— desc: michael had just finished his promotions and fulfilling his success for ‘off the wall’ he invites you over as a way to celebrate but he’s stuck writing for his next upcoming album.
— cw: nothing too extreme, fluff, mild suggestiveness, kissing, established relationship
The studio was dim, lit mostly by the glowing console of the mixing board. Red lights blinked in steady rhythms. The studio room smelled like warm coffee and the vinyls that were hanging up on the wall.
Michael sat hunched over in a rolling chair, one leg tucked under him, the other foot tapping against the carpet. His pen moved fast, scratching out words, circling phrases, drawing little arrows from one margin to the next. His lower lip was caught between his teeth, his brow furrowed in concentration.
You were curled up on the small leather couch behind him, chin propped on your hand, just watching.
You'd been here for three hours. Three hours of him humming into the microphone, pacing the floor, playing the same bassline because he said the feeling wasn't right yet. Three hours of you being completely, utterly invisible.
Not that you minded. Watching him work was like watching someone build a universe from nothing. His brow would furrow, then smooth. His eyes would go distant, then snap back, bright with discovery. He'd tap his chest—right over his heart—and whisper "there, that's it" to nobody at all.
But you wanted to touch him.
So you got up.
Your footsteps were quiet on the carpet. Michael didn't look up. He was humming now, a low, creeping melody that made the hair on your arms stand up. Something dark. Something new. Nothing like the disco beats of Off the Wall.
You stood behind his chair. He still didn't notice.
You reached out and let your fingers drift into his hair.
His curls were soft. You combed through them gently, nails grazing his scalp, and Michael's whole body went still.
The humming stopped.
"Oh," he breathed. His pen hovered above the notebook, frozen mid-word. His shoulders tensed for just a moment before relaxing under your touch.
You smiled and kept going—slow strokes, light touches, your fingertips tracing the shell of his ear, the curve of his temple.
"Hi," you said softly, leaning down closer to his ear.
"Hi," he whispered back. His voice was small. Shy. He didn't turn around—not yet. His eyes stayed fixed on the notebook, but he wasn't reading it anymore. He was just staring at the words, his chest rising and falling a little faster than before.
You played with a curl that had fallen over his forehead, his eyes fluttered shut for just a second, and you saw his throat move as he swallowed.
"You've been at this all day," you murmured, your fingers still carding gently through his hair.
"I know. I'm sorry." He opened his eyes, looking up at you over his shoulder. His gaze was soft, a little dazed, his mouth curved into a small, apologetic smile. "I just—I want to get it right."
"You always get it right."
He smiled at that—a real smile, small and warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "That's not true."
"It is to me."
You kept playing with his hair, and he let you. His shoulders dropped. The tension bled out of him bit by bit. He leaned his head back just slightly, just enough to press into your palm, his eyes half-closing again.
And then—because you couldn't help it—you bent down and pressed a kiss to his temple.
He went still again. His breath caught—just a tiny hitch, barely audible.
You kissed his cheek. His jaw. The corner of his mouth. Featherlight, one after another, trailing down the side of his face. Each kiss landed soft and slow, and with every one, his cheeks grew a little pinker.
"Baby," he said quietly. Not a protest. Almost a question. His voice had gone soft, almost breathless. His fingers curled around the edge of the notebook like he was holding onto something solid.
You kissed his neck, just below his ear. He shivered—a full-body tremor that made the chair creak.
"Baby," he said again, and this time there was a smile in it. His hand came up to cover yours where it rested on his shoulder, his fingers warm and slender. "You gotta stop."
"Why?" you asked against his skin, your lips brushing the same spot again.
"Because I need to work." He laughed softly, turning his face toward you. His cheeks were flushed a deep, warm brown. His eyes were bright and embarrassed and happy all at once, darting away from yours for a second before coming back. "You're distracting me."
"I'm not doing anything," you said, pulling back just enough to look at him. You raised your eyebrows, feigning innocence, your lips twitching.
"You're kissin’ me," he said, pointing at you with his pen. But he was grinning now, wide and helpless.
"You're very kissable," you replied, shrugging one shoulder.
He ducked his head, hiding his face behind his notebook. But you could see the grin spreading across his mouth, his ears turning red. "Stop," he mumbled into the paper.
You leaned down, wrapping your arms around his chest from behind, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He smelled like cocoa butter and something sweet—bubblegum, maybe.
"You've been ignorin’ me all day," you said against his hair.
"I haven't been ignoring you—" He lowered the notebook, turning his head to look at you, his expression caught somewhere between defensive and sheepish.
"Yes, you have. Ever since I got here, you've been humming and scribbling and muttering to yourself." You rested your chin on his shoulder, staring at him from inches away. "When are you gonna pay attention to me?"
He turned fully in his chair, swiveling to face you properly for the first time in hours. His knees parted just enough for you to stand between them. He looked up at you—because even sitting, he was almost at eye level with you standing—and his expression You played with a curl that had fallen over his forehead, his eyes fluttered shut for just a second, and you saw his throat move as he swallowed.. Genuine regret mixed with that shy affection he always wore around you.
His hand reached out and found yours, his fingers lacing through your own. He gave a small squeeze.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. His eyes searched your face, earnest and sincere. "I just really wanna finish this. It's important. I think it could be… big. Really big."
He looked down at his notebook for a second, then back up at you. There was a fire in his eyes, not frustration, but passion. The kind of passion that made him Michael Jackson. The kind you fell in love with.
You sighed, but you weren't actually mad. You couldn't be. Not when he looked at you like that—like you were the only person in the world he wanted to explain himself to.
"Okay," you said. "Finish."
He blinked. His mouth parted in surprise. "Really?"
"Really." You smiled, brushing a curl off his forehead with your free hand. "I'll sit right here and be quiet. Promise."
He smiled again—grateful, sweet, his whole face lighting up. He squeezed your hand once more before letting go and turning back to his notebook.
You stayed standing behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder, thumb tracing small circles through his shirt.
He started humming again.
That same low, creeping melody. It rose and fell, building into something tense and strange. Then he sang—softly, almost under his breath, his voice a velvet whisper:
"Darkness falls across the land…"
Your heart skipped.
"The midnight hour is close at hand…"
His voice was quiet, just for himself, but it sent a shiver down your spine. He scribbled something in the notebook, crossed it out, scribbled again. His tongue poked out slightly—a habit he had when he was concentrating hard.
"Creatures crawl in search of blood…"
He paused. Tapped his pen against his lips, his eyes staring at the ceiling. Then he bent over the page and wrote: "To terrorize y'all's neighborhood."
He sat back, tilted his head, and looked at the line. He circled the word y'all and wrote everyone above it in tiny letters. Then he stared at it for another three seconds, shook his head, and crossed out everyone.
He wrote y'all again.
He smiled to himself—a small, satisfied smile, like he'd just solved a puzzle. "Yeah," he whispered. "That's it."
You couldn't help it.
You reached around him and quietly closed the notebook.
"Hey—" He turned, startled. His eyes went wide, his mouth forming a small O. "What are you—"
You didn't answer. Instead, you took his face in both hands—gently, but firmly. His stubble was light, barely there, soft against your palms. His eyes searched yours, confused at first, then curious.
"Look at me," you said.
He did.
His gaze held yours. His breathing slowed. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers twitching slightly, like they wanted to reach for you but he wasn't sure if he should.
Then you kissed him.
It wasn't quick. It wasn't chaste. It was slow and deep and deliberate, your mouth moving against his like you had all the time in the world. He made a small sound against your lips, surprised, a soft mmph—his hands hovering in the air between you before they found your waist.
You tilted your head, opened your mouth just a little, and he followed. He always followed. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer, and when your tongue brushed against his lower lip, he made that sound again—softer this time, almost a whimper.
The kiss deepened. His hands slid around your back, holding you steady. You could feel his heartbeat through his chest—fast, fluttering like a bird's wings.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. His lips were parted. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. A thin line of saliva connected your mouths for just a second before he licked his lips nervously.
"You've been at this all day," you whispered, your forehead resting against his.
"I know," he breathed back, his voice barely audible.
"When are you gonna pay attention to me?"
He swallowed. His throat worked. His fingers tightened on your waist. "I—" he started, but no words came out. He just stared at your mouth, then back up at your eyes, then back down at your mouth.
You kissed him again.
He melted into it. His whole body softened, leaning into you, trusting you. His fingers twisted in the back of your shirt, bunching the fabric. A muffled moan escaped his throat—low, breathy, helpless—and you felt it vibrate through your own lips.
He shifted in the chair, pulling you closer, and you felt his knees press against the backs of your thighs.
You broke the kiss just long enough to climb into his lap.
One knee went on one side of his hips. Then the other. You lowered yourself slowly, carefully, straddling him as he sat in the rolling chair. The chair creaked beneath the shift in weight and rocked once—just a small sway.
Michael's eyes went wide. His hands flew to your hips, fingers gripping tight, steadying you. His jaw had gone slack.
"Careful," he breathed. His voice cracked on the word. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his Adam's apple moving visibly. His eyes darted down to the wheels of the chair, then back up to your face, his brows pinched with worry.
"I'm being careful," you whispered back, smiling. You ran your palms up his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your fingers—fast, rabbiting, thumping against his ribs.
"The chair's gonna tip—" He glanced down again at the wheels, then back up at you, his eyebrows raised high. He wasn't scared. He was concerned. Adorably, sweetly concerned, like a boy who'd been told a hundred times not to roughhouse indoors. His hands hadn't left your hips—if anything, they'd tightened.
You shook your head slowly, thumbs tracing small circles over his collarbone through his thin red shirt. "It's not gonna tip."
"You don't know that—" He started to argue, his mouth opening, his head tilting to the side in that way he did when he was about to make a very reasonable point. His fingers flexed on your hips, ready to catch you if something went wrong.
You kissed him again.
His words died in his throat.
His hands slid from your hips to your lower back, pulling you flush against him. His eyes fluttered shut. A small, satisfied sound hummed in his chest—soft, almost embarrassed, like he hadn't meant to let it out.
You cradled his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. He sighed into your mouth, a long, shaky exhale, and his lashes fluttered against your skin.
He kissed you like he was memorizing you.
You kissed him like you'd been waiting all day—because you had.
His mouth was soft. Warm. He kissed the way he danced—patient, feeling every moment before moving to the next. His hands spread across your lower back, pressing you closer. You could feel the heat of him through both your shirts, his chest warm against yours, his thighs solid beneath you.
His moans were soft, muffled, swallowed by your mouth. He wasn't loud. He was never loud. But you felt every one of them—little vibrations that traveled from his chest to yours, warm and honest and shy.
You pulled back for air. His forehead pressed against yours. Both of you breathing hard, your breath mingling in the small space between your mouths.
"Michael," you whispered, your lips brushing his as you spoke.
"Yeah?" His voice was barely there—a thread, a whisper. His eyes were still closed.
"Take a break."
He laughed—breathless, quiet, his nose brushing against yours. His eyes opened, and they were soft, dazed, half-lidded. "I really shouldn't," he said, but he was already leaning in again, drawn to you like a magnet.
"You really should," you murmured, pulling back just enough to make him chase you. His lips grazed yours, searching.
He looked at you. Really looked. His eyes traveled over your face like he was seeing you for the first time—the curve of your smile, the flush in your cheeks, the mess of your hair. The corner of his mouth lifted into a small, helpless grin.
"You're trouble," he said.
"Your trouble," you answered.
He kissed you again.
This time it was slower. Sweeter. His hands slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine through your shirt. You threaded your fingers through his curls, tugging gently, and he groaned—just a little—and pressed closer.
The chair creaked again. Neither of you cared.
His mouth left yours for just a moment to press a kiss to the corner of your lips, then your jaw, then the spot just below your ear. You shivered, and you felt him smile against your skin.
"You're not working," you whispered.
"Shh," he murmured back, his lips still on your neck. "I'm taking a break."
The red lights blinked on the mixing board. The notebook sat closed on the floor where it had fallen—knocked off his lap at some point, neither of you sure when.
But in this small, dim room, there was only the two of you, tangled together in a rolling chair that held steady despite everything, breathing the same air, kissing like the world had stopped.
you and michael have grown close enough now, you’ve been friends for a few weeks so you’ve been playing games and hanging out with him every now and then, isn’t that sweet.
cw : nothing too extreme! just fluff fluff and FLUFF !! teasing, flirting, close proximity and mentions of anxiety but nothing too srs.
The afternoon sun had been long gone, Michael’s bedroom bathed in the warm glow from his lamp. The rest of the house had gone quiet hours ago, the distant echo of his brothers’ laughter fading into memory. It was just the two of you now, buried in blankets and pillows on his massive bed, the remnants of a board game scattered between you.
You’d been friends for weeks. Real friends. The kind where silence wasn’t awkward, and a single look could make the other person crack up. Tonight, you’d spent hours playing everything from checkers to some card game he made up on the spot—which he kept winning, much to your fake annoyance.
“You’re cheating,” you accused, throwing a pillow at his chest.
He caught it easily, a low, breathy laugh escaping him. He was lying on his side, head propped up on one hand, those huge dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “I don’t cheat. I just… anticipate.”
“That’s cheating.”
“That’s strategy.” He grinned, tossing the pillow back. It landed softly on your lap. “You just don’t like losing.”
You rolled your eyes, pulling your knees up to your chest. You were both still fully dressed—you in an oversized sweater and jeans, him in a soft red button-down and dark slacks. His curls were a little messy from lying down, one strand falling over his forehead.
You glanced at the window. Pitch black. “Mike, what time is it?”
He turned his head toward his nightstand, squinting at the glowing clock. “Almost midnight.”
“Midnight?” you whispered, suddenly sitting up straighter. “Does your family even know I’m still here?”
Michael shrugged, unconcerned. “They know I have company. They don’t ask questions. They’re used to it.”
“That’s not the same as knowing, Michael.” You bit your lip, listening hard. The house was like a literal tomb. “I don’t want to be loud. What if I wake someone up?”
He tilted his head, watching you with that curious, bird-like focus he had. “Why would you be loud?”
You felt heat crawl up your neck. “I—I don’t know. Because we’re talking.”
“We can whisper,” he offered, his voice dropping immediately to a soft, conspiratorial hush. He leaned in closer, and you could smell his cologne—something warm and clean, like soap and vanilla. “See? Easy.”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer to be persistent.”
There was a beat of comfortable silence. The kind where you just looked at each other, the air between you feeling thick and charged. You shifted, trying to break the spell, and your eyes landed on a magazine on his nightstand. On the cover was a still from the Thriller short film. Him. And her.
Ola Ray.
You’d seen the behind-the-scenes photos. The way she laughed with him. The way he looked at her for the camera. It was acting. You knew it was acting. But your chest still did that stupid, tight thing it always did when you thought about it too long.
Michael noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.
“What?” he asked softly, following your gaze to the magazine. Then his eyes flicked back to your face. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?” you said, a little too fast.
“Nothing.” He was definitely smiling now. “Just… ‘oh.’”
You grabbed the pillow again and held it in your lap like a shield. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t start anything.” He shifted onto his stomach, folding his arms under his chin, looking up at you with wide, innocent eyes that were anything but innocent. “You’re the one staring at her like she stole something.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You were glaring.” He chirped.
“I was observing.”
He chuckled, that soft, breathy sound that always made your stomach flip. “You’re jealous.”
“I am not—Michael, stop.”
“Of a girl in a music video.” He was teasing, but it was gentle. Playful. His voice stayed low, almost tender. “She’s an actress, you know. She gets paid to pretend.”
“I know that,” you muttered, picking at a loose thread on the pillow.
“So why do you look like you want to crawl into that magazine and push her out of the frame?”
You looked up at him, and he was grinning now—not a smirk, but a real, soft, amused grin. His eyes were warm. He wasn’t making fun of you. He was… pleased.
Your face burned. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
The words hung in the air between you. Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.
Then you grabbed the pillow and smacked him gently in the face. He laughed—a real laugh, loud and sudden—before quickly slapping a hand over his own mouth, eyes wide.
“Shh!” you hissed, but you were laughing too, shoulders shaking.
He pulled the pillow away, still grinning. “Okay, okay. Truce.”
You flopped back against the headboard, heart pounding. You needed a distraction. Something to break the tension before you did something stupid—like stare at his mouth for another second.
“Let’s do something else,” you said quickly.
“Like what?”
You glanced around the room. Your eyes landed on the Twister box sitting on his dresser, right next to a small Peter Pan figurine. You pointed. “How about that?”
Michael followed your finger, then looked back at you, one eyebrow raised. “Twister?”
“What? Scared you’ll lose?”
He sat up slowly, a challenge flickering in his expression. “I don’t lose at Twister.”
“Then prove it.”
He got off the bed and walked over to the dresser, pulling down the box. You watched him move—graceful, like he was always dancing even when he was just walking. He brought the mat over and spread it on the floor at the foot of his bed, then spun the little cardboard spinner.
“You know the rules?” he asked, kneeling on one corner of the mat.
You slid off the bed and knelt across from him. “Right hand red, left foot blue, don’t fall on your face.”
“Exactly.” He spun. “Right foot… green.”
You both placed your right feet on one of the green circles. You were close enough to see the tiny gold chain around his neck catch the lamplight.
Spin. “Left hand… yellow.”
You reached across your body, palm flat on a yellow dot. Michael did the same, except his arm stretched out in front of him, long and lean. You were already twisted.
Spin. “Right hand… blue.”
You groaned, shifting your weight, your right hand landing on a blue circle near his left knee. Your faces were closer now. You could see the faint trace of a smile on his lips.
“This is fine,” you whispered. “I’m fine.”
He laughed quietly. “You’re about to fall.”
“Am not.”
Spin. “Left foot… red.”
You had to lift your left leg and swing it over your right, planting it on a red dot that was almost behind you. Your balance wobbled. Your arm brushed against his shoulder.
“See?” he murmured. “Falling.”
“Shut up and spin again.”
He reached out—slowly, carefully—and spun the little arrow. “Right hand… green.”
The only green circle left was directly behind his back. Which meant you’d have to reach around him. You hesitated.
“You can quit,” he said softly, those big brown eyes watching your face.
“I don’t quit.”
You took a breath and leaned forward, sliding your right arm behind his waist, your hand landing flat on the green dot. Your chest was nearly against his. Your face was inches from his neck. You could feel the warmth coming off him, smell that cologne again, see the tiny curl at the nape of his hair.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“Spin,” you whispered.
He spun the spinner without looking at it. “Left hand… blue.”
The only blue circle left was the one under your own body.
You tried to lift your left arm, shift your weight, but your leg was already shaking. Your arm was still wrapped around him. Your face was so close you could count his eyelashes.
“Michael…”
“You’ve got it,” he said quietly, but his voice had gone husky.
You reached. Stretched. And then—
Thud.
The mat squeaked. Your elbow slipped. Your whole body collapsed sideways, and you landed right on top of him, your head knocking gently against his chest, his arms coming up instinctively to catch you. You both went down in a heap of tangled limbs and laughter.
“Ow—” you gasped, laughing so hard your eyes watered. “Oh my God—”
Michael was laughing too, that wonderful, breathy, boyish laugh, his chest shaking beneath your cheek. His arms were still around you, loose but warm. “I told you,” he wheezed. “I told you you were gonna fall.”
“That doesn’t count—that spinner was rigged—”
“Rigged?” He was grinning so wide his eyes crinkled. “You just can’t admit you lost.”
You pushed yourself up on your hands, hovering over him for just a second. His face was right there. Flushed. Happy. His curls spread out on the mat like a dark halo. His eyes were soft, looking up at you like you were something precious.
The laughter faded into something quieter. Something heavier.
Neither of you spoke.
And then—footsteps. Heavy, shuffling footsteps in the hallway.
You both froze.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Mike?” A muffled voice. Jackie. “You alright in there? Sounded like somebody fell.”
Michael’s eyes went wide. You scrambled off him, sitting back on your heels, heart hammering. Michael sat up slowly, running a hand through his messy hair.
“Yeah!” he called out, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just—dropped something.”
There was a pause. Then Jackie’s voice came again, lower this time, thick with knowing amusement. “Right. ‘Dropped something.’” Another pause. “You know it’s almost one in the mornin’, don’t you?”
Michael shot you a look—half embarrassed, half amused. “We lost track of time.”
“Uh-huh.” You could practically hear Jackie grinning through the door. “Well, try to keep the ‘dropping’ to a minimum, alright? Some of us gotta record in the morning.”
“Jackie.”
“Goodnight, Mike. Goodnight, Mike’s friend.”
The footsteps retreated, fading down the hallway. You sat there, frozen, your face burning so hot you were sure you’d catch fire. Michael dropped his forehead into his palm and let out a long, slow breath.
“Well,” he said quietly, peeking at you through his fingers. “Now they know.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”
He laughed softly, reaching over to touch your wrist. Just a light brush of his fingertips. “Hey. It’s okay. He won’t say anything.”
You lowered your hands, looking at him. His face was still flushed, but his eyes were kind. Gentle. Not teasing anymore. Just… there.
“I should probably go home,” you whispered.
Michael’s expression shifted. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “Now? It’s late.”
“I know, but…” You glanced toward the door. “If I stay any longer, your whole family’s gonna come knocking. And I don’t… I don’t want them asking questions.”
He understood. You could see it in his face. The Jackson house was a revolving door of people, but that didn’t mean privacy came easy. If you stayed the night—even just on the couch—there would be whispers. Looks.
Michael nodded slowly, pushing himself to his feet. He offered you his hand, and you took it. His palm was warm, his fingers long and slender. He pulled you up gently, like you were made of glass.
“Let me come with you,” he said.
“No.” You shook your head. “Then you’d have to walk back alone. That’s twice the risk.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. His jaw tightened. “I don’t like you going home this late by yourself.”
“I’ll call you,” you said softly. “The second I walk through my front door. I promise.”
He held your gaze for a long moment. Then he sighed, shoulders dropping. “Okay.”
You walked to the door together, and he opened it slowly, peeking out into the dark hallway. Clear. He led you down the stairs, past the silent living room, past the kitchen where a single nightlight glowed over the stove. The front door loomed ahead.
He unlocked it for you, pulling it open just a crack. The cool night air slipped in, carrying the distant sound of crickets.
You turned to face him. He was standing in the shadows of the foyer, one hand still on the doorknob, the other hanging at his side. The soft light from the kitchen caught the side of his face, illuminating the curve of his cheek, the shine of his eyes.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For today. For… all of it.”
He smiled. Small. Real. “Thank you for not running away when you saw Bubbles.”
You laughed quietly. “I almost did.”
“I know.” His voice was barely a breath. “That’s why I like you.”
Your heart stopped. Then started again, twice as fast.
You stood there for a second, neither of you moving. The air between you felt electric, fragile, like one wrong word would shatter it.
And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward, rose up on your toes, and pressed a soft, quick kiss to his cheek.
His skin was warm. Smooth. He smelled like heaven.
You pulled back, cheeks flaming. “Goodnight, Michael.”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. His hand lifted slowly to his own cheek, touching the spot your lips had been. His eyes were wide, dark, unreadable.
Then he stepped forward.
He didn’t kiss your lips. Instead, he leaned down—just a little, just enough—and brushed his mouth against your forehead. A feather. A whisper. His lips lingered there for one long, perfect second.
“Goodnight,” he murmured against your skin.
When he pulled back, his eyes were soft. Shy. Like he couldn’t quite believe he’d done it.
You wanted to stay. God, you wanted to stay.
But you opened the door instead, slipping out into the cool night. You walked down the front path, your legs feeling like jelly, your heart a hummingbird in your chest.
When you reached the gate, you looked back.
Michael was still standing in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, watching you go. The porch light cast a golden glow around him, turning his silhouette into something beautiful and untouchable.
He raised his hand. A small wave. You waved back.
And then you turned the corner, and he was gone.
Twenty minutes later, your door clicked shut behind you. You leaned against it, heading over to your phone already and dialed the number you’d memorized weeks ago.
He picked up on the first ring. “You’re home,” he said. Not a question.
“I’m home,” you whispered, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
There was a pause. Then, so soft you almost missed it:
seems like michael is interested you, but why a toy store?
i never thought i would end up writing something like this but michael has been on my mind non-stop so why the hell not it was a fun idea and it was fun to write!
cw : nothing too serious ! fluff, RPF, tooth rotting sweetness light slow burn and this is not proof read LMFAO thriller era mike, reader is a bit stubborn
part 1. part 2.
The toy store was loud in the way only toy stores on a weekday afternoon could be, squealing wheels on linoleum, a demo radio somewhere in the back playing something tinny, a toddler three aisles over making his feelings known to the entire building. You navigated through it all with the focused energy of someone on a mission, list in hand, your little brother’s very specific instructions replaying in your head like a voice memo you unfortunately could not delete.
The red race car. The one with the yellow stripe. Not the orange one, not the blue one, the red one with the yellow stripe, and if you get the wrong one I’m not speaking to you.
He was seven. The threat was empty. You were getting the right one anyway.
You found the aisle, crouched down to the lower shelf where the die-cast vehicles lived, and scanned methodically. Blue. Blue. Orange. A green one that looked promising but wasn’t. And then — there. Red body, yellow stripe down the side, exactly as described. You reached for it.
Another hand got there at the same time.
You looked up.
He was tall. Dressed plainly enough, dark trousers, a simple jacket, unremarkable except for the wide-brimmed fedora pulled low and the sunglasses sitting on his face indoors, which you clocked immediately as the symbol of I believe I am someone important. He had a stillness about him, something gentle in the way he held himself, but he was also very clearly holding your brother’s race car.
“Oh,” he said. Soft voice. Genuinely surprised, like he hadn’t anticipated anyone else existing in this aisle.
“Yeah,” you said. “Oh.”
Neither of you moved.
He seemed to be waiting for something — maybe for you to step back, defer, let the moment resolve itself in his favor the way moments perhaps usually did for him. You tilted your head instead. He had good cheekbones, you noticed distantly. Didn’t change anything.
“My brother asked for this one,” you said, pleasantly, in the tone that meant this is a courtesy statement, not a negotiation.
“I was going to—” He stopped himself. Glanced briefly to his left.
A few steps behind him stood a large, broad-shouldered older man with watchful energy of someone who had stood behind this particular person through a great many situations. He had his arms loosely crossed and was studying a display of toy trucks with very deliberate interest.
The man in the hat looked back at you. Then, unhurriedly, he released the car.
You smiled at him — full, bright, just the slightest edge of triumph in it. “Thank you so much,” you said, already straightening up, already turning. “Very generous of you.”
You didn’t look back. You were almost to the end of the aisle when you heard, just barely beneath the store noise, the older man’s low voice: “She didn’t even blink.” And then something that sounded very much like a quiet, delighted laugh.
You were on your way to the checkout when you heard it — a hushed, rapid exchange near the front display.
“Did you see her?” The soft voice, quieter now, aimed at the older man.
“I saw.”
“She didn’t — she had no idea who I—”
“I know, Mike.”
A pause. “I want to talk to her again.”
The older man — Bill, Michael had called him once or twice quietly during the exchange, you’d caught it, made a sound that was half agreement, half something else. Amusement, maybe. The careful kind, from someone who knew better than to make it obvious.
You were already at the register. You didn’t think much of it.
He came back the following Tuesday. You weren’t there.
He came back Thursday.
You weren’t there either, but the woman at the register, who had worked the afternoon shift for years and had seen many things, noted the tall young man in the hat who walked one slow loop of the store and left without buying anything.
He came back the Tuesday after that.
You were there.
You were in the same aisle — not by any design, just because your neighbor had asked you to pick up a specific set of building blocks for her nephew’s birthday and the blocks were adjacent to the vehicles display and you’d paused to look at something on the lower shelf. You were crouched again, in the same spot, which in retrospect was a detail that would make you laugh later.
A tap on your shoulder. Light. Almost tentative.
You stood and turned.
The hat. The jacket. The sunglasses. The same man, and this time there was something different in his posture — a careful kind of hope, chin slightly ducked, like he’d decided to do this and was now fully committed but also fully aware it could go sideways.
“You,” you said.
“Me,” he agreed. The corner of his mouth moved upward, just slightly. “Do you remember me?”
You made a show of considering it. Looked at the hat. The sunglasses. Let your gaze drift to the lower shelf where the cars were.
“Hat,” you said. “Sunglasses indoors. Tried to take my brother’s toy.” You looked back at him. “The one who thought about arguing and then thought better of it.”
He laughed — a real one, open and a little breathless, tilting his head back with it — and from a few feet behind him, Bill pressed his lips together and looked very pointedly at a shelf of action figures.
“I wasn’t going to argue,” the man said, recovering.
“You had the face of someone considering it.”
He blinked innocently. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You do,” you said, amused despite yourself, “but that’s okay.” He was still smiling. It was a good smile — soft, a little shy around the edges, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the fact that it was there. He extended his hand.
“I’m Michael.”
You shook it and told him your name. He said it back to himself quietly, deliberate, like he was making sure he had it right.
“So,” you said, shifting the building blocks under your arm. “You came back.”
He didn’t try to dress it up. “I wanted to see you again.”
Something about the directness of it caught you off guard — not aggressive, nothing like that, just simple and honest. You looked at him for a moment. He looked back, patient, waiting.
“Well,” you said, “you found me in the same aisle. That’s either fate or a concerning pattern.”
“I’m hoping fate.”
“I’m keeping my options open,” you told him pleasantly, and his smile widened.
You walked the aisle slowly, no real destination, and he fell into step beside you with the ease of someone who had been waiting for exactly this. He asked about your brother, the one the car was for — and you told him about the specificity of seven-year-old demands, the yellow stripe, the thirty-minute lecture you’d received about the difference between red-red and orange-red. He listened with full attention, genuinely charmed by it, asking small questions at the right moments. He was quiet in the way that felt considered rather than absent. Careful with what he said.
“You’re not what I expected,” you said at some point, not meaning to say it out loud.
He tilted his head. “What did you expect?”
“Someone who argues about toys.” He laughed again, softer this time. “I almost did.”
“I know,” you said. “I appreciated the restraint.” Bill, trailing at a respectful distance, was finding the educational games section deeply fascinating.
You’d been talking for a few minutes, easy and unguarded, when you stopped in front of a display and turned to him properly.
“Okay,” you said, “I have to ask. The hat, the glasses — are you hiding from someone or do you just really commit to a look?” He paused. Something shifted, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, might have been mild anxiety, might have been both.
“Little bit of both,” he said, carefully.
You studied him. He was still, watching you. And that’s when you actually looked — past the low brim and the tinted lenses, at the line of his jaw, the particular architecture of his face, the way his mouth was set.
Something tugged at the back of your mind. You frowned, not unkindly.
“Michael,” you said slowly.
“Yeah?”
“That’s funny. There’s a singer.” You tilted your head. “Michael Jackson. You kind of — your face is—” You stopped.
He went very, very still.
You looked at him. He looked back at you with the careful patience of someone who had been in this exact position and knew better than to rush it. “You kind of look exactly like him,” you finished, quieter now.
He said nothing.
Your eyes moved to the sunglasses. Back to the jaw. The cheekbones. The soft mouth. The hat, which now that you were thinking about it was a very particular kind of hat.
“Michael,” you said, differently this time.
“…Yes?”
“Michael Jackson.”
A beat. “Yes,” he said, gently.
You stared at him. He let you. You opened your mouth and closed it again. You were not — this was important — you were not the kind of person who lost composure. You were composed. You were always composed. You had been raised to be composed.
“In a toy store,” you said. The words came out very flat.
“I like toys,” he said, with complete and simple sincerity.
“You’re Michael Jackson and you’re in a toy store on a Tuesday afternoon—”
“It’s a good store—”
“With a hat,” you continued, gesturing at the fedora, “as a disguise—”
“It works more often than you’d think,” he offered.
You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth. The laugh came anyway — you couldn’t help it, it climbed up through your chest and out of you, and for a moment you were just standing in the building blocks aisle laughing with your hand over your face while Michael Jackson stood in front of you looking quietly, helplessly delighted.
From somewhere behind a display of board games, Bill made a sound that was technically a cough. It was not a cough.
“You didn’t say anything,” you said, when you had recovered some portion of your dignity. “When I — the first time, with the toy—”
“You didn’t recognize me,” he said, and there was that warmth again, that almost-relief in it. “It was nice. It’s been a while since someone just…” He searched for the word. “Didn’t.”
You looked at him. Took in the careful honesty of it, the way he meant it without performance.
“How long have you been coming back here?” you asked, though you suspected you knew.
He glanced, very briefly, at Bill. “A few times,” Michael said.
“A few.”
“A few,” he confirmed, and he had the grace to look slightly sheepish about it, ducking his chin in a way that was, against your better judgment, completely endearing.
You were quiet for a moment. He waited, unhurried, watching you with those dark eyes that were soft and steady and hadn’t looked anywhere else since you’d turned around.
“For the record,” you said finally, “the hat is not a disguise. You look exactly like yourself.”
He laughed — bright and real, head tilting back again. “You’re the first person to say that.”
“I’m not going to apologize for having eyes.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he said, and he was still smiling, that careful soft smile, and the afternoon light was coming through the storefront windows and catching the brim of his very insufficient hat, and your building blocks were getting heavy under your arm.
“Well, Michael Jackson,” you said, adjusting your grip on them, “you went to a lot of trouble to stand in a toy aisle again.”
“It was worth it,” he said simply.
You looked at him for one more moment. Then you nodded, once, acknowledging something unspoken, and started toward the register.
“You should pick better disguises,” you called back.
Behind you, you heard him laugh again, quiet and warm.
Review ・・ Michael has a crush on his next door neighbor.
⠀ Sound Check・・ Deep thanks to my pookies @confetti-cakemix and @vampgothicz for enabling me to write this! I said I would never write a rpf but the Michael movie has been on my mind and his music is currently being injected into my brain.
⠀ Credits・・ General audience! Fluff. Light teasing. First kiss. Post Off the wall/ Pre thriller! MJ Era. not proof read , I am free. wc. 3k
Disclaimer ‼ I’m basing this on Jafaar's performance of Michael. That means his personality is taken straight from the movies portrayal! This is all purely fictional. Thank You .ᐟ
It wasn't often that Michael had people over to his house. Sure, he had Managers and musicians come and go. The mailman and other various company movers ride through, but he doesn't ever remember a time when somebody so normal, someone whose main task wasn't to appeal to the Jacksons, came through here.
Michael didn't have friends, not human at least. He had Bubbles, Louie, Muscles— but none of them was a girl— a human girl— who was currently sitting in the stables of Louie's pen. Waiting for Michael to introduce another one of his exotic friends.
You waited patiently, eyes filled with sparkle, cheeks blooming with warmth. You came over, your first time, usually only conversing through the cracks of the walls or by mail due to the massive amounts of fans outside of his gates.
It happened by coincidence, a mistake that turned into a blessing of sorts.
You had packages delivered to his front door, a mishap by the mailman, but you didn't seem to mind it too much. You simply found the perfect opportunity to catch him while he was leaving from his recording studio, calling for someone to answer because you've been trying to get past the gates all week.
He heard, remembering that Latoya had mentioned that there were a few packages that weren't meant for the Jacksons a few days ago and he followed the tune of your shouts.
After another helpless call, he answered.
"I think we have your packages," he said, your voice immediately stopping.
He heard silence for a while, the breeze brushing through the trees. "Um, Hello?" He said. The sun was slowly making its way down to introduce the night. He was getting cold, and he had a meeting to get to in the morning.
He thought you left, but you spoke up.
"Y-Yes! I'm sorry, I've been doing this every day, I thought I started to hear things!"
He chuckled lowly, finding it all amusing. "Sorry, the front gates are always guarded, but I can have someone deliver it to you tomorrow."
"Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you!"
It wasn't the last time he got your packages, occasionally getting them every few weeks. But it was all cleared when he had the mailman return them.
"Do you really read through all of this mail?" Latoya gasped, opening a red envelope with decorated hearts. "There are so many, it'll be next year by the time you finish."
"I don't mind, it makes me feel important to people when they take the time to write to me."
He picked up a white envelope, his eyes immediately drawn to the last name.
He's seen that name before, on the wrong packages often delivered to his front step.
He opened it, turning away from Latoya who was still in awe of the thousands of letters scattered around on his floor.
He finally got your name— a pretty name at that. Handwriting that was cursive and bubbly, penmanship you don't see often decorated the paper.
You thanked him. A few sentences written about how grateful you were that even with the mishap, he didn't mind sending the packages back. You also mentioned how you were amazed at the fact that you could see a giraffe from your bedroom window sometimes, a sight you don't see often but felt delighted by it.
"I would love to see one up close the same way you do. But maybe when I'm much older and can travel the world on my own, perhaps I will. Thank you once again!"
And that was it.
He probably read the letter ten times before he realized that for the first time, you didn't want to see him as everybody else did— hoping they could get something out of him like a picture or an autograph— but you didn't mention any of it. You simply stated that you wanted to see his animals.
Not him.
His animals.
And that is what started his deep infatuation with you.
He wrote a letter back in the dead of night. The Pen scratching off certain words, frustration hitting through him, and then he was crumpling the paper once more, a fresh sheet already settled under his hand. It's been an hour, the fifth paper so far, and he tried his best to make sure the letter was perfect. It's easier sending a fax to businessmen about his ideas and new musical ideas regarding his career and the next album of his life, but sending a letter to somebody so… regular felt like the hardest thing in the world.
And sending it out was even harder.
But it happened.
And he kicked himself for it.
When he got his fan mail in two large bags, the only thing he wanted to read was yours.
The dial rings once before the line is picked up, the receiver immediately placed against his ear. You greet him first, voice trembling. “Oh! H-Hello? Im S-Sorry, is this the Jackson’s residence?”
“Depends." Michael was lying on his back, the cord stretching from his night stand. “Missing a package again?”
"Michael? Oh goodness, I thought I got the wrong number. I thought that, maybe you were pranking me or something—"
That was a few days ago.
"Why would I give you a fake number?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
There's some hidden underlying fact in your words, like this wasn't the first time you've gotten somebodies number and it was fake. But Michael wasn't like that. He was kind and genuine— he liked having someone to talk to, even if they were animals sometimes.
"No, this is real. My own personal number."
"O-Oh, I see."
It went quiet on the other line.
"I hope I'm not bothering you, I know it's late but you said if I needed anybody to talk to you… you were always free—"
"Did I say that?" He sounded dead serious.
"Huh? I think so? Wait— I'm pretty sure?" You gasped in distraught. "Oh my gosh, did I read that wrong? I'm so sorry, I-I thought the letter —"
Michael laughed behind the line. "I'm joking with you."
“Hey! Come on, don’t be a tease!" you whined.
He found comfort like this, something he only truly found in his family centric circle— besides Joe.
"So, what's the matter?"
He heard you shuffling, the line going quiet.
"I um…needed to hear someone other then my parents… I guess?"
Michael sat up, the tension hardening. "What's wrong with your parents?"
"They think it's okay to control your life," you sighed. "I understand, respect your parents, blah, blah, blah— but I have dreams too you know? I wanna be an actor! Or maybe a journalist? I'm not sure yet, but I'm working it out."
He could relate to that. All of his life has been controlled by Joe. Singing, dancing, shows, music— all of it. His last album was probably the first time he's felt free and the thought of making another one gave him hope but that heavy presence has never left.
"I get it. I have issues with my parents too."
The connection sparkled.
You both talked for hours afterwards, bubbles sleeping besides him, curled up against his side. You talked about more of your dreams, thoughts you had of the world and he listened.
Eventually it turned into him listing off exotic animals he liked and planned on inviting to his home. He was on number 47, the list already bizarre as it was.
"— and If I could own a panda, I could have free cuddly hugs every minute of the day."
"Panda… elephant… koala…" you said in anstonishment. "Gee, what are you going to say next? A snake?"
"No, I wouldn't say that."
"Thank goodness—"
"I already own a snake. His name is Muscles."
Another slew of chuckles shot through him at how silent you had gotten. "Are you surprised? I mean, do you think that's…" his laughter died, jaw setting tightly. He didn't want to say that word, he hated using that word, but he wouldn't be surprised if you used it. "—That's … not like…weird…to you?"
"Weird?" You started, voice shooting up an octave in offense.
"Y-Yeah, I mean, some people say it's weird. My brothers think so, and Joesph—"
"Oh Michael—" He thought he heard an angel on the other line. "—that's not weird at all. If anything, it makes you more interesting. Not a lot of people care about animals."
He chewed his bottom lip. "If you want— I mean, only if you want, you can say no if you want too. But… You can come over— I mean, visit. I can show you what I have so far."
"You mean that?"
"Yes. How about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is no good—" He kicked himself for asking. "— the day after is perfect though. If you still want me?"
He jumped from the bed and bubbles snorted in annoyance but went back to sleep. "Yes! yes, of course. I'll have Bill come for you."
"Who's that?"
"He's my body guard, but I trust him like a father."
"Okay."
Michael got the excited jitters, pumping his fist.
"The day after tomorrow then?" You asked.
"The day after tomorrow then," he repeated back, like he couldn't believe what he was saying.
"Goodnight Michael."
The line cut, and Michael felt like he was on cloud nine.
You came over, just as he hoped, and he immediately showed you his home. The pool, the garden, his room. Nobody was home but the maids, his brothers and father were off somewhere he didn't care to know. All that mattered was that he got the house to himself so that he could show you around without questions following.
You were amazed at his room, the collections of toys and posters he had almost made your eyes pop. You asked about his endless figurines of the Disney character Peter Pan and he gave you the simplest answer.
"He's me."
You didn't make a face in disgust, but you did ask a question.
"Can you fly too?"
He laughed at that. "I'm working on it. If we can land on the moon, it's not far off that a man could fly too."
You introduced you to Bubbles first and while you were scared to get close— holding onto his hand and shaking like an earth quake— you told him that it was very kind of him to rescue a chimpanzee. Muscles on the other hand you refused to go in the room.
He's never laughed so much in his life.
Louie made you calmer. Finding that he was cute and cuddly. And the famous giraffe you often saw outside of your window made the time spent perfect.
You had to go of course, but the late night call was filled with joy.
After that, the calls only kept coming. When he was away, far off while traveling with his brothers, he would send letters to your home in hopes that you would send back. It made him feel special in some way, knowing that somebody cared more about who he was then just the musical aspects of his character.
Whenever you felt down, expressing concern about life and your parents exhausting expectations, he would sneak you over to his house and play twisters in his room.
The maids saw you enough, but they didn't say anything.
And he was thankful for that.
But Bill, his bodyguard and trusted friend had a whole lot to say with a sharp raise of his brows and that light smirk on his face.
"She's your girlfriend now?"
Michael would dodge the question with another question. "So men can't have female friends?"
Bill didn't push for more, but he knew deep down that as long as Michael was happy, that's all that mattered.
"I wonder what he's thinking?"
You were sitting besides him, arms stretched out to pet Louie's head, a small grin adorning your face.
He's known you for a year and your friendship still felt new. Like always, you snuck over, played one of his many board games, and he talked about the stress he had over his upcoming album. So, you suggested that some fresh air could do him good.
Here you were, dangerously close, while showing one of his friends love that he so desperately wanted himself. He believed this was his chance to confess his deepest desire. He chewed the inside of his lips, formed the words in his head, and let it go.
"I think…" He took a deep breath, eyes scanning your face for your next reaction. You were petting Louie's head, comepletly enamored by him— a girl unlike anybody he's ever seen. "I…um, I think he likes you," He finally said, his breath leaving seconds after.
Your eyes slowly found his, attention drawn, your hands slowing down but still acknowledging Louie. "Really?" You questioned, lips curling into a grin. "How'd you know that?"
He gulped, suddenly put on the spot. "He told me."
"Told you?" You titled your head, cheeks puffing with your grin. "Who Louie?"
If this was anybody else, they would have laughed in his face. Called him insane, maybe delusional— in need of more time with humans and less time with animals— but you didn't do either.
You stared at him in wonder, your attention all on him.
Michael cleared his throat, "Y-Yeah, when they like someone, t-they make this small humming noise— sometimes you can tell by the ears. It's down, relaxed— he likes you. A lot." And he probably shouldn't have stumbled on his words so much, painfully obvious, but thankfully you didn't seem to catch it.
"Oh wow, you sure know a whole lot about llamas." you drew your attention back to Louie.
He could finally catch his breath.
"I should probably leave soon. Your family might be back any minute now."
He didn't want you to leave.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, Your probably a very busy man. Don't need to cut your time to spend it with me."
And that was the problem, he wanted to spend it with you.
He needed an excuse to get you to stay longer. "Wait— can I show you something?"
"Show me what?" You looked at him questionably.
"I've been working on something but I need input."
"You want my input?" You looked down in thought, "I mean, sure, but I'm not that very good at criticizing things."
"Don't worry, I don't bite."
You shoved him with your elbow lightly. "Please, I'm more scared of the snake."
"Then let's go." He stood up abruptly, dusting off his pants. "It's only a few steps away from here—"
Michael's jaw almost dropped.
You were leaning forward, placing a kiss against Louie's cheek, a goodbye filled with love. Michael wasn't often jealous, but standing here, now, watching you show affection for someone other than him filled him with jealousy beyond comprehension.
"Goodbye Louie." You petted his head once again and stood up.
Michael swallowed around a lump.
"Where is it again?" You questioned.
The studio felt warmer than before. Inches away from you once again but this time it was in his most vulnerable field.
He finished playing a few of his demos, the ones Quincy gave his stamp of approval. You listened and bobbed your head, side eyeing him at particular high ending sections of the songs with a amazement on your face.
"These were really good," you smiled, "I particularly like Starlight, although I'm a little confused on the meaning."
"It's upbeat— something to get the crowd moving."
"Sure,but—" you tapped your chin, "I feel like it's missing something."
He wrote something down on paper, a few words taken straight from your mouth.
Good but missing something
He placed his pen down, turning towards you. "The album isn't done yet, but I'm hoping it becomes the biggest album ever. Still working through some other songs, a title for the album, promotional pictures— other tedious things that you probably don't want to hear."
"I don't mind," you looked over at him. "I like when your like this— happy. You get so hyper about music, I can't help but be hypnotized."
Michael begin to sweat, his face suddenly warm. "You do?"
"We're alike, you and me. Although I'm not a Super Star like you," you laughed. "I can barely handle cleaning my room and your here mixing instruments and doing tours."
"T-That makes sense."
A knock on the door startled you both.
Bill came in, tapping his watch. "You family will be back soon, time to go."
Michael screamed internally.
"Guess I'll see you later?" You titled your head, rubbing a hand over his arm.
"I-I guess so."
You both couldn't break eye contact even if you tried.
"Can I do something real quick?" You asked, catching Michael off guard.
"Sure—"
He wasn't sure what this feeling was— if he was going through cardiac arrest or if someone was hitting him with a bat at the chest, but all he knew was that he didn't want that feeling to go away.
You leaned in, same way you did with Louie and kissed Michael's cheek. Your eyes shut close and your hands resting over his knee. You didn't pull away, even when Bill knocked on the door again. Time fell still. The moment so right that everything was swept away and replaced by your presences only.
Michael didn't know what to do with himself.
Finally, you broke away and chuckled to yourself. "See you later Mikey." You stood up and left a very flabbergasted Michael Jackson.
You opened the door, Bill greeted you and you left with a light skip in your step.
Bill came in, checking in on Michael. "You alright?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah," he shook the shock from his body, cheeks still warm. "I was going to write down a new song."
"Ohhh, Okay. Well, if you need me, I'll be out here— " before he turned, he called out. "— and Michael?"
Michael looked at him in question. "Yes?"
Bill pointed to his cheek. "You got a little something there. It's red, like a kiss—"
Michael quickly rubbed his hand over his cheek. "O-Oh okay! I gotta get to work. I'm a very busy man Bill."
Once Bill left, Michael finally left to his thoughts. He wrote something else under your critique, his face still bloomed with heat.
listening to paramore with a really cool girl in the park
joy kwon x fem!reader
wc. 1.5k
warnings / tags - reader described to have piercings but it's not specific, unnamed oc, masc!joy, physical touch, glassless!joy kwon, they listen to paramore, nothing else about reader is described
note. another one shot written in one day, i love you sm joy
you meet a really cool girl in a music shop
you saw joy kwon everyday after the day you met her. a week after sitting on the ground of the music shop she worked in, you met up with only her. everyday after your afternoon classes had let out you made a b-line straight to the music shop. desperate to listen to different kinds of tunes with her. and outside of the store, you two texted, mainly just exchanging playlists and various albums and songs. but when you weren’t talking about music, you were asking about each other. just surface level stuff for now.
all of the walks you took, by yourself to the shop, consisted of mainly the same weather. whether it was bright and sunny, or slightly cloudy with a drizzle. the weather was pleasant outside, so pleasant that you and joy had made plans to meet up in the park after her shift.
and since it was a weekday the music shop closed earlier than it did on the weekends, choosing to close at 5pm instead of its friday and saturday 9pm close.
"hey!" joy waved at you from the starry picnic blanket she was resting on. her legs were extended out but still crossed with each other, her slim arms were behind her, holding her up.
"hey," you waved back, a cheerful smile on your face.
her hair was down today, it was longer than you had expected. she had on a short sleeved, grey t-shirt and a pair of baggy, black jeans. you liked her outfit, you thought she had looked cute. one side of her hair was tucked behind her ear so you could see her ear map in full, various kinds of silvers all aligned nicely on her ear. from small cuffs on her helix to stars on her lobe, her earrings spoke for themself.
joy didn't say it, but she liked your piercings as well. it fit with your look, it fit perfectly with your face. or maybe she just liked how your face looked, she wasn’t able to make up her mind. but she knew she liked being around you. squinting her eyes to see all the details of your outfit.
as you sat down near joy, almost mimicking her pose on the picnic blanket, she extended an earbud to you. a white wired earbud that was connected to her phone.
"i thought we should listen to paramore today." joy said, she made it sound like a suggestion but you knew she was declaring it.
"is today paramore weather day?" you teased, taking the earbud from her hand and putting it in your ear, an adorably sly smile creeped up on your face.
"any weather is fit for paramore," she smirked as she made her point, looking around the park instead of at you.
"i guess you're right." you agreed with joy, giving her the win.
the white clouds passed over you as you stared into each other's eyes. not saying anything, just admiring the other. you and joy did this kind of sporadically in the week you've known each other. you two never spoke about it, you just did it. and that was it.
joy broke the eerily comfortable silence, "have you heard their debut album?"
"paramore's?" you followed up.
"yeah, all we know is falling."
"i've heard like maybe two songs off there, never listened to the whole thing though." you laughed very lightly, joy smiled at you. there was an unreadable, but endearing look in her eyes that you didn't catch.
"well i'm sure you're gonna like it, it's similar to what we listened to yesterday." she reassured you, squinting her eyes to press play on her phone.
"do you wear glasses?" you wondered outloud, a question that seemingly came out of the blue for the both of you.
"i do actually, yeah, they get annoying to wear sometimes though. i can live without them." joy responded, fiddling with one of the earrings on her lobe, the opposite ear she had her earbud in.
you nodded your head, "that's understandable."
as you two listened to the opening track, hearing the guitars and drums, and hayley william's voice all rock out together. the cohesiveness of the song had you bobbing your head along, enjoying the angsty sound the band was making.
almost forty minutes went by without you noticing, time warped whenever you listened to music. you swore by that. as the final song on the 10 song album wrapped up, you looked over to joy who was already looking at you.
you giggled at this, "so did you think about the album?"
"i should be asking you that," joy took the earbud out of her.
"i asked first," you stated, hoping that would urge her into answering.
"i thought it was good, like every time i listen to it. it's one of my top albums." she spoke, letting you know her positive opinion of the band.
"nice, i liked it too! hayley's voice is really good." you agreed with joy, “thanks for showing me the whole album.”
“anytime.” joy’s lips upturned, that same endearing look returned to her eyes.
as you unconsciously moved your hand closer to her phone, she reached for her phone at the same time. your hands brushed up against each other’s as she grabbed her phone, and you stared at each other. and since the music ended, that all too familiar scarily comfortable silence that fell over you two.
as joy's black, glossy eyes studied yours, your eyes gazed at hers.
your hands laid comfortably on top of each other, you could feel your heart beating faster. yet your breathing stayed calm, a warm sensation hit your body like a blanket laid on you. the sun was out, which explained the heat hitting you. or at least that was the reasoning you used to convince yourself that you weren't warm from her bony hand resting on yours.
"you wanna listen to riot?" joy broke the silence, her black painted nails reflecting under the sun's light.
"i'd love that." you bit your lip, failing to hold your smile.
and as almost another hour of music passed by, so did the clouds. but they were now turning grey.
you felt something wet on your forehead, you looked up and felt that same thing again.
"shit," joy said, about to get up from her position of laying on the picnic blanket as she felt the rain too.
"i have an umbrella in my backpack," you let know her as the rain started to pick up.
as you zipped open your backpack, settling for sitting on the grass as joy wrapped up the picnic blanket and put it in her black, crossbody messenger bag. you grabbed your umbrella, opening it.
joy stood close to you, your arms touching. she looked at you, with a sweet, fondness in her eyes, before she wrapped her arm around your waist.
"there's a nice cafe nearby if you don't wanna go home, my friend works there so i can get us a discount." her casualness infatuated you, your mouth was slightly open as you leered at her. your mind didn't know how to react to the arm wrapped around your waist, but your body leaned into it.
"yeah, that sounds cool.." you were so nervously happy you weren't even sure how you should've responded. your voice trailed off as she guided you in the direction of the cafe.
you two walked together, you held a tight grip on the umbrella until you finally arrived.
she introduced you to her friend, they seemed like a kind person. and since this cafe seemed to be a small business like the music shop joy worked at, they were dressed causal. not in an uniform but still wore an apron. their face and ears were decked out in a mix of silver and gold jewelry, not many people could pull that off. but they managed to do so with flying colors.
your umbrella was closed, but joy’s hand was still on your waist. you tried your best to hide your dopey smile as she ordered for the two of you. she asked for your usual drink order, and she just ordered an iced cappuccino for yourself.
you two sat down near the big window the small cafe had. the sky was now a dark grey, the water was painting the light grey sidewalk a weird-brownish grey color. the rain hitting the pavement, trees, and grass heavily.
the pitter-patter of the rain soothed you as joy sat across from you. pulling out her phone that her earbuds were still connected to.
"wanna listen to their self-titled album?" she asked, a pleasant smile on her face as she extended her hand to yours. an earbud in her hand.
"yeah," you returned her sweet smile, not even realizing you had that same adoring look in your eyes that she had.
you couldn’t help the way your stomach flipped as you both stared at each other while listening to ‘still into you’, an unreadable expression on both of your faces. the tension was eating you alive, you opted into bouncing your leg as joy looked at you.
and time passed once again as you two finished up paramore's self-titled album, both softly nodding your heads along as you listened intently.
time always seemed to go by fast whenever you were spending it with joy kwon.
Pairing: Baran Al-Hashimi x fem!reader
Summary: You grew up with a lot of silly southern saying and you were going to get the serious Dr. Al-Hashimi to laugh.
WC: 3.7k
Tags/Warnings: Southern!Reader, Attending!Reader, Southern Idioms, Serious!Baran, fluffy, flirting, ambiguously post-season 2, Robby is alive and on his sabbatical, no one is dead or dying (fingers crossed lmao)
A/N: I have fallen in love with Baran Al-Hashimi. She has bewitched me. I want to flirt with her so bad. Also this was written so quickly and has not been proofread, so it's quality is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ but I needed something not depressing after 2.11
-- -- --
Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. And you had been around the block a few times. You had been off when she started on the Fourth, but you had heard she was serious and, perhaps, too professional. You knew her type from a mile away.
“Baran Al-Hashimi,” she said shaking your hand. “You can call me Baran.”
“You can call me whatever you want, just don’t call me late for dinner,” you replied with a lazily smile on your face. You knew your accent was your best asset and worst enemy. But it was hard to drop the southern idioms no matter how far from home you’d ended up.
“I’d prefer your name,” Dr. Al-Hashimi said. Her voice was light but there was an unwillingness to joke in her affect. You suspected it was due to a combination of her position, newness, and her personality. Regardless, you looked forward to seeing her reaction to each of your bizarre sayings you’d adopted over the years.
Still, you gave her your name and a bright smile. Based on her expression, you suspected she thought you might be the dumbest brick outta the bunch—not uncommon with your heavy southern accent. It used to grate on you, the assumptions people made. During medical school and most of residency, you’d dropped your accent.
It wasn’t until you treated a patient who had been put at ease when your accent slipped out that you realized it was just as much of an asset as anything else. It took a while, but eventually you came to terms with your roots and how they served you. The south raised you. You mourned her and venerated her; you carried her with you in all the weird idioms you’d adapted from your grandmother.
So it was unsurprising that people in the Northeast were hesitant around you at first, especially those with names like Al-Hashimi.
“Do you mind if I shadow a couple of your cases to get a feel for how you work?” Baran asked you.
“Please. I’m lookin’ forward to having you on board. Your resume was impressive. Not to mention, I’m happy to have another woman as an attending. Gettin’ a bit too testosterone heavy,” you told her. A corner of her lip quirked and you felt a thrill of victory. You could get this serious woman to laugh at something you said.
“I also found your history interesting,” she told you. “Residency in a Houston level one trauma center and a fellowship in disaster and wilderness medicine. Why did you end up in Pittsburgh?”
Your lazily smile tightened a bit. “Age old tale, followed a man and then realized I did not actually like men.”
“Ah,” she said. There was a look on her face you could not quite decipher.
“I think I always assumed I’d end up back in the middle of nowhere workin’ on farmers and rural folk. But God works in mysterious ways. Not to mention, I get plenty of use out of those fellowships—I am part of a FEMA response team for disasters.”
“Dr. Underwood mentioned you’re the MCI coordinator for the ER,” she said.
“Yes ma’am. Though, Dr. Abbot also assists quite often. He’s an odd duck, But he’s got plenty-a sense.”
“So it appears,” Baran replied.
“Anyways, best get a move on. I’ve been slower than molasses in the wintertime. Eventually Dana will be on my ass,” you told her.
“Of course.”
Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi followed you through your first handful of patients for the day. She rarely commented or jumped in, instead opting to watch you interact with patients and make decisions. You had a disarming effect with difficult patients—it’s why Dana often saved them for you. Today was no different.
“Got a character for you in North 5,” Dana said as you finished discharging your stomach flu patient.
“Oooh, fun. What flavor, Miss Dana?” You asked.
“She’s a bitch,” Dana said flatly. You grinned.
“Think I’ll make it better or worse?”
“Dunno, but Jesse’s the nurse,” she told you.
You snorted. “That poor man hates me.”
“And why is that?”
“He dislikes my shenanigans and sayin’s.”
“Talk normally,” Jesse grumbled walking up behind you.
“Ya know, Jesse, opinions are like assholes—everyone’s got one!” You called after him. He flipped you off making you snicker.
“You enjoy bothering him,” Dana said shaking her head.
“Immensely.”
“Do you think that’s appropriate?” Baran asked. You didn’t think she was making a statement, instead, you thought she was genuinely asking.
“It’s all in good fun. Jesse and I work well together even if he rolls his eyes so much I’m on ophthalmology’s ‘Most Wanted’ list.”
Once again, you caught a small quirk on her lips. It was one step closer to an actual laugh. Al-Hashimi had sharp features and carmel colored hair with insanely defined curls. Curls that must take hours to upkeep. Her upright posture and squared stance all suggested that she was no nonsense and unwilling to compromise. And yet, you had also heard through the grapevine about how she and Dana manipulated some readings on an incarcerated patient and how she had wanted to call an attorney for the ICE detainee. You suspected she was not as square as she seemed.
“I’ll go have a looksie at North 5, and let you know,” you said to both women. To Baran you asked, “You are you still planning on shadowin’ me? Happy to have ya along.”
“Sure. I would like to see how you work with difficult patients,” she replied.
Walking into the room with Baran in tow, you immediately felt the shift in energy. The woman angrily waiting on the bed felt poised to attack the next person she spoke to. Despite being in clear pain, she seemed irate and venomous. Instead of letting her get the first word in, you said,
“Hiya, Miss Jenkins. Apologies for the wait, this heat makes the city crazier than a cat being baptized. I cannot thank you enough for your patience. Now, I know that you’ve explained yourself a million times over, but if you could do me a favor and do so one more time. I want to make sure I don’t lose nothin’ in a game of medical telephone. You deserve the best care we can offer ya.”
From behind you Baran watch silently, as the woman who seemed ready to spit and fight, wilted back into the bed and meekly began to explain her symptoms. It wasn’t something Baran herself could pull off, but you had such a strange way with words she couldn’t help but watch impressed as you de-escalated the tense woman.
“Dr. Al-Hashimi, we need you in Trauma One,” Joy announced.
“You go along,” you said. “Miss Jenkins and I are right as rain.”
“Thank you. Excuse me,” Baran said, taking her leave of the room.
You were an interesting character; one she wasn’t sure she had a clear read on yet.
-- -- --
For the rest of the summer, Baran worked with you seamlessly. For all the ribbing and joking you doled out on the others, you seemed to reserve a special kindness for her. She was not spared from your jokes and banter, but it was far softer than other who were more familiar with your antics. More than that, you seemed to be trying to make her laugh.
It took her awhile to figure out that’s what you were doing, but more often than not when you lobbed out a one-liner, you glanced in her direction to see what she did. If she let her composure slip, you built on the joke later. It was interesting. You never repeated anything but instead added to references and call-backs. Sometimes Baran felt like she was sitting at her own personal comedy show.
On a rainy September Tuesday, that indidcated Robby would be back in a few short weeks, Baran found herself up to her eyeballs in paperwork. Despite the morning hour, it was dark outside and thunder rumbled in the distance. The moral in the Pitt was low. The waiting room was overflowing, despite assurances from the C-suite, none of her ideas had even been entertained and without Robby to scapegoat, the blame was falling on her. It was a bad day mirrored by the bad weather.
“—Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, Miss Dana,” you grumbled.
“What does that even mean?” Trinity asked.
Baran had a hard time with Trinity. She was clearly a ferocious advocate for her patients but lacked some of the social niceties that had been bullied into Baran at a young age. Still, you seemed to connect with her in a way few people did. Under your tutelage, she watched at Trinity eased and relaxed, slowly coming to the realization that her coworkers were not her enemy.
“It means, that I hope it works out and nothing else goes awry,” you said. “A real roundabout way to say “hopefully”.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just say ‘hopefully’?”
“Sure, but I’m trying to confuse the universe into being kind to us. I can’t jinx us if no one understands what I’m sayin’.”
“No one does understand what you’re saying,” Dana commented.
You laughed. “Ain’t my fault y’all’s porch lights are on but no one’s home.”
“Oh my god,” Trinity moaned.
You snickered and Baran caught herself letting out a snort. Immediately, you zeroed in on her and exclaimed,
“I made Dr. Al-Hashimi laugh!”
“It was not a laugh,” Baran said quickly, neutralizing her expression.
Dana shook her head good naturedly. “Barely counted as a laugh.”
“Doesn’t matter. I got the most serious woman in the world to crack a smile,” you grinned. “I’m happier than a possum on the fence in the moonlight.”
“What the fuck,” moaned Trinity.
“Your way with words is disarming,” Baran said.
“I’ll tell my grandmother you said so. I got it all from her.”
“You didn’t come out of the womb speaking like a Matlock tribute act?” Santos inquired.
Baran snorted at that, too.
“I have been working to get this woman to laugh for months and I cannot believe you got it in a single one liner,” you complained, nudging Trinity’s rolling chair so she slid away from the desk slightly.
“It was not a laugh,” Trinity and Baran said at the same time. They barely spared a look at each other.
“Hmm, whatever y’all say,” you hummed. “Trinity, wanna help me with a cellulitis case in south something?”
“South Twenty,” Dana said without looking up at the board.
“Magical woman,” you replied in awe.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Dana said, though even Baran could see the sanctification on her face.
“But it will communicate the love and respect I have for the all powerful charge nurse Dana Evans,” you said bowing.
“You’re so odd,” Trinity state, standing with you.
You winked at Baran as you walked off. She felt a bit of heat flare along her chest and neck—well hidden by her undershirt. Although, the way Dana peered at her over the thin readers made her wonder if perhaps she was a bit more transparent than she feared.
“She’s a flirt, you know,” Dana said.
“I’ve noticed.”
“I’ve never seen her follow through.”
“Are you trying to protect me, Dana?”
“I’m just saying that she’s real friendly and not real vulnerable.”
-- -- --
“Can we carve out some time in the next week or so to go over my MCI report?” You asked Baran towards the end of your shift. The rain had not let up since the morning and it was still gloomy outside.
“Do you have time after shift today? My son is with his father this weekend.”
“Yeah, I do. Want to just meet at that bar the next block over? I’m starving.”
“That sounds like a smart idea.”
When Baran caught up with you after shift, you were in the locker room shucking off your scrub top. You had on a sports bra underneath she caught sight of before you slid on an oversized UT Longhorns t-shirt.
“Did you do medical school at Dell?” Baran heard herself asking.
“Nah, just undergrad. Did med school at UChicago. It was a unique place.”
“Unique place?” Baran parroted.
“Let’s just say I met some great people there and also the worst people I’ve ever met in my life.”
Baran nodded and gathered her bag from her locker. The next time she looked over you were pulling on a pair of jeans. She caught sight of your legs and found them covered in tattoos. You had a handful on your arms, but not super visible. It appeared that the way you were at work was not all there was to you.
“Ready?” You asked grabbing a ratty knapsack that seemed like it was hanging by a thread.
“Yes, lead the way.”
You wove out of the Pitt with Baran in tow. Baran couldn’t help but hear Dana’s comments in her head. She hadn’t really thought about you in any romantic way. You were a flirt, sure, but it wasn’t like you had expressed any true interest in her. Not that Baran thought you were unattractive. You were not. In fact, you were beautiful. She had been hesitant at first with your accent—no matter how kind they looked, the skin color they came with, people from the south tended to have a strong reaction to people like her.
You hadn’t mentioned it other than to ask where to emphasize the accent when saying her name—not something many other people had asked. As much as you were funny and irreverent at times, you were also brilliant and clever. More than once, Baran had watched you from the other side of the nurses’ station puzzle over test results until you could put together a differential diagnosis. Your bedside manner was enviable by most. More than that, you loved teaching. You loved working with students and the different patients you encountered every day.
A month or so ago Baran had over heard Joy ask you, “How do you keep yourself from getting burnt out. You care a lot…too much it seems.”
You had snorted and said, “I have really good friends and hobbies. I have a therapist. I have a really specific post-work routine that helps me leave as much as I can here and not take it home with me.”
“What’s that?”
“I pray for my patients.”
“I didn’t know you were religious,” Joy had said.
“I’m really not. But it makes me feel better that if a higher power that exists, it’s watching over people I finished treating and those I did not finish treating. It’s out of my hands at that point. Probably won’t work for everyone, but it works for me. Also helps me convince my grandma I’m still religious so she doesn’t keep harping on about how I’m going to hell all the time.”
So as much as Baran thought she had a good read of you on the first day: lackadaisical and slightly unprofessional. She discovered that you were passionate, clever, and cared very deeply for people. It was around that time Baran started to enjoy your flirting more than she should.
More and more over the past dozen shifts, she began to look forward to the silly things you would say to her, the way you would seek her out, the not-so-subtle winks and touches. She was beginning to mourn the ending of this job, but more than that, she was beginning to mourn not seeing you each shift. So she was more than happy to throw caution to her precarious work life balance and accompany you to a pub and talk about work for a few more minutes if it meant that maybe you would flirt with her one more time.
-- -- --
“How have you liked your time at the Pitt?” you asked her after the two of you sat down in a quiet booth near the bar.
“I really wish people wouldn’t call it that,” Baran sighed.
“You can pry the name out of my cold dead hands, Doctor,” you laughed, taking a sip of your water.
“Words are important,” she protested. “And you can call me Baran.”
“Well then, Baran. Good luck with that. I don’t disagree that words have power, but it’s tongue and cheek, ya know?”
“I think it hurt moral.”
“I think you need to lighten up, just a smidge.”
“Really?”
“Yes ma’am,” you said. “Look, you and I are the main two attendings on day shift. There’s no man we need to compensate for. Have a laugh, let loose.”
“I am…loose.”
“You are absolutely not,” you chuckled.
“Just because I’m professional at work?” She shot back.
“You know my New Year’s resolution is to make you laugh,” you told her.
“I started in July,” Baran commented.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t those normally occur in January?”
“I can change my mind.”
“You’re a smooth talker.”
“Honestly, I’m really not. You’re just easy to talk to,” you said.
“Well,” Baran said with far more confidence than she felt. “So are you.”
More often than she cared to admit, Baran wondered why you flirted with her so much. She wondered why you cared about making her laugh so much. But as she watched you react to her words, it clicked. The bashful look on your face—even as quick as it was—was intoxicating. Baran found herself wanted to bottle it and save it forever.
“Now who is a smooth talker?” You asked clearing your throat. Baran couldn’t help but smirk just a little.
“Still you. But it was nice to try it on,” she replied. “I am glad you suggested we do this. Today was…a lot.”
“The rain really does make people crazy,” you told her.
“I think you described it once as a ‘cat getting baptized’, I believe?” Baran asked.
You laughed. “I sure did. That was the first day we met, too.”
“You have memorable sayings.”
“Thank ya kindly,” you laughed. “Did you hear about Whittaker’s influencer patient?”
“The one with a broken nose?”
“Hmm-mm,” you confirmed. “Her nose was so high, she would drown in the rain.”
Baran laughed quietly, not missing how your eyes lit up, and said, “My mother used to say, ‘Fekr mikone az damagh-e fil oftade.’ It roughly means they think they fell from an elephant’s nose. Persians also have a few of our own…unique phrases.”
“Are you fluent?” You asked. “I assume you might be with your employment history.”
“I am fluent in Arabic and Farsi. My family speaks Farsi but a lot of my friends spoke Arabic growing up.”
“I speak Spanish and a bit of ASL after a disastrous patient encounter during residency. Not well, but enough to communicate safely. Did you know Princess is learning Igbo?”
“Really? Why?”
“To prove she can to Ahmad. She’s scary good.”
“I’ve really enjoyed my time here,” Baran admitted. “I didn’t think I would…”
“Want to stay?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t think most of us expected that we would want you to. Clearly the board thought they could use you to push out Robby, but frankly, they’ve done such a bad job at it,” you told her shrugging. “I really don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“I feel a bit naïve, I think,” Baran admitted.
“Isn’t Dr. Underwood your friend?” You asked.
There was a pause, before Baran said, “...Yes.”
“I think it’s fair that you’re feeling blindsided. If my friend suggested an interim position with opportunities to exhibit my MCI strategies—well, I would assume it was good faith.”
“You don’t think it was?”
“No idea,” you said honestly. “Understanding the board is like trying to talk to a catfish about knees.”
Baran stared at you for a moment and then couldn’t help but snort. The snort turned into a giggle which turned into a gut-wrenching laugh. You stared a little gob smacked as she seemingly lost all composure.
“Sorry,” she giggled, wiping moisture from her eye. “Sorry. I think it all just released for me.”
“Apparently,” you replied grinning. “Good see I’ve accomplished my New Year’s Resolution, though. I thought I was going to have to follow you to wherever you ended up after this and keep pelting you with stupid one liners.”
“Very dedicated to this resolution of yours,” Baran commented, a happy smile still sitting on her face.
“I am. Especially one that concerns someone as…interesting as you.”
“Interesting?”
“I’m trying to remain professional here, Baran,” you said with a tighter smile on your face.
“And if we were not trying to remain professional? Hypothetically?”
You blinked at her, perhaps surprised at the boldness in her words. Tapping your fingers on the table you finally said,
“Hypothetically, if you were not my boss. Like you won’t be next week, for instance. I might say that I find you incredibly beautiful. And I might say, hypothetically—”
“Of course,” she whispered just loud enough for you to hear.
“—that I really want to know what it feels like to be the person to make you lose your composure. Also, you smell really nice, like all the time, and I’m jealous of that.”
The intensity of the hypothetical broken by the frankness of the compliment once again made Baran laugh. There was so much stress and darkness in her head. She was worried about her career, she was worried about her son, she was worried that her brain was never going to be screwed on straight again. But when you were sitting across from her the laughter seemed to flow more freely than it had in years. She hadn’t laughed this much in this century, she was pretty sure.
“How about this,” she said. “We spend the rest of tonight finishing the MCI updates, so it’s one less thing Dr. Robinavitch has to deal with when he gets back. And when he returns and I’m no longer your boss, you call me and maybe we can spend dinner talking about something else.”
“Could I ask you another hypothetical question then?”
“You may.”
“At this next dinner, do you think I might hypothetically be able to kiss you?”
“Hypothetically...I might be more than amenable to that.”
“Alrighty then,” you drawled, grinning at the maybe not-so serious woman in front of you.
-- -- --
(Edit 3/22): Originally I had a nickname for Dr. Al-Hashimi as Dr. Al, but thanks to this lovely anon, I have been informed that not quite right and nor would she suggest people call her Dr. Al. I’ve adjusted accordingly!
synopsis : peter parker x reader you have been feeling so ill lately that you haven’t been responding to people texts and haven’t been coming to school lately. which makes a certain boy worry and he check up on you.
wc : 827
cw: tooth rotten fluff, yearning hard, established relationship, sickfic, comfort.
It was a rainy day in Forest Hill, New York. The rain was pattering on your window as you groggily scrolling through your phone. This past week haven’t been like you at all, You been missing school, haven’t been message any of your friends, and purposely staying in your bed. You were sick, and You hated being sick it always sours your mood down, Plus. You couldn’t talk to your friends.
You felt your phone vibrated in your hand, you looked up at the notification popping up on your screen, you clicked onto to see your friend: Peter Parker, texting you for the eighth time today.
peter🕸️: hey are you doing well? you been leaving me on seen..
You stared at the message, half lidded eyes bored into the message. You didn’t even know what to say anymore, You didn’t even have the energy to text him back. Scrolling up to look at the past message was pretty normal: He asked you if you were at school today and if you wanted to hangout after school. You sighed quietly as you looked at the time on your phone
3:30 P.M
You sat up in your bed, staring out your window. School was out and you were hungry as well. Your aunt wasn’t home so you probably had to make your food in your sickly state. You slowly got out of your bed making sure you don’t trip and head your way to your kitchen.
And there he was, Peter Parker. He was looking down at his phone with one of his hand and the other was carrying what it looked like to be takeout boxes? His shaggy dark brown hair was all wet and his clothes were drenched. And then you heard his voice: “Hey uhm.. Are you in there?” You could tell he seemed quite nervous, He knocked on the door again before you dropped to your feet.
When you finally opened the door Peter was already shoving his phone back in his pocket, He looked up at you sighing with relief, All of his worries gone. He looked at you with a smile, speaking to you. “Hi.. Uhm. You haven’t been answering my texts, I was a little bit worry.. So! I decided to come here.. and see if you’re okay.” He looked at you with soft but concerned eyes before speaking again in a much more softer tone. “Could I come inside, I brought food.. I think it’s your favorite?” He sounded uncertain but still held up the takeout boxes.
You stared at him, a little shocked that he would come here. I mean, of course he would he was checking up on you. You covered your mouth with hand before shaking your head, no. You spoke up but your word came out of a muffled due to your hand placement on your mouth. “You can’t come in.. I’m sorry..” Peter looked a little confused. Why couldn’t he come inside he was drenched in rain water.. and he wanted to hangout with his partner.
“Why not?” He said, looking at you with concern before looking at you with teasing eyes “Don’t tell me you’re sick?” He said, a teasing tone slipped through his voice. You looked away from him, not admitting you are sick. Peter stood there, awaiting your response before looking at you with shocked eyes. He spoke up in a panic, “Holy shit, babe. I didn’t know you were actually sick. Is that you haven’t been to school for a week?” He said. His tone was a little more concerning.
You looked away from him with your eyes, letting your hand move away from your mouth, You felt bad for not texting him and telling him that you were sick. Suddenly, You feel Peter embracing you closely, His head leaning on your shoulder, His arms wrapped around you, his fingers holding the takeout bag. You stood there, shock. What was he doing? You were about to protest but he spoke first.
“Poor baby.. You were here.. suffering.” He coos in your ear, Your ears felt hot. You spoke up, hesitating a little bit. “What..What are you doing.. You’re going to get sick!” You protested a little bit, He was getting your clothes wet. He talked again, leaning his head up a little bit to look at you in the eyes. “Sorry.. I couldn’t help myself.” He smiled again.
You looked at him, staring into his eyes before you hug him back. Closing your eyes, You heard Peter chuckled before he whispered in your ears. “So.. Am I going to be allowed in?” You opened your eyes before letting go of the hug, you stepped out of the way, allowing him to come in.
Peter looked at you before smiling and stepping inside your apartment. You shut the door quietly, You were very happy that your boyfriend was taking care of you now.
SYNOPSIS — you give him a surprise birthday present
CONTENT — 18+ minors dni | sub!dennis, whiny!dennis, mentions of alcohol, car sex, grinding, premature ejaculation (dennis cums in his pants), basically no foreplay (reader is impatient), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie. let me know if i’ve missed anything!
WC — 7.4k
NOTE — this came to me on a whim… enjoy lol
MASTERLIST
The fluorescent lights at PTMC felt harsher at the end of a shift—like they knew how tired everyone was and decided to make it worse. You leaned back against the nurses’ station, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes for a second longer than you probably should have.
Your whole body ached with that deep, bone-level exhaustion that only came after a shift like this—too many patients, too many close calls, too much adrenaline with nowhere to go now that it was over.
Your board was finally clear. Handovers done. Notes signed. You should’ve felt relieved. Instead, you just felt… wrung out.
“Today,” Santos announced, ripping off her gloves and tossing them into the bin with unnecessary force, “was a nightmare.”
“Understatement,” Javadi muttered, already halfway into her coat, one arm jammed through the sleeve as she tried to multitask packing up her bag.
From the other side of the desk, Dennis looked like he might actually fall asleep standing up.
You nudged his arm lightly. “Hey. Don’t pass out yet.”
He gave a tired huff of a laugh. “Give me five minutes.”
Santos suddenly straightened, her whole posture shifting like a switch had been flipped. Her eyes lit up—bright, mischievous, and immediately suspicious. “Wait—hold on. We are not ending today like this.”
“That sounds ominous,” Javadi said flatly.
“It’s Dennis’ birthday.”
Dennis blinked, properly focusing for the first time in what looked like an hour. “You remembered that?”
“No, I saw it on the rota this morning,” Santos shot back instantly, completely unapologetic. “But that’s not the point. The point is—” she clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive “—we’re going out.”
You exhaled slowly, considering it. Every part of you screamed for sleep—for your bed, for silence, for not having to think anymore—but the idea of just… ending the day like this, scattered and exhausted, felt wrong somehow.
“A drink sounds…” you tilted your head, searching for the right word, “…dangerously necessary.”
Javadi gave you a look, one eyebrow raised. “Some of us would like to sleep.”
“And some of us,” you shot back, straightening slightly despite yourself, “just survived a twelve-hour shift from hell and deserve one drink.”
“One,” Javadi repeated firmly.
“Minimum,” Santos added without missing a beat.
Dennis looked between all of you, a little overwhelmed but smiling properly now. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s your birthday,” you said, pointing at him. “You don’t get a say.”
“Yeah,” Santos chimed in, folding her arms with mock authority. “This is literally the one day you’re not allowed to opt out.”
Dennis huffed out another laugh, this one more awake, shaking his head like he’d already accepted defeat.
“Alright,” he said. “Alright, fine.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” you smiled, gently shaking his shoulders.
A few minutes later, you and Santos had split up to see who else you could rally with you. Trinity had already cornered Dana and Cassie near the exit, blocking their escape with the kind of determination no one argued with at the end of a shift. You caught Robby just as he was slipping past the desk, clearly aiming to disappear before anyone could rope him into anything.
“Don’t even think about saying no,” you said, stepping into his path.
He hesitated, then sighed. “One drink.”
You tracked down Langdon next, catching him mid-conversation, then Mel and Samira by the lockers, both of them were easy enough to convince once the words ‘Dennis’ birthday’ were mentioned.
By the time you circled back, the group had grown—Perlah leaning against the wall with a reluctant sort of acceptance, Donnie already checking his phone for nearby bars, Princess was already creating bets on who could down the most shots in a minute, and Garcia well, Garcia looked like she was still deciding if she regretted being included.
Donnie glanced up from his phone, thumb still hovering over the screen. “There’s a place like ten minutes away,” he said. “Not fancy, but it’s open late and won’t care how we look.”
There was a general murmur of agreement as people started mentally committing—bags slung over shoulders, lockers shut properly now, the slow shift from hospital mode to something almost resembling real life.
You fished your keys out of your pocket, twirling them once between your fingers. “I can drive a few people, if anyone wants a lift.”
A couple of heads turned. It wasn’t a long drive, but at this hour, after a shift like that, even ten minutes felt like effort.
“I’ll take that,” Dennis said a little too quickly. Then, like he realised it, he cleared his throat and added, more casually, “If that’s okay.”
You smiled, easy, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah, of course.”
“Oh, amazing,” Santos cut in, already moving. “Shotgun.”
Dennis blinked. “Wait—”
Too late. Santos had already breezed past him, slipping the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder as she headed for the exit. “I call it,” she added over her shoulder, not even pretending this wasn’t deliberate.
Dennis opened his mouth, closed it again, then exhaled through his nose.
You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He wasn’t. He trailed just behind you as the group started filtering out of the department, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft mechanical sigh. Santos was already leaning against the passenger door of your car when you finally arrived.
You unlocked your car with a soft click of your key and Trinity instantly slipped into the passenger seat.
“Back seat, birthday boy,” she added sweetly.
Dennis paused for half a second, like he might argue. Then he briefly caught your eye and whatever protest he had seemed to dissolve.
“Yeah… Okay,” he said, quieter now.
He slid into the back seat, the door shutting with a dull thud that felt louder than it should’ve. From the front, Santos was already messing with the radio. You started the engine, glancing at Dennis in the rearview mirror for a second. “Seatbelt.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, pulling it across his chest. “Yes, doc.”
The drive itself was chaotic. Trinity had taken full control of the music within seconds, cycling through songs and offering loud, unsolicited commentary on each one. You humoured her, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against it in time with whatever she’d decided was acceptable.
Dennis, in the back, stayed quieter. Not silent—he chimed in now and then, dry comments slipping in at just the right moments—but mostly, he watched. The back of your seat, the way your hands moved on the wheel, the quick glances you made in the mirror when Santos said something particularly ridiculous. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for. But it wasn’t nothing, either.
By the time you pulled up near the bar Donnie had suggested, the street was packed—cars lined bumper to bumper, headlights cutting through the dim glow of streetlamps, groups of people spilling out onto the pavement.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” you muttered, slowing the car.
“Please tell me you see something,” Santos said, craning forward like that would magically create a space.
“I see plenty,” you replied dryly. “All of them taken.”
You circled once. Then twice. Still nothing.
Dennis leaned forward slightly between the seats, peering out. “We could just—park further out?”
“And walk?” Santos said, like the word personally offended her. “After that shift?”
You let out a small laugh, already giving up on the idea of finding anything remotely sensible. There was a narrow gap that probably counted as parking only in the loosest, most optimistic sense of the word, but it would do.
It wasn’t exactly a space, more like a suggestion of one. It was half on the curb and slightly questionable. Which meant it was definitely not legal.
“Right,” you said, easing the car in. “This is… sort of a parking space.”
Santos leaned forward to look. “That is definitely not a parking space.”
“It is tonight,” you corrected, already pulling in. The car tilted ever so slightly as the tyre bumped the curb, but it fit. Barely.
You killed the engine and turned off the headlights, already knowing it was the kind of decision that would make someone in a better mood raise an eyebrow and say something about getting a ticket. But after the day you’d all had, you were past caring.
Santos twisted in her seat to look. “Oh, that is illegal illegal.”
“It’s fine,” you said, already unbuckling. “We won’t be long.”
“That’s what people say right before they get a ticket,” Santos said, opening her door.
You shot her a look. “Are you getting out or not?”
Dennis climbed out more slowly, glancing at the car with a faintly amused look. “You just parked a bit badly.”
“Thank you,” you said. “I prefer ‘creatively.’”
Dennis lingered for half a second by the car door, glancing back at it. “You’re definitely getting a ticket.”
The three of you crossed the street together, the bar’s warm light spilling across the pavement and the faint thump of music growing louder with every step. Inside, it was all low amber lighting, crowded tables, and the buzz of people who looked like they had not just spent twelve hours at PTMC. The place felt almost unfairly relaxed compared to the fluorescent glare you’d left behind.
“Oh, thank God,” Santos said, like she’d just reached salvation. She barely made it two steps in before she made a beeline for the bar.
“Wow,” Dennis muttered, watching her disappear. “Didn’t even wait.”
You followed his gaze with a small smile. Santos was already waving at the bartender like she’d known them for years, one hand lifted, her energy somehow fully restored the second she smelled alcohol.
You snorted. “I’m surprised she didn’t start running.”
Dennis huffed a quiet laugh beside you, though he looked a little more distracted than amused. He had hoped for a little time alone with you—just enough to talk without Santos talking over both of you. Instead, he was still trying to find his footing when Princess appeared at his side like she’d timed it perfectly.
“Found you,” she said brightly.
Before either of you could answer, she held up two shots in her hands, the amber liquid catching the low light. One for him. One for you.
“I thought the two of you might be lagging,” she said, offering one of the shots to you first.
You took it with an appreciative smile. “That’s very considerate of you.”
Princess tilted her head, pleased with herself. “I know.”
Dennis accepted the other shot, still looking faintly overwhelmed. As Princess left the two of you, rejoining the noise of the bar, you glanced down at the shot in your hand, then back up at Dennis.
“Actually—” you said, holding it out toward him.
He frowned slightly. “What?”
“I’m driving,” you reminded him, gently pressing the glass into his hand. So you’re going to have to suffer through an extra one. Tragic, I know.”
“Right,” he said finally, a hint of a smile breaking through. “For safety.”
“For safety,” you echoed, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
He exhaled once, then knocked them back one after the other, quick and efficient. The burn hit almost immediately, sharp enough to make him wince slightly as he lowered the empty glasses.
“Wow,” you said, raising a brow. “Impressive.”
Dennis coughed once, shaking his head as the warmth settled in his chest. “Yeah, well—”
“Birthday boy!” Robby’s voice cut clean through the noise before he could finish. A hand landed on Dennis’s shoulder, already tugging him back toward the rest of the group. “You’re needed,” Robby added, grinning.
“I just—” Dennis started, glancing back at you.
But Robby was already pulling him away, momentum winning out before he could properly resist. Dennis twisted slightly in his grip, looking back over his shoulder. For a second, his eyes found yours and there it was again—that same quiet, almost hopeful look, like he’d been about to say something and hadn’t quite gotten the chance.
You just smiled, easy and warm, lifting your hand in a small wave.
“Go,” you mouthed.
He hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then let himself be dragged back into the crowd, the moment slipping away as quickly as it had come. You watched him go for a second longer, then turned as Mel nudged your arm.
“Help me,” she mumbled. “Santos is trying to force me into a drinking game.”
You laughed softly, and with one last glance toward where Dennis had disappeared into the crowd, you headed off to join the girls. Mel was rambling about something as she tugged you farther into the bar, the noise growing louder with every step.
The place was packed now in a way you hadn’t fully appreciated from the doorway—music pounding through the floor, glasses clinking, people shouting over one another in bright, half-drunken bursts of conversation.
Then came the whooping, loud and encouraging. Followed by whistles that cut clean through the music.
You slowed instinctively, brows drawing together as curiosity tugged at you. “What’s that?”
Mel barely looked over her shoulder, clinging onto your arm. “No idea, but it sounds stupid.”
That, naturally, only made you more interested. You craned your neck, trying to see past the crowd as another burst of cheering rose up from the back of the bar. People were gathered in a loose circle around something you still couldn’t quite make out, phones lifted, shoulders jostling, everyone shouting over each other like they’d all agreed this was the most important thing happening in the world.
Then you spotted him, Dennis, on a mechanical bull. For a split second, your brain couldn’t quite process it. He was doing absurdly well, one hand gripping it tight, the other held out for balance, his posture tense but surprisingly steady as the bull rocked and spun beneath him.
There was a look of absolute concentration on his face, jaw set, eyes fixed ahead like he was determined to prove something to the machine itself. You couldn’t help it—you laughed, a hand coming up to cover your mouth as you watched him.
“Since when can he do that?” you mumbled in shock.
“No idea,” Mel said. “But I respect it.”
Then, almost as if he could feel it, his eyes flicked up. They found yours in the crowd, and the second they did, everything changed. Dennis visibly faltered—his focus breaking, his expression shifting from determined to startled to horrified all at once. The bull lurched again beneath him, and that tiny lapse was enough.
His grip slipped, his balance went with it, and suddenly he was tipping sideways, the controlled rhythm gone as he lost the movement completely. The crowd gasped—then burst into laughter and cheers as he hit the padded floor with a dull thud.
You winced instinctively, already pushing forward a step. “Oh my God—”
Dennis lay there for a second, staring up at the ceiling like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this exact moment. Then he groaned, dragging a hand over his face as the operator shut the bull off.
Dennis huffed weakly, dragging himself up to sit properly. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, spreading slowly, betraying him completely despite the way he tried to play it off. He rubbed the back of his head, staring at you for a beat, then gave the smallest, most embarrassed shrug imaginable.
Before you could even properly register Dennis climbing back to his feet, Langdon’s voice cut through the noise beside you.
“There you are,” he said, like he’d been looking for you specifically for this exact moment.
You turned slightly, still half distracted by the aftermath of Dennis’ very undignified exit from the bull. “Unfortunately,” you replied.
Langdon snorted, following your gaze. “Right. Your turn.”You took one look at the bull, then at him, and immediately shook your head. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, already reaching for your arm, trying to steer you forward. “You can’t watch that and not try it.
“I can, actually,” you shot back, planting your feet slightly. “Very easily. In fact, I’m doing it right now.”
He laughed, undeterred. “It’s basically mandatory at this point.”
You stepped sideways to avoid him, shaking your head. “I’m going to stop you right there.”
Langdon opened his mouth again, but you were quicker. Before he could keep pushing, you caught sight of Dana nearby and, with the speed of someone trying to save themselves from public humiliation, you seized the first opening you could find
You turned on her with a bright, innocent smile. “Oh—Dana! Perfect timing.”
Dana turned sharply, immediately suspicious. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?”
She gave you a long, flat look that made it very clear she understood precisely what you were doing. Dana glanced from you to the bull, then back again, and sighed with the exhausted resignation of someone who had just realised she was being dragged into nonsense against her will.
Dana’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Oh-ho, no chance.”
You put a hand to your chest in mock innocence. “Not even for me?”
“I love you, sweetheart,” she said flatly, “but no.”
You frowned dramatically, already pivoting. “Cass—”
“Nooo,” McKay laughed, shaking her head, already stepping back like she needed physical distance from the idea.
“C’mon,” Langdon grinned, reappearing behind you and grabbing your shoulders, steering you back toward the bull again. “It’ll be fun.”
“Perlah? Samira?” you tried, twisting slightly to look around for backup as he dragged you with surprising determination. “Garcia? Anyone?”
No one stepped in and suddenly the mechanical bull felt a lot closer than you would’ve liked. You tried to dig your heels in as Langdon continued to guide you through the crowd. The circle of people parted just enough to let you through, a few amused faces already turning your way as it became very clear what was happening
You shot them all a look that said I hate all of you, though there was a reluctant smile tugging at your mouth now. You caught sight of Dennis again and he was still rubbing the back of his head, hair slightly mussed, shirt a little more rumpled than before. But the second he realised what was happening—realised you were being pushed toward the bull—his entire expression changed.
“Wait—” he called, stepping forward instinctively. You glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “Just—” he gestured vaguely toward the bull, clearly trying to gather his thoughts fast enough to be helpful. “Lean with it, not against it—don’t lock your arm, and—uh—keep your centre—”
He stopped, clearly aware he was rambling. You tilted your head, watching him for a second, then smiled—slow, teasing.
“I know how to ride,” you said, patting his chest.
The words landed with exactly the effect you’d intended. His eyes widened, just a little, and for a second he looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh, panic, or simply turn around and disappear into the crowd. The flush that rose up his neck was immediate and unmistakable.
“Right,” he said quickly, looking anywhere but directly at you now. “Right—good. That’s—good.”
Before you could second-guess yourself, someone from the crowd reached out and plopped a cowboy hat onto your head. You reached up automatically, adjusting the hat with a grin, while the crowd around you reacted with a fresh wave of cheers and whistles. Dennis looked at the hat, then at you, and for a second his expression went almost helplessly soft.
You climbed onto the mechanical bull and Dennis’ eyes followed your every move. As the machine started up and the crowd began to notice, Santos cupped her hands around her mouth, leaning forward slightly.
“Get ‘em, cowgirl!” she called out brightly.
You laughed, gripping the handle as the bull gave its first testing jolt beneath you. Dennis stayed near the edge of the crowd, his eyes fixed on you immediately, like the rest of the room had blurred into nothing more than background noise.
The bull dipped and twisted, sharper now, faster—but you stayed centred, hips shifting smoothly with the motion, your balance never quite breaking. The cowboy hat stayed firmly in place, your grip steady, your expression somewhere between focused and faintly amused, like this was less of a challenge and more of a game you were already winning.
Even the operator seemed to clock it, nudging the controls a little harder, a little faster, like they were trying to throw you off on purpose now. You leaned into it, adjusting without thinking, every movement instinctive, controlled. When the bull jerked suddenly to the side, you followed it, legs tightening just enough, your free hand dipping slightly before lifting again to steady yourself.
It was effortless. Or at least, it looked that way. And from where he stood, Dennis couldn’t look away. At first, it was just awe. Genuine, open, unfiltered awe—the kind that made his eyebrows lift slightly, a disbelieving laugh catching in his throat as he watched you somehow do better than he had.
Dennis adjusts his stance, praying that you—or anyone else—notices the effect you’re having on him. The way you moved with the bull was an intoxicating view and Dennis couldn’t help the way his breathing grew shallow.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple as his gaze focused on your hips. He watched as you moved with the rhythm of it, completely in control. His body is a mess of conflicting emotions and desires.
Dennis blinked hard, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically reset his thoughts. The noise of the bar and the cheers are a distant whisper, drowned out by the roar of his own heart. He tore his gaze away for half a second. Then, like an idiot, looked back.
Dennis couldn’t help but think that, if that's how you rode a bull, how would you ride—
“Yeah, no,” he muttered quickly, taking a step back. “Nope. Not—no.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck again, and he let out a quiet breath that was somewhere between a laugh and sheer disbelief at himself. He shook his head once, firmly, like that would fix it, already retreating a step further from the crowd.
“Get it together,” he mumbled under his breath.
He turned and made a beeline for the bar, pushing through the edge of the crowd with slightly more urgency than necessary, like distance alone might help him regain some sense of composure. By the time he reached it, he exhaled sharply, bracing his hands against the counter for a second.
“Water,” he said quickly to the bartender, closing his eyes briefly.
The noise of the room seemed to blur around him—laughter, music, the scrape of stools, the rising and falling swell of voices—but he barely registered any of it. His mind was still somewhere back by the mechanical bull, still caught on the image of you up there.
He was so deep in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice when the cheering changed. It wasn’t until a hand settled gently between his shoulder blades that he startled, jolting slightly and turning his head at once.
You were there, gently rubbing your hand up and down his back. Then you tilted your head slightly toward the door, a small, silent suggestion. He set the glass down without thinking, pushing himself off the bar as he followed you, still a half-step behind as you slipped through the crowd toward the exit.
Dennis exhaled the second he crossed the threshold, the tension in his shoulders easing almost on reflex. You stood nearby with a small, knowing smile, and Dennis glanced at you once before looking away again, still trying very hard to act like he had not just been thoroughly thrown off by your existence in the worst possible way.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Somewhere down the street, a car passed, headlights briefly sweeping across the pavement before disappearing again.
“Hey,” you frowned slightly, studying him in the dim light spilling out from the bar. “You okay?”
Dennis was already shaking his head before you’d even finished. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. He pushed his hands into his pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels. “Just needed some air. It’s—uh—it’s warm in there.”
You didn’t look convinced, keeping your gaze on him for a second longer, and reading into the tension he hadn’t quite managed to hide, the way he kept avoiding your eyes.
Your expression softened, concern creeping in around the edges.“I didn’t, like—ruin your birthday or anything, did I?”
“What?” His head snapped up. “No—no, no, not at all.”
Dennis let out a small breath, rubbing the back of his neck again, a nervous habit he clearly hadn’t even realised he was doing.
“I swear,” he added quickly. “You didn’t ruin anything. This is—” he gestured vaguely back toward the bar, the noise, the chaos, “—this is probably the best birthday I’ve had in a while.”
You searched his face, still unconvinced, and he seemed to realise that he was going to have to be more honest if he wanted you to stop worrying. Dennis shifted his weight, glancing down at the pavement, then back up, then away again.
Dennis’ ears went faintly pink as he looked like he was debating something internally. He dragged a hand down over his mouth, then let it fall again, as if he could physically buy himself a few more seconds.
“I was just,” he started, then stopped. He huffed out a quiet, self-conscious laugh, scratching his jaw. “I was just being an idiot, honestly.”
You tilted your head slightly. “How?”
Dennis winced faintly, like he already regretted opening his mouth. He looked away first, a little sheepishly, and gave a tiny, awkward shrug. “I’m annoyed at myself, that’s all.”
“For what?” you wondered.
He hesitated again, shoulders tightening just slightly. “Because,” he said at last, voice low and mortified, “you were on that bull, and you looked… really good.”
Your eyes widened slightly. He made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh, immediately regretting having said anything at all. “And I know that sounds ridiculous, but I was trying very hard not to think about it, and then I started thinking about it, and then I was just—” He stopped, hating himself a little more with every word. “I was distracted. Really distracted.”
The words came out rushed, a little uneven, like he was trying to get them over with before he could stop himself. And the second they were out there, he looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Your expression shifted, the corners of your mouth lifted, something more playful creeping in as you tilted your head at him.
“So…” you added, your voice light and teasing, “you enjoyed watching me a little too much?”
His eyes widened a fraction, and then, almost instantly, that telltale flush crept back up his neck, spreading across his cheeks this time with absolutely no mercy.
“I—” he started, then stopped.
You just watched him, clearly entertained now, but not unkindly so. Dennis let out a quiet, defeated breath, shoulders dropping as he realised there was no way out of this that didn’t involve at least a little honesty.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice softer, a little rough around the edges. “I did.”
He glanced at you, then away again almost immediately, like holding your gaze for too long might make it worse.
“More than I probably should have,” he added under his breath.
You tilted your head slightly, studying him for a moment before your smile turned a little more knowing.
“You sound nervous,” you pointed out gently.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I am.”
Your expression softened, curiosity replacing the teasing edge. “Why?”
Dennis glanced down at the pavement, then back up at you, like he was weighing whether or not to say it—really say it this time. “Because,” he started, then stopped, exhaling quietly. “I’m always a bit nervous around you.”
You blinked, surprised. “Me?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, giving a small, almost helpless shrug. “I’ve got a bit of a crush on you,” he said, the words coming out quieter, but steadier than before. “Which I know I probably shouldn’t, because… work, and everything that comes with that.” He huffed a small, self-conscious laugh. “It could get complicated. I know that.”
Your heart gave a small, unexpected pull at that. Dennis looked at you again, properly this time, all honesty and just a hint of uncertainty lingering underneath it.
“But I can’t really help it,” he finished, a little softer. “I tried. Didn’t work.”
You gave him a small smile, stepping a little closer. You rose slightly on your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. When you pulled back, Dennis was completely frozen—eyes wide, body still, like his brain had just stopped processing information entirely. He blinked once, slowly, then again, like he was trying to catch up with what had just happened.
“You just kissed me,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
“Consider it a birthday present,” you smiled fondly.
It took a little while but Dennis’ brain finally caught up—just enough to realise two things at once: one, that you had kissed him, and two, that he might never get a moment like this again if he didn’t do something about it.
He didn’t think, didn’t overanalyse, didn’t give himself time to panic. He just stepped forward and kissed you. Properly. It wasn’t perfect—there was a hint of hesitation in it, a flicker of nerves—but it was soft, certain, like he’d committed to it the second he started. But then, just as quickly, he pulled back.
“Oh—” Dennis’ eyes widened immediately, panic crashing in all at once as the reality of what he’d just done hit him. He took a small step back, running a hand through his hair in a flustered rush. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t—I don’t know if that was okay, I just—” He stopped himself, clearly spiralling, his expression somewhere between hopeful and horrified. “I didn’t mean to overstep,” he added quickly, voice quieter now. “I just—yeah. Sorry.”
You stepped closer again, shaking your head slightly, your expression soft but steady. “I didn’t mind.”
“You didn't?" he asked carefully.
There was still that uncertainty in his voice, that need to be absolutely sure he hadn’t crossed a line he couldn’t come back from. He stared at you for a moment, unsure he’d heard you right.
“No. I didn’t,” you said reassuringly.
He searched your face for a second longer, like he was double-checking for any sign of hesitation, any hint that you were just saying it to make him feel better.
“You’re not mad?” he asked, quieter now.
And that did it. Before he could spiral again, you reached up, closing the distance without another word, and kissed him. Dennis was ready for anything—a lecture, a rejection, even you walking away without a word—but the moment your lips met his, all thoughts left him.
He froze for only a second before his body took over, his hands moving almost automatically to your hips, pulling you closer. The kiss was a whirlwind of raw heat and restrained passion, years of pent-up desire finally finding release.
Dennis’ touch was urgent, his fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt tightly. Time lost all meaning as the kiss deepened, becoming more desperate. The world around you seemed to fade into a blur, leaving only a raw, unbridled connection.
The kiss was a silent confession of need, and when you finally broke the kiss, Dennis’ eyes locked with yours filled with an intense mixture of desire and uncertainty.
“Does that answer your question?” you whispered breathlessly.
“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. “Yeah, it does.”
“Good,” you hummed, taking a hold of his hand and pulling him across the road.
Dennis followed you without protest, his hand automatically intertwining with yours. His brain was still buzzing with the remnants of the kiss, but curiosity quickly took the forefront.
"Where are we going?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“Get in,” you grinned, unlocking your car and sliding in.
Dennis hesitated for half a second before ducking into the passenger seat. As soon as the door shut behind him with a soft click, you pulled away and drove down the road. Dennis watched the scenery blur past, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh.
His breath caught as the car rolled to a stop, the parking lot deserted except for a few other cars at the far end. The river stretches out in front of them, a stretch of moonlight reflecting on the surface.
You shut the car off and Dennis glanced around before turning fully toward you now that he had no distractions left. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as reality set in; no one else was there but you two.
“I thought I’d give you your birthday present here,” you whispered, unbuckling your seatbelt.
“H-here?” Dennis gulped, looking around. “Is it in the trunk?”
“No, Huckleberry,” you chuckled, shaking your head.
You leaned forward, unbuckling his seatbelt before slowly climbing over the centre console and into his lap.
“Is this okay?” you wondered, placing your hands on his shoulders.
His heart is thundering, but his hands immediately move to your hips, gripping the fabric of your shirt instinctively, as if he needed something to hold.
His voice was hoarse as he answered you, his eyes on yours. “Yeah,” he replied a little too quickly. “Yeah, this is, uh, yeah… this is fine.”
“Just fine?” you teased, tilting your head.
“A goddamn dream come true, actually,” he breathed, trying to keep his cool as he looked up at you.
You feel the corners of your mouth lift at his response and you can't help but tease him further with a slow roll of your hips. As you rock your hips against him, Dennis exhaled sharply, his eyes closing for half a second as a shudder ran down his spine.
He swallowed hard, the friction between you two sparking a fire of raw, primal need in him. His hands flexed at your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. His jaw clenched, hard, as he fought to keep control of himself, but the way his body reacted was anything but subtle.
You connected your lips once again and he kissed you back with desperation, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting you like he was starved of air. His hands moved up from your hips to your face, cradling it gently.
He tugged you closer, wanting more, needing to taste more, feel more, touch more. Your tongues slid against one another with an inappropriate amount of hunger as one of his hands found its way into your hair, pulling gently at the roots. There was no stopping him now, not when you tasted like this and felt so damn good pressed up against him.
Dennis groaned raggedly into your mouth, dropping one of his hands from your face to your waist, sliding his hand under the fabric of your shirt. His fingers splayed on the bare skin of your back, the feeling of your body against his was addictive. It was overwhelming, exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
You pulled back just enough so you could breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip as he struggled for words—struggled not to drag you closer again.
“Was that… okay?” He rasped, leaning forward and resting his forehead against yours.
“You need to stop worrying,” you panted, kissing his jaw and down his neck.
“Worrying is kind of my thing,” he whispered between panting breaths.
His protest, however, died instantly when your teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear. A sharp inhale later and all coherent thoughts evaporated. Dennis tilted his head back, exposing the line of his throat to your lips, as he rolled your hips on his lap.
The sound you make combined with sudden press of your hips sends shocks of heat through Dennis’ entire body, and he involuntarily bucks up against you, his fingers digging into your thighs as he curses softly below you.
“Oh, God—” he muttered, burying his face into your neck.
Unable to help yourself, you continue to roll your hips against his, feeling the pulse of his clothed cock—even beneath the fabric of his jeans. Dennis let out an almost-whine in response, his hands coming to your hips and tightening against your top.
His breathing was ragged and labored, his whole body tight as a wire, almost trembling with how much physical effort it was taking him to stay semi-collected. Dennis shuddered violently under you, his entire body tensing as pleasure overtook him.
A rough, punched-out groan escaped his throat, half-embarrassed, half-wrecked, as he clung to you like a lifeline. His hips jerked upward helplessly against yours for a few more seconds before finally stilling with an exhausted pant.
“H-holy shit,” Dennis mumbled weakly, his eyes hazy and dazed.
His voice was wrecked beyond recognition, sounding equal parts overwhelmed and blissfully ruined. Dennis swallowed hard, he couldn’t even look at you right now. You soften, gently cupping his jaw and bringing his gaze back onto you.
You took a quick glance down, spotting the damp patch spreading from the front of his jeans. Dennis shifted in the seat, trying to ease the discomfort as the fabric clung to him. Your brows furrowed slightly and you reached a hand down between you both, palming him softly.
His hips jerked forward despite being overstimulated. His chest was heaving with short, ragged breaths as he looked up at you with eyes that were practically pleading—like he desperately wanted more but also wasn't sure he could handle it.
It was a beautiful contradiction of desire and uncertainty that you were taking full advantage of. Your hand undid his belt, not bothering to remove it from his jeans as you unzipped them. He lifted his hips without any objection and as you pushed the fabric down, you caught sight of how much mess Dennis made.
You traced a finger over his damp boxers, admiring the way they clung to his cock. His eyes watched as you reached for his waistband and pulled down the ruined clothing. Strands of his release connected him to his boxers as you finally freed him from his confines.
"Please…" Dennis murmured thickly and it was very clear he was hanging by a thread now.
“Please what?” you hummed, running a finger over his thigh and collecting some of his release and sucking his release off your finger.
His whole body ached for you—every muscle coiled tight with anticipation. His throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed hard, his hips twitching forward uselessly against nothing while his cock strained painfully.
His voice was barely more than a strained whisper now; a raw sound that trembled with need and desire as he choked out, "Please… I need you…"
The confession made your cunt clench around nothing; it craved his fingers, it craved his cock, it craved him. He was already embarrassingly hard, flushed and leaking. He was completely at your mercy now; a mess of desperate whimpers and shaky exhales as he tried to keep himself from losing control but failing miserably when all it took was one particularly rough stroke for his hips to jerk forward into your touch with a choked-off moan.
"Fuck—I can't…" His voice cracked and Dennis was beyond words at this point.
The need for more was driving him insane as you continued to pump him slowly. He kept his eyes locked on yours and there was a desperation, a need, in his gaze that silently implored you to give him even the smallest bit of relief.
"Please…" he babbled incoherently, his voice little more than a whisper. "Don't tease me, not now.” His eyes searched yours—begging and pleading. “I need you…
“Okay,” you whispered, unbuttoning your jeans.
Dennis helped you clumsily and a little uncoordinated. It took him a few steadying breaths, but he finally managed to work your jeans and panties down over your hips and then off completely before tossing them onto the drivers seat.
He glanced down and there was something almost reverent about his gaze now. His hands skimmed up your thighs slowly, the touch feather-light. He dragged his fingers up, then down again, feeling the way you shook at his touch.
His fingers slipped through your folds, circling your clit, spreading your wetness around. It was almost embarrassing how soaked you were and before Dennis could ask if what he was doing was okay, you lifted yourself up, dragging his tip through your folds.
Your moan was filthy as you slid down onto him, inch by antagonising inch, until he bottomed out. Dennis was thick inside you and you couldn’t help the little broken moan that slipped past your lips as the stretch burned.
Dennis’ eyes stayed locked on you, drinking in every part of you. You gave yourself a moment to adjust, before you began to move. slowly at first, lifting your hips up and then sliding back down.
The pleasure was almost overwhelming, his pelvis grinding against you with every thrust. He wasn't even trying to be quiet anymore—not caring who might wonder what was happening inside your car. He just wanted you.
"P-please…" Dennis whined—the word sounding almost painful as it ripped from his throat.
Every nerve in your body felt alight as Dennis gave you everything he had and more. His grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging into soft skin as his body trembled with the effort of holding back.
The fogged windows and the scent of sex filling the car, drove your mind into a frenzy. Your body arched above him, legs clenching around his hips, drawing him deeper. The two of you moaned together at the feeling and Dennis’ movements began to falter as he struggled to keep his impending orgasm at bay.
You moaned lewdly, the heat in your lower stomach spreading. You clenched around him as he bucked his hips up over and over again bringing you closer to your climax. Dennis keened at your moans, his hips stuttering at the sounds tumbling from your lips.
As he got closer and closer to his release, you knew you weren’t far behind. Dennis felt you tighten around his cock and he was determined to make you cum before him. It only took a few more thrusts before the pressure became too much and you let your orgasm wash over you.
You moaned, fingers threading through his hair, your whole world narrowing down to the moment in front of you. The feeling of you climaxing around him sent Dennis over the edge. His thrusts became sloppy and he released deep inside of you—his hips stuttering through the tremors of his orgasm before finally stilling completely.
For a few long seconds, the car was filled with the sound of both of your uneven breaths, mingling as you tried to catch your breath. The two of you were too spent to even think about moving and Dennis slumped against you, his forehead resting against your shoulder while murmuring: "Fuck... I'm so sorry..."
“It’s okay,” you whispered breathlessly, still coming down from your high.
Dennis pulled back when he could finally manage it, his gaze landing on you; a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took in the sight of you above him. There was still a faint trace of disbelief in his expression, like he hadn’t quite processed how the night had turned into… this.
“Best birthday ever,” he whispered, leaning his head back.
Your hand came up and gave his arm a light, lazy slap.
“Oh my God,” you muttered, though there was a smile in it. “You’re unbelievable.”
Dennis let out a soft laugh, still grinning, completely unbothered. You shifted slightly, glancing at him before rolling your eyes just a fraction.
“Yeah,” you added, a little smug now, “you’re welcome."
synopsis: you and your family move to derry, maine for a new beginning, but that burden slowly starts to fall on your shoulders. luckily there's a cute guy who works at the furniture shop your mom frequents.
word count: 1.4k
warnings: arguing & angst
a/n: i lowk have to get on my zoom and write more plus like there’s barely any fics for taniel so i had to put matters into my own hands
It was easy to fall in love with Taniel.
Even though you had known Taniel for only a couple of weeks, you had become accustomed to him. Moving to Derry wasn't your first choice, nor was it your mother's. Downstairs, Charlotte sat on the couch with Taniel’s aunt, Rose. They shared a cup of tea and chatted about recent events.
Upstairs, you are sitting at your vanity, applying more eyeshadow to your lids. A small knock on your bedroom door, assuming it’s your mother; you open the door. You head downstairs to greet Ms. Rose, but Taniel surprises you. He looks down at your outfit, a light rouge spreading across his cheeks.
“You look nice.”
“Thank you, I reckon you came up here to fetch me."
Taniel smiles at this statement. “Your presence is imperative, Your Highness."
You let out a small giggle at his joke. You had let him borrow one of your favorite storybooks—a small tale of a knight and a princess. Taniel holds the bedroom door open. You both head downstairs. He places his hand on your lower back, guiding you to the living room.
Walking into the living room, your mother peers her eyes toward Taniel’s lower hand on your back. She coughs, and the two pull apart. Your cheeks burn as the two women look at each other, knowing expressions on their faces. You turn your attention to the van parked outside.
“More furniture?” you ask your mother. Charlotte squints at you, seeing right through your attempt to distract her. Rose turns to Taniel, who has been avoiding her gaze as well. "You wouldn’t mind helping her move the furniture upstairs."
Taniel nods, grabs the keys to the van, letting you lead the two of you to the van to get the furnishings. You attempt to grab a small lamp before he stops you. "Taniel, you already have something in your hands; let me help,” you emphasize. He glances at you, then flicks your nose. He leans down, grabs the lamp, and carries it inside with the other furniture.
“Got any place I can put this stuff, Ms. Charlotte?"
“Up in her room, you already know where it is.”
Taniel follows you up the stairs, where you are holding the door open for him.
He sets the items on your soft bedroom floor. His eyes catch your moving figure as you sift through the small bookshelf above your desk. The way the light from the room reflected on you, Taniel couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
“Taniel?”
He snaps back to you, hearing your voice call out for him. "Yes?"
“Later tonight, would you like to come by? I got a new book at the shop today."
“I’d love to.”
—
The muffled sounds of your parents arguing downstairs made you roll your eyes. It was the same routine every day, especially after moving to Derry. You focused on removing your makeup, but the noise distracted you. Soon, tears rolled down your face, leaving marks on your white nightgown. You wiped your palms on your face, but then you heard Taniel tapping on your window.
Taniel’s smile drops at the sight of your tears as you walk towards the window to let him in. “Now might not be the best time, Taniel.” You said not to look into his eyes. He reaches out, tilting your chin to face him. Taniel wipes the remaining tears off your face before embracing you. You sob into his chest, allowing his warmth to comfort you.
You pull away from him, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this."
He frowns at your words. “Don’t apologize.” He takes your hand into his and leads you to the bed. You sit on your bed, with a frown painted on your expression. Taniel grabs the book you had earlier this afternoon.
“How about I read you something to take your mind off things?"
“I’d like that a lot."
Taniel walks over to you, propping himself up on your bed, you tucked into his side, head resting on his chest. His smooth voice flows with the words on the pages, one hand holding the book and the other caressing your side.
Taniel continues to read, pausing once he hears your soft snores. He adjusts your duvet, pulling it over you, making you cuddle closer. Stretching his arm over to your small nightstand, he puts the book down to take you into his arms. He places a small kiss on your forehead.
“I’ll always be here,”
—
The next day, you hadn't come out of your room since Taniel left that morning. You could hear them talking about you downstairs.
It's because of the move. Be gentle with her.
That's foolish! How long has it been, Charlotte?
You turn in your bed and see the book Taniel read to you on your nightstand. You open it to find something falling out of it.
You shouldn't have to carry that weight. Keep your window unlocked. There's something I want to tell you, Taniel.
Later that evening, as promised in his letter, Taniel showed up at your window. You wave at him, letting him know that it is open. He takes his boots off, leaving them by the window, standing in the middle of the room. Your eyes drink in his every movement as he continues his path to you. He pauses in front of you, face close to yours, so that your breaths are mingling.
“So, what did you want to tell me?”
Taniel cups your face in his hand before placing his soft lips against yours. It feels as if the world goes quiet. His warm lips meet yours, and all the longing surges forth. He kisses you like it is a promise—one to protect you and adore all you are. You pull apart, heads pressed together. Your fingers tangle in his hair, grounding yourself to him as you move your lips against him with vigor.
Taniel pulls away first, moving his hand from your face to your waist. You place your arms around his neck, looking into his eyes. “You sure made your point clear,” you say, catching your breath. Taniel smiles at you before spinning you around in your room, making you squeal. He sets you down, arms still embracing you. “I have something for you," he says, reaching into his jacket; it is the heart-shaped necklace that caught your attention during your first visit to your aunt's store.
—
“Welcome in!” says Rose, greeting you and your mother as the two of you walk into her shop.
Taniel looks up after hearing his auntie’s voice. He hadn't seen anyone as pretty as you before, especially not in Derry. You left your mother to check out the selections. You found a stunning heart-shaped necklace. There was something on it you couldn’t quite understand, but it didn’t take away from its beauty.
the piece.
“It means I love you."
You jump at hearing the voice behind you. “What?”
“The necklace, the engraving. Its meaning is I love you,” he says, pointing at the small words you inquired about earlier. Your lips form the shape of an 'o.' You both share a small laugh. Then, you ask the mysterious boy more questions about the necklace. On the other side of the store, the scene happening in front of your mother takes her aback.
"Is that your girl?” Rose asks.
“Yeah, is that your son?"
“No, he’s my nephew, but I haven’t seen him like this when talking to someone.”
“She’s never this talkative, especially when it comes to new people.”
Your time with Taniel ended when your mother finished her business with Rose. He steps behind the counter, grabs a small business card, and flips it to the blank side. Then, he writes something on it and hands it to you. Your mother calls out your name standing by the door, “Well, I can't be here all day."
“Coming! Until next time then,” you say to him, waving before letting the door close behind you.
For the first time, Taniel had something to look forward to in this town.
—
You look at the necklace, then at him. “Oh, Taniel, you didn’t have to."
“But I wanted to.” You turn your back on him for him to put the necklace on you. Taniel lifts your hair, placing a slight kiss on your neck that makes your breath hitch. He clips it on, and you look down at the charm of the necklace and rub the small engraving.
kisâkihin
It was a saying in his language, the only one he ever taught you.
summary:
after almost a year of avoiding each other, one shift throws you and dennis right back in contact. in the ER, some things don't stop. they keep going.
warnings:
MDNI. smut (18+), workplace tension, mutual pining, idiots in love, slight angst, emotional repression, explicit sexual content, overstimulation, possessiveness, praise, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, semi-public tension (hospital), power dynamics (if you squint?), mentions of stress/burnout
it had been a real long three hundred thirty-five days.
not that you were counting.
because three hundred thirty-five days was a long time to avoid someone in a place as small and suffocating as the pitt. a long time to learn every shift pattern, every coffee run, every back hallway, every supply closet he favored, every route that would keep you from accidentally ending up shoulder to shoulder with dennis whittaker while your pulse decided to humiliate you in front of god and everyone.
nearly a year.
nearly a year of shared birthday parties in somebody's too-small apartment with cheap tequila and too-loud music, of spontaneous messages that always came at the worst possible hour, of a few drunken nights after day shift where his knee stayed pressed against yours a little too long and neither of you ever moved away.
then you switched to nights.
needed the extra money. took the extra hours. told yourself it would be easier.
it wasn't.
because i wasn't the shifts that made it hard.
it was him.
it was the memory of one odd, awful, burning drunk night where dennis had ended up half naked on your apartment floor, one arm thrown over his face, shirt gone, broad chest rising and falling while you stood in your kitchen doorway gripping a glass of water so hard you thought it might crack.
he'd looked up at you eventually, sleepy and wrecked and too handsome for your own good, and smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world.
you hadn't trusted yourself to breathe right after that.
and then somehow after that night, after all that tension and all those almosts and all the heat sitting heavy between you, everything had gone silent.
radio silence.
no texts.
no tiktoks shared at two a.m.
no "are you okay"? after a long day.
nothing.
and now, after three hundred thirty-five days of pretending that didn't feel like a knife under your ribs, you were back on day shift.
which meant the universe hated you.
"you're staring."
you blinked and looked away from the ambulance bay doors so fast your neck almost snapped.
santos was standing beside you at the nurses' station, one brow lifted, chart tucked against her chest, expression sharp in that way that always made you feel like she'd already read your mind and found it embarrassing.
"i'm literally not," you muttered.
she gave you a look.
it was not a kind look.
"mhm."
you straightened a stack of papers that did not need straightening.
"the board is behind you."
you froze.
santos snorted under her breath and moved past you, shoulder bumping yours just enough to make it feel intentional.
"if you're gonna keep doing this weird divorced parent thing with whittaker, at least make it less obvious. some of us are trying to work."
"we are not doing a weird divorced parent thing."
"sure."
"santos."
"you haven't looked him in the eye in three hours."
your face heated. "i have looked him in the eye."
she glanced over your shoulder, then back at you. "you just looked directly at the floor when he walked in."
you hated that she was right.
you hated even more that she was enjoying it.
before you could snap back, dana's voice cut clean through the station.
"can somebody tell me why there's a family of six trying to set up a picnic in triage?"
the whole station shifted.
robby and dana stared at each other, both half-grinning, half-pissed.
"they brought a crockpot," robby muttered.
"absolutely not," dana said, pinching the bridge of her nose.
and just like that, the floor swallowed everybody again.
movement. noise. stretchers rolling. monitors chirping. the air thick with that familiar blend of adrenaline and bleach and stale coffee.
you exhaled, grateful for the distraction.
for approximately twelve seconds.
because then he walked over.
dennis.
of course it was dennis.
he came through the ambulance bay doors with two medics and a patient, gloves on, hair already a little messy, scrub top tugged too tight across his shoulders like the fabric itself was losing patience with him. there was sweat at his temples. a crease between his brows. that focused, sharp look he got when he was in motion, when he was all instinct and command and impossible not to watch.
your stomach dropped.
damn him.
"forty-two year old male, chest pain, onset thirty minutes ago, vitals stable en route," one of the medics rattled off.
dennis was already moving with them, one hand on the bed rail, the other adjusting the oxygen tubing. "let's get an ekg now. where's robby?"
"with the trauma in two," dana answered, already reaching for a chart.
"great." dennis looked up. his eyes landed on you.
and stayed there, just for a second.
one second too long.
heat rushed straight to your face.
he looked away first.
it shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.
"you're pink," santos called under her breath.
"shut up."
"you should both either fight or make out in a supply closet. this is getting old."
you nearly choked.
"santos."
"what? i'm efficient."
"can i get some help over here or are we doing gossip hour?" dennis called, not looking at either of you.
the fact that his voice was flat made something hot and ugly twist in your chest.
fine.
you grabbed the ekg leads harder than necessary and stalked over.
"you know," you said sweetly as you set the machine down, "some people ask nicely."
"some people answer their texts."
the words were quiet. so quiet no one else would've caught them.
but you did.
your hand stilled on the patient's shoulder.
for one terrible, breathless second, the noise of the er blurred around the edges.
you looked up at him.
his jaw was tight. eyes on the monitor. not on you. as if he hadn't just cracked something open in the middle of a monday shift.
you swallowed.
"you stopped texting first," you muttered.
"because i had to."
"that's not an answer."
"not now."
his tone was calm and controlled and somehow that was worse.
your pulse kicked.
you finished your side of the ekg in silence, hands steady only because years in emergency medicine had taught you how to function through internal collapse.
by the time the patient was stable and being wheeled down the hall, you were vibrating with a mix of anger, heat, and a dizzy ache. you hadn't felt this sharp in months.
"you good?" dana's voice pulled you up short.
you turned and found her watching you from the station, arms folded, expression unreadable in a way that meant she already knew the answer.
"yeah," you said too fast.
she looked past you, toward where dennis was signing something off with one of the medics.
then back at you.
"mhm."
great. even dana.
"everything alright?" she asked, gentler now.
"just tired."
"you're a terrible liar, kid."
you let out a weak laugh.
dana's mouth twitched. "if whatever this is starts affecting patient care, i'll intervene. until then, i'm pretending i don't see the mutual pining because i have two psych holds pending and one guy screaming about a crockpot."
you stared at her.
"mutual what?"
"don't make me repeat myself."
then she was gone, barking for someone to move a stretcher.
you stood there, stunned.
from somewhere behind you, santos said, "told you."
"i hate everyone here."
"no, you don't."
she was right again, which was annoying.
the shift dragged.
it was brutal in that relentless way the pitt could be, no room to think, no time to eat, no chance to breathe. a teenager with a busted collarbone. a woman sobbing in a hallway chair while her husband got stitched up. a toddler with a fever and exhausted parents. an overdose. a laceration. a possible stroke scare that turned out to be a migraine.
through all of it, dennis was there.
always there.
across the room.
at the next bay.
passing too close behind you in hallways so the heat of him ghosted over your back.
brushing your gloved hand once while reaching for gauze and both of you freezing for half a beat too long.
every look charged.
every silence heavier.
every almost making your skin feel too tight.
by the time the end of shift finally crawled into view, you were exhausted and strung so taut you thought one more look from him might actually snap you in half.
outside, pittsburgh was drenched.
rain hammered the sidewalks and turned the streetlights hazy gold, city noise softened under the storm. the air was warm in that late summer way, thick and humid, your scrub top sticking to your skin within seconds the moment you stepped out beneath the awning.
he was already there.
waiting.
hands in his pockets. hair wet. broad shoulders tense.
for you.
for three hundred thirty-five days.
"can we talk now?"
you sighed. "if it 's about the fucking ekg, forget about it. i didn't mean to snap."
one corner of his mouth twitched, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"that's not it…"
rainwater dripped from the edge of the awning between you.
you crossed your arms over yourself, partially to close yourself off, mostly because you needed something to do. "so talk."
his throat worked.
for the first time all day, dennis looked uncertain.
it was so rare it almost hurt to see.
"i'm sorry i didn't tell you how much i missed you," he said finally, voice rough under the rain. "i loved you too much to trust myself to say those words."
you forgot how to breathe.
"okay then."
the city blurred.
all the anger you'd carried, all the humiliation, all the nights staring at your phone, all the bitterness, all of it cracked down the middle in one violent, dizzying rush.
he stepped closer.
"that night at your place," he said, eyes fixed on yours, "i wanted to stay."
your pulse was suddenly elevated.
"dennis…"
"i wanted to kiss you." another step. "wanted to drag you into your bedroom." another. "wanted to find out exactly how pretty you sound when i make you feel good."
heat slammed through you so hard your knees nearly gave.
"you can't just say that."
"why not?" he asked, voice full of excitement. "it's true."
you were backing up before you realized it, one step at a time until your shoulders brushed the cool brick beside the entrance.
he followed.
of course he did.
"and i don't get it," e said, eyes locked on your mouth. "you run from me."
your breath hitched.
dennis leaned in , mouths connecting briefly before you pulled back.
"i .. this shouldn't happen this close to the hospital, i mean… if anyone saw, i mean, i just…"
"isn't vivi on leave for a week?"
the car ride to your apartment was a blur of heated touches, wet clothes clinging, his mouth on yours, hands everywhere just shy of complete chaos.
when you finally arrived, the door unlocked under your fumbling fingers. roommate still not home.
"thank god," you whispered.
he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "what?" he asked, with a smirk just grazing his lips.
"finally alone."
he grinned. kind, a smile. his eyes didn't match the feeling. they burned.
he stepped closer into you, his hands brushing your hips, guiding you back into the space you'd made your own. he had been here once, to catch up with you, and you never realized that he would remember the layout of your bedroom. the rain that dripped from your scrubs made you two stick together, your skin with goosebumps, and the heat between you worsening.
"do you always look like this after your shifts?" he murmured, fingers brushing down your spine. his grip tightened as he settled his hands around your waist.
"looking a mess?" you teased, trying to wriggle free of his grip, but every inch of your body resisted.
"oh, i know," he said, voice low and steady. "but i like it."
his hands remained on your hips, as one snaked along your lower back, slipping into your scrub top. just enough pressure to anchor you against him. the air felt thick around you, humid and heavy, and you could feel your blood pressure spiking. his lips began to press upon your neck and ear in soft, delicate areas.
"tell me if i'm going too far," he whispered, so close that your lips could feel the heat of his breath.
"you're… not," you whined, stuttering.
"good," he murmured. he looked back up, forehead brushing yours. "that got your attention."
you let out a shaky laugh and clutched at his scrub top, pulling him closer without thinking. heat pulsed through your veins, hot and heavy, and you felt him smirk as he went up against your neck.
"trying to steal my clothes now, baby?" he murmured, clicking his tongue, brushing his lips along the side of your neck.
you shivered, clutching the fabric harder. "maybe i am," you smirked, tugging the shirt upwards and off. warmth spread through your body, curling up your spine, settling into your chest like a slow, insistent fire. he felt it too. you could sense it in the way he brought his body back against yours.
one of his hands slid to rest possessively on your hip. "i don't plan on letting you decide to ditch me again tonight."
he spoke into your face as if you weren't going to listen, and something about that made you… burn.
you tilted your head back instinctively, letting him start to suck along your neck. "dennis…" you breathed, soft, and growing desperate for touch.
your hands reached across his chest, firm and strong. the boy had more muscle than most gave him credit for, and as you reached your arms across his shoulders you felt nothing but muscle. a beautiful look you thought, one that suited him more than the scrubs.
"shh," he murmured against your ear, a prideful noise that made your insides tighten in the best ways. "you've waited long enough, baby. now it's my turn to savor this."
his hands moved, tracing your curves, dragging you closer. you felt every inch of him, warm and unyielding, and i made your chest ache. your nipples, already hard, seemed to become growingly prominent as you felt it all, and your eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment.
"show me how much you've wanted this," dennis murmured, thumb brushing over your nipples, pressing firm just to tease.
you gasped, leaning into him, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt as if it could tether him to you. "i can't.. i can't help it ." you whispered.
"good," he said, smirk forming across his lips, eyes dark and daring. "because i want you to feel every second of that wait tonight."
your hands roamed over him, tracing the clothed planes of his shoulders, the hard ridges of his chest, memorizing every contour you'd imagined a thousand times. his gaze locked on yours, commanding, teasing, impossibly sexy. "you've been so patient," he said, thumb brushing along your jaw as the other hand slid under your shirt. "now it's my turn to take my time with you"
you squirmed instinctively, chest pressing to his, lips grazing your collarbone as he leaned in, teasing and deliberate. "i could watch you like this all night," he whispered, every shiver and gasp a claim he made his own. his lips connected to yours, soft kisses again for what felt like an eternity.
before you could even catch your breath, his hands were under your thighs, strong and sure. "hold still," he said, his tone smug, amused, and just like that, he lifted you effortlessly. your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in the hem of your shirt.
he grinned against your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. "you've waited long enough," he said, and with a smooth pull your shirt came free, sliding to the floor between you like a confession
your body pressed flush against his, heat curling around you, chest to chest, legs hooked at his hips. "dennis…are you sure you can hold me?" you giggled, heart stretching with a nervous ache.
"i ve got you," he said, smirk carrying into his voice. every part of him was purposeful, strong, possessive as he carried you through the entryway, hands supporting your body, your lips pressing into his neck as if he was the first thing you'd eaten today.
the bedroom door came into view, and he didn't hesitate. he lowered you gently onto the bed, keeping you pressed close, every muscle warm and solid against yours. he leaned down, eyes dark, lips brushing yours in a slow, teasing kiss. "all mine," he said, voice and rough, cocky in a way that made your chest ache.
your hands roamed over his shoulders and chest, tracing the hard lines you'd been craving all day. "dennis…" you whispered, breath hitching, and he caught your lips in a slow kiss.
his lips moved over yours with purpose, claiming, teasing, pressing you back into the mattress as his hands slid to your hips, holding you still while he explored your mouth. you melted against him, lips parting, tongues brushing in a heated dance. "i ve wanted this for so long," you breathed between kisses, arching into him, every nerve alive.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes craving, a smirk tugging at his lips. "you look so hot pressed against me," he said, voice confident and possessive almost. "every second of waiting made this worth it."
your hands slid toward the waistband of his scrub bottoms, brushing against the hardness you'd been imagining all week. he groaned softly, pressing a kiss to your jaw, down your neck, each motion claiming. "hands off… not yet," he clicked his tongue, teasing, and you whined softly, but he only smirked.
"look at you," he murmured, gaze roaming over your body, hungry. "all nervous, all trembling… perfect for me." his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you slightly, giving him better leverage as he positioned himself between your legs. heat pooled low, thick and consuming. "you're mine tonight," he whispered, pressing a hard kiss to your lips again, teeth nipping lightly, tongue daring yours.
his lips trailed down your neck, then your chest, stopping short to unclasp your bra. your back arched, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails tracing the ridges of muscle you could feel under your palms. he moved with precision, pinning you gently but firmly as he deepened the kiss, every brush, every drag, every press a claim, leaving marks in the path he took.
"say it," he growled against your skin, removing your bottoms. "say you're mine too." his mouth arrived at your opening and began to lick you, slow, teasing, exploring.
"i'm yours," you gasped between breaths, biting down on your lip, desperate and needy, heat curling up your spine. he smirked against your folds, pressing closer to press kisses to your inner thighs, thumb brushing over your clit, other hand roaming possessively along your breasts, making you shiver uncontrollably.
he broke the passion briefly, eyes locking on yours, full of amusement. "good girl," he whispered, leaning down again, lips sliding over yours with intent, teeth grazing, tongue dancing, hands firm on your body. "so wet for me…"
you whimpered, arching your back, letting the sensation curl through every nerve. the air between you thick with heat, every touch claiming, every kiss leaving a mark, every shiver building tension higher. his thumb circled your sensitive clit before he traded off, pumping two fingers inside you and hitting your g-spot. he moaned onto your clit before returning to circling it with his tongue.
he didn't rush, didn't let go. as if your pussy were a sanctuary, he stayed steady, then harder, deeper into his worship, pulling moans from you, lips teasing, teeth nipping, hands clutching, holding, claiming. his dominance was clear in every press, every drag, every breath, and you surrendered, letting yourself melt against him, your voice ragged, heart racing, body alight under his hands.
he kept you pinned beneath him, body heavy and warm, every movement intentional. you let out nothing short of pornographic moans. your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, memorizing the feeling of him pressing against you.
"dennis… 'm close…"
a groan rumbled through him as your back arched, skin hot and sensitive beneath his touch. his hands roamed over your sides, gripping, cupping, pulling you flush to his mouth as you moaned and screamed out his name, fluids gushing out as you squirted and rode out your orgasm on his tongue. his hands moved higher, teasing the swell of your breasts before brushing over your nipples. his mouth wet from your juices.
"fuck, babe," he groaned. "didn't know you were like that."
"mm, i'm sorry… felt..felt so good…"
he paused just long enough to move back on top of you and look down at you, eyes glinting with success. "so good for me," he whispered, lips brushing over your shoulder, teeth grazing, thumbs tracing along your spine. "all this… all yours tonight."
your hands slid down his sides, across the sculpted planes of his abs, memorizing the weight of him, the warmth, the strength beneath your palms. he leaned forward again, pressing kisses along your chest, down your stomach, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. each press of his lips, each careful nip, made your breaths stutter and fall into ragged gasps.
without warning, he lifted you effortlessly, muscles flexing under your hands, and shifted you to the center of the bed. you clutched at him, shirt long forgotten, legs wrapping lightly around his hips as he settled you down again, chest to chest, hips pressing together, wet heat thick between you.
he kissed you hard then, claiming your mouth, teeth brushing, tongue dancing, every move demanding and possessive. your back arched instinctively, hands sliding along his shoulders and down his back, pulling him flush, needing him fully. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him, thumb brushing over your clit in slow circles.
he held you down, weight heavy and claiming. his lips found yours again, demanding, teeth brushing, tongue daring, and you couldn't help but moan into him.
"fuck, dennis," you gasped, tugging at his shoulders. "you feel so… so good."
he pressed his hips into yours, slow at first, letting the clothed tip of him brush against your slick, teasing, stretching you. you moaned, breath hitching, fingers digging into his shoulders as he rolled his hips, grinding you against him.
"fuck, perfect," he groaned, voice full with possession, eyes wide as he stared down at you. "so needy, so desperate…"
"mm, maybe i am…" you gasped, arching into him, teasing him back. your hands slid lower, tugging at the waistband of his scrub pants. "i think it 's time these came off too, don't you?"
he smirked, arrogant with the knowledge of how good he was, leaning down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, teeth grazing your bottom lip as a hand cupped your face. "you're right," he said, grinding a little harder.
your fingers fumbled at the tie, brushing the tip of him through the thin fabric as he groaned into your mouth. he felt so heavenly, his dick hard enough you could see it through the pants. "shit… careful, baby, you might make me lose control," he warned, teasing, voice rough, hips rolling with a musician's rhythm.
"maybe i .. want that," you whispered against his lips, breath hot, nails dragging over his chest as he pressed into you, cock brushing over your clit, the overstimulation making your thighs shake. "maybe i want you to fuck me like you mean it."
he growled, gripping your hips, thumb pressing harder, pressing you fully against him. "oh, you want it , huh? you want me to take what's mine?" his smirk was audible in his voice, arrogant, daring you to push back.
with a shaky laugh and a gasp, he sat up and grabbed the waistband, tugging his scrub pants and boxers down in one motion. you stared at his cock. long, perfect, the tip exactly what you'd imagined. you reached out to feel it.
"oh my god…" you gasped.
he stiffened against you, a moan escaping, hips grinding once more as he watched you with dark, hungry eyes. "that's my girl," he said, voice dripping with command. "taking charge… i fucking love you."
you pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling, teasing, playful despite how desperate you felt. "don't tell me you don't like it when i have a bit of confidence," you teased, lips brushing his ear.
"i like it more than you know," he said, growling, hips rolling again, pressing every inch of his cock against your clit, making your chest and thighs quiver. "so fucking nasty… you're mine. all of you."
your hands roamed over him, memorizing the tension of his abs, the curve of his hips, every muscle flexing under your touch. he pressed his lips to your neck, shoulder, then back to yours, biting lightly, claiming, grinding into you like he owned every nerve, every gasp, every shiver.
"mm, you're making it impossible to stay still," you teased, wrapping your arms around his neck. "i think you've been holding out on me."
"holding out? me?" he laughed darkly, lips brushing yours in a heated kiss, teeth grazing, tongue daring yours. "i ve been saving this for you."
he grinded again, smirking at the sound of your moan, cock stiff and demanding against you. you rubbed your thumb against his face, breathless, dragging your hands along the ridges of his abs, reaching down to his cock to stroke him once.
"now… all mine too, huh?" you teased.
"that's my girl," he growled, hips pressing into yours with predatory rhythm, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding down to press into your thigh, brushing and pressing over your clit as your back arched. "so fucking wet for me… just how i imagined."
you bit your lip, teasing, pushing against him lightly. "don't get cocky now… i'm enjoying this too, you know."
"cocky?" he laughed, teeth grazing your shoulder as he pressed harder, grinding you into the mattress. "i think you're cock drunk."
"maybe i am," you whispered, voice shaky, hands clutching his shoulders as he pressed his full length against you. "dennis… hurry up and fuck me."
his grin was daring, possessive even. "you want it, now?" he rolled his hips again, thumb pressing tight over your clit, lips finding yours in a hungry, claiming kiss, tongue dancing with yours, teeth nipping.
he held you close, pressing into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, letting the tip of him drag along your wetness, teasing you, before shoving it back in your delicate hole. your breath hitched, hands clawing at his shoulders.
"dennis… fuck, you're so big," you gasped, arching into him.
he smirked, voice rough. "you think this is big?" he pressed slower, fingers grinding into your clit, and you couldn't help but moan against him. high and needy. his cock stretched you, and you felt a moan escape your mouth each time he shoved even a half inch further into you.
"dennis… oh god…" you gasped, hands tugging at the back of his neck, nails digging, teasing, needing. "that's so fucking… i can't-"
"can't what, baby?" he growled, smirk audible in his voice. "say it … tell me who you're for."
"can't take it all, den', i'm yours… all yours," you gasped, pressing into him, lips parting, heat curling low and high, wetness pooling thick.
his cock felt like it was hitting everything all at once, and you looked up in his big eyes. eyes that were typically full of sadness replaced with something hungry, something insatiable that you felt a desire to please. his hips moved in such an intricate way that you knew his studies of the female body weren't going to be wasted when it came to you. his mouth had felt good, but fucking hell, his cock was relief
"fuck… that's it," he said, hips grinding harder, pressing every inch into you, hands holding, cupping, claiming, thumb circling, rolling, teasing until your back arched and your legs shook. "so perfect… so fucking mine."
you whimpered, gasped, pressed up against him, wanting but needy. "dennis… don't stop… i'm close…"
"i'm not stopping," he growled, voice thick, chest pressing, muscles taut under your hands. "not until you're screaming my name… and even after that, baby. even after that."
he leaned down, mouth capturing yours again, a bruising, heated kiss. you felt the heat reach your core, and the fluids leak out once more. you sprayed onto him and moaned into his mouth.
"dennis, fuck… i can't… i'm…" you moaned. "i'm overstimulated…"
he groaned, pressing into you fully, following your rhythm, letting your cries echo in his chest as he came inside you, filling you completely, both of you riding the edge, crashing into climax together.
his mouth stayed on yours, lips bruising, teeth grazing, hands gripping your hips as you trembled together, bodies slick, hearts hammering, breaths tangled.
"fuck… you're incredible," he groaned, voice rough, lips moving back to yours, claiming, savoring every part of you.
you whimpered, forehead pressed to his, laughing breathlessly despite the overstimulation, arms tight around his neck. "holy fuck, oh god… good, dennis…"
he rolled onto his side slightly, keeping you flush against him, one hand sliding to cup your breast again, lips brushing over your shoulder, teasing, claiming, every motion intimate and possessive. "mine… all mine," he murmured, hips still grazing you gently as the aftershocks rolled through both of you, every groan and gasp a promise, every touch a claim.
you both lay there, chest to chest, bodies still hot, breaths slowly evening out. dennis' hand rested lightly on your hip, thumb brushing gentle, lazy circles across your skin. your fingers tangled in the curve of his shoulder, tracing the hard lines you'd been craving, but now with softness, with calm.
he pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, then along your temple, jaw, and shoulder, careful, intentional, as if memorizing you. "your body's so damn perfect," he whispered, voice low and quiet. "all of it."
you let out a soft laugh, curling closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest. "you're ridiculous," you murmured, a little breathless. "but i like… i like all of this."
"good," he said softly, nuzzling your neck. "because i'm not letting go anytime soon." his hands roamed slowly, caressing your sides, cupping your waist, letting the aftershocks fade into quiet intimacy.
you tilted your head to look at him, eyes soft, glimmering. "i… i like it too," you admitted, brushing a hand along his jaw. "even when you're… busy. i like it ."
dennis smiled, a quiet, gentle curve of his lips, the intensity softened into warmth. "really?" he teased, thumb stroking your collarbone. "even after… all that, you still manage to make me smile?"
"always," you whispered, calming but tender, reaching up to press a hand to his chest. "you make it easy."
he drew you fully into his arms, holding you close, letting you settle against him. "then we'll just stay like this," he murmured, voice soft and sure. "tonight… just you and me."
you pressed a kiss to his chest, lingering, letting the warmth of your bodies sink in , hearts gradually slowing. "i love you," you breathed softly.
"i love you too," he said, voice quiet but full, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "always."
you sighed contentedly, curling completely into him, legs draped over his, fingers running lightly through his hair. the room was still, intimate, filled only with the quiet of your shared warmth, the lingering traces of desire turned soft, tender, and perfect.
and there, wrapped together, bodies and hearts aligned, the world outside forgotten, you stayed. quiet, warm, and entirely each other's.
tagging my biggest supporter @str4wbsstuff #thanksforbeingthebest
summary : [fem x reader] you and mel king have been friends for eight months. you know her coffee order, you know the face she makes when she’s about to go on a rant, you know the way she laughs with her whole body. you’re going to a renaissance fair together. you’re so normal about it.
wc : 1.8k
cw : slowburn, PININGGG so much pining, fluff (?) yearning, slightly one sided/friends to lovers-ish, soft domesticity, internal monologue that’s totally not coping
The Renaissance fair was Mel’s idea, obviously.
It had started the way most things with Mel started — mid-shift, out of nowhere, while you were both charting at the nurses’ station and she was supposed to be focusing. She’d looked up from her tablet with that specific look she got, the one where something had just occurred to her and she was physically incapable of keeping it inside her body.
“Okay but have you ever been to a Renaissance fair.”
You don’t even think this was a question, hardly anything is when Mel starts speaking.
You hadn’t even looked up from your chart. “No.”
“Okay so.” She’d spun slightly in her chair to face you more fully, which was your first warning sign. The chair spin meant you were getting the full thing. “There’s one in Millvale, like forty minutes from here, and I’ve been looking at the vendor list and there’s a glassblower, there’s a falconer —”
“A falconer?”
“— a falconer, and there’s a whole jousting tournament and they do immersive theater throughout the grounds which honestly is either going to be amazing or so embarrassing it loops back around to amazing, and I really feel like this is something we should do.”
You’d looked at her then. She was already pulling something up on her phone, probably the website, probably already planning an itinerary. Eight months of knowing Mel King and you understood that resistance was largely decorative. You were going. You’d always been going.
“Are we doing costumes?” you’d asked.
The way her face had lit up should be classified as a hazard.
So that’s how you end up here, in Mel’s apartment on a Saturday morning that is frankly too early for how chaotic this already is, surrounded by approximately one explosion of fabric.
Her bedroom is a disaster. A loving, intentional disaster, but still. There are two garment bags hanging off her closet door, a basket of what she’d described as “period-accurate accessories, mostly” sitting on the bed, and Mel herself standing in the center of it all in her jeans and a bralette, holding up two different belts with a look of intense academic focus.
“Okay,” she says, not looking at you. “The braided one reads more peasant-folk and the leather one reads more like, roguish traveler. I’m trying to figure out which direction I’m committing to.”
You’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed, your own costume still in the bag because you’ve been here for twenty minutes and Mel has been narrating the entire time and you’ve been mostly just. Watching her. Which is a thing you’ve been accidentally doing a lot lately and are actively choosing not to examine.
“What’s the rest of the outfit?” you ask.
“Okay so —” she drops the belts on the bed and unzips the garment bag with a kind of ceremony, pulling out a deep green dress, linen, with billowy sleeves that lace at the wrist, a corseted bodice, and a hemline that would fall to mid-calf. It’s genuinely beautiful. She holds it up against herself. “I found it on Etsy, the shop does custom sizing, and I’ve been very normal about it for three months.”
“You’ve been very normal about it,” you repeat.
“I’ve thought about it every day,” she admits, completely without shame.
Something about that makes you smile in a way you have to press your lips together to contain. That’s Mel. That’s the whole thing with Mel, she doesn’t do anything halfway, doesn’t feel anything at a manageable volume. When she cares about something she cares about it the way other people breathe, automatic and constant and not really optional.
It was one of the first things you’d noticed about her, eight months ago. You’d been paired together on a case study, both of you hunched over the same table in the hospital library at some ungodly hour, and she’d started talking about the patient’s chart with this intensity that most people reserved for things they actually loved. Not performed enthusiasm. Real, inconvenient, overflowing interest. She’d looked up mid-sentence and caught you staring and said what and you’d said nothing, keep going and she had, and you’d sat there listening and thought privately, oh, this one’s going to be a problem.
You had been correct.
“Try it on,” you say, nodding at the dress.
She’s already pulling it on.
Getting the bodice laced is a whole thing. She does the front parts herself with practiced efficiency, which tells you this is not the first time she’s worn this specific type of garment, which is deeply unsurprising, and then she turns around and presents you with the back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Can you get that?”
You slide off the bed. Your fingers find the laces at the small of her back and you start working upward, slowly, pulling each cross snug. Her hair is loose right now, falling over one shoulder to make room, and there’s a strip of skin at the nape of her neck that you are pointedly not looking at.
You’re looking at it a little.
“So what’s your concept,” Mel says, because she cannot be in a room without filling it with words and honestly you think you’d be lost without that by now, the constant motion of her voice. “Like who are you going as.”
“I was thinking some kind of herbalist,” you say. “Or a healer.”
She turns her head slightly, even though you’re still lacing. “Okay that’s so on brand it’s almost annoying.”
“Says the woman dressed as a rogue.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain a whole Renaissance fair apparently.”
She laughs, and you feel it, the shift of her back under your hands, and you tie off the laces and take a very deliberate step back.
She turns around. The green of the dress does something significant to her eyes. The sleeves fall loose and lovely around her wrists and the whole silhouette of her is like something out of a painting and you are having a completely normal reaction to this, you’re fine, everything is fine.
“Well?” she asks. She does a little turn. Unselfconscious, easy, just genuinely wanting to know.
“You look —” you start, and then have to recalibrate because the first word that arrived was not one you’re prepared to say out loud yet. “Really good. The belt’s the leather one, by the way.”
She points at you. “Roguish traveler, I knew it.”
Your costume is easier to get into, which is both a relief and slightly unfair given the circumstances.
It’s a soft, dusty-rose overdress with wide sleeves and a simple tie at the waist, worn over a cream linen underdress, and you’d found a little leather satchel to carry that fits the whole healer-herbalist thing you’re going for. Mel had procured a small collection of dried flowers from somewhere, lavender, chamomile, a few sprigs of something she’d called “vibes-accurate,” and she’d tucked them into the satchel with great focus and ceremony while you were getting dressed.
Now you’re both standing in front of her bathroom mirror doing hair, which has become a collaborative project without anyone deciding that.
She’s doing something intricate with hers, a loose braid with little sections pulled out to frame her face, and she keeps making small adjustments and then second-guessing them, and you’ve already done yours mostly but you’re still standing there because you’re helping hold a pin, or at least that’s why you’ve told yourself you’re still standing there.
“Okay and then I want to do yours,” she says, glancing at you in the mirror.
“Mine’s basically done.”
“I know but I want to put some of the flowers in it.” She meets your eyes in the mirror, briefly, and something in her expression is soft in a way that makes your chest do something embarrassing. “If that’s okay. It would look really pretty.”
The word pretty coming from her mouth in reference to you does something to you that you’re going to have to deal with privately, at a later date, in the dark.
“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”
So you stand there while she works small dried flowers into your hair, her hands careful, occasionally tilting your head gently with two fingers at your jaw to get a better angle. You’re looking at the mirror. At her face while she focuses. She has that expression she gets when something matters to her , brow slightly furrowed, bottom lip caught just barely between her teeth, the same face she makes going over a patient’s chart, the same face she makes when she’s explaining something she loves, the same face you’ve memorized completely without intending to.
“Can I ask you something,” you say.
“Mm.” She’s focused. There’s a lavender sprig in her hand.
“How did we end up like this.” You don’t totally know what you mean when you say it. You mean at a Renaissance fair. You also might mean something else.
She looks at your reflection. “What do you mean?”
“Like —” you try to find the version of this that’s safe to say. “Eight months ago I hardly knew you and now you’re putting flowers in my hair at eight in the morning on a Saturday.”
Something moves across her face, was she blushing? you held in a smile.
“I think,” she says, carefully, going back to the flowers, “that we just fit.” A pause. “Like, I don’t know. Some people you meet and it’s just… it makes sense. That they’re in your life.”
You look at her in the mirror. She’s not looking back, focused on the last pin, but there’s color at the top of her cheekbones that wasn’t there before.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “It does.”
She smooths a piece of your hair back. Steps back to assess. Something about the way she looks at you then, she’s so… unhurried, like she’s got all the time in the world, like she’s looking at something that matters, god you might be delusional.
“There,” she says. Her voice is a little different. “Perfect.”
You look at yourself in the mirror. At the flowers in your hair. At her standing just behind your shoulder, still watching.
And you think, with the specific desperation of someone who has been thinking it for a while and is running out of room to put it — I think I’m in love with you.
You think it and you don’t say it. You turn around and smile at her instead, and she grins back, and she grabs her leather belt off the counter and says okay let’s go, I want to get there before the joust starts, and you follow her out the door.
You don’t say it.
But you almost do, when she reaches back without looking and takes your hand as you’re walking down the stairs — just to pull you along, just because she’s excited, and she says come on, come on, and your heart does something loud and inconvenient in your chest.
dededos
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