A/N - Just pretend I said something totally normal about this man... Because anything I could say is way more freaky than anything in this damn fic :3 I hope you all enjoy! <3
Also just a heads up once the rest of the NSFW HC's are done that will probably be the last smut you guys get til October (Yall can req ofc! but it'll be done after Kinktober), unless I get a request that I REALLY want to do outside of it. And those few will be purely smut and no pre-fic most likely, since yano.. I have a lot to write already LMAO, but hopefully it'll be worth the wait for them!
ā” Smut ā”
Word Count - 2300
.MINORS DNI.
ā¢ Before you? He still had his fair share of flings when he needed to blow off steam after a mission or after the team pissed him off. Itās brief and doesnāt make him feel great about himself honestly, sure it felt fine. It helps.
But he leaves almost immediately because heās so used to people hating who he is for his anger that heās terrified to let anyone get close enough to actually see who HE is.
So he sleeps with people to feel after a bad mission, and he leaves. Heās not heartless, he gives albeit brief aftercare and waits til they fall asleep.
But he always heads home to a silent safehouse.
ā¢ Itās not something that is common nor that he really seeks out when he can avoid it, itās never usually just for pleasure. Itās to feel connected with someone even if itās just for a short while.
But he thinks about sex quite a lot, thereās something almost grounding about it to him to just go and jerk off when heās too worked up. He isnāt gentle with himself, itās fast and desperate because he wants to cum quickly and get over the feeling. He just needs that quick high after his emotions run ragged, itās all just for the reset.
And most of the time he just feels worse and numb afterwards because he's still alone... But even outside of the need for stress relief he relishes in the contact and the feel of it all. Even if itās nothing more than a memory.
ā¢ When he realises he likes you he keeps his distance like youāre diseased, it starts small but hits harder and harder. More obvious. He completely avoids you if he can help it, which isnāt the best if Risotto sends you on missions together.
He wonāt let you get hurt sure but, thereās a pit in his stomach at the thought of you getting too close. That you'll see just how angry and unstable he is and youāll look at him with the same disgust he feels for himself.
And when his mind wanders late at night, he hates himself. He wonāt touch himself to the thought of you and it infuriates himā¦ Because since you showed up, his mind always thinks of you and he canāt stop it from flickering back to you when his hand is wrapped tight around his length.
ā¢ A relationship is rough. At the start at leastā¦
He likes you more than he wants to even admit and he really wants to try but the worry that youāll not like him makes him agitated often, but somehow. Through it all. You stay.
You prove over and over that you arenāt going to leave, that you want to be with him, flaws and all. But sex isā¦ Something he never brings up. To him heās been using it as a way to just blow off steam so he doesnāt really see it as something intimate because it never has been to him.
It's always just something that he finds on a lonely night when heās stressed and annoyed, never being touched in a loving way. Just 2 strangers in symbiosis.
He knows what it was but it doesnāt bother him any less, it makes him feel empty. And he doesnāt want that with you.
ā¢ The first time starts insanely awkward, itās rough in the way that he doesnāt really know what to do, if he should touch you. How to make you feel good. He looks genuinely annoyed...
Honestly it seems like he doesnāt even want you with the way he wonāt look at youā¦ So you ask if he wants to stop, if he wants this at all. And that you can just do something else and that thereās no pressure to have sex.
And thatās the thing that makes him look at you, like a deer in the headlights because heās never actually been told that youāll love him regardless of his usefulness. It makes him want you more, itās desperate and more love than heās felt in a very long time, maybe ever.Ā
ā¢ When he finally lets down his guard, he wants you more than anyone. It's uncharacteristic of him to be so gentle, heās careful with the way he touches you and the way he barely speaks just so he can hear every noise you make.
You can tell how nervous he is from the start, all shaking hands and quick glances to make sure you're okay. That you still want him... That is, until the second he sinks in and his head drops to your shoulder with a breathy āI love you.ā Because holy shit, he really does. And this is insane to him that you want him as bad as he wants you.
He doesnāt care how pathetic he might sound with every broken noise that falls from him because heās so overwhelmed with every touch that heās completely ruined so quickly.
He's barely coherent by the end because he's so drunk on the feel of you that he has to just press his head into your skin to help ground himself through how snug and warm you are around him.
He lasts longer than you, thatās something heās at least thankful forā¦ His flings actually help in that regard, not that he lasts much longer when he looks down at you when you fall apart, fingers entwined with his with his name on your lips.
ā¢ He still has the anxiety that he needs to leave after, but the way you curl up against him and mutter sweet reassurances and loving words makes him finally relax.
Itās not perfect, heās still nervous and stiff, like heās seconds from bolting. But he stays. He stops running from affection, he lets you into his heart.
And you stay.
ā¢ He thinks of sex pretty often but because of how little he bothered with sex before he feels like he shouldnāt burden you with it, only ever seeking you out if he needs it or when you come to him first.
With some reassurance and coaxing he will be a lot more willing to find you when he needs you rather than jerk off, or just ignore it.
It takes him a while to get used to just asking, always embarrassed and blushing like it hurts to askā¦ Even when youāre dating.
ā¢ He tries to keep his anger away from you in any way he can, in and out of the bedroom, he knows he can lose control so easily when heās worked up and he NEVER wants to hurt you in any way.
On the very off chance that he does want sex while pissed and you trust him enough to be rough with you? Itās still intimate, he wonāt degrade you, nor will he hurt you intentionally.
But his thrusts are not loving in any way, itās intense and leaves you breathless. But the panted praises completely contradict the way he fucks you, every word like worship as he tells you how much he loves you and how perfect you are.
And after he is so terrified after that he hurt you in any way, he wonāt leave your side or let you do anything strenuous for literally hours, pampering you for the rest of the day with sweet praises and softer hands as he keeps you close.
ā¢ Heās not dominant but he prefers to be on top, he wonāt manhandle you or use you for his pleasure, but he will keep you under him so he can stop you from wriggling away in overstimulation.
If you try to? It makes him giddy, pulling you back to him with a teasing comment, itās rare he even jokes outside of sex, getting that more relaxed side of him is reserved for you alone.
It's something that pushes him harder towards the edge if you start trying to get him to slow down because it just feels too good, it gives him such a huge ego.
Especially if you initiated, he might be sweet but he is not above teasing you with low, "Fuck, thought you wanted this?" or "Hah, too much? Come on, just one more time for me, you can take it."
He's grinning the entire time because you're dragging him right back if he even jokes about stopping...
ā¢ He loves temperature playā¦ SO much.
He runs really cold when his stand is inactive so every touch feels intense, if he trusts you enough he will absolutely let you blindfold him so he canāt tell when itās coming and just let you tease him.
Youāll probably have to restrain him though cos he just tries to hold you to him when he feels you touch himā¦
He gets pathetically whiny when you use your tongue, itās so hot and wet against his skin that if you lick his nipples and down his chest too much he will cumā¦ Itās devastatingly embarrassing. Do it again... Just don't expect him to last long if he can feel/see you licking up the mess he made on his stomach.
ā¢ On the opposite side of that. He likes temperature play on you as well, most of the time you can barely tell heās so cold, but his fingers feel freezing when youāre being intimate.
Itās all hot and desperate and heās such a tease, running his fingers down your body to get a reaction. He does it more when he ISNāT inside you because you jump and it feels too good when he does.
On the off chance he does use it against you when he's inside he's either edging himself and keeping you completely still, or overstimulating himself and letting you grind on his half hard cock while trailing his fingers mindlessly across your body and heightening every sensation for you. And he looks wrecked the entire time.
ā¢ He has on more than one occasion, broke his glasses during sex... Yes he keeps a spare pair, but he often just either takes them off, which he hates cos you know, he can't really see as well... Or kinda forgets they're there.
And his heart beats so fast when you fix them to sit correctly, especially when he's fucking you and you just... Reach up to move them up the bridge of his nose with a sweet smile.
The first time it happens, he 100% cums because you're being so fucking perfect and he can't stop himself. He threatens you after if you EVER speak of it to anyone that he'll kill you... He's blushing like crazy and shaking above you, and flushes even harder if you just... Silently fix his glasses again because they got nudged when he buried his head against you.
ā¢ Probably the most likely to bring kinks and new things to try to you. At first he was super embarrassed, he still is but it gets easier the more reassurance he gets from you.
If you EVER bring up pegging he will act like itās the worst thing youāve ever said. But he is blushing like crazy because heās already been imagining it for months and thereās NO way heās admitting that.
If you donāt bring it up again he will be devastated because he wants you to and he really doesnāt want to have to askā¦ But he will if you donāt ask again.
ā¢ Pegging him gets him violently pathetic. It'll only ever happen when you're both home alone because he gets incredibly vocal to have you completely in control and dragging his pleasure from him.
Especially if you start praising him for taking your strap/cock so well, he will very quickly slip into agreeing with anything you say with quick desperate nodding. Even more so if you're praising him.
It's the only time he will so happily beg for you to do something, whether it's to let him cum, to jerk him off while you fuck him (Or let him...) or to fuck him harder.
It's desperate and choppy but he eventually spits out the breathless pleas of "Please... Amore, harder... I can take it... Please fuck me." or "Shit... I'm... So close, let me cum? I need it..."
ā¢ He loves when you mess up his hair. Itās literally his kryptonite, heās being a little grumpy or pouty? Play with his hair. Heās being bratty? Pull it. Itās most likely what he wants but heās too flustered to outright ask for affection.
He gets a lot more vocal when you do, especially when heās fucking you. Itās disgustingly hot to have him moaning all high pitched and breathy in your ear because it feels too good and your loving touches have him so weak and desperate to please you before he finishes.
If you praise him and play with his hair for too long when you're sitting on his lap he'll either get very dominant, undress you and fuck you into the mattress... Or more commonly, will end up breathless and just let you grind on him til he finishes in his pants.
He won't even care til after because it feels too good to even think about anything but your nails massaging his scalp.
ā¢ Heās insanely vulgar and that doesnāt stop during sex, he wonāt degrade you but he curses a lot. A lot of breathy āFuckā¦ā Or āShit.ā When heās trying to calm down. You'll hear a lot of things like, "God, that's it... Cum for me... Shit, so... Fucking tight."
But the worst/best part is he absolutely doesnāt stop praising you laced with groaned vulgarity, things like āFucking perfectā¦ Youāre gonna milk my cock, huh?ā And he relishes in the way you react to his voice, all breathy and fucked out telling you all the things he wants to do to you.
He loves to whisper how good you feel around him, especially when he's so close you can feel him practically throb inside of you... And don't think for even a second he won't demand you to tell him where to finish right before he does just to hear you desperately scramble to think of somewhere.
If you let him finish inside, he'll get a LOT more vulgar with it before/when he cums, groans and pants of "That's it, shit, that's it... Come on, gonna let me fuck my cum into you, yeah?" and when he's feeling a lot more dominant just a single low, "Don't waste a fucking drop." This one has a lot of overlap if you go down on him too.
ā¢ When he cums really hard, his stand accidentally activates slightly. Never in a way that would ever hurt you but you can feel the way the room temperature dips dramatically.
Usually when heās been edged, teased or after a long day where heās pent up. And especially when youāre riding him or have him in your mouth, his head thrown back with whiny desperate moans falling from him.
Itās not his intention for it to activate but it feels so good that he has to try to ground himself through the feeling... Unintentionally makes it feels better because you're so warm around him through the cold.
ā¢ He absolutely loves when you manhandle him or tell him what to do, unless heās already in a very pent up, dominant mood.
But when he isnāt? If you tell him to drop to his knees and please you he wonāt even hesitate, especially after heās been away for a while and heās been fighting.
If you want to tease him, he loves small acts of dominance like: dragging him into you by his clothes for a kiss, pulling his hair to make him look at you, holding his jaw when he tries to look away... He's hard before you ever say a word. And he will let you just push/move him where you want him to be.
Hell, push him down on the bed occasionally and just use him for your own pleasure, he's GONE immediately. Sometimes he just wants you to take control and let him shut his mind off and stop the overthinking.
ā¢ Sometimes he needs a lot of reassurance, especially if heās feeling that familiar self doubt coiling around him.
It often leads to very intimate sex where itās just soft praises passed between you about how much you both love each other. He doesn't even care if either of you are moving, it just feels so intimate that he needs it occasionally to just destress and dote on you.
Heās always pretty loving during sex but in times like that itās not really about the end for him, he just needs to feel the moment and more importantly just feel you.
ā¢ He absolutely starts hating his car because there are times when youāre both out driving and he wants to fuck you but the car is just so fucking SMALL!
But thereās something about you sucking his dick when heās parked somewhere out of sight that drives him insane though, his hand in your hair just feeling you as he tries to stay focused enough to make sure no one seesā¦
He loves the sliver of a chance of being caught, not because he actually wants to be, because the risk sets him on edge without a real threat of danger.
ā¢ Aftercare is something that is never skipped, not after he starts getting used to the feeling of staying the night and not feeling like that worry.
Sure he gives aftercare before, but the longer the relationship progresses the softer and more in depth it gets, for you both. He always wants to bathe or shower after with you after, gentle intimacy that doesnāt need to be sexual in any way, just loving hands holding you and rambling about something he's interested in while he helps you wash your body or hair.
He always makes sure that youāre okay and hydrated afterwards, massaging any spots that he held too tightly. And he gets the same gentle treatment.
It catches him off guard for a long time that he deserves to be taken care of too, but he craves the loving touches easing his worry after that even through his complaining, he gives in very quickly.
tutor!mel king x f!med-student reader ā demure! incorrect usage of med-school & biochem terms, mentions of underage drinking, poor Mel worries a lot, so. much. kissing, switch Mel (dom leaning) & switch reader (sub leaning), nipple play & sucking, clit play, fingering (r!receiving), overstimulation, implications of edging, praise kink!, scissoring!, not edited but I'll go back through later & look, they're both very oblivious word count 11.2k 18+ MEN & MINORS DNI
āļø I fear I just wanted to get this uploaded... will come back & double-check later <3
Mel had always assumed she was too awkward to teach, like, fundamentally. Structurally. The way some people are born without a sense of rhythm or the ability to fold fitted sheets without cursing the linen gods. She wasnāt lacking in the knowledge department, that was for sure. And she honestly did well with kids, her middle school life guarding job being evidence for that. The struggles came with those her own age.Ā
In her mind, a good teacher, for those above the age of ten, needed that mystical ability to connect with students. To coax them into that mindspace of feeling safe enough to make mistakes without imploding from embarrassment. To guide them gently. Completely. Warmly. To be someone, who was the same age as her peers, they liked. At least a little, otherwise their brains would auto-mute words like spam cells.
And to be fair, Mel was decent at reading emotions. She tried, earnestly and albeit a little awkwardly, but still consistently, to make people feel heard. Validation was practically a reflex by now. Plus, she was working toward her MD, and social skills werenāt exactly optional unless you wanted your bedside manner reviewed like a one-star motel or the sketchy diner that was two blocks away from her high school, where all of the kids went because they served alcohol to underaged teenagers.
It was that combination of self-awareness, mild optimism, and the promise of a very modest profit that convinced her to accept the offer to tutor first-year med students.
She would see her juniors after her rotations on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 5 to 7 P.M., giving her enough time to scramble back to her apartment with Becca in tow to make dinner (whatever was readily microwaveable), and help her sister to bed. Then, she would have the rest of her night to study or network or whatever it was she needed to do, and crash only to wake up before the Sun rose and do it all over again. And at the end of the month, she would have roughly an additional $360 to do whatever she needed with. An adjustment to her schedule, but sheād managed to intertwine it after a few weeks.
Youāarriving with your perfectly styled hair and those light pink ribbons that looked like theyād been tied by a benevolent woodland creature (did that even make sense?). You, wearing cardigans youād crocheted yourself, as you informed her with a small, proud smile. Which felt illegal somehow because med students werenāt supposed to have time for hobbies, let alone aesthetic hobbies. You, who always smelled like youād walked straight out of a bakery, warm vanilla and butter-soft sweetness trailing behind you like an olfactory hallucination. It was embarrassing how quickly Melās apartment accumulated vanilla bean candles after that.
It all was a little unbelievable to her, honestly. Because what kind of med student had the time for all of it? To be soft and strangely curated? Mel had once gone four days without washing her hair because sheād been trapped in a cycle of work-sleep-work-adrenaline. The idea of crocheting anything, other than her own nervous system, was laughable. But then she remembered that, one: not everyone had to support themselves and their sister, and two: you were being tutored for a reason.
And that reason, whatever it was, made Mel feel strangely determined. Maybe it was because the first time you showed up for a session, her heart had done a ridiculous, genuinely concerning shimmy-beat in her chest. Mel knew what attraction could do to a personācould ruin concentration, logic, and on top of it all: boundaries. But she was high-functioning, disciplined to a fault, and because of that, she forced herself to tunnel whatever strange dopamine release you stimulated into something useful. I.e., figuring out why you were struggling so she could fix it.
And, okay, maybe impress you a little bit. Get in your good graces. She wasnāt immune to human nature.
Not that you werenāt nice to her. That wasnāt it at all. Actually, that was the problem. You were nice in the way the warm pastries you smelled like are nice. Comforting, fragrant, and likely to make someone overindulge without noticing.
She knew that you listened to every word she said. Your body language gave you away every time: chin propped on your hand, leaning in by fractions like Mel was gravitational. How your eyes never strayed from her face. Which shouldāve been illegal during study sessions because it made her stomach twist at the thought of looking away from notes and textbooks. And every time you arrived at the library, at the table towards the back corner the two of you had claimed, you would just talk to her about your day. About anything. How your sister kept trying to buy her cat t-shirts to help with whatever skin disease it had, how your anatomy professor pronounced āsternocleidmastoidā like he was trying to summon something, and the most recent episode of Love Island UK. And you would ask her questions too. Real questions. Ones about her rotations, her favorite coffee shops, and her sister. Talking for much longer than you shouldāve, considering you were only supposed to have an hour slot with Mel.Ā
But when the inevitable moment hitāyour startled glance at the time, your soft, āShoot, I didnāt realize what time it wasāāMel could never bring herself to remind you about the overtime fee.
All she could say was: āItās alright.āĀ
Because the smile you would give her each time was worth more than any amount of money you couldāve given her.
Which shouldāve been the first warning sign (the neon billboard of warning signs), that Mel was willing to rearrange even the microscopic minutes of her schedule for you. That you spent more time talking about her than about biochemistry, which, in a tutoring context, was objectively unhinged behavior.Ā
āAnd you know I canāt stand it when my roommate hogs our washing machine, and all day yesterday it was like she was guarding it or something,ā you ramble as Mel nervously glances at the clock on the far wall again. Sheād only managed to get you to listen for twenty minutes before youād found a way to get off-topic. āSo,ā you sigh, and the sound is so soft and dramatic that Melās eyes snap back to you like theyāve been tethered. āI had to wear this sweater, and itās cute, yeah, but feel itā Here.ā You extend your arm to her.Ā
Melās gaze flicks from your outstretched arm to your face, then back to the arm. When she hesitates too long, which is a poor habit sheās developed around you, you retract your arm. āItās really rough. Probably best that you didnāt touch it anywayāā
āUm, sorry, but did you need help with epigenetics?ā she asks, stumbling over her words a little as she busies her hands with the notes in front of her. āLots of first-years struggle with that topic in Dr. Barnesās classā¦ā Mel canāt look at you. She justā¦ cannot. If she does, sheāll get sucked into your orbit again, nodding and listening and pretending like you didnāt make her heart melt in her chest cavity.
On track, stay on track.
She repeats the mantra again and again like itās going to convince her of something.
Thereās a soft shuffle as you adjust in your seat. āI guess,ā you mumble, and she instantly worries that she said the wrong thing.
āOkay,ā she offers, gentling her voice into something steady. āI really do love listening to your stories with your roommate, she soundsā¦ interesting, but I want to make sure you feel prepared for your upcoming exam.ā Good, that was good. Professional. Back to teacher-mode that still hadnāt figured out why you were struggling in this class.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mel watches as you sit up a little straighter, your loosely-curled hair falling over your shoulders effortlessly and in a way that looks much softer than your sweater. āMe too,ā you reply, and, thank goodness, you donāt sound upset. Which is enough for Mel to make eye contact with you again.Ā
But all of a sudden, you look so uninterested again.
āGo ahead,ā you say softly, even though your tiny, reassuring smile doesnāt make the dimple on the left side of your mouth appear, the one that she waits for. You click your pen once. Twice. āIām listening.ā
There were at least a thousand better ways of trying to pursue someone than whatever ritualized self-sabotage you were currently performing. For the sake of your time, your GPA, the sake of your dwindling checking account. Your soft and already overtaxed psyche. Add an ellipsis, and the universe would happily keep listing reasons until the heat death.Ā
But youād always been a bit of a hopeless romantic. That embarrassing evolutionary quirk that was recessive in most populations, but apparently dominant in you. The books, the movies, the daydreams, all of it, was something that crowded your inner ecosystem early on, building little shrines in your neural pathways. The trait had become a determining factor in the fabrication of your personality. Some people said it made you naĆÆve or too much of an idealist, but you were a firm believer that it just made you more interesting. That it let you throw yourself fully into things whenever you met someone new, because this could be the one. Your brain loved that phrase, fed it like a pet.
And sure, that had happened maybe one too many times, but this was different. It really was, while your heart was a repeat offender, you felt it in your bones. That she was the one. Your bones said so, and they are usually quiet, reserved things. They knew it from the first time you saw Melissa King during the office hours of your biochem classāwhen she drifted in to ask Dr. Barnes about research she was helping him conduct, all focused precision and sunlight-in-a-labcoat energy. The moment practically rang like a tuning fork. The stars had aligned.Ā
A bit deterring that she didnāt remember you from that moment when you first came to her for tutoring, but you were determined.Ā
If that wasnāt clear enough from the fact that you did not actually need help with biochem. In truth, you loved biology. Chemistry, not-so-much, like an unpleasant acquaintance youād learned to make polite eye contact with, but with biology it was a bit better. As an undergraduate, you passed all of your science-related classes with mostly flying colors.Ā
The receipt burned in your coat pocket, but you couldnāt help it.
But now, when Mel approaches, her hazel eyes widening just a fraction (she was always early, you had to be earlier), you felt a little stupid.Ā
āAre there more people joining us?ā she asks, voice as gentle as always and, like always, itās enough to tug at some sensitive organ behind your ribs.
You shake your head. āNo, but on Tuesday you said that you were doing overnight rotations for the first time and, I donāt know, I feel like I waste so much of your time, so I wanted to get you coffee.ā It all spilled out, clumsy and too fast. Rambling, sure, but it makes Melās cheeks pinken. Or maybe that was the cold. The tiny smile that lifts the corners of her lips, though, isnāt weather-induced. That lessens the anxiety of potentially overdoing it, but only slightly. āAndā¦ I wanted to get your order right, but then I saw how many cinnamon drinks they hadāā
āNo!ā she cuts in quickly, gently, the way you were used to. āNo, I really appreciate it. This is really kind of you to do.āĀ
You thought romantic fit a little better, but then you remembered that Mel didnāt necessarily know your intentions.Ā
āDid you pay for all of this?ā she asks.
āIā¦ had a coupon.ā Which is a lie that survives exactly one nod from her before collapsing under your conscience like a wet cardboard box.Ā āIāā You take a deep breath. āYes, I did pay for all of it. Without a coupon.ā
Her frown is small but incredibly efficient. Her eyes widened again, that soft hazel alarm system she carried around in her skull.Ā āCan I pay you back?ā
You nearly laughed, just a tiny exhale of disbelief, as your fingers worked at the knot of your scarf. āNo. This is a thank you for putting up with me.ā
āI donātā āPut upā with you,ā Mel says quickly, hands still tucked in her coat pockets. Her expressions stayed wide-eyed and soft, a kind of gentle sincerity you were helpless against. āAnd you donāt waste my time, either. You get off track sometimes, but itās nice listening to you.ā
āYou think Iām nice to listen to?ā Mel opens her mouth, then closes itāfaltering in the same way your heart did when the words left her. āI think youāre nice to listen to too,ā you continue quietly, glancing down at the coffee as you smile to yourself.Ā
Your scarf becomes a pastel heap atop your bag. Your coat follows. Mel, in a burst of something eager and endearing, rushes to sit next to you. āYou have a very nice voice. And the way you tell stories is animated and makes them fun to listen to,ā she says, voice lowered like yours. Eyes on the coffee like yours. Smile on her lips like yours.
Good planning on your part.
Mel doesnāt mention the logistical impossibility of drinking all these coffees alone, though you could see the calculation behind her eyes. Instead, she picks one up, looking at the order written on the slip of paper stuck to the side of the cup.Ā
āWe donāt have toāā
āTell me what the monosaccharide make up in these coffees is,ā she interrupts, and dread coils in your chest, āand how it would affect the chemical circulation in your body.ā
A frustrated grumble almost leaves you.Ā
Right back to tutor-mode.
Youād more or less accepted that you were never going to see any other version of Mel than the sunshine-in-scrubs versionāthe happy-go-lucky, frighteningly intelligent one who handled anatomy in a way that was envious to most. Which you wouldāve been fine with, that aspect of her was your favorite, if you werenāt halfway to being in love with her after what amounted to a handful of tutoring sessions and a concerning number of cinnamon beverages.Ā
Nothing in your life had ever been as easy as falling for Mel. Which, by the laws of cosmic balance, should have meant there had to be some kind of drawback, right? Very much wrong.Ā
She was never impatient with you, even when your āmistakesā were as intentional as a cat knocking things off a counter. She never made you feel stupid. Her sense of humor, when she let it peek out from behind her mentor mask, had you in stitches. And you were starting to suspect she was happy all the time, which seemed biologically implausible. No human maintains a constant emotional temperature. Not even Mel.Ā
You thought that maybe the first emotion she would showcase to you, other than happiness, would be frustration. Mild annoyance, at least. Instead, it was panic.
Her phone had already buzzed once during this session. Sheād silenced it immediately, murmuring something like, āSorry, I thought I muted that,ā in the same tone someone might use to apologize for bumping into you. But then it rang again, mid-explanation of metabolism and genetic disorders. A small frown tugs at her lips as you fiddle with your pen, and when she manages to wrestle the device out of her pocket, you see the jolt of worry pass through her hazel irises.Ā
āDo you mind if I take this?āĀ
You quickly shake your head, extending your arms in front of you. āNo, no, not at all,ā your voice fades softly as she answers the call, lifting her phone to her ear. You try not to notice how she doesnāt leave the table.
āHey, Becca,ā Mel says, same gentle tone, but with something threaded underneath, something heavier, quieter. Immediately, you busy yourself with scanning over your notebook and doodling with your pen over the page. Anything to imply you were not listening, even though you very much were.
Becca, Melās sister. Right. You knew of her, but Mel hadnāt told you much about her.
Ink spirals into another spiral in the margin of the page. You canāt hear what Becca says, but you see the way Melās brows knit together, delicate, little stitches forming between her eyes. A few more moments pass and you watch the way Mel processes whatever Beccaās saying, somewhat giving up on pretending youāre not paying attention to her micro-expressions. Then, Mel nods to herself, shifting in her seat as she reaches for her coat with her free hand.
āOkay, alright. Iāll be there as soon as I can, Beccaāā she cuts herself off, probably because Becca says something else. āI-Iām not sure what time, Iāll try to catch the next busā 20 minutes,ā Mel finally settles on, voice quickening in the way only anxiety would influence. And thatās when you start moving as well, packing up your pens and highlighters back into your floral print pencil bag. āI know youāre capable of taking care of things, but try not to touch anything else so you donāt get hurt. Okay, bye. I love you.ā
And then she hangs up, eyes immediately finding where youāre zipping your bag shut and moving to stand, coat draped over your arm.Ā Ā
āIām really sorry, itās an emergencyā¦ā she began, but you were already shaking your head, soft and instinctive, like brushing away dust.
āDonāt worry at all,ā you say gently, shouldering your bag higher so it doesnāt slip off your arm. āUm, did you say you were going to try to catch the next bus?ā
Mel nods as she stands, shrugging her coat on with hurried, fluttery movements. āThe blue route for the campus bus, yes,ā she confirms. āNext one comes in hopefully the next ten minutes, soāā
āI can drive you,ā you blurt before you can stop yourself.Ā
Her eyebrows tilt up at the inner corners and the urge to kiss the two little creases that appear, both impulsive and horrifying, surges through you. Instead, you swallow the urge to tuck into yourself and hide at the offer. āI meanā I know those buses arenāt super reliable and that soundedā¦ important.ā
The furrow disappears and you mentally facepalm again.
āNot that I was eavesdropping."
Mel graciously chooses not to comment on that particular lie. āI have to go help my sister. She was doing something with the stoveā cooking, actually, and she said that it started beeping and she couldnāt turn it off,ā Mel pauses to take a deep breath. āIāve been trying to get her used to making dinner since Iāll be gone on night rotations and Iām just really hoping that the beeping isnāt the fire alarm.ā
You nod, scrambling to search for your keys in your bag. A strange, fragile warmth flickers through you. Part of you canāt believe sheās willing to tell you this much, considering how set she usually is on keeping you on task, but then you remember sheās not technically tutoring you right now. Loopholes in her professionalism.
āIām parked right outside the library if you want me toā¦ you know.ā
You regretted the phrasing immediately.
You hate that she hesitates.
āIf thatās alrightāāĀ
You cut her off with a sharp nod, already stepping past her toward the exit with the momentum of someone who refused to give her a chance to decline. She mumbles something under her breath, but then her soft footsteps flutter after you, warm against the hush of the library carpet.
Out the double doors, the sun was already mostly set, part of the charm that was late January weather that also made the sky all purples and blues. You press your coat closer to your chest like itāll do something to prevent your ribs from rattling in the cold. Brisk walk, keys out, your car chirping its hello before youāve even fully reached it. The cold is quick to seep into your bones, nosy and unapologetic, and you clamber into the driverās seat while making sure the passenger's side is open for Mel. A quick pat-down for phone, wallet, keys (your ritual), and then the engine rumbles to life.
āDid you put your seatbelt on?āĀ
Thereās a tiny (almost offended) noise that slips out of you at that, and of course, the strap decides to seize up when you try to yank it across your chest. āThought this was an emergency?ā
āWellā It is, but youāre three times more likely to get injured if we crash.ā
You smile at that, something warm flickering against the cold. āHave some faith in my driving skills.ā
āItās the lawāā
āAddress?ā You cut in, and when your eyes flick to the rearview mirror you catch a sliver of her expression: lips pressed tight, worry sharpening the shape of her mouth. You nearly giggle, but then you remind yourself you have to get her to her sister. Urgency. Focus.
āI can give directions while you drive,ā Mel says, already leaning slightly forward like her willingness alone will propel the car. So you reverse, ease out of the library lot, and follow her quiet, steady instructions.
The drive settles into a mostly silent rhythmāclick of a turn signal, the occasional āleft here,ā her nerves humming like a low-voltage field between the two of you. Eight minutes, maybe less, before you pull into the lot of her apartment complex. Car off. Doors open. You fall into step behind her, trailing through the lobbyās stale heater air. Itās only when youāre both standing in front of the elevator, Mel rocking back and forth on her toes with her hands buried in her coat pockets and her gaze fixed somewhere too far ahead do you realize that she didnāt invite you to come with her.
You glance back over your shoulder at the doors that lead back into the parking lot. Would it be more awkward to leave now or follow her all the way up? You donāt have time to decide when the elevator dings quietly, signaling the arrival of the lift. As the doors open, Mel doesnāt hesitate to enter, turning to face you as you stand frozen for a moment.Ā
āCan I?ā
Mel jolts a little, like your voice bumped into her shoulder. āY-Yeah, sure,ā she breathes, shuffling to the side, clearing space for you like itās permission to view one of the most intimate parts of her life. You slip into the elevator just before the doors yawn shut, close enough that the warmth radiating off her arm could be mistaken for contact. It isnāt, technically. But your skin beneath your cardigan can feel the idea of it.
The ride up to her floor is brief and hushed. Quieter than the drive to her apartment, like the metal box swallowed all the spare words.
When the doors slide back open, Melās already halfway down the hallway before you figure out which way to turn out of the landing. Quick to move, quick to get her keys out, quick in a way that can only be shaped by purpose. But even rushed, her hand is steady enough to fit the key into the lock and twist on the first try, nudging the door open and leaving you to enter after her.Ā
āBecca?ā Mel calls. And there it isāthe rhythmic, insistent beeping youād overheard Becca and her discussing, spiking the air with an almost anxious pulse.
Carefully, you close the door behind you, keeping your coat draped over one arm as you take in the entryway of the apartment. A shoe rack sits to your left beside a closet that probably contains coats and other winter wear. And despite the sight, Mel had kept her shoes on, so you do as well. Shuffling in the direction she went, you let your gaze skim the room as you go, taking in the cozy environment of the small space that held a sense of careful curation. The gray L-shaped couch that wore an assortment of throw blankets made from fabrics that somehow managed to look both fuzzy and silky at the same time. The small fireplace is on and tossing out a soft amber glow. And along the mantle and walls: pictures. Mel and Becca throughout the years, stitched into the living room like a timeline.
In the kitchen, the beeping cuts off right as you lean your head around the doorway, like it was waiting for an audience before dying pathetically. Next to the stove, Melās standing with a girl a little shorter than her, ponytail neat, posture alert. Their voices are low, not secretive but close-knit, so you step fully into the room and clear your throat, a tiny sound just to say āHey, I existā. Mel glances back at you. Something in her face has unspooled, not relaxed exactly, but less taut with worry. A loosening of some invisible thread.
āOhā Becca,ā she says, looking back to her sister. āThis is myā¦ā Her voice fades, like she doesnāt know how to finish the sentence. And you couldnāt blame her, truthfully. You definitely werenāt just her student, that feltā¦ wrong to say. But could you be considered friends? If she werenāt so caught up in making sure everything stayed professional, without a doubt. But considering how she was hesitating to call you a friend, told you everything you needed to know. āMyāā
You step in gently, offering your name and cutting the fraying thread before it snaps. You aim a small smile at Becca, a small hint of nervousness coursing through you. āI like your glasses.ā
āThank you,ā Becca chirps, the pitch of her voice slightly higher than Melās but just as enthusiastic. āAre you the reason she got here so quickly?ā
You nod, grin holding steady. āI drove her, yeah. Everything okay with the oven?ā
āMel showed me that I was pressing the wrong button to turn off āpre-heatā.ā
āAh,ā you murmur, nodding like youāre trying to signal solidarity, domestic struggles are universal. You sneak a glance at Mel out of the corner of your eye, just checking the temperature. If she was okay with you talking with Becca like this. Her face doesnāt give anything away, strangely, or maybe everything. āHappens,ā you settle on, shrugging slightly. āWhen I was learning how to make bread, it would never rise because I would only let it rest for four hours instead of eight.ā
Becca nods, mirroring your earlier action. āWhat kind of bread?ā
āSourdough,ā you reply, thumb brushing the fabric of your coat draped over your arm. āIām sensitive to gluten, so normal bread makes my stomach hurt.ā
Her eyes widen, earnest curiosity. āCan you still have pizza?āĀ
You let out a small laughālight, involuntary. āI can, yeah. I can still have bread and dough, but my stomach canāt digest a type of carbohydrate called fructans, so it makes my stomach hurt,ā you explain. You can feel someoneās gaze settle on you. Not heavy, just aware. āSo sourdough is better, because it has less of those fructans.ā
āYou should make some for us sometime,ā Becca declares, like itās already been decided.
āI wouldā¦ā you start, gaze flicking over to Mel again, just to make sure youāre not overstepping. She nods, simple and quiet, and the smile that comes with it hits you like a small shove to the chest. Your own smile breaks open, unguarded. āLove to. I would love to.ā
āAnd you should stay for dinner. Iām making pizza,ā Becca adds, pivoting the offer toward you with zero hesitation. Instinctively, you look at Mel again.Ā
She blinks once, and you can practically see the way the gears are turning in her brain as she processes what Becca offered. āI have to leave for my rotations at eight, and I donāt want you to feel like you have toāā
āNo,ā you cut in, maybe a little too fast, but sincerity rushes out of you before her caution can build momentum. āI would like that very much.āĀ
It lands in the space between you with a warmth that feels almost fragile.
You glance toward the entryway, then back to her. āShould I put my shoes by the front door?ā
Things shift after that dinner in the King apartment. Not in a dramatic, plates-rattling-off-the-shelves way, but in a quieter sense. In a warmer sense.
Mel seemed more open. Permeable, almost. Like whatever membrane she kept between ātutor Melā and āMel with thoughts that didnāt revolve around school and maybe some insecuritiesā got a small, polite tear in it. Which you took as a good sign. That dinner with her and Becca led you to see her in a different way, to see a different side of her. Still as happy and sweet as sheād always been, but a barrier had been broken down for her to be more comfortable. Becca spoke quite a bit, but so had Mel (both of them could really talk), and once she got going, she could fill a room with words like steam, warm and a little disorienting. You hadnāt said much, but youād laughed. Loudly. Maybe even a little embarrassingly. Smiled until your cheeks felt like overworked muscles. You felt at home. Dangerously at home.
And the fact that the tutoring session that followed the next Tuesday, she acted the same as she had at the dinner. No awkwardness, no shifting back to that profession ātutorā frame of mind. Which you, being a rational adult with a functioning prefrontal cortex (questionable), took as a sign of encouragement.
āYou grabbed the wrong bag?ā Mel asks, standing next to the table youād chosen, the coffee shop mostly empty in the late afternoon. Just the two of you, the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional ghost of a milk frother. Her confusion behind her glasses almost makes you giggle. You felt a little bad, sure, maybe you were wasting some of her time, but the guilt was manageable when it came to the itch of wanting her unshared attention. That high from the previous week of quality interaction without books in front of you being something you were chasing.
āI was in a rush, I thought I was going to be late,ā you lie halfheartedly. If you can even call that flimsy sentence a ālieā.
Mel tilts her head slightly as her eyebrows furrow.
āIs that why you wanted to meet somewhere else too?ā
You donāt know what to say for a moment. Then, āI neededā¦ a change of scenery.ā Which is technically true, if āchange of sceneryā included not sitting five inches from her face while pretending you were more interested in glycolysis than her face.
She goes quiet. Then, she sits, placing her own bag on the floor next to her chair.Ā
āWeāll just have to find other ways to apply concepts to hypothetical scenarios then.ā
āOr,ā you try, attempting to redirect her mental train tracks away from biochemistry and back toward you. āWe could order a hot coffee and then go to that winter market event the art department is having.ā Finishing the offer with a tiny smile, barely a twitch of your lips, Melās eyebrows crease again.
āWhat does that have to do with biochemistry?ā
Okay. So maybe she was converting back to the tutor persona.
āIāve been studying all day. And you should do something fun before your rotations tonight,ā you point out, sliding the words to her carefully, like offering an easily startled deer a handful of grass. āWe can do one loop around whatever stalls they have up and then go back to the library or wherever and do some review.ā At this point, your desire to spend time with her is outweighing your desire to appear relaxed and non-pushy. āPlease? Itās only a five-minute walk from here.ā
Mel exhales, soft and resigned, and you have to stop yourself from grinning. āOkay, but we should be back at the library in half an hour.āĀ
āGood enough for me,ā you agree quickly, taking what you can get as you stand to order.
The wind nudges at you again, brushing your hair back. Itās brisk, still cold thanks to the year shifting into early February, but you welcome it. It helps cool your cheeks, which are doing their best impression of a space heater thanks to Mel existing in a three-foot radius.Ā
The path to the winter market winds past the art building, whose windows glow dimly with the aura of warmth. And then the first string lights come into viewāsoft, slightly mismatched bulbs strung haphazardly between temporary poles. The whole thing looks like someoneās well-intentioned attempt to summon whimsy using only extension cords. But itās still sweet. Stalls line the small courtyard: tables draped in mismatched cloths that display handmade ceramics, candles that all have names like āsnowbound reverieā and āforest melancholy no 7ā, and crocheted hats in various colors. The air smells like cinnamon and melted wax.
Mel slows, her eyes wide behind her glasses. Not overwhelmed, you hope, just taking it all in. Part of you almost takes her free hand to tug her along. But you donāt. āThis isā¦ very colorful,ā she says finally.
You laugh, soft. āYeah. I think thatās the point.āĀ
You walk a little further in, the lights reflecting off her glasses as the cold turns your breath into small, white ghosts that vanish as soon as they appear. The two of you weave through the little crowd, and for the first time in a while, you feel unburdened. Light, almost buoyant. Melās shoulder brushes yours once, probably accidental. But she doesnāt move away. So you donāt either.
āYou know,ā she starts again, out of nowhere, and you lift your tea to your lips to take another sip. āBecca really liked having you stay for dinner last week.ā
Your eyes widen a fraction, surprise blooming in your chest like an ill-framed timework. āReally?ā This time, Melās the one who laughs softly, the sound unbearably gentle.
āYeah, she thinks youāre funny.ā In an attempt to hide your smile, you take another sip, letting the liquid warm your throat. āI liked having you there too,ā she adds, quieter. āItās been just Becca and me for so long andā¦ I think I forgot a little about what itās like to have another friend.ā
Friend.
The word lands in your stomach with the emotional equivalent of an anvil while your heart stutters like itās buffering.
āI had a good time,ā you manage. āBeccaās amazing.ā
Mel lets out another little huff of a laugh, her free hand tucking into her pocket. āSheās the best,ā she agrees, but you can hear the not-so-subtle question lingering: āWhat about me?ā You inhale slowly, your attempt at being steady.
āAnd you know I like spending time with you too.ā
Melās head snaps toward you. āYou do?ā she asks, the question so full of hope that it makes your chest squeeze. When you look at her, her face is lifted in the way that only occurs when people are in slight disbelief.
You simply nod. āWhat do you think this is?ā Mel blinks before glancing around at the stalls youāre slowly passing. The string lights. The hand-knit scarves and hats. āThis is me,ā you say gently, ātrying to spend time with you.ā
It might be the wind, but you think you hear her breath hitch.
She says your name suddenly. āWould youā¦ want to come over for dinner again? With Becca and me?ā Mel pauses, then adds, in a rush, āIf you want. Only if you want.ā
A bitter laugh almost leaves you. āI want,ā you joke and confirm at the same time, but in your head you know: I want you.
Mel doesnāt know what sheās doing. She never has, not when it comes to you. But lately or now or however long this has been happening, sheās begun to suspect sheās gone about all of this entirely wrong. Or maybe too right. Because seeing you in her space every week, laughing with Becca in the kitchen, coaxing actual food out of her stove, tucking yourself into the corner of her couch like youāve always belonged thereāitās all grown too domestic for her heart to handle.
Her fifth and final week of OB/GYN rotations was looming, hopefully with the prize of a brief reprieve from the schedule of overnight shifts. A break she desperately needed. But for now, she would have to settle with one of her few sacred nights off. Which she was still working. Still working, but quieter. Trading patient chaos for helping Dr. Barnes tie up loose ends of a research project.
And it happened to fall on a Thursday. Your Thursday, with one of the dinners youād both somewhere along the line stopped pretending anything about was remotely related to tutoring. It was a Thursday, which meant you had come over for dinner as usual. So youād eaten together, and now, she was letting you stay with Becca while she wrapped things up. Which meant sheād be coming home to you. Walking into her space and finding you there already, warm and waiting.Ā
Not exactly conducive to staying focused. Not when she was trying to finish this summary quickly. Efficiently. Efficiently and still quality work that wouldnāt make Barnes sigh at her tomorrow.
But efficiency became harder with every line she typed. Her fingers moved while her brain dutifully tried to follow, but her thoughts kept slipping. Kept skimming back to you, drawn like they always were.
To how tutoring had quietly shifted, week by week, to be less about notes and material and more about lingering dinners. Shared smiles. Soft moments that felt suspiciously like dates if she considered them for too long.
Which she couldnāt do.
The thing was, Mel had suspected you knew what you were doing in the easiest first-year course after the first session. Your first interaction with Becca weeks ago was what had confirmed it.
She had been trying to figure out a way to bring it up ever since, but every solution she came up with fell short. Too blunt, too awkward, too likely to make you feel embarrassed or guilty. And Mel didnāt want you to feel either of those things. Partly because they were just awful things to feel, and partly because she didnāt want to ruin whatever was going on between the two of you.Ā
Because it was what sheād been hoping for, for longer than sheād ever admit out loud.
āHowās it going, kid?āĀ
Mel startles, looking up as Dr. Barnes materializes beside her table. She forces her mind to settle back into the present and manages a small smile. āGood. Iām almost done.ā
He nods, warm and approving, the corners of his mouth lifting in the gentle way that always made her feel like she was doing better than she thought. She hesitates. Her pulse stutters. Then, before she can overthink it, āActually, I have a question about one of your studentsāā She gives him your name. First and last.
The look of recognition flickers through the silver-haired manās eyes. āAh, yes. Nice girl. Always in office hours, even though sheās got one of the strongest brains Iāve seen in years.ā He chuckles, āWatch out, she might be trying for your research position.ā
Mel almost smiles, because the project is practically finished and he knows it, but the idea of you chasing her spot warms something in her chest strangely.
āI tutor her, actually,ā Mel says and the man nods.
āYou tutor her? Hm,ā he hums, but he doesnāt seem to think much of it. āWhat was your question again?ā
Mel swallows. This shouldnāt feel like going behind your back, but it does.
āI was just wondering if you had anything youāve noticed about her performance in your class,ā Mel finally manages to get out. āI know you have a decent number of students, so if you havenāt, thatās totally fine.ā
She knew the answer already.
Dr. Barnes considers the question, brows knitting faintly as he thinks. Melās fingertips drift over the keys, skimming the familiar ridges, tapping out a nervous rhythm she canāt control. Finally, he shakes his head.
āNothing of concern,ā he says, āHonestly, Iām a little surprised sheās in tutoring.ā A soft laugh. āBut she does more than keep up. Reminds me of you a bit.ā
Mel drops her gaze to the glow of the laptop screen. The spreadsheet of data blurs, words bleeding into one another. How was she supposed to bring this up to you without it negatively affecting you? Without unraveling the first thing sheās wanted for herself in a long time?
āGoodness, itās almost 12:30,ā Dr. Barnes comments, checking the time, but Mel barely registers it. The last thing she wanted to do was push you away in any way, and now, she was worried that if she said something, you would be too embarrassed to speak to her again. āDidnāt realize it got so late. Sorry for keeping you, kid.āĀ
It takes her a moment, but she finally tears her eyes from the screen, clearing her throat as she closes the laptop gently, almost reverently. āYeah, umā¦ Iām gonna head home for the night.ā
Home.
Home to you.
You donāt realize youād fallen asleep on the couch until Mel wakes you.
The living room is dim except for the soft lamp Mel insists ādoesnāt give her headaches,ā and outside, itās the kind of winter darkness that feels heavy, full-bodied. Itās been that way since you arrived at her apartment for dinner with her and Becca. But it tells you that you hadnāt been asleep long between helping Becca to bed and waiting for Mel to come back. Thereās also something telling in the fact that your body chose her apartment as a place to shut down. Something you definitely wonāt be admitting out loud. At least, not yet. Unless you wanted to spontaneously combust on her plush beige rug.
You jolt slightly when her hand gently rubs your shoulder, warm and careful in that Mel-way that always makes your chest go oddly tight. Your eyes flutter open, the world coming back to you as the sleep slowly melts from your brain. For a moment, you donāt remember where you are. And then you see Mel.
Her green-rimmed glasses over her tired hazel-colored eyes, facial features soft with something that you could only describe as a mix between exhaustion and comfort. Hair down. That tiny mark beneath her right eye. Youāre used to your brain getting the urge to kiss her face no matter the state itās in, so youāre not surprised when your gaze lingers on the little freckle longer than necessary. Longer than appropriate, if that was possible.
Your mouth goes dry.
āSorry,ā you say, voice thick with sleep as you push yourself to sit up with one hand, the other coming to rub at your own eyes. āDidnāt mean toā¦ fall asleep.ā The offer sounds lame, but itās the truth. āWhat time is it?ā
Melās eyes donāt leave yours.
āI think almost one,ā she answers. That habit of matching your tone like itās instinct. It sends warmth through you and under your skināyour body reacting before your mind can catch up. āIs Becca asleep?ā
You nod, small and slow, keeping yourself propped up and sitting on your left hip as you look up at her. This feels intimate. Dangerously so, with only the little table lamp glowing from the far end of the couch. The room is dim enough that the edges blur a little. āYeah,ā you breathe, still half-dazed from the way sheās looking at you. āHowād the research go?ā
āGood, always good.ā Her hands remain at her sides. Not clasping each other like they usually do, not fidgeting. Just there. Open. Unguarded. It sends a ripple of warmth down your spine. āWere you wearing that when you got here?ā
You blink. āHm? Ohāā You glance down at yourself. At her jacket youād zipped over your bra after accidentally knocking the rest of your wine onto your top while talking animatedly with Becca. Itās barely oversized on you, smelling faintly of Melās detergent, and you feel suddenly, achingly exposed. āSpilled wine on me after you left. My topās drying in the sinkā¦ā You trail off, noting the dilation of her pupils. Her gaze dips and flickers before she drags it back to your face.
āI didnāt thinkāā
āItās alright,ā Mel cuts in quickly. āWeāreā¦ friends.ā
Oh.
That word again. You feel it like a thumb pressed too hard to a bruise.
āYeah,ā you whisper, voice barely there. āYeah, and itās late so I should probably get going.āĀ
You donāt move.
Mel doesnāt look away from you.Ā
āCan I ask you a question?ā You nod again as your breathing goes shallow, uneven. āWhyāve you been asking me to tutor you for this long?ā
Your heart almost stops in your chest. Stutters then slams.
āIā¦ donāt follow,ā you try, but itās pathetic. Unconvincing, because your voice gives you away immediately with how thin and shaky it sounds to your own ears. Youād already proven how horrible you were at lying to Mel. And while those had been over small things, nothing you say could hold up when her eyes turn slightly pleading.
āPlease be honest with me.ā
Fuck.
A long breath leaves your parted lips and you have to break eye contact with her. āWhat did Dr. Barnes say?ā
Mel hesitates, just long enough for you to see the way her thoughts flicker across her face, fighting to stay contained. āDr. Barnes didnāt say anything,ā she finally confesses, and fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Embarrassment curls heavy in your stomach where warmth had been residing from being so close to her. You had been so close and now she probably thought you were crazy for joining tutoring just to get close to her.Ā
āYou figured it out,ā you manage, pressing a hand over your eyes as if that could shield you from the humiliation crawling up your throat. āIām so sorry, I swear I didnātāā
Lips press to yours.
Your brain blanks, violently, like a switch flipped. Every muscle in your body forgets what itās supposed to do. Your heart forgets how to beat. The apology dies on your lips the second they touch Melās. Sudden, yet shockingly sure.
She pulls back only after a moment, but youāre frozen, breath shaking, hand still over your face.
And then she touches you.
Not rushed. Not greedy. Just that careful, unbearably gentle way she has, fingers finding the back of your hand and curling around it, coaxing it down from your eyes. You let her. You canāt not. She drags your hand down slowly, slow enough that youāre forced to look at her, your eyes forced to take in the hazel of hers blown wide with nerves, andā God, you were going to go into cardiac arrest.
By the time your hand lowers past your chin, youāre already leaning ināand maybe she is too, you canāt tell, canāt separate your want from hersāand then youāre kissing her again. Deeper. Harder.Ā
Again, your body reacts before your mind catches up, chasing the warmth of her mouth, the tension that finally snaps between you as she meets you with equal force.Ā
You honestly canāt remember who moved first.
But then her fingers are slipping up to hold your jaw and the moment her palm settles, all warm and steady and you melt and you donāt care about who started it anymore. The kiss deepens in a way that feels dangerous to you, like a lineās been crossed that you can never step back from. But you donāt think to pull away because you canāt think you can only feel. And Mel isnāt trying to retreat either. If anything, she leans in harder, like sheās finally letting herself have something sheās been holding back from for far too long.
Your hands find her waist without thinking. Heat beneath the fabric of her shirt, the gentle curve of her hip, and you feel her breath catch against your mouth. Just a sound, barely there, but it shoots straight through you.
āMel,ā you hear yourself whisper against her lips, but youāre not sure if itās a question or a plea.
She presses her forehead to yours, breathing hard, her thumb stroking your cheek like sheās trying to convince herself that youāre there. Her glasses have slipped slightly down her nose, and for some reason, that sight has something twisting in your chest, painfully tender.
āI didnāt know how to ask, because it didnāt make sense and Iāā she pauses, voice low enough to clue you to her probably being out of breath. āI was just hopingā¦ā
She doesnāt have to finish the thought for you to know.
That it was real.
āI didnāt want to make things weird,ā you manage, though your hand is still on her waist and once again, neither of you has moved. āI didnāt want to ruinā whatever this is.ā
Her laugh is soft, almost disbelieving, almost relieved. āYou didnāt ruin anything.ā
And then she kisses you again. Slower this time, deeper in a different way, like sheās savoring it, like sheās savoring you. Her fingers slip into your hair and your entire body lights up at the contact. When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen, her breathing uneven, and she looks at you in a way youāve never seen her look at anything before.
āThis is real now,ā you whisper to her. āYeah?ā
āYeah,ā she agrees. āVery real.ā And that truth settles over both of you heavy and certain, a little terrifying in the way a sudden drop in elevation is terrifying.
Real enough that sheād herded you into her bed before either of you got too carried away on the couch cushions. Real enough that her sheets are currently trying to swallow you whole, and her jacket, your temporary emotional support garment, is folded neatly beside your pink bra (which earned zero surprise, just an amused little hum like she was saying āof course you wouldā) on the bench at the end of her bed. Real enough that your stupid, addictive vanilla scent has climbed onto her skin like a parasite, hitching a ride onto the fabric beneath you, into the heat of her breath, onto her mouth as she leaves a constellation of kisses across your chest.
āHow many sessions did we have where you asked me questions you already knew the answer to?ā she murmurs, mouth pressed to the swell of your breast, voice vibrating against your skin. Her tongue traces around your areola and you make a soundāthin, needy, the kind of sound youād deny letting slip later.
And really, you donāt have the energy, or want, to lie to her anymore. Too soft and warm and breathless for that now.
āAll of them.ā Your back arches off the mattress when she closes her lips around your nipple, just for a moment, just enough to rewire several important neural pathways. Relief threatens to bloom into something overwhelming, but sheās already moving. Of course she is. Mel, generous as always, would not let you die instantly from pleasure. Instead, she descends lowerāslower, deliberate in the way saints and exasperated women tend to be.Ā
Her mouth grazes your navel, and your whole body shivers like someone plucked an invisible string threaded through your spine.
āWell,ā she says, voice annoyingly complacent, āI know you canāt handle 23 orgasms. Thatās medically inadvisable. So that numberās going to have to be used for something else.ā
āYou remember how many sessions weāve had?ā you manage strenuously, trying very hard not to look directly at the metaphorical sun that is 23 orgasms because you would absolutely lose all remaining brain function.Ā
āI think I can remember every word youāve ever said to me,ā she replies, far too casually for someone who is immediately returning to your neglected nipple with a kiss like an apology before kissing you properāaffectionate and measured and devastating. Your stomach flutters as her fingers slip beneath your waistband.
āThatās physically impossible,ā you counter against her mouth, right as she drags your sweats, and panties, down in one swift and needy swoop.
Mel smiles against your lips like she knows better.
āMentally impossible,ā she corrects, which is objectively unfair because youāre already halfway to giggling when the sound snaps into a small, startled moan when her middle finger swipes over you. Just a curious brush against where your entrance is clenching, collecting wetness to spread around your pussy. Collecting everything your bodyās been offering up for her to take. āQuiet,ā she murmurs. āWe have to be quiet.ā
āI know,ā you breathe, eyes fluttering shut when she circles that tiny, traitorous bundle of nerves with the kind of lightness only Mel could manage.
āAnd if you ever want to stop, tell meāā
āI know,ā you echo again, arms looping around her shoulders like that might just keep you tethered to the planet. Melās second finger joins the first at your clit, rubbing with just enough pressure to make your body hum.
You tilt your head, greedy for her mouth, and she meets you there. Steady and controlled as always, kissing you like sheās memorizing every shaky exhale. Her fingers keep working you in slow increments, building your release with the kind of cruel patience you suppose doctors should have. But you would still argue itās not fair. You sigh her name, embarrassingly whiney, thighs tightening around her hand until Mel has to press her free palm to your hip to keep you from locking her in place.Ā
Another kiss. Both to muffle your sounds and because you need her, right as one of her fingers slips inside you. Slow, testing how tight you were. Her thumb stays on your clit, circling in a way that would have you keening if you werenāt so focused on her mouth.
āRelax,ā Mel whispers when sheās finally able to part from you. āIf you want another finger, you have to relax.āĀ
You want to argue. You want to tell her youāve never felt safer, or more comfortable, or more open in your entire life, but your hole is fluttering around her, clenching on instinct. Still, you will yourself to loosen, to melt, to take her in. Her finger curls inside you with an unhurried precision that has you panting into her neck, mouthing at the warm skin where her throat meets her shoulder.
āGood job.ā
āMelāā
āItās okay,ā she soothes, her voice an anchor for you. āIām here.ā
She remains careful as she works to get you used to the feeling. āYou think you can handle this for 23 minutes?ā she teases, and all you can manage is a tiny, broken moan. Your eyelashes flutter, vision blurring. āCum if you need to,ā she whispers with a kiss to your cheek, still being sweet, before her fingers speed up. Somehow even more precise now, curling at exactly the right moment, the right angle, the right pressure. Your hips jolt, chasing her as youāre biting at your lips like the filthy sound of your juices soaking her hand isnāt filling the room.
āCan youā Want you naked too,ā you plead, the words tumbling out half-broken and your voice weak with need as your clit throbs helplessly beneath her thumb. āI canāā
āPlease,ā Mel agrees, somehow sounding almost just as wrecked as you.Ā
Your hands are useless at first, too shaky and overeager as you try to peel off her jacket and shirt. And once you do manage them off, you fumble with her sports bra. Naturally. Like itās a puzzle invented solely to humble the horny, and Mel finally huffs out a laugh and helps you with her free hand. The second the last scrap of fabric leaves her body, you drag her back down, a desperate, relieved noise catching in your throat at the needed skin-to-skin contact.
āLike that, Mel, thatāsā Oh, thatās perfect,ā you whisper to her, voice fraying at the edges as you gush around her fingers, pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you like someoneās pulling a cord.
āI know, I can feel it.ā
Your arms stay locked around her like she might vanish if you stop touching her. And you would feel bad at the way you bite harmlessly into the slope of her shoulder, if your first orgasm didnāt hit you. Slamming through you and pulling your body taut as you grind up against her thumb, pussy sucking her fingers inside like youāre trying to keep them there forever.
She doesnāt stop.
Time becomes a concept you absolutely do not believe in anymore. Seconds, minutesānone of it makes sense or matters. All you know is that Mel keeps going, ruinous enough to be pulling a second orgasm out of you with embarrassing ease. Your body arches, clings, trembles, pleasure slicing through your muscles in sharp, involuntary waves. Only when her thumb leaves your pulsing, overstimulated clit do your legs give up, falling back to the sheets in boneless surrender.
āHow long was that?ā you pant once your brain and lungs recover enough to form English.
Mel slides her fingers out, and the movement triggers a warm spill of release from your cunt that makes you whimper. āTen minutes.ā
āTenā Ten minutes?ā you repeat. āI thoughtā¦ are you actually going toāā
Mel rubs slow circles into your thighs, trying to soothe the little post-orgasm tremors. āWe arenāt going to do anything youāre not up for,ā she says softly. āAre you doing okay?ā
You want to laugh, but the noise that escapes you is more like a delirious sigh. āIām amazing,ā you say, sounding as dazed as you probably look. āI wantā I want more, Mel. Please. I want you to feel good too.ā
āYou can,ā she says under her breath, thumb now sweeping circles over your hip. āWe can do more, just take a deep breath for meā¦āĀ
So you do, eyes locked onto hers as you mirror the rise and fall of her chest, letting your pulse unwind itself, letting your body remember it exists outside of Melās touch. āCan you be on top?ā
Youāre nodding before sheās even finished speakingāenthusiastic, frantic in your eagerness.Ā
Mel laughs tenderly, slipping out from between your legs, and her hands catch yours to guide you upright. You kiss her before youāre even fully seated, fingers finally (finally) making competent work of her bottoms. You get her out of them at approximately warp speed, significantly faster than she managed with you, which earns you an amused chuckle against your mouth.Ā
This kiss is different. Slow. Lazy. Melted at the edges as you shift and roll on top of her. Melās thighs part for you instinctively, and her hands settle on your hips, positioning you so your cunt hovers over hers, heat meeting heat without quite touching.Ā
āIs this okay?ā she asks, because sheās like that.Ā
āMore than okay,ā you reassure, smiling so hard that you can feel your cheeks hurt a little. āBeing with you like this is the only thing Iāve wanted for a really long time.ā Getting the words out felt better than you thought it would, leaving you feeling lighter.
Mel kisses you again, reverent, while one of her hands helps guide you down onto her. The moment your core meets hers, both of you moan, small and spineless. Youāre sensitive from two orgasms; Melās sensitive from giving them to you. Itās almost loaded, how good it feels immediately because you knowāneither of you is going to last very long.
Your wetness makes it easy to grind down onto her, your swollen clit sliding against hers in a way that knocks your head back and parts your lips. Your name spills out of her lips like a plea, and your hips respond instinctively, moving faster. Her grip on your hips falters as Mel begins unraveling beneath you, lost in the friction. The heat. The way your pussy presses against hers.
āYou lookā So pretty,ā you manage, grabbing one of her legs for leverage so you can move even harder, even closer. āSo pretty, Melāā
āPlease kiss me,ā she whines, and you fold down immediately, mouths meeting in a messy, hungry kiss. One hand cups her breast, kneading gently as her tongue slips past your lips. āAhā I love you.ā
The words hit you like impact trauma; you whimper into her mouth, whole body shivering. Melās hips lift to meet yours, chasing her own high now with a desperation that steals your breath.
āIā love you too. I love you tooā¦ā you can barely say, voice working overtime to keep up with your fluttering heart. Your nose bumps hers, and her glasses fog slightly. Before you can think any better of it, youāre sliding them off, careful, wanting to see her eyes as they become half-lidded and heavy with pleasure. āAre you close?ā
She nods, impatient and needy in the most perfect way.
You canāt resist. You kiss that freckle just under her eye. āYou can let go. Iām right here.ā And then Melās moving, bucking up toward you with eagerness that can only be driven by the need for release.
āYouāre close too?ā she pants, and your brain, fogged with heat and overstimulation, almost doesnāt compute that sheās waiting for you. āPlease, I need you toāā
āMel,ā you whine, the loudest youāve been yet, and thatās enough. Her body arches to meet yours, lips pressing wherever they can, teeth grazing, skin brushing, and she falls over the edge with you.
Stars (or sparks, maybe fire) burst behind your eyelids. You think nothing, nothing, will ever feel like this. You think youāll never love anyone the way you love her.
And when her movements slow and you slump over her like youāve been unmade, her arms settle loosely around your waist.
āI meant it,ā you whisper after a few minutes of quiet. āI love you too. For real.ā
Silence. Then, a tiny kiss to your neck.
Itās Thursday when you come to Mel with your final exam.
Well, on her kitchen counter.Ā
Youāre perched next to the stove, hands dusted with flour, showing Becca the proper way to knead bread dough when Mel slips in from her rotation, toes nudging her shoes off into the shoe rack. Right beside a pair of your ballet flats.
āThat smells sweet,ā she observes, stepping behind you. You turn instantly, a smile breaking out on your face. Without thinking, you lean into her, wrapping an arm around her waist while one of hers snakes over your shoulders. The contact is small, but enough to make your chest feel full.
āCareful, my hands are a little sticky,ā you inform her, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before returning your attention to Becca. āIt is cinnamon sugar chocolate chip.ā
āFor breakfast,ā Becca chimes in, excited. āBut we havenāt put the chocolate chips in yet.ā
Mel presses her lips to your hair without hesitation, and heat flares through your body at the familiarity of it. The intimacy of it. You smile up at her, then pivot slightly to guide Beccaās hands. āWe can fold them now, Becca. A little at a time, knead a bit more after each pour.ā You bend to show Becca where the bag of chocolate chips sits. Once you do, youāre back at Melās side, looking up at her with a practiced expression: half mischief, half pleading, all desire, that always seems to coax her lips to yours. She obliges immediately, pressing a small, perfect peck to your mouth.
āI have something to show you,ā you murmur to her as Becca continues working at the dough.
āA surprise?"
You giggle, and she laughs softly in return, the sound curling warmly around you both. āKind of,ā you say, keeping your palms up so the remnants of dough donāt stick to her as you tilt your head toward the end of the counter where your biochem final sat. āAs of todayā¦ā you trail off, eyes darting to the pages, Melsā own following, and they widen a little. āYou are no longer my tutor. Just my girlfriend.ā
Her lips part, a small, breathless laugh escaping before she can fully process it. ā100%ā Thatāsā¦ Wow, amazing job,ā she says, voice lit with excitement and a tinge of disbelief like yours as her eyes lock with yours again. āI-Iām so proud of you.ā
āMostly thanks to you,ā you whisper.
Melās eyebrows furrow, and she loops both arms around your middle, warm and grounding, pulling you closer. With spring teasing its way into the air, youāre back in lighter, brighter tops, and sheās returned to her beloved soft t-shirts. āYou had all of the information and concepts without my help.ā
āYeah, but ourā¦ memorization techniques helped a lot.ā
Her cheeks flush, delicate and pretty, and you laugh quietly, enjoying the pink spreading over her skin. āW-Well, visualization is one of the best study techniquesāā
You cut her off with a soft peck to her lips, the scent of cinnamon sugar from the dough lingering faintly between you. When you pull back, she lets out a breathy laugh.
āPlease never make me be your tutor again.ā Itās your turn to laugh quietly.Ā
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