cassie isn’t sure how she got dragged into this dick measuring contest with yolanda but she certainly knows she’s in one when she pulls vic’s top over her head and sees the litany of hickies across her chest
jesus christ, she really did a number on you cassie murmurs, fingers tracing them as vic continues to grind against the leg slotted between her thighs. what did she do to you this time baby?
vic knows how this goes, that the two of them get off on hearing what the other did to her. and god knows it makes her wet too, now only if the pair of them could get over whatever forced nonchalance they have about the whole thing so they could fuck her together
e-edged me, she squeaks as cassie palms roughly at her tits through her bra. made me beg, until i cried, fuck cass, think she might’ve taken some photos too
mhm really, cassie makes a mental note to ask for them later, then another note to make sure she takes some photos or even a video to share back, maybe tonight she’ll keep vic held down on her strap til she gets some tears of her own.
or maybe she’ll see how many times she can get the girl to cum before she taps out. she thinks yolanda would like to hear about that, how she made vic so exhausted and spent, brain soupy with pleasure that she could barely form a sentence by the end of it
pissing tf out of vic just so you can be femmehandled and used like a toy 😵💫
i know she'd punish you and make you fuck yourself on her strap when she's feeling really mean :( would be so rough with her kisses, would femmehandle you on the bed, rip your clothes off and make you suck her strap, only to tell you to get on her lap and ruin yourself. she won't do any of the work. she'll just lie back and tease you for being so needy, mocking you for purposefully getting under her skin just so you can get fucked hard.
but when she takes the bait....you have this huge grin on your face while you're thrown over her shoulder, being carried to the bed. honestly, when she's pissed the fuck off by your brattiness, she doesn't even care that you can't keep up the fake charade and pretend to be oblivious about why she's so angry. she doesn't care about that little smile on your face while she femmehandles you on the bed, forcing you into whatever position she wants to fuck you in.
maybe across her lap, so she can spank you until your ass is sore and you're crying.
maybe in a mating position, where she'll bully her strap inside with barely any prep, telling you to shut up when you whine in pain.
in missionary, so she can pound her strap into you while grunting in your face, voice shaking while she tells you that this is what you get when you piss her off.
vic fucking you dumb but still making you apologize to her :( you've had countless orgasms, you're drooling all over yourself, her strap is moving inside of you slowly, and she's telling you to use your words and apologize to her. she'll grip your chin tightly and tut at you. "uh-uh. fucking speak. use your words. i wanna hear you apologize to me."
taunting her and getting so turned on when she suddenly turns to you and glares, voice deep and mean while she says, "don't fucking test me. i'm not in the mood right now."
thinking about how she'd probably thank you after a rough fucking because she feels much better after a stressful shift :( collapsing on top of you, holding you down with her weight, breathing heavily while telling you that she feels much better. kisses much softer, touches much gentler.
pissing tf out of vic just so you can be femmehandled and used like a toy 😵💫
i know she'd punish you and make you fuck yourself on her strap when she's feeling really mean :( would be so rough with her kisses, would femmehandle you on the bed, rip your clothes off and make you suck her strap, only to tell you to get on her lap and ruin yourself. she won't do any of the work. she'll just lie back and tease you for being so needy, mocking you for purposefully getting under her skin just so you can get fucked hard.
but when she takes the bait....you have this huge grin on your face while you're thrown over her shoulder, being carried to the bed. honestly, when she's pissed the fuck off by your brattiness, she doesn't even care that you can't keep up the fake charade and pretend to be oblivious about why she's so angry. she doesn't care about that little smile on your face while she femmehandles you on the bed, forcing you into whatever position she wants to fuck you in.
maybe across her lap, so she can spank you until your ass is sore and you're crying.
maybe in a mating position, where she'll bully her strap inside with barely any prep, telling you to shut up when you whine in pain.
in missionary, so she can pound her strap into you while grunting in your face, voice shaking while she tells you that this is what you get when you piss her off.
vic fucking you dumb but still making you apologize to her :( you've had countless orgasms, you're drooling all over yourself, her strap is moving inside of you slowly, and she's telling you to use your words and apologize to her. she'll grip your chin tightly and tut at you. "uh-uh. fucking speak. use your words. i wanna hear you apologize to me."
taunting her and getting so turned on when she suddenly turns to you and glares, voice deep and mean while she says, "don't fucking test me. i'm not in the mood right now."
thinking about how she'd probably thank you after a rough fucking because she feels much better after a stressful shift :( collapsing on top of you, holding you down with her weight, breathing heavily while telling you that she feels much better. kisses much softer, touches much gentler.
licking down her happy trail before eating her out, seeing it poke over the edge of her strap plate in missionary..or even 👀👀 mating position
cassie with a thick bush because she doesn’t shave…guh
- 🚬
cassie....happy trail...stomach pouch 🤤🤤🤤
cassie in her boxers and bra in the morning, making herself something to eat, happy trail on display for you to drool over. coming up behind her and whispering sweet nothings into her ear while you trace your fingers up and down her happy trail, messing with the loose skin on her stomach 🤤
cuddling with cassie in bed, cassie grumbling and swatting your hand away while you keep lowering her boxers because you just wanna play with her happy trail and bush :( not even sexually. you just like putting your fingers in there and tugging on her hair.
guhhh....tugging her forward by her happy trail @__@ it's poking out of the strap plate, she's teasing you with her butchcock, and you just need her to sink all the way inside :( !! tugging it between your fingers while she has you in a mating press, keeping her flush against you.
yanking her forward by her thick ass bush 👀 it gets her hissing in pleasure. makes her dripping wet. she's ready to drop to her knees and be your good butch if you tug on her body hair.
kissing her happy trail, dragging your tongue down her hairy stomach while your fingers are tangled in her bush. nuzzling your nose into her happy trail, inhaling her scent and getting dizzy from how good she smells. her natural scent plus her arousal @__@
faceful of older woman bush 🤤 that's the dream. always begging her to ride your face, being in heaven while your nose is in her bush and pussy.
her bush being so thick that it makes a little bulge in her boxers....
cassie threatening her partner with shaving her stomach hair if they act up </3
"Sorry, are you telling me no one has made you come… EVER??" Trinity gaped, eyes wide.
Emma laughed awkwardly, blushing as everyone in the booth stared at her. "I mean… I've only dated two guys. The first, we were both 16 and had no idea what we were doing. And the second one turned out to…well—turned out he wasn't really a great guy in general, so no. No one has really put in the time, I guess."
"Fuck. You've gotta try women," Trinity laughed, slumping back against the seat and downing a swig of beer. "I promise you they'd take the time."
"Hey, I'm sure there are guys who would take the time!" Victoria pouted.
"Not the point," Cassie smirked, long fingers messing with the condensation ring around her water. "Trinity's right. Some guys might do the job. But any self-respecting lady lover is going to get it right or die trying."
"Drown trying," Trinity cackled, taking another pull. Then, leaned forward at Emma in sudden excitement. "Dude. We should totally find you someone to do the do. Break the ice on the river O or whatever." Grinned wickedly. "Come on, Nolan. I’ve seen our common likes on Insta. There is way too much Hannah Einbender for you to be totally straight. What’s your type??"
Emma choked an anxious giggle, taking a sip of her (delightfully) over-sweet Dirty Shirley. "…I don’t know. I mean… at this point, I’d take anyone home. I just need someone who can actually—"
She cut herself off, realizing what she was about to admit.
But Trinity had picked up on it anyway, eyes alight in glee. "So, it could be literally any woman? It’s just a matter of skill?? Bet. Give me five minutes." And then she was out of the booth like a rocket, Emma left staring in her wake.
"What is she…?"
"Something outrageous, I imagine," Victoria sighed, slumping against Cassie who looked down in surprise—but wrapped a kind arm around her anyway.
"Have you ever dated anyone, Tori?" Emma asked, still truly getting to know a lot of these women. "It must have been hard, entering college so early. And don’t you still live at home?"
"Oh," Victoria said flushing, eyes flickering up at Cassie before returning back across the table. "Um… no. I was always so focused on school, and— I mean, I’m still doing my rotations and— I would, obviously, but—"
"So… have you never—?"
But Trinity was back, dragging two women in tow, looking like mischief personified.
"Michigan, this is Vivian and Emery."
"I… know?" Emma said confused. "I literally work with you all?"
"Vivian, Emery, this is Emma Nolan," Trinity continued anyway. "Emma here has never had a successful orgasm with a partner."
Lord have mercy—
Emma wondered if there was a fire alarm she could hit somewhere. Trinity was a one woman hazard and Emma’s face was hot enough to warrant the action.
"She has stated her willingness—dare I say, her need— to be taken home by someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing with a lady," Trinity rolled on.
I mean. Technically true, Emma granted though she would have gone about this any other way.
"Emma, all four of us—"
"—wait, four?" Emma sputtered.
"Duh," Trinity laughed. "Cassie is among the greats."
"Jesus Christ," Cassie groaned, hand dragging down her face.
"Yes, precisely. I’m sure you hear that all the time," Trinity grinned, winking at the older woman. "Moaned at you from above while you—"
"Get to the point, Santos," Cassie bit out, face flushing a startling pink, eyes looking anywhere but at the med student under her arm who was staring up in surprise.
"The point," Trinity emphasized, "is that we are all going to give our most compelling qualification and then you, Emma, can choose who wins! Huzzah!" Then she threw her hands up in the air with a grin.
"Wait—are you saying you would actually have sex with me?" Emma choked, confused. "Like… I say I need an orgasm so you’re gathering volunteers for the job?"
"You’re a babe. Literally any of us would volunteer as tribute. Tell me I’m wrong," Trinity looked around for confirmation.
Nurse Vivi laughed, decidedly at ease with everything occurring. "I certainly wouldn’t complain." She smiled at Emma. "Obviously only if you wanted. But…hell yeah."
"Insufficient, Mandel. You gotta give your pitch."
Vivian’s laugh was like bells. Light, and charming and—
Fuck, Emma might actually be in for this insanity.
"Okay," Vivi said. "Emma," she looked at her, putting on the charm. "I once made a girlfriend come twelve times in twenty-four hours. And, I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue."
Trinity mimed taking up a microphone. "Impressive credentials indeed, Nurse Vivi! But let’s see what’s waiting behind door number two! Dr. Walsh, tell us, what talents lie behind a surgeon’s fingers?"
Emery’s eyes closed, head shaking back and forth as if praying for patience. Finally, she opened them again, finding Trinity’s "microphone" still there before her mouth. She smacked it down with a hand and a scowl—Trinity completely unbothered. Then Emery turned to Emma. "To be clear, I did not know what Trinity was roping me into," she said, looking apologetic. "But," she swallowed, wetting her lips before letting them quirk in the corners, "it is still a true fact that I would be very happy if I were to take you home."
Emma still felt like her face was on fire.
She could barely believe this was real life right now.
But…
Aren’t you not supposed to look a sex horse in the mouth or something?
"And if you were to sell me on it…?" Emma’s voice cracked trying for cool and flirty. (God, she had no idea what she was doing, but fuck if she wasn’t starting to get wet just at the thought of all of this).
Emery smirked, chin lifting confidently. "I do grip strength training daily. My hands are capable of things you couldn’t dream of." And then she held one up, spreading the fingers out wide with a wiggle.
Her fingers—
Emma’s whole body went hot now.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Her head was rushing with noise, like pounding surf or something equally concussive and—
But Trinity was moving once again, fake microphone fist now before a no-longer blushing Cassie.
"Mckay, tell us why Emma deserves a milf for her big night."
If anything, Cassie looked confident. For the first time this whole night as resident DD, she looked like she was exactly where she wanted to be.
And she was staring across the table at Emma. Heatedly.
"Well…I can’t say I expected this to happen. But if you’re looking for proven experience… I’ve been making women come since you were born, little girl. And if you let me take you home and get out my strap, I can show you just how well I treat a little girl on my lap."
To hell with pounding surf. Emma’s brain was just blue screen buzz. Total blankness.
Cassie’s strap—
Sitting on Cassie’s lap and—
Cassie’s thighs and her belly and her STRAP—
She—
"And last but not least, your very own Trinity Santos is here to say, not only do I—"
"—WHAT is going on here?!"
Emma flinched out of her haze, heart pounding at the inherent command in the voice.
Dana. It was Dana. Of course it was.
"And why does my lamb look like she’s about to pass out?!" The blonde stood with her hands on her hips, radiating dissatisfaction. "Speak up. Quickly, Santos."
Trinity, barely cowed when sober let alone four drinks in, just cackled. "Your 'little lamb' here is simply picking which lucky lady gets to take her home and give her her first Big O. Turns out men and toys can’t do the job, and she’s ready to try the fairer side of things. We’ve got cherry tongue, finger-builder, and strap mommy over here," Trinity was pointing as she went, "but ¿Por qué no los tres? Know what I mean?" She leered comically, giving Emma a hearty wink with her performance. "I can assure you, once you go Pinoy you never go—"
"Emma, with me," Dana cut in, flipping a thumb over her shoulder.
There was nothing in Emma that could ever defy the woman.
Frankly, nothing in her that had ever wanted to, either.
Emma slid out of the booth obediently, following the woman several paces away, the blonde leaning down to whisper in her ear—
"What do you think they’re saying?" Emery asked, saying the words they were all thinking as they watched the two women speak out of ear shot.
Dana had a hand on Emma’s shoulder, mouth up close to her ear —probably just to be heard in the crowded bar— as Emma listened, nodding. Said something back, face flushing.
"Probably just checking that Emma’s okay with everything. Dana’s fierce over that kid. Practically ripped Robbie a new one last time he snapped at her," Cassie said, equally caught by the scene. (And unawares of the heated glare from a certain med student which had been permanently afixed to her face ever since Cassie had given Emma that little speech).
"She’s not drunk right? Emma, I mean?" Vivi asked, glancing at the woman who’d dragged her over here in the first place. "You’re sure she wants this?
"No, no," Trinity assured, waving a hand. "Only the one drink and she’s been nursing it for at least an hour. Besides, you saw her—she was playing along. Girl needs a lady-dicking, bad. We streamed Jennifer’s Body last weekend with Dennis and I thought Emma was gonna cum on the couch just from watching."
"Cassie, what did you mean when—" but Victoria’s breathy little voice was cut off when Dana stalked back over, jaw set and eyes alight.
"Emma’s purse please."
Trinity snagged it easily from the booth, passing it over. "Is she good? Honestly, we were mostly playing, but I think she seriously needs some—"
"—Emma will be coming home with me, thank you very much," Dana said.
There was a beat…
And then Trinity’s jaw dropped, eyeing the slow-growing smirk upon Dana’s face. "…You mean…?"
"She won’t be needing any of your services tonight," the blonde drawled, posture turning languid and satisfied. "I can give her anything she needs."
"Fuck…" Emery let out in a little awed gasp, wide eyes snapping to Emma, still across the room. "Jesus, that’s hot," barely audible, following in quick succession.
Emma who was squirming, thighs shifting back and forth as she waited, gaze planted firmly upon Dana’s back, lower lip tucked into the dark of her mouth, sucking.
She looked…
Well.
Trinity could tell that this was one competition she wasn’t going to win. She faked a bow at Dana instead: "Teach me your ways, oh sensei."
Dana just snorted, turning to look at Cassie instead. "You good to get these ones home?"
Cassie nodded, fishing her keys from her pocket and giving them a shake. "Yeah, I’ve got Trin, Vic, and Dennis—'less he’s spoken for already."
"Ask Robbie. Saw them chatting over by the darts."
Cassie shot a thumbs up. Then, grinned. "…Have fun tonight."
The answering grin was pure carnivore. "Oh, believe me. I will." And then she was walking away, pressing a hand to Emma’s back (who was staring up at her with an adoring, disbelieving gaze), and walking them out the door.
"…What I wouldn’t give…" Trinity breathed, grabbing her beer and downing the last gulps. Then, looked at the two standing woman. "Either of y’all wanna…?"
"Yeah, let me grab my keys," Emery said.
"Ooh, me too?" Vivi asked, bopping on her toes.
"More the merrier," Trinity laughed, grabbing her coat. "Let’s steal some cherries from the bar 'for we go. Yo. Emery. What do you use for your grip exercises? I’m still trying to get that surgery rotation and maybe if I…"
The conversation faded as the three women walked away, leaving Cassie and Victoria at the table. Cassie took a final sip of her water and sighed, releasing the tension of the night.
"Looks like it’s just you and me, Vic," she shrugged, smiling easily. "I’m dropping you at your folks right? Feeling ready, or are you wanting one more before the road?"
Victoria, face doing something new and unreadable, just stared at her.
Cassie tilted her head. "Are you… good?"
Victoria stared.
Inhaled.
Then...
Nodded, as if having reached some long awaited decision.
"Take me to your car, Cassie. And then you and me… we’re gonna have a talk."
Warnings / Tags : (18 +) age gap, pervy!Baran (Baran catches reader changing, staring at her cleavage etc.), nipple play (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), mirror sex
Notes : okay yes this is more of a drabble than headcanons. i don’t give a gaf im calling it what i want…
also picturing Baran w/ this vibe for all of this bc it’s summer:
Mom's friend!Baran who nurses a bloody mary for an hour at least while standing on your family’s back patio, watching her son run around with one of your Aunt’s kids. It's a warm summer day, with the smell of hot dogs and burgers wafting over to where a group of your family friends stands around your porch. She’s smiling softly, watching the kids fill up water guns to spray each other with… when she hears everyone greeting someone new. She turns slowly, expecting another one of your mom’s friends to walk through the door. Her eyes widen when she sees this young, maybe college-age girl with a bright smile, short denim shorts and a tank top, bikini peeking out, walking out. And, god, you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous. Baran is never one to stare… but she can’t take her eyes off of you.
Mom's friend!Baran who actually has to pause when she sees your mom stand up, giving you a big hug, saying;
“I’m so glad you could make it, honey. Say hi to everyone.”
Honey. Oh shit. Her daughter. Baran swallows hard, looking down at the bloody mary as she straightens up. She cannot be thinking about her best friend’s daughter that way. She’s literally old enough to be your mom. Her head only snaps up when she realizes your mom is doing introductions.
“And this is Baran. She's a doctor!”
Baran manages a smile.
“It’s nice to meet you.” She musters, voice sounding a little more tense than normal. When you give her a sweet smile back and wave, she gives a tight lipped smile and, all of a sudden, starts chugging her bloody mary like it’s her lifeline.
Mom's friend!Baran who can’t take her eyes off you all day. While you’re talking about your studies, she’s listening ardently, as if you’re recounting the story of some big adventure. You’re smart. It makes it only that much harder for Baran to keep herself in check.
Mom's friend!Baran who spots you with her son while all of your mom’s friends are busy chatting about the coming school year. She just sees you hitting around a volleyball… but god. It’s unfair how good you look, laughing, body slick with a thin layer of sweat from the hot sun, running around with her son like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her thoughts are muddled, a terrible mix of desire and this unbearable feeling of domesticity. Then you bend over—ass up, cleavage on full display, trying to keep the ball from hitting the ground. Baran nearly lets out a stupidly desperate moan.
“Baran? Hey, everything alright?”
One of your mom’s other friends snaps her out of the trance she was in, causing her to remember where she is. Who she’s with.
“Yeah. Fine. Just… thinking about the school year.”
Her answer prompts an immediate conversation with the group about back-to-school shopping. Baran lets out a small sigh of relief and turns her chair fully away from where you’re still laughing and hitting that ball around with her son.
Mom's friend!Baran who ends up getting in a one-on-one conversation with you and struggles to focus. Her eyes keep flicking down to your cleavage. She feels guilty every time. She knows you’re just some college student—young, inexperienced… but the thought flashes through her head that you being younger than her might just be part of her being so attracted to you. She shakes the thought away immediately. Everything about you just distracts her.
After Baran’s bloody mary… and another hard soda and a half, she actually gets the confidence to act on a silly, stupid impulse.
“You’ve got something…” She reaches forward, brushing away a stray leaf that had fallen into your hair, and tucking a loose curl behind your ear. She catches, for a flash of a second, a warm flush on your cheeks while you smile and thank her. Baran swallows hard, eyes flickering down to your lips for the briefest of moments. She considers leaning in and kissing you at that moment. Ultimately, she does however realize how stupid that would be, so she drops her hands, pulls her eyes back up to yours and smiles softly.
Mom's friend!Baran who helps settle her son in with the other kids for a movie as the afternoon goes on. The sun is at its highest now, beating down on the patio, warming even the shaded spots. When Baran emerges, she sees your mom’s other friends around the table, sharing Pittsburgh gossip… and you. Top off, shorts dangling on the side of the lounge chair, clad in just a small, butter yellow bikini. She doesn’t mean to be a total pervert, but she nearly salivates when she sees the bikini that’s been peeking out under your clothes all day. She’s just about to scold herself internally and go back over to the other moms when she sees you applying sunscreen. She runs a hand through her curls, considering what she’s gonna do… and, on an impulse, walks right over to you.
“It’s good to see that some people your age still know how to use sunscreen.”
She remarks as she steps over to you, adjusting her dark red tank top.
“I could help you put it on… if you’d like?”
You practically beam up at her.
“That would be amazing. I can’t reach my back at all.”
You hand her the sunscreen bottle, adjusting yourself on the lounge chair so your back is to her. Baran’s eyes flicker to the curve of your ass. She needs to get a grip.
“It’s no problem.”
She takes a seat on the side of the chair, squirting the sunscreen into her hand. When her fingers make contact with your warm, soft skin, she nearly moans again. Her hands start slowly gliding up your back, spreading the protective layer with gentle pressure, taking in the opportunity to feel as much of your soft skin as possible. Your shoulders relax when her hands press carefully into the muscles of your upper back—massaging with the careful steadiness of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing, someone who knows the human body like the back of her hand. The soft noise that escapes your lips, just because of how good she can make something as simple as this feel, makes Baran tense. If she had any self control, she’d finish this up quickly and go back to talking with your mom. Instead, she continues, hands gliding down, to your lower back, lower, over your ass—although you can feel how her touch lightens over the sensitive area, careful to not go far—and down to your thighs. She falters again, hands involuntarily squeezing the plush, soft skin there. Her cheeks flush when she realizes what she did. Her hands linger for a moment, unable to pull away. It takes a whole lot of self control for her to finish spreading the sunscreen down your legs and finally put some distance between you two.
“There.” Baran clears her throat, giving you a tight, small smile as she stands. Her hands nervously rub against her thighs. “I… I should go.”
Mom's friend!Baran who just keeps turning to watch you sunbathing every few minutes. She can imagine your skin getting warmer, how it would feel to wrap her arms around you, nuzzle her face into your thighs… she can’t get the thought out of her head.
Mom's friend!Baran who considers following you inside when she sees you get up and wave to everyone, saying that you’re gonna go shower to cool off a bit. Instead she just waves, making eye contact with you for a moment. A very long, drawn out moment. She watches your smile as you look at her… then turn to just go inside.
Mom's friend!Baran who only comes back inside when the sun is setting, letting her little infatuation with you go for now. She asks your mom for directions to the bathroom as she stands, adjusting that tank top again.
“There’s one upstairs, second door to the left.”
She explains, receiving a hum and soft smile from Baran.
Baran wanders back in and takes a moment to look at her son—now playing with some of his dinosaur toys—in the living room. Her expression softens before she heads upstairs.
As she steps onto the second floor, she pauses. Crap. What did your mom say again? First door to the right? Or was it the third? Maybe the second door to the… left? Yeah. That must’ve been it. She steps over and opens the door without a second thought.
Oh fuck. Standing there is you, wearing absolutely nothing, clasping your bra in the mirror. Definitely not a bathroom. This is your bedroom from before you left for college… where you’re staying… and where you’re currently changing with wet hair while standing in front of the mirror.
Mom's friend!Baran who can only muster up a soft “Oh.” upon seeing you. She just… stands there, dark brown eyes wide and hand gripping the doorframe too tightly. You turn quickly, bra in hand, eyes going wide. Baran’s cheeks flush.
“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t—“
“Wait.” You stop her before she turns to leave the room. You bite your lip and Baran has the urge to pull it away so she can do it instead. “I… I need help clasping this anyway. Can you…?” You come up with a half-assed excuse. Baran blinks a few times, mouth opening… then closing… then opening again. She has no clue what to say.
Baran just nods fervently. She steps into the room, letting the door swing shut behind her. Her hands hover in front of her as she approaches, eyes on yours like she’s waiting for permission to touch you. Her hands land slowly, carefully on your hips, gently tugging you close to her.
“Turn around.”
She instructs softly. Even now, it sounds like she’s holding back. Even when she’s getting the confidence to guide you, to place her hands on your hips and turn you towards your mirror to get a better look at you, she’s careful and somehow steady.
Mom's friend!Baran who stares at you in the mirror while her hands roam over your body—starting from your hips, moving up until she finally gets to the lace of your bra. She could be helpful and clasp it, let this go and act somewhat normal. But she sees your breathing get heavier when her hands move over the lace… so she instead slides her fingers under, gently guiding the fabric down, straps down your arms until you’re left bare in front of her.
Mom's friend!Baran whose curly hair tickles your skin as her hands move up to cup your breasts. A small, almost imperceptible smile forms on her lips as she pulls a soft sound from you just from barely brushing your nipple with her thumb.
“You’re sensitive.”
She remarks. Not mocking, just observing. Her voice comes out soft and low, almost with awe.
Mom's friend!Baran who kisses down your neck and shoulder slowly. One hand continues to knead your tits, pinching and rolling your nipple between her fingers just to hear the small sounds that come from your lips. Her other hand begins trailing down, fingers ghosting over your skin as she makes her way between your legs. She absolutely revels in the gasp that she hears when two of her fingers finally drift between your legs, finally pressing against your clit.
Mom's friend!Baran who fingers you soooo slow. she takes her time with you, fingers sliding through your slick, taking in your every reaction. Her fingers press and circle your clit with just barely enough pressure to make you feel it. When her fingers slip away again, she stares into the mirror, watching your slick clinging to her fingers. She lets out an audible moan, unrestrained this time.
Mom's friend!Baran who pushes her fingers into you while keeping eye contact in the mirror, watching every twist of your face as two of her fingers push into your drooling pussy, stretching it out just so. Her fingers crook into you, pulling another moan out when she presses right against that perfect spot. Her eyes go wide. Now that she knows where you’re sensitive, now that she finally has her hands on you, there is no doubt she’s going to keep hitting that spot as much as she can. And she does. With precision only a doctor could have, Baran’s fingers press into you—into that soft, sensitive spot—with almost gentle thrusts. Even now, she’s making sure she doesn’t overwhelm you, and doesn't hurt you in any way.
Mom's friend!Baran whose breath stutters when your head drops back against her shoulder, pussy walls clenching, warm and wet, around her digits. You were tight when she first slid her fingers into you… but now? As you’re getting closer, pleasure builds low and hot in your gut, the way you clench around her? It has her feeling like she might just cum in her pants. She doesn’t slow by any means. Her fingers piston in and out of your cunt, while she takes in every wet sound and every moan, pressing desperate kisses along your shoulders.
Mom's friend!Baran whose eyes you swear darken when she watches you cum on her fingers in the mirror. The sight of you twitching, legs feeling like jelly, her arm around you being the only thing keeping you up makes her moan again. Her fingers begin to slow, still curling into your cunt carefully while you come down from your high. She presses a kiss against your shoulder, muttering something about how good you did for her. Her curls brush against your neck as her fingers finally slow, causing you to let out a soft laugh. It’s infectious. Partially because the sound is adorable to Baran, and partly because she realizes how absurd this is. She just fucked her best friend’s daughter—who’s still in college, probably 20 years younger than her—and doesn’t feel sorry about it at all. She just feels so stupidly adoring. She wants to hold you and not let go. She wants to feel your mouth on her, wants to taste you. She wants it all.
Mom's friend!Baran who holds you while you catch your breath, then immediately starts picking up your clothes for you, bra first, then the outfit you’d laid out earlier. You watch her with a look of slight confusion.
“You know I can do that on my own, right?”
You ask just as she’s bringing over the pile of your clothes. She just smiles at you, almost smugly.
“I know. Just let me help you a little, okay?”
She sounds… fondly annoyed at your stubbornness. Carefully, she turns you back around to he’s ether mirror, grabbing your bra and helping you pull it back on, just like you’d asked her to do before she’d come in and shaken up your entire world. Baran notices the way you stare at her in the mirror for a moment.
“That is, unless you want your mom to see how beautiful you look after cumming on my fingers?”
She asks sarcastically, that smug smile only spreads wider. Her cheeks flush just the slightest bit, like she still can’t believe any of that actually happened. That she could be that lucky.
Mom's friend!Baran who presses one final kiss to your bare shoulder before helping you pull your top on. She places her hands on your waist, smiling at you in the mirror like she’s just not ready to pull away.
“You should come over sometime. I’ll cook dinner, you can play with my son. It’ll be nice.”
She says softly, almost hesitantly, like she’s afraid you’ll brush her off when she’s finally offering herself up like this.
“I would love that.”
That response makes Baran let out a sigh of relief. Her smile widens—genuine and bright in a way that she rarely lets people see.
“Good.”
Mom's friend!Baran who leaves the house with her son asleep in her arms, hugging your mom goodbye. Just as she’s about to go, she finds you one more time. Quickly, after checking to make sure your mother wasn’t there, she gives you a peck on the lips.
“I’ll call you.”
She mutters, grinning as she walks back to the car.
“I’ll be waiting.”
You respond, watching as she huffs a small laugh and clicks the door open, gently slotting her son in his car seat. When Baran glances at you one last time, something in her expression tells you “i’ll call you” isn’t some way of saying “let’s
cassie arrives with your favourite beverage, iced. holding a little brown paper bag with the local cafes stamped logo on the front. she looks around for you, though it doesn’t take her long to find you.
you about to start an IV when you feel eyes on you. she’s wearing her scrubs underneath a brown jacket and her hair is down, for now.
she smiles at you and shakes the bag a little. she can tell you’re you’re busy and she points to the break room. i’ll meet you in there, she mouths and you nod before continuing treating the sedated patient.
“your girlfriend brought you snacks?” whitaker spoke up from his side of the patient, treating multiple abrasions on his leg. “lucky, i for-“
“she’s not my girlfriend” you reply, not looking away from the task at hand. whittaker muttered a very quick “oh” as his hands continued to work on the patient.
“but you want her to be” trinity’s voice came from behind you. she wasn’t quiet, it was lucky that none of the attendings were supervising.
you couldn’t bring yourself to reply. looking up, you saw trinity’s mouth slightly agape.
“oh my god you do. i just thought you wanted to sleep with her but..you really like her don’t you?” trinity’s expression softens. “shit, huckleberry are you good here? she’s gotta go see mckay.”
“yep,” he looks up at you. you give him a you sure? look before he adds “go”
thank you, you mouth to him as you move past the curtain. “trin?”
“hm?”
“i’ll text you later, please do not say a word.” you plead.
she nods quickly before miming a zipped lip and thrown away key. you moved back into the bustling ED, making a beeline for the staff lounge.
“you probably shouldn’t talk about her business in front of parents” whittaker muttered.
“he’s sedated,” she shrugged.
“say a word about what?” dana’s voice found your ears with a tone that-
suddenly your hip collided with the corner of a gurney. “christ almighty!”you groaned, stepping towards the work station in the middle of the ED, clutching your side.
“hon you gotta watch where you’re goin’” dana eyed you. “you alright?” she said, looking over her glasses.
“fine,” you huff. “i’m gonna take 10. just in the break room.”
“figured you might,” her voice quiet as she smirked.
you walked off into the break room and found cassie enjoying her last few minutes before her shift started with a coffee in hand. yours set on the table in front of her with the paper bag beside it. she perked up as you opened the door and made eye contact with her.
“can’t tell you how bad i need this,” you pulled the chair out and sat next to her. she pushed the cup closer to you. maybe unnecessarily but she wanted an excuse to smile at you again.
“you’re not making a compelling case for me to not escape unseen,” she said before taking another sip of her drink.
“oh you’re not allowed to leave me alone here,” you shake your head with a smile. “it’s bad enough you started later than usual.”
“harrison has a school trip today, he wanted me to drop him off”
cassie liked to watch you. not in a creepy way, in a way that she was admiring you. how you always seemed to make her smile. you reached for the paper bag, and peeked inside.
“god you really are the best,” you tore at the paper bag partially to use it as a makeshift plate and gently tore into the pastry.
“he’s actually being picked up by my dad afterwards and staying the night. so i was wondering…” cassie didn’t know that while her heart was pounding, yours was too. “do you want to go to dinner with me?”
for a split second you were afraid to make eye contact with her. did she really just ask you that?
“like a date,” she adds. and your eyes found hers. they were hopeful. cassie wasn’t sure what she was in yours at first. “a proper one. no interruptions.”
your lips curved. you tried to keep your cool but the redness of your cheeks were giving you away. cassie made note of this.
“i’d like that,” you took another sip of your drink to try to distract from the smile that was beginning to take up half of your face.
“you’re done at 5 right?” you nod with a mhm. “so i’ll pick you up at 7?”
“okay,” you replied, you voice somewhat quieter than before.
“i should get started,” she stood from the table and quickly finished the last sip of her drink. “heard there were 2 crashes on the other side of the city. got a bad feeling it’s one of those days for us.” she dropped the paper cup into the trash and opened the door. “see you out there, sweetheart.”
a/n: no smau portion today and apparently this is now a 4 parter. someone help me end this it’s becoming a series !
I sent a thought earlier now i have another 😭 (im sorry, i like to daydreaming)
Anyways, this may be the prequel of my thoughts earlier or after they’re officially in relationship. Okay so, i was listening to fallingforyou by the 1975 and i think about how soft cassie is with reader and cassie is still a shy beann! (the tensionnnn) she brushed reader’s hair so softly when they playfully slow dance in a living room after reader help cassie clean her house after harrison birthday party (so just both of them left)
Then, when reader admiring her face so closely, Cassie feels so aware of herself and said “you must be disgusted with my woobly double chin do you haha?”
And reader be like “no, i was just admiring you, especially that chin.” Then she kissed her softly (or try to) and keep on swaying their bodies in that dimmed room, just them whispering with each other.
And despite their messy sweaty looks cassie keep on whispering “you’re so beautiful” and same goes to reader.
OK I AM DONE
-🐢
part 1 — both works stand alone as a one-shot
for harrison’s 12th birthday, you helped cassie throw him a spider-man birthday party. safe to say, it was a success, the mess in cassie’s apartment evident of that. now that everyone is gone—harrison included since chad gets him for the second half of his birthday—you’re helping cassie clean up the remnants of harrison’s dream party. it’s weird how domestic and normal this feels. it’s unreal that cassie mckay is your girlfriend.
you and cassie have been going out for almost two months now. give that you’re coworkers, you technically below cassie, you’ve managed to keep it professional at work. both of you decided to keep your relationship private for the time being (although many people suspect and gossip that there’s something going on) and it works for you guys. you and cassie have quality time together outside of work and have settled into a rhythm. just a few weeks ago, you were officially introduced to cassie’s family as her girlfriend. integrating yourself into cassie’s life never felt weird. you’re like a puzzle piece clicking into place, fitting right in.
however, cassie still gets shy sometimes. it’s cute and endearing to know that she gets butterflies around you still. there’s a big difference between cassie getting shy and cassie getting insecure though, something she unfortunately does both of. she worries about your age gap (that was her biggest hesitancy about getting with you), mainly for practical reasons, but now that she’s actually with you, at times she can get timid and insecure about her physical appearance that comes along with getting older. you could have someone much younger, closer to your own age, but you choose cassie. and sometimes you have to remind her of that.
you’re in the living room, gathering all of the discarded tissue paper on the floor and putting it into one big bag. the song fallingforyou by the 1975 plays, a jbl speaker still on from harrison’s party except your and cassie’s music is playing now.
you bend down to pick up a white piece of tissue paper beside the couch. as you’re rising back up, you feel hands on your hips. you turn around, smiling when your eyes meet cassie’s. you wrap your arms around her neck, still clinging onto the crumbled piece of tissue paper in one hand. cassie starts to sway softly, you matching her movements as the dreamy song playing filters throughout the room.
“harrison had an amazing time. thanks for helping me with his party,” cassie tells you, then pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
“i’m glad,” you reply, grinning like an idiot in love.
cassie starts to sway softly, you matching her movements as the dreamy song playing filters throughout the room. smiling, cassie pulls her head back just a tad to really look at you since you’re so close up. you’re staring at her too, examining every little feature. your gaze pauses at cassie’s chin, the extra skin she has there emphasized by the way she’s retreating her face into her neck.
being the observant person that she is, cassie notices, suddenly getting anxious about what you must be thinking. “you must be grossed out by my double chin, huh, baby?” cassie attempts to joke, masking how insecure she really is.
but you’re observant too, and you know cassie. “i’m admiring you,” you correct. “especially that chin,” you add, dropping the piece of tissue paper you forgot you were still holding in order to gently grab ahold of cassie’s chin. you give two kisses to the loose skin on her throat, and then press a firm kiss on her lips. when you pull back, you murmur, “you’re so beautiful, cass.”
cassie lets out a little huff of air, smiling bashfully as she looks to the wall, her cheeks flushing a faint shade of pink. when she looks back to you, she holds onto you tighter, grateful for you and never wanting to let you go.
“you’re so beautiful,” cassie replies confidently...
butch!cassie who has somehow become the designated bug killer in the relationship because the second you see a spider you’re already climbing onto the nearest piece of furniture while cassie is sighing and grabbing a cup.
butch!cassie who rolls her sleeves up and gets grease all over her hands fixing your car because apparently you saying “i don’t know what’s wrong with it” is enough for her to immediately start investigating.
butch!cassie who refuses to let you crawl underneath the sink when there’s something leaking because “absolutely not, you’ll get dirty,” before she’s lying on the kitchen floor five seconds later with a wrench in her hand.
butch!cassie who comes home to find you struggling with a piece of furniture and just silently takes the screwdriver from your hand, muttering “move over, baby” before fixing it in approximately thirty seconds.
butch!cassie who changes lightbulbs, carries the heavy grocery bags, opens stubborn jars, moves furniture, unclogs drains, and insists she can handle anything that requires getting her hands dirty.
butch!cassie who catches you staring at her after she’s spent an afternoon covered in dirt and grease and raises an eyebrow like “what?” while you’re just thinking about how unfairly attractive your girlfriend looks with her sleeves rolled up.
butch!cassie who pretends to be annoyed when you call her your “hero” but secretly loves the way you wrap your arms around her from behind and kiss her cheek afterward.
butch!cassie who will always grumble about having to fix something but somehow looks unbearably pleased when you give her a kiss and whisper “thank you, beautiful.”
butch!cassie who eventually realizes that being the person you call when something breaks isn’t really about fixing things at all, it’s about knowing that when you need her, she’ll always show up.
was like 6 chapters behind so finally locked in and im emotions what the HECK oh i love my babies ❤️🩹 CH 17 & 18 got me feeling so much. oh my dana my sweetie omg im too empath right now i need to calm down.
Somewhat manipulative Victoria looking for any excuse for Cassie to touch her…. Asking her to help with her hair, to get a smear of lipgloss that Vic could absolutely reach herself…. They go to a gala and Vic makes Cass zip her up.
Cassie feels like a pervert, but she won’t turn away any opportunity to touch Victoria. She sees Vic putting a hand on Garcia’s shoulder later that night, and spends the next hour with her arm around Vic’s waist, holding her to her side.
Victoria really, really likes that Cassie got possessive of her. Asks her if she can stay at her place that night, because she doesn’t wanna go back to her parent’s house. They fall asleep on the couch watching shitty TV, with Vic curled up on top of Cassie.
-💚 (@green-heart1)
( yesyesyesyes i love manipulative victoria !! and when cassie knows she’s being manipulated but is complicit anyway ?? god take me there )
( CW : MDNI / 18+ , manipulation / slight coercion , the age gap is mentioned a lottt , anddd we did venture into slight fauxcest gulp )
both of their rationales are simple.. and both of them are just a means to justify their behavior to themselves so they can sleep at night.
victoria sees how cassie looks at her when she thinks no one’ll notice— with quiet longing, like there’s literally anything stopping her from taking what she wants. in her mind? the hold ups that make cassie’s skin crawl are either minor inconveniences or bonuses to vic. by putting herself out there for cassie to stare at, she’s only helping her realize that nothing’s in her way if she’d just take a chance or two.
meanwhile, every second that cassie spends around her mentee is a second spent practicing some intense self-restraint. seriously, she hasn’t had to count her deep breaths in threes to stabilize her racing heart this often since she was in her second year of rehab. her body craves to reach out when victoria is around her and her hands shake with the effort not to. it’s really not good for her mental health or her ability to do her job. so, yes, when victoria offers— when she explicitly asks— cassie will allow herself the indulgence. how could she say no when the girl gives her such puppy dog eyes and her fingers twitch with want?
that gala was practically their ceremonial undoing. victoria had skipped up to cassie by the lockers a few days before and told her that several of their colleagues were meeting up at samira’s place to get ready and, as she put it, ‘pre-game’. she’d made it sound so casual that cassie had hardly hesitated before she agreed to being added to the group chat.
of course, cassie is the oldest one there. she immediately feels like a total creep when she enters samira’s living room, gown in a dry cleaners bag over her arm, to see that the closest person in age to her is samira herself. she’s considering finding someway to back out when the reason she’s there at all sidles up to her.
victoria is beaming with nervous excitement as she takes cassie’s gown from her so it can be hung in a hallway closet with everyone else’s night attires. cassie can’t stomach the thought of disappointing her with any lame excuse she could come up with (or, worse still, with the truth), so she stays.
the first hour goes by without too much incident. they lounge around and talk about the upcoming event, place bets on who’s most likely to get shit-faced on corporates dime, and complain about still having to go into work the following morning. then they start getting ready. this is where things go south.
“can you help me with my makeup? i forgot my hand mirror and i don’t really want to sit on the bathroom counter for twenty minutes.” and cassie swears that samira opens her mouth while reaching for her own makeup bag before trinity loudly interrupts to ask if she has anything stronger than the wine they’ve been sipping on. “uh, yeah. sure. just tell me what to do.” never mind the compact mirror that cassie has kept in her bag since the early 2000’s (she tries not to think about how it’s probably older than victoria). even from the kitchen, trinity’s snort of laughter echoes.
this is mistake number one. cassie severely underestimated how close she’d be to victoria. they’re sharing air as she fights to keep her hand steady. the only break she gets is when she tells vic to close her eyes so she can swipe her lids with glimmering powder. when she’s done, she can tell that victoria is hoping to return the favor— but cassie is (thinks she is) at her limit and retreats into the bathroom to do her own makeup and put on her gown.
when she comes out, victoria is waiting in the dimly lit hall, scrolling on her phone. the light being cast onto her face highlights the glitter cassie had applied. she’s already in her dress and looking utterly heaven sent as she glances up, catches cassie staring, and grins shyly.
she isn’t waiting to use the bathroom. she’s waiting for cassie.
“do you mind zipping me up?” this time, victoria offers up no reasonable explanation as to why she couldn’t have asked literally anyone else to do it instead of deliberately seeking cassie out. cassie should say no. she should really say no, set a boundary, make it clear that this— whatever this is— it can’t happen.
but victoria bats her eyelashes, sweet as a doe, and cassie says yes. of course she says yes. it’s an opportunity to ease the itching in her fingers and cassie takes it as victoria turns around to reveal that the zipper dips lower than she’d expected.
she takes three deep breaths (they’re laced with flowery perfume) before she locates the tiny piece of metal and drags it up. cassie feels a twisted sense of regret as a large expanse of victoria’s perfectly soft skin is hidden by shimmering fabric. the guilt that follows gives her the strength to step away.
if anyone wonders why they return to samira’s living room with a certain tension lingering between them, they don’t do more than eye the pair knowingly.. except for mel, who’s busy redoing her braid for the fifth time, anxiety evident in the scrunch of her eyebrows. emma comes over to help her and cassie focuses on her own hair. her hands are trembling the entire time.
and then there’s the carpool situation. there’s ten of them and they collectively decide that it’ll be easier if they split the group in half and squeeze into two cars. it’s no surprise to anyone that victoria and cassie end up crammed in the backseat of samira’s 2024 nissan versa along with a very fidgety mel. an already unideal situation is made marginally more so when every turn they take allows victoria to lean into cassie, giggle out an apology, and smooth a hand over her thigh to get rid of any new wrinkles in her gown.
breathing in threes does not work and by the time they arrive at the venue, cassie is one more bump in the road away from losing her fucking mind and dragging victoria somewhere private; whether to tell her to quit it or to kiss that smug little smirk off her pretty lips, she isn’t too sure.
cassie anticipates that things will ease up once they’re inside and there are dozens of distractions around. she is woefully and catastrophically wrong.
not only does victoria stay by her side like a loyal puppy trailing after its begrudging owner, she insists on acting like they’re at the gala together— together, together. she keeps an arm looped around cassie’s elbow, steals sips of champagne from the glass cassie only took to be polite, and points around at people she wants to be introduced to. it doesn’t matter how many times cassie reminds victoria that she’s about as familiar with this crowd as she is, maybe even less so.
then comes forty minutes of stiff conversations in which cassie tries to remember the names of various specialists she’s only met on a handful of occasions and victoria is gushed over when her full name is spoken. both of these are preferable to the unfortunately common appearance of someone who knew victoria when she was a toddler and could recall it with humiliating clarity.
after an especially long reunion with a cardiologist who swears that vic just graduated kindergarten, they take a seat with the rest of the emergency department.
things somehow escalate. it starts with victoria scooting her chair in so that it’s much closer to cassie’s than necessary. this devolves into a fork being dropped so that vic can duck under the table, find it, and look up at cassie from her crouched position out of anyone else’s line of sight. cassie has to bite her tongue hard to suppress a groan when fingers graze her bare calf.
without thinking, cassie reaches down and wraps a hand around victoria’s wrist to tug her back into her seat before any more damage can be done. it could’ve been left at that— it should’ve been— but victoria has to push it by leaning over to whisper, “something wrong, dr. mckay?”
cassie glances around to ensure that no one’s watching, a mixture of shame and frustration and disgusting need pulsing through her veins, “knock it off, victoria.” it’s not enough or remotely convincing. victoria widens her eyes, pitches her voice to match the innocent expression, “knock what off? i was just—“ “i don’t care what you were doing. stop doing it.” it’s harsh. maybe a bit too harsh. in any case, it works in dimming victoria’s attitude.
for all of half an hour.
victoria gets up to go to the bathroom and doesn’t come back— and where should cassie spot her when she inevitably does a sweep of the hall? standing by one yolanda garcia’s table, laughing it up with the trauma surgeons like she’s right where she belongs.
cassie grits her teeth and swallows the bitter taste in her mouth. victoria doesn’t belong to anyone. she doesn’t belong to cassie. so why does it boil her blood when she risks another glimpse and sees that victoria, her victoria, has a hand resting on garcia’s shoulder? why does it fill her with resentment that someone else is making her smile that sweet smile that’s supposed to be reserved for cassie?
the scraping of her chair is abrupt and earns her a couple of weird glances; cassie doesn’t hang around to answer any questions about where she’s going. she marches over to the table that victoria has no business lingering at, stops behind the younger girl, and clears her throat. the satisfaction that swells in her chest when victoria startles is nearly animalistic.
“sorry to cut what i’m sure is an invigorating discussion short, but doctor javadi’s presence is missed.” and for good measure, cassie snakes an arm around victoria’s waist and tugs her a few steps back from garcia. to the surgeon’s left, emery walsh gives cassie an unnervingly calculating look. “who’s missing her?” cassie is not in the mood to play games. she hums flatly, starts guiding victoria away, “everyone.”
‘everyone’ obviously means cassie because no one else even noticed victoria was gone (aside from princess and perlah, who saw the whole thing and are now bowing their heads to debrief about it).
for the rest of the event, cassie keeps victoria at her side under the guise of chaperoning her alcohol intake. “can’t have you stumbling around and soiling your reputation,” she tells her when the girl tries to sneak off with trinity to get another drink, “besides, you don’t need to make buddies out of anyone who attended your sixth birthday party.”
victoria is ecstatic about the newly possessive grip that cassie maintains on her middle. she can hardly believe her stunt with garcia went so well that cassie won’t let her get up from the table without rising to accompany her.
all good things must come to an end. victoria knows this, but she can’t reconcile with it when the hall begins to empty and their group figures out who’s not too tired to drive a very drunk and talkative emma home. as dana helps the intern gather the spilled contents of her purse— emma goes nowhere if not grossly prepared— and volunteers to take her home, victoria realizes that it doesn’t have to end.
cassie’s never really been able to say no to her before. why should it be any different now?
“ugh, my mom is gonna’ want to hear all about who i talked to.” victoria starts, scowling at her sparkly fingernails, “‘did you say hello to dr. stewarts, victoria? he’s a very well connected man, victoria’,” she groans, tosses her head back and then tilts it sideways to look at cassie, “i don’t think i can sit through it. can i stay the night with you?” it’s probably too much to hope that pouting will persuade cassie.
but when the redhead’s gaze flickers down to her protruding bottom lip and her pupils dilate to hell? victoria knows she’s won.
they pile back into samira’s car, this time with dennis and trinity. it’s a small mercy that trinity’s had so much alcohol that she’s unlikely to remember much of anything, let alone the awkward moment where cassie tells samira that victoria won’t be needing a ride from her (the mercy is small because dennis will probably fill her in).
cassie gives victoria her car keys and runs inside to grab their things. she pointedly ignores the skepticism the sober people are regarding her with.
the drive to cassie’s house seems to stretch on for hours rather than twenty minutes. this is mainly due to victoria fiddling with the radio station channels until she lands on one called ‘latest youth hits’; cassie recognizes none of the songs and vic sings along to all of them.
she feels like a predator when they pull into the driveway and victoria hurries up the porch steps like she’s being given unlimited access to a candy store— she’s never been over without harrison’s presence as a buffer. cassie is uncomfortably aware of this fact as she unlocks the front door.
“are you hungry? you didn’t eat much at the gala.” she desperately needs a distraction from the sight of victoria kicking off her kitten heels and collapsing onto the couch. it’s too domestic and it’s too nice and cassie can’t handle how adorable vic is as she pops her head up, “do you still have hot cheetos?”
it’s the kind of snack cassie keeps stocked specifically for the days victoria babysits. how could she not after the girl went on a rant about being criticized and lectured any time she ate junk food in front of her parents? cassie bites back a fond smile, nods, and slips into the kitchen to grab the bag from the cabinet above the microwave.
“not exactly the nutritious snack i had in mind, but have at it.” victoria takes the bag from cassie without sitting up, “i’d go home if i wanted carrot sticks.” she bends her legs at the knees to make space for cassie to lower herself onto the cushions. in doing so, her dress rides up her thighs and offers a view of her lilac underwear that cassie considers to be intentional.
her mouth floods with saliva at the sight. she vaguely hopes that at this angle, it isn’t totally obvious that she’s staring. “..right.” is all she can think to reply with. victoria crunches on a cheeto, swallows, and cranes her neck to look at cassie with feigned innocence— as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.
“can we watch something?” cassie grimaces. it’s already 11:54PM; they both have to be up for work in six hours (she didn’t even consider this when she agreed to vic staying over). “i don’t know, vic. it’s late. you need rest.” in an effort not to sound so— what, motherly?— cassie adds, “we both do.”
but victoria picks up on the accidental undertone and goes straight for the jugular. “okay, mom. didn’t know i had a bedtime.” she nudges cassie’s thigh with her foot and fucking pouts, “please? you’re so strong. if i fall asleep you can just carry me to bed.”
all subtext is gone now. cassie has nothing to hide behind as she meets victoria’s gaze. her hands remain firmly in her lap but her fingers are itching to indulge, to give in, to say yes. “to bed?” cassie repeats this part slowly and carefully. victoria blinks back at her like she isn’t understanding what has cassie so rigid. “to sleep..?” she says it as if it’s common sense and cassie feels like the biggest pervert in the world.
the act wavers when victoria’s lips curve into a playful smirk. “god, cass. you’re such a creep.” still laying down, vic reaches for the remote on the coffee table and turns the TV on. some random reality show dilutes the heated silence. cassie’s face is hot with a confusing combination of shame, frustration, and disgustingly filthy sickly need.
victoria does fall asleep. for a while, cassie doesn’t move an inch. she doesn’t trust herself or her sickly itching hands. but then her lower back starts to ache from being so stiff, and her eyes burn with fatigue, and she’s left with no choice but to stand on her wobbly legs and turn toward a dozing vic.
cassie folds the bag of hot cheetos noisily on the off chance that the crinkling will cause her to stir. it doesn’t. cassie turns the TV off, steels herself, and hoists victoria into her arms. it is immediately evident that she is too tired and too distracted to carry her more than two steps.
it’s been a long night. victoria isn’t even awake to manipulate her into it, and yet, cassie relents. she sinks down onto the couch to mimic vic’s earlier position and maneuvers the girl to sprawl over her like a weighted blanket that breathes and smells like champagne.
cassie drifts off with the knowledge that she’s been utterly played. this is confirmed the following morning when vic reveals that she packed her hygiene essentials and a clean set of scrubs in her bag.
( i am acclimating but i hope this was enjoyable !! @green-heart1 ty for the amazing ask :^)) )
sam winchester x fem!reader • friends to lovers / fake dating, mutual pining • 7.8k words
summary: when sam and dean deliberately get themselves arrested to investigate a haunted prison, you’re left on the outside—and somehow listed as sam’s girlfriend. after eight months of unspoken feelings, a few five-minute visits through prison glass make the distance between you impossible to ignore. a rewrite of 2x19 “folsom prison blues”
masterlist ♡ | read on ao3
sam knows the plan is bad before dean finishes explaining it.
you know because he has the same expression he wears whenever dean suggests something that technically qualifies as a strategy only because there is an objective at the end of it. his mouth pulls into a thin line, his shoulders settle back against the motel chair, and one hand closes slowly around the coffee cooling beside his laptop.
across the table, dean finishes with, “we get arrested.”
sam stares at him.
“yeah,” dean says. “that’s the whole thing.”
“i was waiting for the part where it stopped being insane.”
“you’re gonna be waiting a while.”
you lower the newspaper article in your hands. three suspicious deaths inside green river county detention center in two months, all sudden enough to earn brief columns in the local paper and similar enough to make deacon call the winchesters. the prison recently reopened an older cellblock. normally, that would mean breaking in after dark, lying to a few guards, and hoping dean remembers not to call a federal employee sweetheart.
apparently, dean has decided that breaking in lacks ambition.
“so,” you say, “your plan is to commit a crime so the police put you inside the haunted prison.”
dean points at you. “see? she gets it.”
“that wasn’t approval.”
“still counts.”
sam drags a hand over his face. his hair falls forward when he lowers it, and you resist the familiar urge to reach across the table and push it away from his eyes.
eight months ago, you probably would not have had that urge.
back then, you were supposed to work one hunt with them. a poltergeist outside omaha, three nights, one ruined motel room, and enough rock salt embedded in your jacket to find crystals in the lining for weeks afterward. you knew the winchesters in the loose way hunters know one another before that—names passed through bobby, stories heard secondhand, paths crossing without staying crossed.
then dean asked what case you were taking next. sam found another one two counties over, and you went together.
one hunt became another. somewhere between missouri and colorado, your duffel stopped leaving the impala’s trunk after cases. nobody asked whether you were staying. nobody told you to go. you just did.
now, there are three toothbrushes beside motel sinks and three coffee orders at gas stations. dean complains when you change the radio station. sam sets aside whatever book he thinks you should read before you ask. your boots sit beside theirs outside motel bathrooms, your jacket disappears beneath dean’s on the back seat, and nobody remembers when any of it becomes ordinary.
dean looks toward you. “you’re staying outside.”
you blink. “excuse me?”
“somebody has to.”
“deacon’s already inside.”
“and deacon is the warden. kinda suspicious if he starts spending all day digging through records about his own haunted prison.”
“so i research from outside.”
“exactly.”
you set the newspaper down. “or i get arrested with you.”
“no,” sam says.
you turn toward him. he has straightened in his chair.
“absolutely not.”
“you’re both doing it.”
“which is already two people doing something incredibly stupid.”
dean presses a hand to his chest. “i’m sitting right here.”
sam ignores him. “we need somebody outside. someone who can call bobby, pull records, talk to deacon without a guard listening.”
“deacon can handle himself.”
“i know.”
“then why can’t i go with you?”
“because you’re not getting arrested.”
your eyebrows rise. “i wasn’t aware you had voting rights over me.”
his expression tightens, and you regret it almost immediately.
sam looks down at his hands, the argument leaving his shoulders in a slow release. “i know.”
the room quiets. dean develops a sudden fascination with the newspaper.
“i know i don’t,” sam continues. “i just think somebody should be outside in case this goes wrong.”
“when,” dean corrects. “when it goes wrong.”
sam glances at him.
dean lifts both hands. “realistic expectations.”
you look back at sam. he is not asking because he thinks you can’t handle prison. sam has watched you stitch yourself together in motel bathrooms and walk into houses where people died horrifically. he hands you loaded weapons without checking whether you know what to do with them.
this is different.
“you want a way out,” you say.
sam’s gaze returns to yours. “yeah.”
“and i’m the way out.”
his mouth moves slightly, almost a smile. “hopefully.”
you sigh. “fine.”
sam’s shoulders drop.
“great,” dean says, closing the newspaper. “everybody’s happy.”
“i’m not happy.”
“everybody’s participating.”
“also questionable.”
dean stands anyway, gathering papers from the table. sam keeps watching you.
“you owe me,” you tell him.
“i know.”
“big time.”
“i know.”
“possibly financially.”
that finally gets him.
the corner of sam’s mouth lifts. “we’ll negotiate.”
—
the last time you see sam before the arrest, he is standing beside the impala beneath the washed-out light of a convenience store parking lot.
clouds hang low over little rock, turning the morning pale and colorless. dean is inside buying coffee before they meet deacon, and sam has spent the last five minutes reviewing information you already know.
“you have bobby’s number,” he says.
“memorized.”
“deacon’s home number?”
“written down.”
“if henriksen catches wind of this—”
“sam.” he stops. “you’ve told me everything three times.”
“twice.”
“three times.”
“the first one was different.”
“you gave me the same phone numbers.”
“in a different order.”
you smile despite yourself. sam almost does, then his expression settles again.
“just be careful.”
the request is too quiet for teasing.
you move a little closer. “you’re the one getting arrested.”
“temporarily.”
“still, arrested.”
“technically.”
“there isn’t a version of that word that gets better with ‘technically.’”
sam looks down between you. there is barely a foot of space left, and you become aware of it because he does.
something changes in his face—not enough to name, only enough that you suddenly remember every other moment like this. motel hallways where one of you pauses too long outside the other’s door. the back seat when your leg falls asleep beneath his because neither of you moves. his hand on your waist steering you around broken glass after a hunt.
eight months of almosts so small you have never needed to call them that.
sam takes one hand from his pocket. for a second, you think he might hug you. instead, his fingers catch the edge of your coat collar and fold it down where it has twisted inward. his knuckles brush your neck, warm against the cold morning.
“there,” he murmurs.
you look at him, and sam’s hand falls.
the convenience store door opens.
“all right, felons,” dean calls. “let’s go.”
you and sam both step back.
“see you tonight,” you say.
sam nods. “tonight.”
—
by noon, sam winchester officially belongs to the state of arkansas.
deacon calls after intake, and you sit on the edge of the motel bed surrounded by newspaper archives while sam’s abandoned coffee cup leaves a dark ring beside his closed laptop.
“they’re in,” deacon says.
“both of them?”
“both.”
you release a breath, and deacon hears it. “they’re fine.”
“i know.”
“you don’t sound like you know.”
you ignore that. “when can i see them?”
a pause follows.
“that’s actually what i’m calling about.”
your hand stills. “what did dean do?”
deacon laughs. that tells you enough.
“during intake, they needed emergency contacts, visitor relationship information, stuff like that. dean thought it would be easier if you had a reason to visit more than once.”
you close your eyes. “deacon.”
“he put you down as sam’s girlfriend.”
you stare at the wall. “he did what?”
“for the cover.”
“sam knows?”
deacon clears his throat. “not yet.”
you slowly lower the article in your hands. “can i see dean first?”
“probably.”
“good.”
“why?”
“oh, no reason.”
deacon laughs again. “i’ll see what i can do.”
—
you do not see dean first.
deacon claims visitation assignments are handled by somebody else. you suspect self-preservation.
green river county detention center feels worse from inside. fluorescent lights bleach every hallway into the same cold shade, and the air carries disinfectant, old concrete, overheated machinery, and something metallic underneath. doors open only when someone else decides they should. every few feet, another lock closes behind you.
you surrender your purse, your coat, and everything in your pockets before sitting beneath lights that hum faintly overhead.
twelve minutes later, the door on the other side opens, and sam walks through.
everything you intend to say disappears.
the orange uniform should be funny. on sam, it’s not. his hair hangs disordered around his face, and a faint red mark circles one wrist where the restraints must have rubbed. his shoulders seem even broader beneath clothing designed to make everyone wearing it look exactly the same.
then, he sees you. the tension leaves his face so quickly that it hurts.
sam crosses to the chair opposite yours and sits. glass separates you.
you have never been unable to touch him before.
the realization arrives without warning. for eight months, sam has always been within reach—the front seat from the back, the other side of a diner booth, one motel bed away, close enough to hand you a book or push you behind him when he thinks something is dangerous.
now you could stretch your arm forward and never reach him.
sam picks up the phone. you do the same.
“hey,” he says. his voice reaches you through the receiver instead of the room.
“hey.”
sam studies your face. “everything okay?”
you nearly laugh. of course that is his first question.
“you’re the one in prison.”
“yeah.”
“wearing orange.”
his eyes drop toward himself. “also yeah.”
“it’s bad.” you scrunch your nose.
the smallest smile appears. “the orange?”
“mostly your hair with the orange.”
sam huffs a laugh. there he is. something inside you settles.
you exchange what you know about the case. sam and dean have a lead on an inmate named moody who died in the old cellblock; you promise to check his burial records. for a few minutes, it feels almost normal—research passed back and forth, theories tested, sam giving you that faintly impressed look when you tell him you have already started searching.
then a voice sounds overhead.
“five minutes remaining.”
both of you look up.
“five minutes?” you ask.
“apparently.”
“we just got here.”
“i know.”
there is something strange in the way he says it.
you look down at your notes, suddenly aware that everything you want to say has to compete with a clock. then you remember deacon’s phone call.
“by the way.”
sam becomes wary. “what?”
“apparently i’m your girlfriend.”
sam blinks and is silent for a moment. “what?”
“according to your paperwork.”
color starts moving into his ears.
“dean.”
“that was my response.”
sam closes his eyes. “i’m gonna kill him.”
“probably difficult from separate cells.”
“i’ll figure something out.”
you laugh. sam opens his eyes again, embarrassment still written across his face.
“you’re okay with it?” he asks.
the question surprises you. “with what?”
“coming here like that. saying you’re…” he stops.
“your girlfriend?”
the color reaches his cheeks. “yeah.”
you should tease him. instead, the answer comes easily.
“it’s fine.”
sam looks at you for a second too long.
“one minute remaining.”
you stare at the clock.
“seriously?” you ask the ethereal speakers. sam’s mouth tightens. “i’ll back come tomorrow.”
“you don’t have to.”
you give him a look.
“right,” he says softly.
the guard calls his name, and you lower the phone reluctantly. sam doesn’t, not immediately. he watches you until you pick yours up again.
“sam.” he raises the receiver closer to him, as if trying to get closer to your words. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”
his shoulders loosen. “tomorrow.”
this time, you both hang up.
—
the motel is too quiet. you discover that ten minutes after returning.
you have spent hundreds of nights alone, which makes your inability to settle especially irritating. you spread research across both beds and open sam’s laptop because yours died somewhere outside tulsa two months ago and nobody bothers pretending the computers belong to individual people anymore. after all, dean doesn’t have a laptop yet he still watches porn.
you make coffee and automatically get three cups out of the cabinet. you stare at them then put two back.
later, you find a reference to the old cellblock and turn toward the chair beside the table.
“sam, look at—” you stop.
the room stays empty. outside, tires move over wet pavement.
“great,” you mutter.
you work until after midnight. moody looks promising. violent history, death in the old block, buried locally. you pass everything to deacon before lying down on the bed nearest the door.
that is usually dean’s. your bed is the other one, and sam usually takes whichever side leaves him closest to the window.
eight months of motel rooms have rearranged space without asking permission.
you turn onto your side. the other beds remain empty. sleep takes almost an hour to take you.
—
moody is not the ghost. another prisoner dies after sam and dean burn his remains, which sends you back through older records while the brothers start looking for another pattern.
the second time sam enters visitation, you notice the bruise along his jaw immediately. you’re standing before he reaches the chair.
sam sees your expression and touches his face. “it’s nothing.”
you pick up the phone. “what happened?”
“good to see you too.”
“sam.”
“i’m fine.”
“you’re bruised.”
“it’s prison.”
“that is not an explanation.”
he glances down. “there was a misunderstanding.”
“with someone’s fist?”
his mouth twitches. “sort of.”
“sam.”
“dean started it.”
“that is somehow more believable and less reassuring.”
sam smiles despite himself.
you update him on the old cellblock. more deaths than deacon initially realized, most listed as sudden heart attacks. prisoners of different ages and different backgrounds, all spanning years.
“someone who worked there,” sam murmurs.
“that’s what i thought.”
“medical staff.”
you nod. “i’m checking nurses.”
sam’s eyes lift to yours. “you’re good.”
“you sound surprised.”
“i’m not.”
“little offensive.”
“i meant—”
“i know.”
his smile grows.
the speaker clicks.
“five minutes remaining.”
your own smile disappears, and sam looks at the clock.
“every time,” you mutter. you glance at your notes, trying to decide what matters most.
“did you sleep?” sam asks.
you look up. “what?”
“last night. did you sleep?”
“we have five minutes left, sam.”
“that’s enough time to ask.”
“you’re in prison.”
“you keep mentioning that.”
“because you keep acting like i’m the one who needs checking on.”
sam tilts his head. “did you?”
you hate how well he knows when silence means guilt.
“some.”
“how much?”
“enough.”
“that isn’t a number.”
“you’re annoying.”
“you didn’t sleep.”
you sigh. “two hours.”
sam exhales. “come on.”
“i was working.”
“you can’t work if you’re exhausted.”
“you do.”
“yeah, and it’s a bad habit.”
you fold your arms. “wow. prison really changes a man.”
he gives you a tired look. “eat something tonight.”
“sam.”
“promise.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“promise me.”
you stare at him, he waits, and the clock keeps moving.
“fine.”
sam relaxes. something about that bothers you more than it should. he has five minutes with you, and he spends part of them making sure you’re okay.
“you too,” you say.
“what?”
“eat.”
“i have been.”
“something that hasn’t been prepared by the state.”
sam glances down at himself. “options are limited.”
“when you get out.”
he looks at you.
when. not if.
“when i get out,” he agrees.
the final announcement comes too soon. you hang up first because one of you has to.
sam watches you leave.
—
the next morning, dean calls.
the first thing he says is, “before you freak out, sam’s fine.”
you stop halfway through pouring coffee. “why would i freak out?”
“great question.”
“dean.”
“he’s fine.”
you put the pot down. “what happened?”
“ghost got another guy last night.”
your grip tightens around the receiver. “sam saw it?”
“part of it.”
“is he hurt?”
“no.”
you close your eyes.
“we need you to check a name,” dean says. “nurse glockner. worked the infirmary in the seventies. white hair, messed-up eye. apparently patients had a habit of going in with colds and leaving in body bags.”
“heart attacks?”
“bingo.”
you reach for a pen. “i’ll find her.”
“atta girl.”
“dean.”
“yeah?”
you hesitate. “is sam really okay?”
dean’s voice changes. “yeah.”
you look toward the cabinet where two unused coffee cups remain.
“okay.”
“he’s driving me nuts, though.”
“how?”
“keeps asking whether deacon’s heard from you.”
you go still. “he does?”
dean sounds entirely too pleased now. “he thinks you’re not sleeping.”
“i’m sleeping.”
“apparently two hours doesn’t count.”
“he told you?”
“sam tells me lots of things.”
“you’re lying.”
“sometimes.”
you smile despite yourself.
dean lowers his voice. “come see him.”
the humor disappears.
“i’m already scheduled this afternoon.”
“good.”
before you can ask why he sounds like that, the line goes dead.
—
sam has spent eight months knowing where you are. he doesn’t realize that until green river.
before prison, knowing required no effort. if dean drives, you are usually behind sam with one knee tucked against the seat. if the three of you research, you sit wherever the best lamp is. if you disappear from a motel room, there is always a note explaining you went for coffee or food or to threaten an ice machine that ate your quarters.
he never has to wonder. then a steel door closes and suddenly, he wonders constantly.
dean says something stupid in the cafeteria and sam turns automatically, already expecting your expression. except, you aren’t there.
someone leaves a dinner roll untouched and he thinks you would steal it because you insist prison-quality bread probably tastes exactly like motel breakfast bread. you aren’t there.
at night, somebody shouts three cells down and sam wakes hard, hand moving before his thoughts catch up.
for one disoriented second, he expects the edge of another motel bed. he expects your breathing, expects you. his fingers hit concrete.
sam lies awake afterward listening to the prison refuse to become quiet. metal shifts, toilets flush, guards walk past, somebody coughs, someone else mutters in sleep.
he wonders whether you locked the motel door. of course you did.
he wonders whether you ate. you promised you would.
he wonders why three days without you feel longer than eight months with you.
that question is harder.
—
you find dolores glockner. mara daniels finds her too.
the public defender arrives with information about glockner’s burial shortly before your next visit, and deacon catches you near security long enough to tell you that everything is moving faster than planned.
henriksen is there, but you already know. his car sits outside.
“how long?” you ask.
deacon glances toward the corridor. “sam wants out tonight.”
“and dean?”
deacon’s expression answers.
you close your eyes. “of course.”
“they need to finish this.”
“they need not to get extradited to five different states.”
“tell them that.”
“i get five minutes.”
deacon gives you a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “make them count.”
—
the bruise on sam’s jaw has darkened when he walks into visitation, and there’s another mark near his temple.
you stop outside the chair.
sam looks tired in a way sleep cannot fix. trapped tired, the kind that settles beneath the skin.
his shoulders relax when he sees you anyway.
you si, but neither of you reaches for the phone immediately. the glass reflects both of you faintly beneath the fluorescent lights, your faces overlapping in places where the angle catches wrong.
sam finally raises the receiver. you follow.
“hey.”
“hey.”
he hears something in your voice immediately. “what happened?”
“henriksen.”
sam’s jaw tightens. “you saw him?”
“his car.”
“did he see you?”
“no.”
“are you sure?”
“sam.”
“are you sure?”
“yes.”
he breathes out. “okay.”
“deacon says you’re getting out tonight.”
sam looks briefly toward the clock. “that’s the plan.”
“i’m beginning to hate that phrase.”
“me too.”
you tell him about glockner. how she was nurse in the old infirmary with inmates dying around her. she was killed during the prison riot and buried nearby.
relief briefly moves through his face.
“good,” he says. “that’s good.”
you look at the bruise near his temple. “what happened there?”
“nothing.”
“your definition of nothing has gotten worse.”
“fight.”
“another one?”
“dean and i needed deacon to pull us out without making it look suspicious.”
you blink. “you fought dean. on purpose.”
“sort of.”
“you punched each other as part of the escape plan.”
“mostly shoved.”
you stare at him. sam has the decency to look embarrassed.
“this is why you guys need me,” you say.
the words leave before you think about them. sam goes still. you mean common sense. probably.
instead of laughing, he watches you.
“yeah,” he says quietly.
the speaker crackles.
“five minutes remaining.”
you both look up. something close to anger flashes through you.
“i swear to god.”
sam smiles faintly. “you’re really starting to take that personally.”
“because it is personal.”
his smile fades, and you look at each other through the glass. five minutes left. again.
“there’s something else,” sam says.
“what?”
he hesitates. “somebody asked about you.”
your stomach drops. “henriksen?”
“no. an inmate.”
“why?”
sam looks suddenly interested in the counter. “he asked if the girl who keeps visiting was mine.”
warmth comes without warning. “and?”
“and what?”
“what did you say?”
sam looks up, his ears already turning pink.
“sam.”
“i said yeah.” your heartbeat stumbles. “for the cover,” he adds quickly.
you nod. “right.”
sam’s expression changes. he notices, of course he does.
“i mean—”
“i know.”
“no, i—”
the clock ticks above you. sam looks frustrated with himself.
“he asked how long.”
“how long what?”
“we’ve been together.”
you stare at him. “what did you say?”
a long moment passes.
“eight months.”
everything inside you goes quiet. omaha flashes through your mind. rock salt, a destroyed lamp, dean arguing with a motel manager while sam handed you a beer in the parking lot. eight months ago.
“why eight months?”
sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“three minutes remaining.”
he glances toward the speaker as though considering whether he can fight the ceiling.
“i don’t know.”
you know sam well enough to recognize a lie. “yes, you do.”
“it was the first thing i thought of.”
“why?”
his fingers tighten around the receiver. “that’s when you started hunting with us.”
“i hunted with you before.”
“not like that.”
“like what?”
sam looks directly through the glass. “you stayed.”
two words, that’s all. they settle more heavily than anything else he could have said.
your throat tightens. “sam.”
“two minutes,” a guard calls from behind him, closer this time. sam looks over his shoulder. when he turns back, urgency has entered his face.
“listen.”
“i am.”
“tonight might get messy.”
fear moves coldly beneath your ribs.
“don’t.”
“i need you to know where—”
“no.” sam stops. “don’t give me instructions.”
“if something happens—”
“nothing is happening.”
“you don’t know that.”
“neither do you.”
his mouth closes. you lean toward the glass.
“if you have something to tell me, tell me. don’t spend whatever time we have left telling me where dean keeps emergency cash.”
sam’s eyes hold yours.
one minute.
you can see the thought moving through him. fear, decision.
then sam says, “you know you’re not actually my girlfriend.”
for one second, you cannot breathe. his face changes immediately.
“that came out wrong.”
you look down. “yeah.”
“i mean—”
you force yourself to look at him again. his knuckles have gone white around the receiver.
“i don’t like that.”
you stare. “what?”
“that you’re not.”
the world seems to stop somewhere beyond the glass.
sam swallows. “everybody here keeps calling you that, and every time they do, i have to remember they’re wrong.”
your lips part.
the guard moves behind him. “time.”
sam looks toward him, then back at you.
“sam.”
he opens his mouth to say something, but the guard interrupts. “time, winchester.”
you lower the receiver, and sam does the same. but neither of you stand. the guard reaches the partition.
you lift your hand. you don’t plan it, but your palm still presses flat against the glass.
sam looks at it, then his hand rises. his palm settles opposite yours.
the glass is cold beneath your skin. his hand should be warm. you know exactly how warm.
you have held it while wrapping split knuckles after hunts. fallen asleep with his fingers loosely around your wrist in the impala. grabbed him hard enough to bruise when something came through a door neither of you expected.
you know the shape and feel of his hand, but you cannot feel any of it.
“come back to me,” you say.
sam cannot hear you with the phone already down, but he reads your mouth. you know because his entire face changes.
his fingers spread against the glass until they align with yours. sam nods, his mouth forming two words.
i will.
then the guard takes his arm.
your hands slide apart.
—
you don’t sleep.
you do eat because you promised sam, though the sandwich tastes like cardboard while you wait for a phone call.
deacon finally calls after dark. “they’re out.”
you grip the phone with both hands. “out?”
“on their way.”
your knees nearly give. you sit on the edge of the bed.
“they’re okay?”
“yes.”
“you saw them?”
“yes.”
“sam?”
“yes.”
you close your eyes.
deacon lets you breathe, then he says, “they’re going after glockner.”
you open them again. “of course they are.”
“you surprised?”
“not remotely.” your duffel is already packed beside the door. “where?”
deacon gives you the cemetery, and you are moving before he finishes.
—
green valley cemetery lies far enough outside town that the road becomes narrow and dark before you reach it. trees press close to both shoulders, branches catching briefly in your headlights before disappearing behind you.
you park your rental car beyond the entrance. henriksen already knows the impala, and there’s no reason to make his night easier.
your hands shake when you turn off the engine. you shove them beneath your thighs.
deacon says they are out. deacon says sam is fine. you repeat both facts until they begin to resemble words instead of things you need to survive.
the first pair of headlights appears fourteen minutes later. you sit forward.
wrong car. it passes.
several minutes later, another engine approaches. you know this one before the headlights reach the bend. there are sounds you learn through repetition, and the impala is one of them.
you are out of your car before dean finishes pulling onto the gravel shoulder.
the impala stops crookedly beneath the trees, and dean gets out first. relief hits hard enough that you nearly stumble.
then the passenger door opens.
sam unfolds from the car. he is still wearing prison pants beneath his jacket. his hair is a mess, dirt marks one side of his face, and exhaustion drags at every line of him. but, he’s alive.
sam sees you. neither of you hesitates. you run, and sam does too.
gravel shifts beneath your shoes as he rounds the front of the impala so quickly dean has to move aside. you reach him near the hood, and the impact knocks the breath from your lungs.
sam catches you. both arms close around you with enough force to lift your feet from the ground. one locks around your waist while the other wraps across your shoulders, pulling you completely against his chest.
your face disappears against his neck, and you wrap your arms around him just as tightly. sam’s hand moves up the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair.
he holds you as though there is still something trying to take you away. for days, every touch has stopped at glass. now there is none.
there is sam’s chest beneath your cheek and his breath against your hair. the hard line of his arm across your back. the warmth of his neck beneath your face. the frantic beat of his heart close enough that you can feel it.
something inside you finally gives. “sam.”
his grip tightens. “hey.”
you laugh once, but it breaks in the middle. sam hears that too. his face presses deeper into your hair.
“i’ve got you.”
the words nearly undo you. you clutch the back of his jacket.
neither of you moves. the first desperate second becomes five, then ten. the panic should be gone. sam still does not let go, and neither do you.
behind you, the impala’s trunk opens. dean begins moving equipment around with considerably more noise than necessary. he does not say a word.
you breathe sam in. “you’re crushing me.”
his arms loosen instantly. “sorry.”
you tighten yours before he can pull away. “don’t.”
sam goes still. then his hold settles around you again, gentler but no less complete.
his breath leaves him slowly against your hair.
“i thought i wasn’t gonna see you again for a second there.”
your eyes close. “me too.”
sam’s hand slides from the back of your head to your neck. he draws away only enough to see you.
you hate the distance immediately. apparently so does he.
one arm remains around your waist while his eyes move across your face in quick, familiar passes. forehead, cheek, mouth, eyes.
“i’m okay,” you whisper.
“i know.”
he keeps looking. your throat tightens. this is not an injury check.
sam touches your cheek. his thumb moves once beneath your eye. you lean into his palm before you can stop yourself.
his breath catches.
three days. eight months. every almost crowds the narrow space between you.
you lift your hand and trace the bruise along his jaw.
sam’s eyes close for a second. when they open, something changes.
“you came back,” you murmur.
his gaze drops to your mouth. “i said i would.”
you kiss him. or sam kisses you. later, you will not be able to decide who moves first. there is only the space disappearing.
his mouth meets yours with one startled second of stillness, like neither of you fully believes it is happening.
then sam’s hand slides into your hair. your fingers close around his jacket. he pulls you against him again.
the kiss changes. not frantic exactly, but there are eight months inside it.
eight months of his knee touching yours beneath diner tables. your head on his shoulder in the back seat. sam bringing you coffee without asking how you take it because he already knows. your fingers stitching cuts along his ribs while he watches you beneath bad motel lighting.
eight months of not noticing you are waiting for something. three days of glass tells you what.
sam kisses you like he has finally been allowed to stop pretending.
your hand slips around his neck. he breathes against your mouth and kisses you again closer. your heart beats so hard you can feel it where your chest rests against his.
metal slams behind you, and you break apart.
dean stands beside the open trunk holding two shovels. his expression is carefully neutral.
“hate to interrupt whatever felony this is,” he says, “but glockner’s still dead, henriksen’s still pissed, and we should probably keep moving.”
heat rushes into your face. sam doesn’t step away completely. his hand remains at your waist.
dean notices. his eyes drop toward it, then back to sam. something like satisfaction passes through his face.
he tosses sam a shovel. “here, lover boy.”
sam catches it. “shut up.”
you hide your smile by reaching for the salt.
—
dolores glockner burns beneath a moonless sky.
the three of you stand around the opened grave while flames crawl through old fabric and dry remains. lighter fluid sharpens the air. dirt covers sam’s hands and the knees of his prison-issued pants.
you keep looking at him. you try not to, but you fail. every time, sam is already looking at you. dean notices approximately the fourth time.
“guys,” he complains. you both turn. “focus.”
“we are focused,” sam says.
dean points between you. “you’ve been making eyes at each other over a corpse for ten minutes.”
you look toward the burning coffin. “romantic.”
“it’s deeply disturbing.”
sam’s mouth twitches. sirens rise somewhere far down the road, and all humor disappears.
dean turns toward the cemetery entrance. “that’ll be our cue.”
you refill the grave badly and run.
halfway to the impala, sam catches your hand. you look down as his fingers thread through yours. not because something is chasing you, not because you need help, but because he wants them there.
you squeeze once. sam looks toward you.
“any day now!” dean shouts from the car.
you run. sam doesn’t let go until you have to climb inside.
mara sends henriksen to the wrong cemetery. you discover that twenty miles later when deacon calls, and dean laughs hard enough to nearly miss a turn.
for the first time all night, something loosens. normally sam takes the passenger seat. tonight, he climbs into the back beside you.
dean looks at him through the rearview mirror.
“what?” sam asks.
dean’s eyebrows rise. “nothing.”
the impala accelerates onto the interstate. for several miles, you and sam sit close without touching.
which is ridiculous.
you kissed beside a cemetery less than an hour ago. he held you hard enough that your ribs still remember it.
but the adrenaline is fading and reality returns. you become aware of dean ten feet away, of the road unspooling behind you, of everything that kiss means and everything neither of you has said.
sam’s hand rests on the seat between you. his smallest finger brushes yours when the car rounds a curve.
neither of you moves. another mile passes.
his hand turns, and your fingers slide together. sam looks out the window. you do too. in the rearview mirror, dean sees everything.
he turns the radio louder.
—
you drive until arkansas is something behind you.
dean chooses a motel that takes cash and asks no questions. the sign outside promises cable television and continental breakfast beneath two missing letters, and the room has two nice-sized beds, which dean declares a miracle until the toilet starts running nonstop.
normal problems return. bags come out of the trunk, weapons disappear beneath beds, and sam takes the first shower because apparently prison gave dean new standards about personal hygiene.
you sit on the bed closest to the window and listen to water move through the wall. dean flips channels.
he lasts six minutes, then he drops the remote. “i’m getting food.”
you look at him. “now?”
“yep.”
“you ate in the car.”
“i’m a growing boy.”
“you’re a grown-ass man.”
“still growing spiritually.” he picks up the keys.
you narrow your eyes. “dean.”
“what?”
his innocence is badly performed. you glance toward the bathroom.
dean follows your attention. “he could take a while.”
“dean.”
he opens the door. “have fun talking.”
you throw a pillow. the door closes before it reaches him, and the pillow hits wood.
“coward.”
the shower shuts off.
your heartbeat immediately changes. you hate that.
several minutes later, sam comes out wearing sweatpants and a grey shirt, damp hair pushed away from his forehead. he looks toward dean’s empty bed, then at the pillow on the floor.
“where’d he go?”
“he went to get food.”
sam checks the clock. “at one in the morning?”
“apparently his spirit is growing.”
sam understands, color moving faintly into his face. “oh.”
“yeah.”
for a moment, both of you become intensely interested in ordinary things.
you straighten the blanket. sam folds his towel on the rack.
you check your duffel even though you know exactly what is inside. sam sets his watch beside the lamp.
it becomes unbearable.
you look at him. “eight months?”
sam freezes. slowly, he turns to look at you. “what?”
“you told that guy eight months.”
“yeah.”
“why?”
“i told you.”
“you gave me approximately half an answer before the visitation lady ruined my life.”
a smile touches his mouth. “you really hate her.”
“with my whole heart.”
sam’s smile fades into something softer, and you sit on the edge of the bed.
“why eight months?”
he looks down at his hands. “because that’s when you stayed.”
the same answer but without glass this time.
sam crosses toward the bed you’re sitting on and joins you. the room between you is narrow enough that your knees nearly touch.
“the omaha case was supposed to be one hunt,” he says.
“i remember.”
“then we went to nebraska.”
“you said kansas earlier.” sam gives you a look, and you smile. “researcher.”
“can i finish?”
“please.”
his mouth twitches before his attention drops to his hands again.
“every time we finished something, i figured you’d take off.”
that surprises you. “you did?”
“at first.”
“why?”
he shrugs. “that’s what hunters do.”
“you and dean don’t.”
“we’re brothers.”
“unfortunate for both of you.”
sam smiles down at his hands. “yeah.” the humor fades. “then after a while, i stopped thinking about it.”
“about me leaving?”
he nods. “i don’t know exactly when. i remember finishing a hunt outside des moines and dean asking where we were going next, and i was already looking for something all three of us could take.”
your chest tightens. sam glances toward you.
“i didn’t wonder whether you were coming.” his voice drops. “i just knew you were.”
you look down between your knees. all this time, you thought staying happened because nobody stopped you. you never considered that sam noticed every time you chose them again.
“so eight months,” you say.
“yeah.”
“because that’s when i became your fake girlfriend.”
sam groans. “that’s not what i meant.”
“green river county disagrees.”
“please never request those records.”
you and sam laugh lightly. the sound fades gradually, but the quiet left behind is different. his knee touches yours, and neither of you pretend not to notice.
“you said something else,” you murmur.
sam knows immediately. his gaze falls toward the carpet.
“through the glass,” you add.
“yeah.”
you wait. there is no announcement, no guard, no phone, and no countdown.
sam notices too. his eyes briefly move toward the bedside clock, but nothing happens.
“i missed you,” he says.
you smile faintly. “i noticed.”
“no.”
the humor leaves you, and sam’s eyes return to yours.
“i mean, i really missed you.”
you stop moving.
he looks almost embarrassed by the admission, which seems absurd after the cemetery.
“it was three days,” he continues. “i know that’s not…” he exhales. “it felt longer.”
you know. you lived it too.
“everything kept happening, and i kept turning around to tell you,” he says. “dean would say something, or i’d find something, and for a second i’d think…” he trails off.
“what?”
sam rubs his palms against his knees.
“i kept reaching for you.”
the words land somewhere deep.
“first night, i woke up and forgot where i was. i thought you were there.”
“where?”
“on the other side of the bed.”
your breath catches.
sam looks embarrassed. “we don’t even share beds that often.”
“often?”
“you know what i mean.”
you do. motels with one room left, injuries, nights when nightmares make separate beds feel unnecessarily far away. it was always innocent and easy until now.
“i did it too,” you admit.
sam looks up. “what?”
“made three cups of coffee.”
his eyebrows pull together. “why?”
“because apparently my brain thinks dean deserves coffee.”
sam laughs quietly. “terrifying.”
“then i found something and tried to show you.” you look toward your hands. “you weren’t there.”
sam’s knee presses more firmly against yours.
“the room felt wrong,” you say. “everything did.”
the air conditioner rattles beneath the window. footsteps pass outside and disappear toward the stairs.
sam’s hand moves slowly. his fingers touch yours where they rest on the mattress. you turn your palm, and he threads them together.
“i don’t want to get used to that,” he says.
“to what?”
“you not being there.”
sam holds your gaze. there is no uncertainty in what he feels anymore, only uncertainty about whether he is allowed to ask for it. that is so painfully sam that something inside you aches.
you squeeze his hand. “then don’t.”
his brow furrows. “don’t what?”
“get used to it.”
sam goes very still, and you shift closer, your knees and thighs now touching.
“i’m not going anywhere,” he says.
“i know what i chose.” he looks down at your joined hands as he squeezes back. “and i choose this.”
his thumb stills against your skin.
“saving people, hunting things?” you smile.
“no,” sam says your name in a hushed tone and looks up at you. “you.”
he stops breathing, or he seems to. “i choose you.”
the words exist now. eight months made them true long before either of you said them, but saying them changes something anyway.
sam’s eyes shine faintly beneath the motel lamp. he looks away for a second, gathering himself, then he looks back.
“i think i’ve been choosing you for eight months.”
your chest hurts. “only think?”
“i’m trying not to sound insane.”
“you deliberately went to prison this week.”
“fair.”
you smile. sam’s thumb begins moving across your knuckles again.
“when that guy asked how long we’d been together, i didn’t have to think,” he says.
“eight months.”
“yeah.”
“because i stayed.”
sam nods. “because you stayed.”
you lean closer. “and if i hadn’t?”
something passes through his face. “i would’ve asked.”
“really?”
“eventually.”
you raise an eyebrow.
sam looks offended. “i would have.”
“when?”
“i don’t know.”
“another eight months?”
“probably not.”
“a year?”
“okay, enough.”
you laugh.
sam reaches for you, his free hand settling at your waist.
the laughter fades. you are close enough to feel his breath.
“you were terrible through the glass,” you whisper.
“me?”
“you almost confessed with thirty seconds left.”
“you told me to.”
“i told you to say something important.”
“i was trying.”
“you opened with telling me i wasn’t your girlfriend.”
sam closes his eyes.
you laugh softly. “truly spectacular.”
“i fixed it.”
“barely.”
he opens his eyes. “i said i wanted you to be.”
“not exactly.”
“close enough.”
“sam winchester, researcher, relies on ‘close enough.’”
“i was under pressure.”
“you had five minutes.”
“exactly.”
you are still smiling when his thumb touches your side. then sam becomes serious.
“will you?”
your heartbeat catches. “will i what?”
he gives you a look. you know, but you want to hear him say it anyway.
sam seems to understand. his fingers tighten around yours.
“will you be my girlfriend?”
something about the simplicity nearly hurts.
no prison paperwork, no cover, no guard asking how you know inmate s. winchester. just sam.
you lean in and kiss him. he makes a quiet sound of surprise before his hand slides around your waist.
you kiss him slowly this time. nothing chasing you, nothing burning, no sirens approaching.
sam’s mouth moves against yours with an intimacy the cemetery never allowed. his hand rises to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye before his fingers disappear into your hair. you touch the back of his neck.
when you pull away, sam follows for half an inch before stopping himself.
his forehead rests against yours. “was that a yes?”
you smile. “seriously?”
“i’d prefer verbal confirmation.”
“of course you would.”
you kiss the corner of his mouth.
“yes.”
his eyes close. relief passes through him so visibly that you laugh.
“you already kissed me twice.”
“three times,” he corrects.
“you counted?”
“obviously.”
you shake your head.
sam kisses you again.
four.
—
dean returns at two in the morning carrying burgers, fries, and absolutely no explanation for why obtaining them took nearly an hour.
he opens the door and stops.
you are lying sideways across the bed with your head against sam’s chest. sam has an arm around your shoulders, and your fingers are loosely intertwined over his stomach while the television plays silently across the room.
dean takes in the scene. his eyes move to your hands, then sam, then you.
“huh.”
sam lifts his head. “what?”
dean closes the door. “nothing.”
he sets the food on the table.
“that took a while,” you say.
“wanted to give you time.”
“for what?” you ask.
sam doesn’t say anything and throws a pillow.
dean catches it. “violence? after everything prison taught you?”
“shut up.”
dean tosses the pillow onto his bed and starts unloading burgers.
“so…” dean trails off. you and sam exchange a look, but dean sees it. “oh, come on.”
“what?” sam asks.
“do i need to update your emergency contact?”
sam’s face goes blank, but you understand immediately. a smile spreads across your mouth.
“nope.”
dean looks toward you as you settle back against sam. his arm closes around you automatically.
“paperwork’s finally accurate.”
dean stares.
sam presses his lips together, but it does not work. the smile escapes anyway.
dean points at him. “eight months.”
your head snaps toward dean, and sam’s smile disappears.
“you told him?” you ask sam.
“he was there.”
dean reaches for a fry. “guy asks sammy how long you’ve been together, and this idiot says eight months like you had an anniversary dinner booked.”
you look up at sam. “you left that part out.”
“i told you he asked.”
“you didn’t tell me dean heard.”
“didn’t seem relevant.”
“very relevant,” dean says.
sam gives him a look.
dean grins. “for the record, i would’ve said longer.”
you blink. “what?”
he reaches for another fry. “nothing.”
“dean.”
“food’s getting cold.”
“how long?”
“not getting involved.”
“you are literally the reason the prison thought we were dating.”
“and look how well that worked out.”
sam groans, and you laugh.
dean looks between you one last time. something gentler appears beneath the teasing. he saw the cemetery, he saw sam hold you, and he knows what neither of you understood until green river put concrete walls between you.
dean looks away first. “eat your burger.”
you take one, and sam reaches for the other at the same time. your hands bump. both of you pause, then smile.
dean makes a disgusted sound. “so i gotta deal with this now?”
the television flickers across the motel walls. cars move along the highway beyond the curtains, headlights passing in pale strips across the ceiling. sam sits beside you, warm and solid, his knee pressed against yours while he eats.
nothing separates you. no walls, no glass, no locked doors, no voice announcing how much time remains.
sam reaches for your hand again when he finishes. his fingers find yours without looking, and you hold on.
this time, nobody tells either of you when to let go.
vampire fem victoria and werewolf butch trinity 🤤 supernatural crashtos fighting over butch r and leaving bite marks all over them and eachother to try and claim eachother (they’re all crazy into it obviously)
their human butchtoy that's just covereddd in bite marks and bruises <3 having to wear scarves or bandanas around your neck so no one asks if everything's alright at home 😭 visiting victoria and being told off for covering up, getting punished with more marks that she claims you with. using her sharp nails to carve her name into your stomach so trinity knows that you belong to her. puncture marks on your thighs to let trinity know that she's been feeding off you, having you in her bedroom at night.
mating press with a jealous trinity, her jaw clamped around your shoulder, digging her sharp fangs into your skin. her whining like a pathetic mutt while shoving herself inside you, slobbering all over your skin while she growls out, "mine. you're fucking mine. that fanged dork can try and claim you all she wants, but i've put my seed in you. you're mine forever."
i've lowkey always loved the thought of mating marks that ache and throb when you're near that person...or the mark aching and making you all dumb with horniness when they're thinking of you. butch!R on the floor, lazily thrusting in the air, moaning incoherently because the mark trinity left on their collarbone just won't stop aching. butch!R being almost hypnotized when they're near victoria because the mark has their brain melting.
nasty, rough threesome with these cute and hot creatures marking you up and fighting over you 😇 hot tongues on your neck, fangs piercing into your skin while their hands travel over your body. fucking victoria silly while trinity's behind you, mocking her and scratching her thighs because she looks so weak right now.
vic on top of trinity, riding her werewolf cock and reducing her to a blubbering mess. both of them biting each other, fangs clashing, blood everywhere. you're behind vic, trying to bully your strap into her hole that's already filled with trinity.
goddd... the type of jealous fucking where they both mumble, "i hate you," into each other's lips @__@ thinking about them fucking each other without you but still fighting over you @__@ vic biting on trinity's thighs, nails scratching down her stomach while she growls, "you can't fuck them as good as i do."
i think it'd be hot to see them actually fight over butch!R 😇 i'm talking about wrestling. throwing hands. punches thrown. blood everywhere. fighting that turns into rough dry humping. watching them pin each other down, rubbing their crotch on each other, hands trying to rip off clothes. growls that turn into whimpers while they mark each other.
cassie short circuiting after seeing victoria with curly hair for the first time
Cassie ducks behind a door, out of breath and blushing. Samira is in the (thankfully otherwise empty) triage room that she just rushed into. Samira stares at her - friendly laughter in her eyes. Waits.
And well - Samira isn't much of a gossip...right?
Cassie closes the door behind them, decides she has a good track record of blurting personal shit out to Mohan anyway. States. even though it's embarrassing:
"I think I'm gay panicking."
Samira laughs for real then. Says, inexplicably: "girl, me too."
Now it's Cassie's turn to stare. Until she elaborates,
"I had a date with Emery Walsh last night."
"Oh. Um. Good for you? Since we're sharing -....Victoria came down from Psych. Her hair is curly." When she sys it out loud...it soundes pathetic. She rubs her hand over her eyes.
"And? Tell her how pretty it looks. Aren't you two already dating?"
Cassie's face turns - if possible - a starker white:
"What?" She hisses, "NO. I would never -
Samira sighs. Steps forward to awkwardly pat her shoulder, "Cassie...you're hiding in a patient room. You clearly would. In fact, please do. If anyone else saw this I don't think you'd live it down. There's also a betting pool."
Cassie blinks at her stupidly. Samira mutters, "hopeless" before leaving the older woman behind.
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