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HARD ODDS TO BEAT WHEN YOU'RE ON ALL FOURS!

✉️ hiiiii okay, I hope you all like this cause I had NO IDEA these little drabbles would get so much attention! that being said, thank you so much for all of the love. I write for u guys <3 kisses to all

sommaire! a night out turns into networking turns into Mel finally getting you to admit what you've wanted all along part 2

demure! jealous!reader, grumpy!reader, drinking, mel stares at your tits, little bit of thigh riding, orgasm denial, exhibitionism, public sex (kind of), emotions are high, slightly ooc mel? frustrated mel? hmm... another case of me not proofreading wc 5k 18+ MEN & MDNI

You’ve seen Mel outside of the PTMC more times than you care to admit.

A collection of instances that no one else knows about besides you and her. So it’s not lying when you update Dana over what you did the previous weekend, telling her that you visited Squirrel Hill’s farmers’ market because your favorite organic honey brand was going to be there. And because someone had alerted you to a new and upcoming beignet cafe that was promoting their opening.

It was technically withholding information that Mel was the person who’d told you about Beignet Bag Co. by the lockers after you’d clocked out. How you’d told her you just happened to be going as well. How you should go together.

And it wasn’t lying when Santos bugged you over why you didn’t come to what she’d dubbed: ‘cards and charcuterie’ night at her shared apartment with Whitaker, and you’d excused that all you wanted to do was take a bath and sleep. (You weren’t even sure why she’d even had it; she hated cheese. But then you distantly remembered something about Garcia wanting to learn how to put one together after she’d returned from her trip to France.) Again, withholding information on how Mel had let you shower at her place before the two of you had settled on her creaky couch to watch a movie her sister had chosen. Which you and Mel got roughly 20 minutes into before passing out due to the exhaustion of your work day.

And woke up to Becca eyeing how you’d curled towards Mel.

It was also withholding information from Samira when Mel brought you your exact coffee order one morning. She’d given you a little look. One that said: ‘Since when do you guys do that?’, completed with a tiny raise of eyebrows and shifty eyes. You hadn’t even answered that one, pretending not to have noticed as you took the cup and pivoted off and down the hall away from the two women. From McKay, after she apparently saw you and Mel grocery shopping together. From Javadi, when you were showing her a pair of heels you were thinking about purchasing for your birthday, and you’d swiped one picture too far in your gallery to an image of Mel in the driver’s seat of her car, holding the desserts you’d wanted to try from a new patisserie since they were trending online. They’d been so pretty, you’d just wanted a picture. And you’d returned to the previous photo much too slow for Javadi to not have noticed, while also being too fast to not be awkward.

To be fair, though, it was only fair of you to hide these things.

It wasn’t embarrassment over spending time with Mel. Sure, you weren’t the biggest fan of her (right?), but she was nice. She was energizing to be around. Her smile was infectious. She knew how to make you suppress a laugh every now and then. She was good at giving compliments. You liked the way she dressed when she wasn’t pressured by the ER environment.

So, no, not because of embarrassment, but because of that stupid bet.

That flimsy excuse of “I don’t want the PEDs position” still made your nose scrunch with annoyance every time the memory looped in your brain. “I don’t want the PEDs position,” yet, no further explanation. No attempt to explain herself to you. Especially not when Dr. Kyleen had caught you after you’d left that bathroom, chasing after Javadi, asking where Mel had gone.

Mel had gone right back to working with the woman instead of talking to you.

And when she’d found out that Santos had invited you out to drinks that night and you’d accepted, she asked if she could come. And extended the invitation to Dr. Kyleen.

And while you’d seen Mel outside of the PTMC before, you’d never seen her take shots.

You certainly hadn’t expected her to handle her alcohol so well.

“You know, you’re missing a wonderful opportunity to network right now,” Whitaker says to you, offhand, but it still makes you roll your eyes a little.

You’ve barely made it through your first drink, night of supposed “fun” and “distractions” ruined by the sight of Mel playing pool with one of the best pediatricians Pittsburgh, and probably the entire country, had to offer. Right in front of you. Literally in view of the table you’re sitting at, elbows on the sticky wood with your hands holding your face.

You know you’re sulking, but if you couldn’t have fun, then you should at least be allowed to be bitter in peace.

“I’m off the clock. I’m not networking,” you grumble, reaching for your drink to finish the last sip even if it’s been watered down by melting ice. Its once strong, fruity, syrupy flavor reminds you more of hand sanitizer now, and it makes you grimace as you set the glass down a little too hard.

Whitaker jumps slightly. Then, you can practically hear him gulp. “I really don’t think Mel knows that you want–”

You cut him off with a small groan, slumping slightly over the table as your free hand presses against your forehead. Exhausted. You were so exhausted of all of this. Of hearing the same excuse. It was starting to make your head hurt–make a thrumming resound behind your temples and your chest ache.

“Mel, Mel, Mel– All you guys do is defend her,” you sigh, having to close your eyes to stop your head from swaying against the hand it’s resting on. “She knows.”

Whitaker, bless him, just sips at his own drink.

“She knows,” you repeat, peeking your eyes back open again. They instantly land on where Mel and the dark-haired woman (older than you, smarter than you, had her shit together–), who leans close, and Mel laughs–

“It’s why Nicole is here. Mel invited her, and she’s hogging all of her attention.”

Another laugh. Louder. Loud enough to have your eyes rolling so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of your head as you clench your jaw to stop yourself from frowning. You’re positive it doesn’t do much to disguise your expression anyway.

“Don’t crack a tooth,” Whitaker jokes quietly beside you. You don’t feel the urge to smile, even if something like that would normally have the corners of your lips tilting up. You had to give him credit, though. Cheering you up, getting you to feel better, was a task very few could succeed in. And it definitely wasn’t going to occur when you just spent ten bucks on a shitty cocktail and the music playing was starting to become too loud for just background noise and the reason for your… irritation? Was taunting you just a room away.

Next to you, he shifts, sitting up a little straighter as you remain slouched over the tiny, plastic surface that was supposed to look like wood.

“Are you upset that Mel’s hanging around Dr. Kyleen, or that Dr. Kyleen is hanging around Mel?”

That manages to make one side of your mouth twitch up.

Slowly, you tilt your head, cheek still pressed against the palm of your left hand as you look to him through half-lidded eyes.

“You think I’m jealous.”

“I know you’re jealous,” Whitaker says, shrugging a little again, like he made observations of people’s emotional behavior daily. Which, he did, you suppose. “But what are you jealous over?”

You blink, heel of your palm scrunching your hair slightly as it slides from your cheek to your temple. Under the table, you uncross your legs. Maybe the alcohol is starting to hit, because your dizziness seems to intensify as you move your limbs. As your posture shifts.

There was no possible scenario in which you were jealous.

You didn’t get jealous. Especially not over Mel.

“I could get that PEDs position if I wanted to,” you say instead, fingers brushing against your head in a way that makes you realize just how messy your hair has gotten. He’s trying to get you to admit to something. Something that you’d been insisting was simply withholding information for almost four whole months. Being figured out isn’t a fun feeling, especially not for you. It makes you feel like you’re under a microscope–like some kind of bug being prodded at with a blunt probe. These feelings and thoughts and goals and dreams were supposed to be yours. Not something put on display for everyone else to bet, discuss, and gossip over.

“I didn’t say that,” Whitaker says in a mix of breath and a laugh as he shakes his own head. He crosses one arm over his chest, lifting his drink towards his mouth again. “But if you’re gonna bring that up…” He trails off. Then, he nods his head in the direction of Mel and Nicole as he finishes his drink. “Back it up.”

“You’ve gotten bold,” you scoff, his words finally managing to pull a laugh from you, even if it’s small and more mocking than anything. “Is that cause of Santos, or cause you didn’t kill anyone today?”

Whitaker makes a face at you, nose scrunching up and brows pinching together as his eyes narrow and he shakes his head slightly.

“It’s cause you’re mean when you’re upset,” he justifies. “And letting someone take what you want isn’t like you at all.”

Wasn’t it, though?

Mel had told you one time that she admired how ambitious you were.

You had responded that you weren’t patient. That you put your full energy into something until it ultimately gave up on you. That you let yourself want and say loudly that you wanted so people believed you weren’t complacent. Mel had just promised you that the next time that happened, she would hold you accountable.

You sit up, back straightening so quickly that it makes Whitaker glance over at you over the rim of his glass.

Mel was holding you accountable, in her own way, to get you to talk to Nicole.

Even if your mind is on everything but your career right now.

“Be nice!” Whitaker calls after you as you maneuver away from the table, small clicks resounding from your kitten heels as you shift your hair behind your shoulders and fix your top so it lies across your upper half in the way you’d intended for that night: confidence. Carefree. An ‘I-don’t-care’ attitude in low-waisted jeans, even if you felt the opposite.

Because as you approach the pool table in the little side room of the bar, two arcade machines meant for gambling are pushed to one side of the dingy room, and beaded curtains hang in the doorway, making it feel like some cheap 70’s movie set, you conclude that confidence while strutting a few feet didn’t amount to knowing what to say. The ceiling lamp is the only source of light, keeping the space dim as Mel glances up first from where she’d been watching Nicole hit the cue ball.

Glances up. Then down. A short flick of her eyes, and while it would normally boost your pride, it just makes your heart beat harder. Because when she looks up at you again, meeting your eyes with an expression you can’t quite decipher–lids slightly hooded and mouth turned downwards slightly at the corners, your stomach flips. And you forget everything you were going to say.

Instead, your line of vision trails to where her fingers are curled around the pool cue. Long and short nails, soft in a way that your skin already knew by accident, and you wondered what they tasted like–

“Hey!” Nicole exclaims as the sound of the cue ball hitting the dark green of the 6 solid with a small ‘click’ snaps you from your daze.

Your throat is dry as you swallow, eyes dry as you force yourself to blink and look to the older woman.

“Mind if I join?” you ask in a tone that’s hopefully not too shaky, with a smile that hopefully doesn’t look too forced. Out of the corner of your eye, Mel doesn’t even crack a small smile herself. But you think you see her fingers twist around the pool cue. Tendons shifting under her skin, knuckles curling, digits separating slightly as the pads of her fingers rub over the smooth wood–

“Not at all! Mel’s already got me beat anyway,” Nicole chuckles as she stretches back to an upright position, head craning from side to side like easing the tension of the muscles in her neck will magically redirect the slowly moving solid into one of the pockets.

When it doesn’t, she just sighs, defeat even in the small act. Her lips press into a thin line as yours remain in that awkward half-smile.

All that’s left on the table for Mel to hit is the eight ball.

But Nicole surrenders before it comes to that. “Grab a cue, I’ll set it back up,” she says cheerily, leaving you to nod once.

When you edge around the table, you make sure to pass around the side Mel’s at. Normally, her head would turn to follow you. You’ve known her long enough– Been close with her long enough to know that’s what would normally happen. Especially with you wearing jeans like this and with your hair styled how it is. But she doesn’t look. Just keeps her eyes that look more like toffee in this lighting–dark, unyielding–on Nicole as she chats about how the last time she played pool was at a conference in Chicago roughly two years ago. About how rusty she is as she sets up the balls in the triangle again.

You’re rusty too.

Actually, you don’t know two things about pool.

The cue size couldn’t matter, right?

Mel actually has a smell clinging to her tonight, you notice as you settle beside her. Normally, her skin has the faintest hints of mint. Hair usually something rosemary and clothing simply like clean laundry. Scents bothered her, she’d told you, if they were too strong or if they were too persistent. But now, barely a breath away, she smells like something sweet that crawls under your skin to burry in your nerves and make the little hairs on your arms stand on end.

“That one’s too big for you,” she mumbles without glancing over. You, however, take it upon yourself to turn your head toward her. Her face is still passive, fingers still wringing at her own pool cue, and you think you see the pulse in her neck jump.

You tilt your head. “I think I can handle it–”

Mel moves before the words can finish exiting your mouth, turning back toward the rack only to grab… The shortest one. Naturally.

When she holds eye contact with you, skin brushing against yours as she pushes the cue into your hands, leaning in just enough for you to see the faint dusting of freckles on her nose bridge, something in your knees weakens.

“You– You’re joking,” you mumble in disbelief as she takes the other stick from you, placing it back in its original spot. Mel shakes her head once.

“Nope. Completely serious.”

And for some reason, it feels a little demeaning.

Heat in your chest twists tighter and you fix Mel with a small glare, even if she only lets her own eyes linger on yours for a paced heartbeat, offering a tilt of her mouth in a half smile before tilting her head toward the table. “Do you want to break or do you want me to?”

Your lashes flutter slightly. Some weird habit you have when you pick up on the break in the innocent act she performs that no one else seems to notice. And you have to bite at the inside of your cheek as you brush past her. Her eyes dip again, but she makes it obvious this time. Lets her gaze linger on your chest long enough and lets her half-smile settle by notching her tongue against her own cheek while you move to the head of the table.

The fact that you have to bend over slightly, lining up the pool cue in a way that’s definitely incorrect, is strangely humiliating. Knowing Mel is a few steps away, watching you fumble to align your eyes with the white ball and hold your knuckles in a way to easily slide the cue without slipping, all while in that vulnerable position of being folded just enough to be suggestive, makes your neck feel warm. Or maybe that was the alcohol.

Your break is clumsy, but the balls still click around the edges of the velvet tabletop.

“Not bad,” Dr. Nicole hums as you straighten back up. Honestly, you’d almost forgotten she was there. “D’you know which five you want?”

You blink, taking a moment to catch up to the fact that she’s referring to what five balls you want to try and hit.

“What five balls do you want to protect?” Mel pipes up when you open your mouth to respond. It makes the oven-like heat at the base of your ears spread to your face.

“I know how to play cutthroat,” you mumble, not bothering to fix a look at the other woman, hoping your tone says enough. Then, you clear your throat, remembering again, you’re not alone with Mel. “I’ll take 1 through 5,” you say, moving to aim for number seven. “Mel can take 6 through 10.”

You manage to hit the cue ball, but it completely misses your target.

A tiny hum leaves Mel as she moves to deliberately go for number twelve. Not one of yours.

She says your name softly as she angles her cue: “...Is an R2 in ER medicine, but she got perfect scores during her PEDs rotation.” Your brain doesn’t catch up with what Mel’s saying as you lean your hip against your pool cue. You just watch as she snaps the stick forward, and as one of Nicole’s balls effortlessly rolls into one of the pockets.

Did she just?–

“Impressive,” Nicole chuckles, her eyes never leaving the top of the table either. “Any chance I would know your instructor?”

You swallow thickly, eyes fluttering at the honest approval in the older woman’s tone.

“Dr. Shiqi Li,” you respond as Nicole fails to nudge one of her pool balls away from one of the pockets and towards where one of yours sits directly in front of the hole.

She lets out a low whistle. “She is a tough grader. We worked on a study together a few years ago. I remember the way she talked about med students,” Nicole pauses to chuckle. “Not very… patient, to say the least.”

That manages to help you relax again as you prepare to take your next shot.

“She liked people who were good with parents, ‘cause she hated dealing with them. I think that’s the main reason she gave me full marks,” you offer quietly. A tiny sigh escapes you as you fully miss the pool cue. You try again, only for the ball to bounce and barely move an inch.

Nicole tilts her head, but your eyes quickly snap over to Mel, who seems to have no issues with multi-tasking recalling memories while being the only person to actually get any contact in.

“And, even though she’s deciding to be humble, she was one of the lead researchers for the most recent study of using the PECARN criteria to reduce CT scans in children with head trauma,” Mel says with a nod in your direction. The care, almost… pride in which she speaks has the heat that had been flaring in her direction beginning to morph into something else. Something that felt painfully like gratitude. But also, like guilt. Like you should be doing this yourself. Like Mel was giving up something for you.

“I read that!” Nicole exclaims quietly, not seeming to care that Mel knocks another one of her balls away and off the surface, leaving the older woman with three, while you and Mel still have all five. “Very well put together. I would love to discuss it with you sometime.”

Unable to meet anyone’s gaze, unknown emotions curling through your ribs and around your heart, you swallow thickly and just nod once with a flicker of a smile. “Thank you,” is all you can offer.

When you look over to Mel, she’s smiling again, but her eyes aren’t on you. Whatever Nicole says next is on deaf ears, like you’ve stuck your head underwater and the fluid is rushing around you, making everything impossible to focus on except for the blonde a few feet away. A strange ache pulls at your heart in her direction as your mind attempts to piece together why Mel would be listing all of your PEDs-related accomplishments.

Especially when, after that, all it seems Nicole wants to do is talk about Mel.

About how Mel had designed a program for a more sensory-friendly environment for children during her time as a med student. About how Mel had handled that pediatric trauma that morning. About how apparently one of Nicole’s colleagues had worked with Mel when she was at the VA, and she was just so put-together and caring and warm to everyone she met–

“Darn!” Nicole exclaims as Mel hits her last ball, number 15, into the pockets. The woman sighs, dark hair shining in the dim lighting as she props her pool cue up against the wall. “I think I owe you both a drink since I’m the first loser.”

You open your mouth, ready to decline, only for Mel to get there first. “That’d be really kind, thank you.”

And you’re left alone with her.

In an out-of-the-way room, whose entrance was barely shoulder wide and covered in plastic, shiny beads that warped what was on the other side.

You don’t know if you should feel heavy or okay, for lack of terms. Nicole had complimented your work, had chatted with you, and said how she would love to speak with you again sometime. But again, Mel had the upper hand. Because all Nicole wanted to talk about was Mel. And that was the thing: you could understand why. So you don’t feel angry, but that familiar weight of defeat, of the thing you want finally giving up on you, settling in your stomach.

With a small sigh, you shift to try to knock number 7.

Too focused on that acidity at the back of your throat, the dissatisfaction low in your lungs because you couldn’t even bring yourself to resent Mel now, the brush of a hand at your lower back makes you jump. You snap up straight, head almost knocking into Mel’s face as you twist to glance over your shoulder at her.

She’s close enough that when you do turn your head, your nose almost brushes hers.

Her hand settles on your lower back, just above the hem of your jeans, and it’s so warm. Warm and on a pressure point that’s sensitive enough to have your heart rate picking up slightly again.

“What,” you grumble, moving to try and focus back on the game.

Mel’s pointer finger hooks in one of the belt loops of the denim.

“I think that went well,” she says lightly, and from the tone she uses, you know that’s what she truly believes. “I didn’t even get the chance to bring up that asthma case you figured out last Monday–”

“Yeah, because she was too busy fawning over you.”

Mel doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just rubs her thumb against the waistband of your pants in a way that has fire sparking at the lumbar region of your spine.

Then, softly, almost pitifully: “Are you still mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” you mumble, tightening your hold on the pool cue as it leans on the edge of the table. It’s not the truth. Obviously. But you’re trying to put her at ease so maybe she’ll leave you alone to wallow over your failed attempt at getting what you wanted.

Mel shifts so you can see her face out of the corner of your eye. Her brows are pinched together, eyes wide in a way that you could mistake as pleading if you didn’t know her well enough.

“Please don’t lie to me,” she whispers. Eyes not pleading, you remind yourself. Because you know this look. It was the same one she would get before she got too fed up with your attitude. Like she was upset over the fact that you would push her too hard sometimes. “I want to fix whatever’s wrong.”

A sharp scoff leaves you, mouth curling into a faux smile. “What’s wrong is that you’re lying–”

Which apparently was all she needed to reach that point of being fed up.

Her hand curls around your hip, body shifting to push yours against the edge of the pool table hard enough that your hipbones will probably bruise the next day. Mel moves fast enough, with enough power that you have to let go of your pool cue, hands flattening against the velvet so you don’t completely fold over the edge.

Then, she shifts closer. Nose nudging the curve of your jaw, breath warm on your skin.

“Do you want me to stop trying for you?” You’ve never heard her sound like this before. Not angry. You don’t think Mel could ever muster angry. But she sounds frustrated. Again–fed up with you. “Do you want me to play into the narrative you’ve created for me, because I will,” she whispers.

Your nails dig into the deep green, teeth sinking into your tongue to stop a whimper from escaping your throat.

“I’ll go to the bar right now and ask Dr. Kyleen about the opening for PEMs while you stay here, trying to figure out how to properly hold a pool cue.”

“You’re being mean,” you gasp out, knowing how hypocritical it sounds. Because you always dish it out to her. Now, you can’t even take it.

One of Mel’s thighs nudges between yours.

“Well, you did tell me to drop the nice girl act.” And she flexes the muscle against the heat at the apex of your legs, pulling that whimper from you before you can stop it this time.

Her pointer finger is still hooked in the belt loop of your jeans, and she tugs back on it slightly, making your hips rock against her thigh. The friction on your clit is immediate. Sharp and rough against the fabric of your panties and the intensity of her previous taunting. Taunting and Mel in the same sentence. You would’ve never pictured it. But it has you wet.

“You’re mean,” Mel breathes, voice cracking slightly on the first word in a way that has your heart clenching. Because she doesn’t sound upset anymore. She just sounds hurt. “I do everything for you,” she mumbles against your neck, and it has your hips jerking forward. “You don’t notice.”

You want to tell her that you do. You notice everything she does. You keep it tucked away in corners of your mind dedicated specifically to her and revisit them when you’re alone in your bed. Or brushing your teeth, or eating dinner, or every moment you’re not with her. But you can’t. Not when she shifts her thigh against the warmth of your cunt through your jeans and guides your hips with tiny yanks against your jeans that probably expose the edge of your underwear to her eyes each time.

“Apologize.”

The single word almost has a moan tearing from you. You have to swallow it down because while you’re tucked away, you’re still in public. In public, and humping Mel King’s thigh like a dog in heat.

“I–” you try, because you aren’t sure if you actually want to say sorry for how you’ve treated her. Unsure if you should still be upset with her or with yourself because you apparently didn’t know how to read situations. Not that you would ever admit it. But then Mel relaxes her thigh slightly, and you speak up again. “I’m sorry– I’m sorry, Mel… Please…”

You’re weakly bucking against her still, because apparently humiliation is the theme of the night for you, as Mel simply presses a tiny kiss to the corner of your jaw.

“Be honest with me?”

You want to scream. Want to slam your hands against the pool table and throw the balls like a child throwing a tantrum at the way she’s stopped giving you the pleasure you were given so abruptly. The hot and cold is too much for you to keep up with, and you keep trying to grind down on her thigh, pussy brush down just enough to feel some contact before Mel’s pulling away enough to deny you.

“I want you.”

The admission is broken, your head tilted down, emotions, alcohol, and stimulation enough to have you suddenly on the verge of tears.

“I want you,” you repeat breathlessly, only receiving another touch over her lips against your skin in response. Again, you attempt to grind against her. And this time, Mel lets you. You feel the weight of her eyes on your face as you close your eyes, pushing back roughly against her for tension that she doesn’t give.

Relief from telling her the truth twists into frustration.

“Mel– You owe me one–”

“This isn’t it,” she whispers. Finally, her hands shift to take hold of your hips, stilling your movements. At least you have enough control remaining not to whine from the loss of her body against yours. “Not when we’re both drunk and upset,” she continues, and you push your lips out into a small pout.

Neither of you says anything for a moment, the music from the bar creeping back into the small space. Along with your thoughts on everything that just happened.

On the pool table, one of her hands moves to cover yours.

“Do you want the PEDs position?” Mel continues after a moment, fingers looping with yours. You nod. Once, eyes searching for hers. When they meet, something in your chest melts. “Do you want me?”

Again, you nod. Harder this time.

Mel takes a deep breath, fingers tightening around yours.

“Say please again.”

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