis’s eyebrows shoot up the second your fever hits his fingertips.

You pout, sighing,

“Just because I got it when I was a kid doesn’t mean I’m on my death bed. I’m ok, really…”—another sneeze—“you’re working anyway.”

His voice dropped into that soft, worried tone—the one he used with scared patients.

That was especially you.

Even his 24/7 looming anxieties he outwardly expressed didn’t come nearly close to how much his mind truly ran.

“Baby,” he said quietly, already grabbing the stethoscope from around his neck like this wasn't even up for debate anymore.

“You are not okay if you are here. End of story.”

He listened to your lungs, short inhale through the scope.. and winced at how congested they sounded. Then came the sniffle and another sneeze almost right in his face.

Without flinching Dennis pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before pulling back and frowning harder than ever.

“Yeah, you’re my patient now,” he murmured, already stepping off to the side to grab the chart—but he’s interrupted by Dana.

“Nope. You know better—besides, Robby just called for you to join an incoming MVA. I can take over. Santos has her, it’s fine.” She snaps while she steps in. He looks between you and Dana like a tennis match. For a solid three seconds, like his feet had turned to lead while huffing,

“Just… updates. Every 10 minutes—and tell them to speed up her labs.” He replies, his gaze flicking back to you one more time.

You weakly smile,

“Go do your job, I won’t disappear.” You reassure, Dennis slowly nodding.

Dennis didn’t want to leave. Not a little bit.

But Dana was right—he did know better. As much as he wanted to hover over you with ice packs and soup, an MVA victim wasn't going to wait while his wife snuggled into hospital blankets looking like a sad, feverish angel. With one last glance at your flushed cheeks and droopy eyes, Dennis exhaled sharply through his nose and turned on his heel. He hesitates by the door for half a second—long enough for Dana to give him that look,

“Get outta here, Romeo.” She shoves his shoulder and he finally moves again.

"Ten minutes," he repeated firmly—not just asking; demanding it like an order from God himself if needed.

And then he was gone in quick steps down the hall—the soft squeak of his sneakers fading fast toward Trauma Bay 1 where chaos surely awaited.

He hated leaving you. Hated that he couldn’t just sit right there and hold your hand until every test came back negative.

The second he stepped into the hallway though? He whipped out his pager from his scrubs pocket and typed rapidly:

‘Update me IMMEDIATELY on labs’

Then immediately after:

‘And say I love her.’

Because even during emergencies… Dennis Whitaker could never stop being extra.

“You married a good man, even if he’s a worry wart.” Dana muses while you chuckle, nodding,

“Eh, I know how to keep him reigned in.” You reply hoarsely, laying back against the covers again.

The door creaks open again, Santos stepping in,

“It’s only strep throat, Huckleberry can take a breather.” She announces, Dana shaking her head,

“I can guarantee you that he still insists she stays.” She teases while you blush and shrug, Santos scoffing,

“We need the bed. She will feel better at home—if he wants, maybe he can get out of here and play doctor at his own place.” She retorts while Dana rises, following Santos into the hall,

“We’re going to figure out a game plan, just sit tight, beautiful.” Dana reassures, gently shutting the door behind you.

You sigh, resting back again and almost immediately falling asleep again.

You wake to Dennis putting his cold hand on your flushed skin again, causing your eyes to open.

“Hey… I brought you a pudding..” he whispers, planting a kiss on your forehead. He helped prop you up a little better, fluffing your pillow with that obsessive care only Dennis could manage.

You smile and cough,

“Can I go home? They said it’s just strep. I’m taking a bed anyway.” You croak, reaching for the pudding and spoon. Dennis’s face lit up the second you smiled—even if it was weak and followed by a cough, that tiny curve of your lips hit him like sunshine.

He’d changed out of his scrubs, now in soft gray sweatpants and a faded PTMC hoodie. His fingers were still cool from the hospital fridge where he'd chilled them on purpose just to soothe your feverish skin.

"Yeah," he confirmed, nodding as you took the spoon. Then came the look—that sweet but stubborn doctor-husband hybrid expression that meant business.

“I’m coming with though—we’re gonna treat this. Antibiotics start tonight."

But then—because Dennis couldn't stay serious around sick-you for long as he gently wiped a bit of pudding off your chin with his thumb and kissed it away.

He grabbed the discharge papers from the clipboard at the foot of your bed and scanned them quickly (because even though Dana handled most things while he was gone, Dr. Whitaker still double-checked everything).

Then he leaned in again and kissed your nose gently before murmuring,

"Can we stop for chicken noodle soup on our way? You need real food."

You simply nod and smile,

“You’re the best.” You reply while he shrugs,

“Only for you.”

————————————————————

It was messy.

From the first night, the way you looked in Dennis’s direction and then back to your front door—he was quick to get the memo.

He was also quick to kiss your neck as you undo his jeans, rain still pattering on the window outside, though you tune it out when he’s breathing in your ear.

It’s casual—that’s what you tell him. Just sex from time to time, a secret between you and him. Invites to your place, telling Trinity he just wanted to go see some friends.

He knew better. His body didn’t—that’s what he tells himself. It was just pleasure. Relief from work. A way to unwind together. Though, nothing felt better than the weight of you in his arms, the sweet talk in bedsheets after heat.

It has to be casual. Even when his eyes burn your back at work, the way he goes out of his way to ensure you’re on surgeries together—he wants to be closer. You can tell. Of course you can—why else would you avoid a hookup for the last three weeks? You’ve avoided him entirely, in fact, you barely even exchange hello’s at work—enough others have started to notice.

You stand at a counter in triage, tablet in hand as you read, humming. You yawn and prop yourself onto your elbows, folding yourself over to stretch your back.

“What’s got you so tightly wound?” Dana muses, sliding next to you while you look up and shrug,

“Maybe it’s all catching up to me—I’ll be 80 before you know it.” You reply with a smirk, Dana only rolling her eyes with a grin.

Dennis rounded the corner with a stack of patient charts, slow and deliberate, he’d timed his route to pass by triage.

His eyes flicked up, catching you mid-stretch, hair tousled from leaning forward, eyes bright with that tired-but-amused look he knew too well. His breath hitched, just once, but you caught it anyway.

She nudged your shoulder playfully,

“Oh please. You’re not old yet.” Then she side-eyed Dennis as he paused nearby, pretending to reorganize his files even though they were perfectly neat already.

“What do you think, Dennis?” Dana blurts out while you straighten, shaking your head,

“Nah, leave huckleberry alone. I’m going to take a breather.” You cut in, turning off the tablet and setting it to the side. You quickly turn on your heels, darting away before an excuse even manifests in your mind—or a place to escape.

Dennis’s head snapped up as you bolted, like someone who’d just seen a ghost or remembered they left the stove on.

His mouth opened. Closed.

He didn’t say anything—not to Dana, not even a quiet ‘Hey’ that might’ve sounded casual enough. Just stood there with his stupid stack of files pressed against his chest like armor.

Dana watched you disappear around the corner and then slowly turned her gaze back to Dennis, one eyebrow climbing high.

A nurse passed by and smiled at him sweetly but he barely nodded in response.

Because all he could think about was you.

When the shift ends you make your way to the lounge, rubbing your eyes with your palms as you enter.

“God, you look like you got hit by a truck.” You hear Trinity muse as you drop your hands, shrugging,

“Maybe I should try that. Might fix the kink in my neck.” You chuckle, stepping toward your locker and typing the number into the keypad.

You can’t even side eye Dennis.

He knew about that little knot in your neck, he went out of his way to massage your back when he was with you, kissing the skin like he was worshipping it. He remembered every inch of skin. How it tensed under stress, how warm it got after he complimented you… how soft it was when he kissed it right below your hairline.

His gaze landed on you, then darted to Trinity… who smirked like she’d just won bingo.Trinity leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, watching you with that quiet intensity she reserved for when someone was lying through their teeth—she studied you—the dark circles under your eyes, the way you moved slower than usual.

Then he just watched you alongside her—back turned as you fished your bag from the locker—the air shifted. He froze mid-step.

Trinity glanced between both of you again and exhaled sharply through her nose.

“Well, see you two later.” You huff, throwing your backpack strap over your shoulder.

You give a second glance to Dennis, giving a weak smile as you turn on your heels and stepping out of the lounge entirely.

Dennis’s chest tightened.

That simple look—the one you gave him, quick and fleeting but undeniably there—sent a jolt through his whole body. Not rejection. Not anger. Just… hesitation? Hope?

He stood frozen again, fingers curled loosely around the strap of his bag like it was an anchor keeping him from doing something stupid—like calling after you or following you out the door right then. One look, he knew what that meant. He might actually see you tonight—but at least he knew he was still on your good side.

Maybe.

Trinity watched him watch you, her lips pressing into a thin line as she saw that dumbstruck expression—the same one he’d had for weeks now whenever your name came up in conversation or when someone mentioned your last surgery together (which, coincidentally, went flawlessly because Dennis kept checking every step of yours).

She sighed and shoved off the lockers toward him,

“Ready to get out of here?”

Dennis shook his head, rushing after you,

“Don’t wait up for me. I’ll get a way home.” He simply says, before stopping his steps in the hallway immediately again.

You were walking away still, that wasn’t the issue though—Robby was at your side—making you laugh. You were smiling, carefree as you kept pace with him.

Dennis’s stomach dropped.

Robby—Robby, with his easy grin and too-perfect hair, the fact he was your age—was walking beside you.

And you were laughing. Actually laughing, head tilted slightly as he said something that made your eyes crinkle at the corners.

It wasn’t fair.

You hadn’t laughed like that around Dennis in weeks—not since before everything got weird between you two. Not since before you stopped answering his texts.

His hands curled into fists inside his pockets as he stood there like an idiot in the middle of the hallway, half-hidden behind a potted plant

He wanted to march over there. Wanted to say something, all casual-like and maybe slide an arm around your shoulders—but Robby was already leaning into your space just a little too close for Dennis’s comfort.

Trinity joins Dennis, quickly connecting the dots. She whispers,

“Why don’t we talk in the car?” She says, Dennis slowly nodding as he forces himself to look away. Dennis let out a slow breath, shaky, finally starting his steps. Trinity didn’t say another word.

She grabbed Dennis’s elbow—gentle but firm—and steered him toward the exit, her grip like a lifeline keeping him from doing something impulsive. Like storming over there and glaring at Robby until he evaporated into thin air. She walked with that calm, no-nonsense stride of hers—she knew someone was about to have their heart broken or make a really dumb decision (usually both).

You weren’t mad at him… but you weren’t with him either. And now Robby was laughing with you down the hallways while Dennis sat here feeling stupid, hopeful and jealous all at once.

The cool evening air hit them as they pushed through the hospital doors. The lights buzzed overhead, the parking lot was quiet—most people had already left for the day. Only a few cars remained, including Trinity’s beat-up sedan with its cracked windshield—a casualty of last winter's ice storm.

Dennis slid into the passenger seat mechanically, staring straight ahead at nothing while Trinity started the car.

She turned slightly toward him after buckling up—not judging, not sarcastic this time—but just… waiting.

He slid into the passenger seat like he’d lost something important—because technically? He had.

She starts the engine and slowly backs out before she clears her throat,

“Are you two sleeping together?” Trinity bluntly asks, Dennis flaring red while his eyes snap wide.

Dennis choked.

Actually choked—like his throat had closed up entirely. His face went crimson red, spreading from his cheeks down to his neck like a wildfire.

Trinity didn’t blink. Just kept driving out of the hospital lot, one hand on the wheel, waiting for an answer that wasn’t coming because Dennis was too busy short-circuiting.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard. Opened it again—

"What? I mean—no! I-I don't… we weren't…" He stammered in a high-pitched whisper-squeak that sounded nothing like him—the usually soft-spoken but steady resident doctor who could calmly talk patients through panic attacks.

Then he realized she already knew.

“I’m not stupid. You’ve been going away for the weekends and come back with a big stupid grin—now you act all weird around her? You know I’m not blind. So spill.” Trinity flatly replies, looking over at Dennis as they stop at a red light.

He sank into the seat like he could disappear if he tried hard enough.

The light stayed red—forever, it felt—and Trinity’s sharp eyes locked onto him, unrelenting. No escape. No deflection.

He swallowed again, throat dry. His hands fidgeted in his lap—twisting the hem of his scrubs, then smoothing them flat like that would help.

"...We were," he admitted finally, voice quiet and raw.

A beat passed.

"And now you're not?" she pressed—not meanly this time. Just… curious? Concerned?

He shook his head slowly.

"We haven't… for three weeks."

Another pause. The light turns green.

"She's avoiding me."

Trinity nodded and gently pressed the gas, her fingers drumming along the wheel.

“Why is it just hooking up? Did she want it that way?” She asks, earning a nod from Dennis.

“Well… maybe she’s trying to push you away. Doesn’t want all the emotional shit.”

Dennis exhaled—long and shaky, like the truth had been sitting on his chest this whole time and only now did it finally move.

You wanted casual. Yeah. It was just hooking up. That’s what you both said from the start.

He… didn’t know what he wanted.

At first? Yeah. Sure. No-strings-attached sex with you? Dream scenario for a lonely resident who lived with Trinity and mostly ate microwave dinners alone.

But then he started noticing things, how you always left the coffee maker clean after your shift, how you hummed in triage when no one was looking, that tiny scar above your eyebrow from some childhood accident you’d never told him about but he’d seen once while kissing it. No labels. No promises.

Just late-night texts with vague plans, stolen kisses in your apartment between shifts, tangled sheets and hushed laughter before either of you remembered to turn off the lights.

And suddenly… casual wasn’t enough anymore.

Trinity glanced at him again as she turned onto her street—their apartment building coming into view.

Dennis and Trinity unwind on the couch side by side with reheated Chinese food.

He almost completely stops thinking about you—until his phone buzzes.

‘wanna come over? i’ll pay for an uber :)’

Casual.

So fucking casual.

So casual, like you hadn’t just walked off today with fucking Robby. Like you hadn’t been avoiding him. Like his heart hadn't been doing somersaults every time he saw you all week.

Dennis’s chopsticks froze mid-air. He didn’t move right away, just stared at the screen where your text glowed back at him like a neon sign.

Trinity glanced over from her spot on the couch, spotting your name on Dennis's locked screen—and immediately knowing what that meant.

Dennis didn’t answer right away.

His thumb hovered over the screen, hovering like his entire life depended on this one reply.

Yes.

No.

What are you doing?

Too aggressive.

Too cold.

Too eager.

He typed ‘Be there in 20’ and deleted it. Rewrote: ‘On my way,’ deleted that too—felt too eager again, like he’d sprint out the door if Trinity weren’t sitting right there watching him short-circuit.

Finally, he just tapped out,

‘k’

One letter. Neutral as hell. Not angry—not excited either.

Then he stood abruptly and headed for his room to change.

You knew damn well what that ‘k’ meant.

He was mad. It was rare—something you almost never saw—in fact, you had only seen it once in the past when you flaked on him when Trinity was out of town…

The missed calls, the fact he texted you almost 20 times wondering when you’d be there… just to never arrive.

You were in the metaphorical dog house, even as you sent him the uber information.

The Uber app pinged Dennis’s phone ten minutes later, but he doesn’t reply.

Just shoves his keys in his pocket, grabbing a hoodie off the back of a chair (the same one he always wore when he went to your place), and walked out without saying goodbye to Trinity.

She didn’t stop him. Just watched from the couch with her arms crossed—knowing that all of this meant trouble. Knowing you’d messed up… again.

The ride was silent.

Rain started falling lightly halfway there—a soft patter against the windows that mirrored Dennis's mood; quiet, cold irritation wrapped in something sadder underneath.

When you open the door to your place, you give a lopsided smile to Dennis.

“How are you? I ordered pizza if you want a bite.” You softly greet, stepping to the side to let him enter.

Dennis stepped inside, but didn’t return the smile. It wasn’t a cold stare—he couldn’t do that to you—but his expression was closed off. Carefully neutral. The kind of calm someone wears when they’re trying really hard not to say anything stupid.

He nodded at your words, voice flat,

"Thanks."

That was it.

No kiss on the cheek like he usually did.

No casual brush of hands as he passed by.

Nothing.

He shrugged off his hoodie and hung it neatly on the hook by your door—a habit from living with Trinity, who hated clutter—but kept his distance after that.

You closed the door behind him and cross your arms over your chest,

“Are you alright?” You whisper, reaching out to brush some hair from his face—only for him to shove your hand away. Not hard. Just enough.

The second your fingers touched his hair—soft, familiar—the instinct to flinch hit him like a reflex.

A sharp jerk of his shoulder that sent your hand falling back into the air between you.

It wasn’t anger—not fully—but it was hurt. Confusion. Three weeks of silence, avoidance at work, watching you laugh with Robby while Dennis drowned in texts you never replied to…

He looked at you and for once? There was no warmth in those pale blue eyes.

“You don’t get to play this back and forth game with me. I’m a human.” He snaps while you step back, shaking your head,

“I’m not trying to, far from it—I have stuff going on,” you reply, though Dennis gives a bitter laugh. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking away for a moment as he retorts,

"Stuff going on?" Dennis repeated, voice low but edged, like he was trying so hard not to raise it. He turned his head slowly to face you again, jaw tight. That bitter laugh hadn’t faded; it lingered like smoke after a fire.

"You avoid me for weeks," he said, each word deliberate.

"Don't answer texts. Barely speak at work unless someone's making small talk first."

A beat.

"And now you text me out of nowhere like nothing happened? Like I’m just… some guy you call when you're bored?"

His arms stayed crossed—not defensive in posture so much as bracing himself.

You give a look of disappointment, almost guilty. Slowly you make your way to him, almost in caution,

“I-I’m sorry I made you feel that way… just… you don’t have the whole picture.” You murmur, Dennis shaking his head again, his voice sharpening,

"Then give me the picture."

His voice cracked—just once—but it was there. A fracture in that quiet, controlled tone he always wore like armor. He didn’t step back when you approached. Didn’t flinch this time. But his arms stayed locked tight across his chest, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

"You think I don't notice?" he said quietly now—hurt bleeding through the anger.

"You ignore me for weeks and then suddenly invite me over? After Robby?"

The name came out sharper than intended—not accusing exactly… but jealous as hell.

"And yeah," he added softly,

"I'm sorry too. But I’m not playing games either."

You scrub your face with your palms, tears filling your eyes,

“You don’t get it, Dennis, me and him aren’t like you and I,” you huff, shaking your head,

“I… needed advice. I don’t know what I’m doing.” You blurt out, your voice cracking as you do.

Dennis froze the second your voice cracked—actually cracked—his entire body unclenched. All the anger, the bitterness, the Robby-fueled jealousy? It evaporated like steam in cold air. His arms dropped to his sides, his shoulders sagged. And for a heartbeat—he just stared at you. At those tears welling up in your eyes. The way you were scrubbing your face like someone who was exhausted and confused and maybe… scared?

"Advice?" he repeated softly, all edges gone now—replaced by something tender and worried. He took one small step forward before hesitating again—not sure if touching you would help or make it worse.

You drop your hands and cross your arms, shielding yourself from him,

“I just… I don’t want to hurt you. I want… I’m pushing you away because…” you break down. Tears are streaming—a side of you Dennis has never seen.

His heart shattered. He’d never seen you cry like this—not ever. Not during surgeries gone wrong, not after long nights when patients didn’t make it… nothing.

And now here you were, strong as steel, blunt as a hammer—falling apart right in front of him because you were scared? Of hurting him?

His breath hitched.

In two strides he closed the distance between you and pulled you into his arms without asking. Tight. Firm—but gentle too, like he was holding something fragile that might break if squeezed too hard.

One hand cradled the back of your head while the other wrapped around your shoulders.

No words yet—just warmth.

“I’m scared if we had something real I’d ruin it.” You whisper through your sobs, melting into his arms and neck. The scent of his skin is a comfort—your heart almost immediately slows and your breathing steadies.

Dennis pressed his lips gently—so gently—to the crown of your head. Your sobs vibrated against his chest, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just held you there, rocking slightly without realizing it—like comforting a child or someone who’d finally let go after carrying too much alone.

The scent of you filled him too—the faint trace of hospital soap still clinging to your skin from today’s shift, mixed with that smell he loved but had never named aloud. His thumb brushed over your shoulder in slow circles.

You weren't running anymore.

You were here. Crying in his arms. Admitting fear. And damn… did that wreck him.

“I’m sorry…” you add, trying to pull away before he pulls you in tighter, almost squeezing you. He didn’t let you pull away. Not even an inch.

The second your shoulders tried to shift back, Dennis tightened his arms—firm, possessive in the gentlest way—and tucked your head right back against his chest like he could physically stop you from apologizing, from retreating again.

"Don't,” he murmured into your hair. His voice was thick now—not angry anymore. Soft. Shaky with emotion. No sarcasm. No bitterness.

Just pure, quiet love that had been sitting there for weeks and weeks, growing every time you avoid him at work… every time he saw Robby make you laugh…

And now? Now it’s spilled over.

His lips found yours, a tender kiss pressed gently to the top of your forehead before pulling back just enough to rest your cheeks together.

“Stay the night. Please. I want to try something real.” You say, looking away from Dennis with guilt and back to his eyes again.

“Did you tell Trinity…?” You ask after a moment, biting your lip.

Dennis’s eyes searched yours—soft now, all the storm from earlier completely gone.

The kiss on your forehead had been instinct. The hug was protection. But this? You are asking him to stay… wanting something real?

He nodded slowly at your question about Trinity—not fully answering, but enough that you’d know, yes, it slipped…

But then his thumb reached up and brushed over your lip where you’d bitten it—gentle—and suddenly he was kissing you.

Not a peck.

Not casual like before.

This one was slow.

Deepening almost immediately—the kind of kiss that said everything he was thinking.

“I’ve missed this," "I want this," "You’re mine."

And when you broke apart? He whispered,

"Yeah… I’ll stay."

Your slowly process, your face slamming into your palm,

“You told her or she found out?” You quickly ask, flaring red,

“I-I… fuck, what if she tells someone? Dennis, we could lose our jobs.”

Dennis’s expression shifted—concern flashing across his face the second he saw your panic. He grabbed both of your hands, squeezing them gently to ground you.

"No," he said quickly,

"I didn’t tell her. She figured it out."

A beat.

"She’s… really good at that."

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles, trying to calm you down.

"And she wouldn't say anything. Not about this."

You slowly nod, biting your lip again,

“What if we can’t actually do this? What if I can’t actually do this?” You stammer out, your breath speeding again.

Dennis saw the panic rising again—the way your breath hitched, how your fingers trembled in his grip—and without hesitation, he cupped your face, forcing you to look at him.

"Hey," he said softly, no anger, no frustration—just steady focus like when he talked to a nervous patient through surgery prep.

His thumbs swept over your cheekbones, gentle as rain on glass.

"You don't have to figure it all out right now," he whispered.

"You don’t even have to know if you can do this tonight.

A small smile tugged at his lips—shy but sure.

"Just… let me stay."

You relax again, nodding and whispering,

“I think I would really like that.”

———————————————————————

Malcolm Todd's album so good I needed to write some painful fan fic.

You guys will be soooo happy now I’m back on my ISH!!!

Pope could only think of you after the horrible comment Baz had made to him.

No one is ever going to have a kid with you. Ever.

He wasn’t sure why it affected him so much, why it dug deep under his chest into a part of him he hadn’t even realized was there.

Pope wasn’t as socially inept as most people might think and he knew exactly why his brother would say something like that to him, the truth behind it undeniable. He was off putting and had the strange ability to creep people out even when he was being as genuine as he possibly could be.

He’d seen it happen time and time again, a slightly crooked smiled that made people take a step back or an overly blunt statement that hurt somebody without the intent.

But never with you.

You’d been around for as long as Pope could remember, the daughter of one of Smurfs greatest connects who was constantly spending the night with Julia or helping Smurf around the house once you got a little older.

They all liked you, the younger boys would follow behind you while you did chores or ask you to help tuck them in long past the age they needed it. Baz wasn’t shy with his affection either even though his methods made Popes stomach tighten with the same type of jealously and anger he felt when it was directed at his sister.

Lucky for him, and to everyone’s confusion, you had a clear favorite when it came to Pope.

You never once treated him any different or acted like you were scared of him for even a moment. You’d keep that gentle and patient smile on your face when he didn’t deserve it and you wrote to him almost every single day when he was in prison, sending him photos that he’d stick under his pillows and doing your best to draw the sea and the shape of Lena’s eyes so he wouldn’t forget.

You never went far even when he tried to push you away and that was exactly why he wanted to see you.

His knocks on the door were familiar, even though you’d given him a key a year ago when you first moved in. He kept it in his wallet but he never dared to use it incase you had ever changed your mind and didn’t tell him.

Your smile was as soft as always when you opened the door, the smell of the dinner you were cooking coming in waves from behind you. You looked as easily beautiful as always and his legs naturally carried him forward through the door way.

“Andrew.” You breathed it out softly and your hands went to his shoulders, pushing his jacket off and sliding it down his arms so you could help free him from it. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“It’s okay?” He asked lowly even though he knew the answer, he still liked to hear it from you directly.

You took his coat and hug it up on the hook near the door that only ever held his clothing, turning back to him with the same smile and taking both of his hands in yours so you could lead him closer to the kitchen.

“It’s always okay, I was actually making your favorite.” You explain softly and he can smell it now, too distracted by the sight of you and your warm touch to place the familiar spices before.

“Thank you.” He mumbled back and it wasn’t too uncharacteristic, in fact he often showed up and didn’t say a single word at all, but your steps slowed and your lips formed a frown.

“What’s wrong?”

It unnerved him the same amount everytime when you so easily were able to read him and his moods, the only person in the world that seemed to know exactly what he was thinking and feeling no matter how stoic his face was. He sometimes wanted to ask you how you could just tell but he thought that might be stupid, maybe evidence of another human trait he was simply missing.

“Nothing.” He dismissed your worries easily and now you dropped his hands, the lack of touch making him feel a surge of nausea. He shifted closer and you sighed in understanding before placing a palm back on him, resting against his bicep now.

“Don’t do that, not here.” You half pleaded with him but it was also scolding, a reminder of what you were to him. “You talk to me.”

It took him a few minutes of silence to recount what Baz had said to him and if hearing it hurt, then seeing the way your face fell was ten times worse. You were always so empathetic towards him, crying for him on nights he couldn’t feel anything other than emptiness and anger, yelling at him to stand up for himself when the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

And now you looked downright furious at the insult Pope had repeated in a low and hesitant voice.

“Baz doesn’t know anything.” You say back firmly with a shake of your head, a rare tone of voice from you considering you’re normally so gentle. “He’s a dick. He treats Lena terribly anyways so what does he know about being a father?”

Pope doesn’t say anything as you ramble on, his lips pursing as he resists the familiar frustrating urge to defend his brother. He isn’t sure why he still feels it after all this time but it’s like second nature, the same type of instinct that ended up with him in prison for three years.

“Andy, you know that’s not true right?” Your voice is back to its normal sweetness now as you duck down a little to try and get his eyes to focus on you, smiling faintly when it works.

“Do I?” It’s quiet and not really self deprecating, genuinely curious on what he’s supposed to feel in this situation.

“Any woman would be lucky to have kids with you.” Your eyebrows furrow like you’re confused on how he doesn’t understand that and your determination rattles him a little.

“Any woman?” He repeats it and your face falls a touch, his eyes narrowing as he tries to understand what emotion you’re attempting to cover up.

You give him a reassuring smile and nod but it doesn’t meet your eyes, sad sad eyes that make him want to throw up. He doesn’t understand what about that makes you so sad and he feels too stupid to ask for clarification, knowing he should just be able to read you like you so easily can read him.

He doesn’t get to reflect on it long before your arms go around his neck for a tight embrace and he returns it eagerly, locking his behind your lower back and tugging you close so tight your feet nearly lift off the ground.

“Needed you.” He whispers as he tucks into your neck and he can both feel and hear the small fond laugh you let out.

“I’m here.” You return and it’s so quiet it pains him, wishing he could ask you to scream it out so everyone could understand. Your head twists and your nose brushes his jaw in a way that makes his spine shiver. “Made your favorite, come eat.”

You eat dinner in silence but you don’t seem at all bothered by the quiet, understanding like always that he just needs to sink into his own head sometimes.

He almost can’t stand the feeling of being around you, the constant under the skin itching whenever you’re not touching him and the headache of trying to be someone he’s not to make himself easier to be around. It’s only a headache because it doesn’t work on you, you see through him immediately and encourage him to be himself despite that being the exact thing he’s always ran from.

You’re as relaxed as always while you do the dishes and he stares at the side of your face, like you’re not at all bothered by the intense glare.

Occasionally you glance over and smile softly when you find he’s still watching you closely.

He tenses when your phone rings, one look at the clock on your microwave telling him it’s an odd hour for anybody to be calling. You don’t get many calls in general, your family and upbringing being similar enough to his that you scarcely give out your number.

You’re stiff for the same reasons but your shoulders relax when you retrieve the device from your pocket and see the contact name, placing it to your ear and sending Pope a calming look.

“Hey Deran.” You greet neutrally and his back loses the tension although his eyebrows furrow in question. “No sorry, he’s not here. I’ll tell him to give you a call if I see him.”

Deran continues saying something muffled on the other line and you give Pope a hand gesture that insinuates he’s talking too much which would have made him huff a laugh if he wasn’t so irritated by his brother bothering you.

You hang up after a soft goodnight and dry your hands before approaching his stiff frame, rubbing your palms up his biceps until you reach his shoulders.

“Relax. He’s just wondering where you were staying tonight.” You explain in a whisper and his eyes close at the rubbing gesture. “He gets worried when you disappear. I wish you’d just tell him you’re with me.”

“Don’t want them knowing where you live.” He murmurs back instinctively truthful and you sigh, reading between the lines. You know he’s not actually worried about his brothers knowing where your apartment is or harming you at all.

“If Smurf wanted to know where I am then she’d already know.” You respond and his eyes snap open, although not necessarily surprised that you sourced out the true discomfort he was having.

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds so you shift even closer, holding his face gently which makes him let out a deep breath.

Pope doesn’t think he’s ever been touched in the way you touch him. He’s felt Smurfs hands all over him even when she’s not in the room, prodding and poking and silently placing her control over his very being with her affection and he’s had a handful of pained sexual encounters that left him throwing up in alleyways afterwards but he’d never had this except for you.

So gentle and never demanding anything from him in return. You don’t want him to touch you back or give you some sort of pleasure, you don’t even want him to let his guard down or weaken for you. There’s just the comfort and reassurance of your presence when it’s easy to forget.

His eyes meet yours and you shake your head before he can start.

“I don’t want another lecture about not understanding your mom because I do.” You whisper it like Smurf could possibly be overhearing your conversation, a precaution that is more for his paranoia than your own. “I’m not downplaying what she can do. But I’m safe and even more so when you’re here with me.”

“I’m not always here.” He nearly growls out in his own frustration and your eyes somehow soften even more.

“But you are right now so please just…” You sigh and his heart clenches. “Be here with me and pretend that doesn’t exist for now.”

It’s easier said than done but Pope would do just about anything to please you so he tries his best, swallowing the urge to triple check the locks and windows even though he knows you wouldn’t judge him for it.

You don’t last long trying to finish up the dishes before you started to yawn and he encourages you to go to bed with a gentle hand on your lower back guiding you to the hallway, one of the rare times he initiates the contact.

He finishes them for you and then stands in the living room for a good twenty minutes, fingers drumming against his leg and jaw clenching until his teeth ache while he contemplates leaving.

He knows you hate when he leaves without saying goodbye first, hates when he leaves in general. You are probably laying in bed still wide awake just so you can hear the sound of the door closing, not shying away from telling him tomorrow how it disappoints you every time.

It takes a lot out of him to turn and head back down the dark hallway even though it’s all worth it when he sees the way your eyes light up when he makes a gruff noise indicating he wants you to scoot over and make room for him in the bed.

Pope can never sleep and he doesn’t expect it anymore, he’s used to the constant exhaustion headaches and the stiffness in his neck when he dozes off sitting up too many times. Like most things in his life, you’re the exception.

Maybe it’s the way your nails drag against his clothed back or the fact he can hear your breathing level out and know you’re safe and alive right beside him, but he’s only able to drift off when sleeping in your bed with you. The nightmares don’t ever let up but they’re much more manageable when he can jolt awake and find himself still in your room, your arms wrapped around him as you instinctively shift closer throughout the night.

Tonight, it’s not the nightmares that wake him up.

It’s the sharpness of your breath as you sit up, your hands rubbing over his chest to shake him lightly as you whisper his name. He’s hit with confusion and panic as he sits up but then he understands when he hears the sharp knocks coming from your front door.

You never have visitors in general that aren’t him but it’s nearing three in the morning now and nothing good can come out of the extensive knocking the continues impatiently.

Pope is up and out of bed, ignoring your whispers of protest as he grabs his gun from the chair in the corner of the room.

“Pope.” You stand up to chase after him but he turns around in the dark hallway and gives you a stern look, pointing silently back to the room and not walking towards the door until you deflate and nod in defeat.

He’s completely tense as he nears the front door where the knocking hasn’t ceased and he halfway considers just firing through the door and dealing with the consequences afterwards but he figures you’d be pissed if he ruined the welcome mat.

“Open the goddamn door already.”

His freezes for a completely different reason once the voice registers and now he can hear you scoffing and stomping down the hallway. You brush past him and throw open the door, glaring at the sight of his three brothers standing in the outdoor corridor.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re practically hissing as they come inside like it’s not the middle of the night. You don’t even bother stopping Pope once he finally unfreezes and roughly shoves the nearest brother backwards, which happens to be Deran.

“We called you a hundred times man.” Baz shouts, wincing when you shush him aggressively and throw a pillow from your couch. “You said he wasn’t here.”

His finger points accusatorially at you for about half a second before Pope is smacking it out of the air and stepping in front of you, blocking you from the others line of vision.

You sigh from behind him and rub a hand up his arm gently, coaxing him to relax and take a few steps back before they end up fighting in the middle of your tiny living room.

Craig shoots a look at Deran when he notices the touch that neither of you miss and Pope glares at them both. He almost feels sick from the intrusion even though it’s completely selfish. His brothers know you’re close to each other and can see the bond you have but this is different.

This is supposed to be the place he can go to escape from it all, his own separate world with you where he doesn’t have to be Pope Cody but instead he can just be Andrew who gets his favorite dinner cooked for him by a beautiful girl before they go to sleep peacefully.

A sleep so brutally interrupted.

“Listen we didn’t want to come.” Baz softens and does that tone of voice he always does when he wants to control Pope easier, speaking slowly like he’s having to use all his energy to pretend they’re equals. “But it’s important. We need you at the house.”

Pope is frozen as he considers, distracted enough to not notice the way Craig is eyeing the untouched couch and your messy sleep hair. You raise your eyebrows at him which makes him finally break and start to laugh at the apparent absurdity of Pope clearly having been sleeping in your bed with you.

“Just go with them.” You say gently with a tired sigh, stepping back closer to him so you can touch his elbow lightly and get him to focus. “Call me when you’re done or use your key.”

You ignore Deran whispering something to Craig about the key comment, rolling your eyes when Pope tenses up again under your touch. Finally his eyes meet yours and he hesitates before nodding in agreement, nostrils flaring a little from his irritation.

You look so tired and understanding and he considers what it means that he’d probably kill his brothers if it meant he got to get back into bed with you for a few more hours.

It’s easy to forget about his own homicidal inner dialogue when you’re leaning up on your tiptoes to place a kiss against the corner of his mouth. You weren’t shy with your affection but that was a stretch, even for you, and for once the others don’t seem to want to laugh about it.

They looked just as thrown as Pope feels when you give him a sheepish smile and head back to your bedroom, trusting him to get them out of there and lock up before he leaves like it’s his apartment too.

—

Pope doesn’t call you that night and you don’t hear the lock turn at any point, no bed dipping under his weight or his arms around you when you wake up.

You try not to think much of it especially knowing how hesitate he can be, almost constantly shy even though you’ve known him for longer than you can remember. He’s not one to make the first move even if you had invited him back, most likely doubting himself on if you truly meant it for the entire night.

But two days passed and you started to feel like something was wrong.

It wasn’t completely unusual but typically he’d atleast let you know before he was going to get busy or he sent out of town on some random Smurf errand. His brothers hadn’t looked too spooked the night they came to get him but your mind was filling with possibilities.

Maybe it was a job gone wrong, either he’d gotten hurt or locked back up. You weren’t really sure how you’d be able to handle Pope being back in prison, knowing how hard it was for him the first time.

This line of thinking led to you heading over to the Cody house, something you tried to avoid now that you were an adult. Especially by yourself, unable to remember the last time you’d gone over there without your father or Pope to accompany or invite you.

Deran was in the kitchen when you walked in and he gave you a heavy look, riddled with such guilt that your stomach turned and you had to slow down to swallow the bile building in your throat.

“He’s here?” You croaked out and he nodded with a sigh, gesturing his arm back towards where Popes room was.

You hadn’t been down the hallway in a few years, unable to stand it when it was empty while he was locked up and recently he’d been solely coming over to your place. He’d told you one night quietly in bed that he didn’t want you around Smurf anymore, a desperate plea that you didn’t fully understand.

You knew what she could do and you knew her influence on Pope but you had your own blood running through Oceanside that left you a little bit more protected than most people. Smurf didn’t scare you but you knew she scared him so you did what he asked and stayed away.

He was standing up when you walked in, pulling a shirt over his head full of wet curls like he’d just gotten out of the shower. Your lips pursed as you stood in the doorway, unmoving as his eyes landed on you and he jumped a little.

You watched as he naturally relaxed at the sight of you before stiffening completely like he remembered the reason you’d be standing outside his room with that pained look on your face.

You’re across the room before he can say anything even though you figured he wasn’t going to speak much anyways, your typically gentle hands shoving roughly at his chest. He winces at the shove but doesn’t resist, barely budging until you push him one more time and he stumbles backwards a few steps.

“You disappear.” You shove again. “You don’t call, you don’t text me.” Each statement is emphasized with a push until he’s had enough, gripping your wrist tightly and huffing a little as he stares down at you.

Your eyes are pained and angry, an expression he hasn’t seen on your face in nearly a decade. You were the one touch of gentleness he had in this world and he felt terrible for pulling a gross emotion like this out of you.

“Do you even care that I worry about you?” You laughed bitterly as you stared up at him and his stoic face, searching for answers in the blank look. “Can you fucking say something?”

It takes him a few seconds, holding your wrist tightly still until you finally relax and let out a defeated breath. He only lets you go once he knows you’re not going to fight him anymore and you step away as soon as you’re freed from his grasp.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps it out and follows you as you try and create some distance, eyes a little pleading. You give him a stern look, wanting him to cut it out before you fold as easily as always when he gets like this.

“You can’t keep doing this to me Pope.” Your voice is as stern as it can be with the knowledge you’d let him do whatever he wanted for the rest of your lives.

He frowns deeply and you know why before he says it, knows how much he hates to hear that nickname from you. It slips sometimes when you’re not thinking, especially when you’re back in this nearly haunted house and so upset with him.

You feel bad despite your anger and stop walking backwards, letting him close the distance until your hands can run over his back. He tucks his head down into your neck and lets out a breath so heavy it makes the hairs on your arms raise.

“Should’ve called.” He whispers against your warm skin and you can fill in the blanks on your own.

You can see the bags under his eyes and the way his sheets are tucked neatly like nobody has touched them in weeks, the fact he was wincing while pulling his shirt on like something on his body was hurting more than usual.

You didn’t even want to hear him say what they’d been up to the last few days even though you knew he’d tell you as soon as you asked, never lying to you even if it hurt him to admit some things. The embarrassment and guilt on his face always made you regret asking, like a good dog who had bit somebody without meaning to.

He picks his head up at your silence and your eyes lock, pressing forward until your foreheads are leaned against each others. You sigh and bunch the fabric of his shirt up in your fist, making his breath stutter a little.

“Just come home okay?” You whisper as your eyes shut for a moment from sheer desperation.

There was no way to grow up in Oceanside without hearing something about the Cody family.

It was almost like being told a fairy tale, each story more far fetched than the last with ever changing details depending on who you asked what. Some versions were easy to roll your eyes at, not bothering to believe the more outlandish ones but there was never a way to be certain about what the Cody’s were really up to.

You got a particularly close access point to what could be the truth considering the fact you happened to be living in the house next door to theirs.

It was the sore spot and topic of conversation almost every single breakfast when you were a kid, listening to your dad rant endlessly about the loud parties and the shady looking people going in and out at all hours of the night. Your brother had asked sometime in your teen years why he didn’t just file a complaint if it bothered him so bad, your dad’s lips pursing and him falling silent in response.

You understood quickly why he had never complained about the disturbance when you first met the matriarch of the house next door.

You’d been specifically told to avoid that address when you were setting out to parade the neighborhood for donations to your college fund, a charity event your school had set up for the kids unlikely to receive scholarships.

Yet the sight of the shiny cars in the driveway and the dozen rejections you’d gotten so far had you steeling your nerves and knocking on the door with a firm hand.

Smurf was unlike anybody you’d ever met before and you felt a little ridiculous for the way the breath sucked out of you at the sight of her, something captivating beneath the intimidating energy she didn’t even seem to be trying to emit.

“You lost honey?” Her voice was as mocking as it could be, the sight of you standing there in your uniform clearly amusing to her, and you found yourself falling into a full nervous ramble about what you were trying to do.

She interrupted you before you even got two sentences out, barking over her shoulder for somebody you hadn’t even noticed to go and get her wallet for her.

The man returned, clearly a bit older than you but not aged enough to be her partner under any normal circumstances. He gave you a long stare that would have sent you running back home if it at all felt hardened, instead there was a sense of childlike curiosity about him and your head cocked just as she stepped over to block your view.

She’d lost the humor she had previously but still pressed a few crumbled but generous bills against your chest, sending you back a step or two as you thanked her. Your gratefulness was sent to the door halfway through as it slammed in your face.

You’d seen her a lot more over the years and that meant seeing the others too. At first you thought it was purely coincidence or maybe your parents had let go of their hatred for the neighbors but one sight of your dad leaving their garage with nervous sweats and an envelope told you that something else was going on.

Suddenly you were going to dinners at their house once a month, sitting as politely and silently as you could as the disturbing dynamics of Smurf and her sons made your head spin.

Your dad laughed too hard at jokes that weren’t funny and your mom barely moved at all, keeping half an eye on your brother and the other on the gate that had been shut behind you.

When you were nineteen you heard them fighting, voices loud and afraid as your mom scolded your dad for allowing your brother out with the Cody boys. She seemed more fearful than angry and you sunk back into your room as you once again considered the truth behind all the stories you’d heard.

You weren’t close enough to any of the sons but you did feel a particular sort of disappointment when you heard Pope had been arrested.

He didn’t speak nearly enough for you to consider him somebody you even really knew but there was a certain comfortability that came with both being equally as out of place in a room full of people. There was the lack of disrespectful and lewd comments that helped too, something his brothers couldn’t seem to help themselves from once you were an adult.

There had even been the handful of times that he had scolded them, a sharp glare or a hard hand against the back of their heads that made them hiss in annoyance.

You didn’t bother thanking him, figuring that would just make him uncomfortable anyways but you had hoped the look you’d send his way was enough for him to understand.

You were glad at least one of them wasn’t a creep, grateful there was someone else in the room who couldn’t quite seem to grasp what was going on.

Smurf either took a liking to you once you matured or the absence of her oldest son made her more willing to allow guest because you suddenly found yourself spending a lot more time there. There was a certain allure to the mystery around them and their close bonds, something your own home next door was severely lacking.

You even had your own little corner of belongings in one of the guest bedrooms, your favorite morning drink in the fridge and your clothes mixed into the piles outside the dryer.

Three years passed slowly with Pope gone and you could tell the family was conflicted with how to deal with it. Smurf almost seemed content despite how she claimed to be suffering the most without him there, the other brothers filled the void with each other and whatever else got their blood pumping.

Which was clearly not doing the dishes because you had been scrubbing for what felt like hours and still had yet to make a dent in the pile up. Normally Smurf kept things pretty close in order but she’d left earlier that morning to go pick up her grandson and asked, or demanded technically considering her tone, you make sure the house was decent for his arrival.

You liked the house a lot better when it was empty and you didn’t feel like somebody was always listening around the corners, voices dropping to whispers when you walked past adding a hint of paranoia.

The paranoia seemed to linger even when you were by yourself in the middle of the daytime however considering the soft noise from down the hall made your shoulders tense, breath catching and hands faltering with the dish for a split second.

You ignored it the best you could until it happened again and now you made a point of turning off the running water so you could hear the undeniable sound of footsteps clearer.

“Smurf?” You called and the way it echoed weirdly made your bones chill. The footsteps stopped completely and that only managed to make you feel worse, worse enough that you reached over as slowly as you could manage and gripped the handle of one of the kitchen knives.

You were nearly silent as you moved out of the kitchen and up the few stairs, barely getting to turn a corner before you were hitting a chest.

You weren’t sure if you dropped the knife on instinct or if the grip around your wrist was tight enough for you to lose feeling, the jerky motion you pulled being met with no lax made you believe it might be the second. You only felt a little bit of relief when you realized who it was and then it was followed by a new type of fear.

There had been plenty of people who warned you about the Cody’s and a dozen more who warned you about one of them specifically.

Pope wasn’t looking at you, eyes locked on where the knife had landed with a clatter in between your feet. He was closer than you had realized, the hold on your wrist stopping you from stumbling back when you had bumped into him.

“Pope.” It came out in a breath of surprise, eyes widening as your brain seemed to catch up with the fact he was supposed to be serving out a sentence miles from here.

“You’re here.” He said back and it was in that slow and calculated way he always spoke, low enough that it sounded threatening but too dazed to make you think he could be any real danger. You knew well enough by now to know that wasn’t true so you stayed stiff as that gaze finally landed on your face. “In my house.”

You had half a second where you wanted to question him for being there too before realizing why that would be incredibly stupid.

“Smurf will be back soon.” You landed on instead, voice as soft as you could possibly make it as your eyes shifted across his face for any sign he might relax. “Welcome home Pope.”

His grip loosened at that, lingering for another few seconds before he was letting you go. It stung a little where the pressure had released and you put it down to your side without looking to see if it was red or not, deciding it was better to check on it later.

Pope stepped to the side and walked around you, keeping his strong gaze on you the entire time until he turned the corner into the kitchen.

Smurf returned only a bit later to find you sitting at the island in the kitchen, dishes put away other than the one you were sipping vodka out of. She gave you a look of confusion that was interrupted by a light commotion coming from within the house, heading in the direction of where you figured Pope had disappeared too.

You were curious what her reaction to him being home early would be, if she would be relieved or disappointed. You never could make sense of her emotions and you didn’t think it was even worth trying with this one.

You’d gone home, nearly sneaking out in your efforts to not run into any of them again on your way. It was all futile considering you knew you’d be back again in a few hours for dinner but you found yourself craving the simple act of laying in your bed and wondering what exactly you were doing with your life.

The thought of ghosting the Cody’s completely was the main thing circulating your head as you made your way back up the driveway after the sun had set, sighing as you punched in the gate code. It was a bit of a relief to see things were relatively normal, Deran and Craig arguing about something and Baz in quiet conversation with the younger boy you assumed had to be the grandson.

You waved briefly before heading into the kitchen where you found Smurf pulling things out of the oven.

“Honey will you go get Pope for me?” She said in that weirdly maternal tone she would get sometimes and you faltered before nodding, debating for a second if you should tell her how much you didn’t really want to do that.

It was that you were necessarily scared of Pope despite the things you had heard. You’d known him for a while before he was locked up and you’d never even seen him raise his voice but there was a certain type of unhinged presence that came just from his stare and shaky voice.

You weren’t really sure where to begin looking so you tried his old room before realizing it had been given away, hesitating in the hallway before peeking behind a few more doors you rarely explored. It turned out you didn’t need to find him at all because he was suddenly right behind you when you fully turned to go back to Smurf in defeat.

“Oh.” You nearly gasped at the sight of him, eyes turned upwards at his face in the dark hallway. He was standing there silently, shoulders tensed and squared as he watched you.

“What are you doing?” He asked lowly and his head tilted as he spoke, slowly with each word.

“Looking for you actually.” You breathed out and you were surprised at how steady you managed to sound despite the nerves building back up in your stomach as he continued to just stare at you. His eyes narrowed in confusion at your words and you sighed softly. “Smurf sent me to get you for dinner.”

“Tell her I’m not hungry.” He said flatly and there was a hint of something bitter in his voice that made you think their first day back together hadn’t been going so well.

You gave him a long look, taking in the short crop of his hair and the way he had bulked up while locked away. By the time you met his stare again, he was already watching you closely which didn’t surprise you in the slightest and you sighed softly as your shoulders slumped.

“Please don’t make me tell her that.” You asked of him softly, making your voice drop low like you were telling him a secret.

It really wasn’t that big of a deal but you both knew Smurf would take personal offense to him willingly missing a meal and you also figured she was wanting to keep a close eye on him with a house full of people.

He didn’t reply for a long enough time for it to feel awkward and you felt a little bit like a kid who had gotten in trouble but you tried not to let that show on your face. You didn’t want to upset him and it was easy enough to convince yourself that feeling was for a simpler reason than it probably was.

“She scares you.” He rasped eventually and it came out like a statement and not a question, like he had just decided that for you.

You sighed again and your shoulders raised in a half shrug before you were glancing back to the end of the hallway like you’d somehow be able to escape this conversation sooner than later if you stared long enough.

“Not necessarily.” You answered quietly and he blinked at you when you stopped short. “I just don’t want to upset her, especially after…”

You trailed off before you could mention Julia, almost remembering all at once that she was his twin sister and not just another member of the family. There’d be little to no mention of her for as long as you’d known the Cody’s and it had taken you a few seconds to even recall who she was when you heard Baz whispering about it earlier today, the lack of emotion or real care in his voice not assisting you at all.

Pope’s jaw tightened at the empty space you’d left in the air and you knew he was smart enough to know exactly what you were referring to, especially given the guilt that was no doubt coating your face.

"yeah." he swallows hard. "yeah, okay." his voice comes out rough, unsteady. his warm brown eyes are fixed on you, wide, intense. focused entirely on your mouth like he's trying to memorize whatever you're about to show him.

you lean in to give him a small peck first, soft, barely there then look at him. he looks back at you before he copies you, leaning back in, and this time his lips aren't so stiff.

progress.

then you part your lips carefully, slanting your mouth over his until they're molding together, until his warm breath seeps into yours.

you swipe your tongue slow along his bottom lip and he sighs, low, shaky, his fingers dig harder into your thighs.

"you like that?" you pull back just enough to ask, breathless.

he stares at you. eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slightly parted, breathing ragged. "yeah."

so you do it again. and again. slow and patient, until he catches the rhythm, until his jaw unclenches and he stops thinking so damn hard about it, until his mouth finally moves with yours instead of against it. his hands skate over your thighs higher, trembling, squeezing the soft of them harder.

"andrew, stick out your tongue for me." he does it. listens to you without a second thought, without an ounce of shame, just pure, raw trust. "yeah, just like that, such a good boy."

you watch his pupils blow wide at the praise, his cheeks flush all the way to the tips of his ears. cute.

you lean in again and lave your tongue over his, slow and hot. tasting him, him tasting you, and he lets out this broken, pleased groan that vibrates deep in his chest and against your body. his hands spasm on your thighs, trying to tug you closer.

you push him back immediately and he actually chases your mouth for a second before yoy press a finger over his lips. "uh-uh. slower, baby. follow my lead."

"sorry." he mumbles, a little shy.

then, when you give him the go ahead, he leans back in, kisses you exactly as you showed him, setting the pace real slow. he breathes through his nose while he does it, groaning all ragged and needy, as your tongues swirl together, like you've been edging him for hours instead of kissing him for minutes.

and then pulls back just a fraction, his eyes desperately searching your face for approval. "am i doing good?" his face is trying so hard to stay flat, face blank, but the dark flush blotching down his neck like a fever and wrecked voice gives him away completely.

"mhm," your pussy pulses at the sight of him so desperate, so utterly helpless beneath you.

your fingers scratch fondly at his scalp, nails dragging through the auburn strands and he whimpers. "doing really good, popey."

he gets all twitchy when you call him that and his hips jerk up as he starts rutting against you like a dog in heat. and, oh, you can feel him. the growing bulge through the rough denim, pressing right against the damp seam of your thin panties.

he's so huge that the thick, heavy outline of him drags deliciously between your folds through the clothes, catching right on your puffy clit, and a embaressingly loud moan slips out of you before you can stop it.

the sound flips a switch in him and he moves before you can blink.

his hands clamp down on your waist, and suddenly you're the one being flipped down into his mattress, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs. the sheer strength of him makes something warm and desperate pool low in your belly.

his heavy body settles on top of yours, all solid muscle and desperate heat. the new angle has him pressing right against your pussy, the rough seam of his jeans dragging over your soaked panties, and you both groan at the friction.

"ah—popey, wait—" but he just kisses you again, muffling your protests, arms wrapping tight around your torso.

the air gets thicker, heavier and you realize not only is your boyfriend a fast learner but he's terrifyingly observant too—those sharp, dark eyes of his catching every micro-expression, filing away exactly what makes you whimper, what makes your spine arch, what makes you grind up harder into him. you can feel him learning your body in real-time, using your own reactions against you.

you’re whimpering against his tongue now, making pathetic, wet sounds you didn’t know you could make, melting into the mattress and rolling your hips up, chasing the friction against your aching clit, completely at his mercy.

and the sounds only spur him on.

"'taste too good." he whines as he sinks his tongue deeper into your mouth. turning the kiss sloppy and wet as he laps at you, licking into the roof of your mouth like he's starving, swallowing every needy moan he pulls from your chest.

he sucks at your bottom lip until it throbs, biting down just hard enough to sting. you let out a high, reedy whine before he licks over the hurt, obsessive and soothing.

"mmnh—'s too much, popey—"

he can't hear you or either he does and just doesn't care. his hands just slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, rolling them down slowly, too slowly, all the way to your ankles. and you hear the rustle of him unzipping his pants, the metal teeth parting loud in the quiet room before he presses his still clothed bulge against your bare pussy.

"oh."

so much for him being a bad kisser. huh?

but it's overwhelming, all too much, and you can hardly breathe. so you pull at his curls, hard, weakly pushing at his shoulders but he only groans low pleased at the feeling and presses you deeper into the mattress instead, one hand fisting in your hair to hold you exactly where he wants you.

he continues to tongue-fuck you stupid, devouring you until your eyes are rolling back and your lungs are burning, swallowing all your protests.

and his hips won't stay still either.

he's basically rutting against the slick folds of your pussy now, grinding down in these desperate, clumsy thrusts that bump against your clit every few seconds, making you jolt and whine each time. you can feel how wet you're making him, the fabric of his briefs damp where you're leaking through, and the filthy thought of it—of him wearing your slick, of marking him that way—makes you clench so hard your thighs shake.

only after what seems like hours, just when you're dizzy, about to black out from lack of oxygen, he finally pulls back. a thick string of spit connects your swollen, ruined mouths. he immediately leans in to lick it from the corner of your lips, greedy and hungry, panting heavily against your cheek.

"did– did i do good?" he asks all needy for praise, chin slick, those pretty brown eyes wide and utterly wrecked above you, his curls stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"mhm." is all you manage. a breathless sigh. your brain is mush, entirely fucked out from just the kiss.

he grins, a little too proud of himself. then he grinds into you. once.

"so can we fuck now?"