my name is melissa (everyone calls me melly), i’m 26 and am obsessed with criminal minds! so many tv shows i’ve lost count. you might know me from tiktok, @/garciasfluffypen. or, you might know me as the author of aurora, borealis, the way you make me feel and backflip boy on wattpad. or you might know me as sunlitauthority on twitter.
what do i write?
ROMANTIC: jemily, jemily x reader, jj x reader, emily x reader, elle x jj, elle x reader, elle x emily, elle x spencer, hotch x reader, matt x reader, matt x kristy, luke x reader, luke x penelope.
non criminal minds: jennifer jareau x cassie mckay, cassie mckay x reader, audrey rose x thomas cresswell , eddie munson x reader, olivia benson x reader, amanda rollins x reader, regina mills x emma swan, sara lance x ava sharpe, tenth doctor x rose tyler, ten!two x rose tyler, wanda maximoff x reader
PLATONIC: literally everything in the books
WHAT AM I COMFORTABLE WRITING? smut, daddy/mommy kink, light bdsm (bondage), fluff, angst, more tba.
WHAT WILL I NOT WRITE? jeid (sorry), character deaths, (more tba)
can i request anything from you?
yes!! please do!! i love writing and i would absolutely love to see my ask box filled with requests for one shots <3
important links
wattpad || ao3 || tik tok || carrd || masterlist || fic recs || anon list
I personally think that the best part about Legends is the fact that they all actually care about each other. Have you ever noticed how you're watching a movie or show centered around a group of heroes and none of them actually care about each other? It's different with Legends because they go around to different time periods where a majority of the team probably isn't welcome and as soon as anyone starts being racist or misogynistic or homophobic the whole entire team is defending them.
Gif by the lovely @loveu2themoonandtosaturn, dividers by @/cursed-carmin
Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader
Summary: It was a normal day for Eddie. Arriving at school late, getting to class late, leaving lunch late. But then an anonymous note, inked in glittery pink gel, fluttered from his locker. And he knew whose it was. No doubt about it. Because it was the same handwriting as the short message on the last page of his junior yearbook. Carved in glitter, color faded from the amount of times his thumb had traced every curved letter, every dotted ‘i’ and crossed ‘t’. It was yours. It was you. Calling him to the forest behind the school. And he had never been so early.
Or
You seek Eddie out, maybe for a little herbal relief, maybe for something more. And who is he to turn down such a pretty girl? But how will he fare having to skirt the edges of your loose-lipped truths?
Word Count: 11.1k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected sex, semi-public sex, cream pie, virginity loss, dirty talk, nipple stim, fingering, oral (f rec), mention of masturbation (m), insinuated hypothetical pregnancy, virgin!Reader, semi-experienced!Eddie, fluff, mild angst, very mild dubcon (both R & E are high), Eddie’s POV, drug usage (weed), feelings, insecurity, fem pronouns, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Recs: Evie by Shoe, Palomino by FINNEAS, I Want Somebody Badly by Jeff Buckley
A/N: Everyone say thank you and kiss this anon’s forehead for the idea. Also, it’s been a minute since I’ve freshly written a full fic and not just posted a draft from the summer, so be nice to me.
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“You’re pretty.”
The words catch Eddie off guard. Especially since you haven’t spoken in two minutes, utterly transfixed by the sky above. Or maybe it was the falling leaves that stole your attention; scarlet and gold floating on the autumn breeze. Delicate. Pretty.
Either way, he hadn’t expected to hear such a sentiment from the Hawkins High cheer captain.
Although, he hadn’t expected to be here with you, at all, as a matter of fact.
Not in the woods behind the school.
And definitely not alone.
It’s unnatural.
You, laid out on top of the picnic table. Him, hunched on the seat below, straddling the old plank of wood. Too close.
Closer than he’s ever been.
It’s aberrant, really.
But maybe, just for today, everything is topsy-turvy.
Maybe it will go back to normal soon. You in your bubble, him in his. Two separate worlds. Two separate planets orbiting the same rust-bucket town. The same miserable high school. At least for a few more months.
Then he’ll get the hell out of this place. Just drive and drive and drive until the scent of manure no longer singes his nose hairs. Until the cornfields turn into beaches. Or mountains. Or shit, even swamp lands. He’s not picky.
And you’ll be off at some college, probably.
Find a braincell-deficient jock and pop out a couple of kids. He’s picturing a picket fence somewhere there, too. Possibly a station wagon with that dumb wooden interior. He hates that wooden interior.
And you’ll forget he ever existed.
And he’ll—
“So pretty.”
It’s lower this time. A whisper. Like it was only meant to stay inside your head. Like you weren’t even aware you said it.
And maybe you aren’t aware. Maybe the weed is hitting you hard. Too hard. It’s only your first time.
So maybe he should pretend like he didn’t hear. Just continue to act like the metal box in front of him needs reorganizing.
Re-reorganizing, even.
Whatever it takes to not notice the way your pleated skirt has ridden up, bunched at the tops of your thighs.
Because he hasn’t noticed.
No, he’s not aware of how smooth your skin looks, or how the cherry blossom scent of your lotion seems to intoxicate him more than the shared joint, now forgotten, smoldering between your fingers.
He has no idea what color panties you’re wearing, and absolutely no clue what powder blue fabric looks like when it darkens.
Baggies to the left. Try to prop them up against each other. Bottles to the right. Line them up. Shit, the baggies won’t sit upright. Maybe lay them flat? Then, if he moves the tin—
“Do you think I’m pretty, too?”
Fuck.
Your heavy-lidded gaze is directed at him now, and he finally feels the high. Or maybe it’s just your effect; the kind of haze that leaves him wondering what new strain has him seeing a real life angel. The kind of feeling that sends his heart away at a dead sprint and his mind swimming in a tank of molasses.
Everything is muffled. And there’s only you. And those eyes. Waiting.
“Y-Yeah,” he chokes, hoping you don’t see the heat blooming beneath his cheeks. “You’re pretty. ‘S kinda your thing.” He shrugs. “Popular and pretty.”
It’s a deflection. It’s bitter. It’s crashing through the bubble with an unceremonious pop.
Because yes, you’re pretty. Everyone knows it. Everyone.
Him noticing isn’t any different.
You blink. “But do you think I’m pretty? Just pretty.”
He pauses, wondering, for only a split second, if this was all some kind of elaborate rouse to incriminate him. If, any minute now, Andy and Jason are going to step out from behind one of these trees, itching for a fight. Because Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson is tainting the precious queen of Hawkins High. His no-good, low-life, burn-out presence might as well stain your skin like black tar.
But he nods, nonetheless. A calculated risk; it’s shaky, not insincere.
And that seems to be enough because your painted lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a breath of fresh air. If only his heart would stop pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to get out. To get to you.
“I told my friends, once, and they didn’t talk to me for a day and a half.”
Your smile is gone now. And your gaze is empty as you turn back to the tree tops.
Eddie shifts in his seat, feeling more and more like he’s fallen through the looking glass.
“T-Told them what?”
He’s not sure he wants the clarification. Not sure he wants to understand. Because it doesn’t seem like it’ll work. Like he’ll never truly understand if you say what he—
“That I think you’re pretty,” you mutter, turning to him again, a simple pout weighing your features down.
Fuck.
“We were talking about crushes, and they said theirs. And they were so…excited…. And Heather was trying to convince Jackie S. to tell Patrick how she felt. And I wanted to feel it too.”
He can barely breathe, so he stays silent, just letting you speak to no one in particular. Because he’s not here.
Not now.
Not on this planet.
Not in the same reality as the girl he’s pretended not to watch since the middle school talent show. The girl whose perfume somehow lives in his mind, though he’s never bathed in it longer than a shoulder brush through the halls. Not that girl, not in this reality.
Not you. Telling him he’s pretty. No way—
“—wanted to hear what they’d say. Like if they would tell me we’d look cute together, or they’d say they’ve seen you looking at me, or something, and maybe there’s a chance.”
Fuck, he’s low on E.
And these damn baggies don’t organize well—he should really label them. And Reefer Rick has probably laced this new, stupid supply with something because there’s simply no conceivable way—
“But they just looked at me like I said something insane. Asked me if I was joking. They didn’t believe me at first—”
He snorts, twisting the skull ring around his finger until the skin underneath starts to heat. You’re silent now, and he almost doesn’t want to look. But he has to. So he does.
Your polished nails, the lipstick stained joint, thousands of wool fibers bending and yielding to the curves of your body. Then that pout, your eyes. A frown.
The baggies of pills, the weathered wood; carved initials giving way to new grain.
“You don’t believe me, either?”
It’s so broken sounding, he has half a mind to lie and say of course he does. Of course he believes you, resident queen of Hawkins High—the girl who prances through school with five guys, minimum, trailing after her, lovesick and delusionally hormonal—are telling the God’s-honest truth. That you have somehow taken a liking to the town pariah.
The people’s princess has woken up this day and decided she’d like to bestow upon him, of all people, the greatest charity he could never repay, nor even begin to deserve.
And you’d say this exact thing stone-cold sober. Sure.
He could say that.
“Um—” he clears his throat, repeatedly dragging a dirty Reebok on the ground until a pile of curled leaves starts to grow, “I believe…uh, we’ve probably had enough.”
Before you can make a move to stop him, he plucks the joint from between your fingers, ignoring the shock of your touch.
The faint sizzle of embers being extinguished on old wood is the only sound that fills the air. That, and the rustle of wind through the trees.
He can feel your eyes on him as he licks his fingers and pinches the end of the roll. It may very well be laced, but he’s not the wasteful type.
And anyway, he’s got plans later. A date with his right hand and the well-loved porno mag he’s made some…changes…to. All while he pretends not to remember how your lips wrapped around the very same joint he hopes will last him long enough.
You sit up suddenly, swinging your legs over the edge of the picnic table. He nearly knocks his metal lunchbox off the seat, scrambling to avoid the brush of your skin.
“Do you not like me?”
The words are filled with accusation, woven by insecurity, and Eddie feels insane. Clinically. Terminally, even. That’s not a thing, but given his luck, he could be the first man, ever, to die from a hot chick coming onto him.
Because what the actual fuck? You’re looking at him like his very existence is a puzzle to you. As if you can’t imagine why in the world he’d be second-guessing your confession.
He clears his throat, again, but chokes on his breath the second you slide down next to him, your skirt creeping impossibly higher before settling properly. And he’s up in a flash, like only the heat of you near him is all it takes to burn. And God, does it burn.
“N-No! No, I, um, I—I just don’t know you.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Basically just met you today, really.”
He could almost kick himself, the way his voice jumps an octave he’s certain only liars can reach. And you seem to hold the same belief, your eyes all but say as much as you stand to follow him.
Leaves crunch under his shuffling footsteps, and you pause, as if realizing the space between is carefully set.
It’s a choice he’s fighting to make, just as he’s fighting not to look at you. Though, one is admittedly easier than the other.
“I mean, not really. We’ve been going to the same school since, like, sixth grade—”
He shakes his head, correcting, “Your sixth; my eighth.”
Bewilderment overtakes your frown, and he understands the semantics appear meaningless to you, but they keep him up at night. When the hours tick by and delusion creeps into the edges of his foggy mind, thoughts of fate start to sound more and more sane.
“My mom even made you that casserole when your uncle was sick.”
Oh, yeah.
That.
He remembers that day. Thinks about it when the delusion turns sour and his conscience wants to remind him what an embarrassment he is.
He remembers perfectly how he heard your heels clicking from down the hall. How he took one look through the small hospital window, saw you in your Sunday best and booked it to the en suite bathroom.
How he left Wayne to fend for himself in a state of utter confusion, never having seen his nephew move so fast. How he hid in the small space, surrounded by porcelain and that chemical smell that still makes his skin crawl. Just so he wouldn’t have to face you.
So he wouldn’t have to watch you charm his uncle, lift his spirits like you do everyone.
No, he only had to listen and imagine what shade of lipstick you chose to match with your outfit. Because that was way easier than seeing the cruel fluorescent lights fail to hollow you out like it did everyone who entered that godforsaken room.
Yeah, hearing the raspy laugh of his uncle, followed by your airy giggles through the surprisingly thin walls was a cakewalk compared to what it would have been had he been forced to smile and nod along.
Act as if you and he lived the same kind of life. As if one wasn’t a plunder and the other a jaunt through the daisies.
Eddie paces, unable to let his twitching muscles rest. “Yeah, but what does it really mean to know someone, you know? Uh oh! I’m gettin’ philosophical now!” He chuckles, but it’s strained, and your frown comes back, unmovable this time. “Probably the weed.”
His words are stilted, and you seem too aware of this performance, but he will press on with forced amusement until you believe him. Or at least until you let him be; go on back to your bubble. Leave him to suffocate in his.
“Are you high? I’m high. I think we’re both really high. It’s so funny, it’s like I don’t even know what I’m saying— Blah!” He flails about, already planning on checking himself into Pennhurst after this. “This is so crazy! We probably make no sense right now.”
You cross your arms, trudging back to the picnic table. The breeze lifts your skirt as you plop down, and Eddie turns away. Because he has to.
“I’m not that high and neither are you.”
It’s that damn pout that’s going to do him in.
Curls twist around his fingers as he tries to hide behind his hair. “No…no, I’m pretty high.” He nods. “‘Miss Hawkins 1982’ is sitting here, tellin’ me she’s got, like, what—a crush on me?”
“‘S more than a crush,” you mumble petulantly, but for his sanity, he elects to ignore it.
“I mean, shit! I didn’t think weed had hallucinogenic properties, but you know.” His shoulders shrug in defeat, and he still can’t look at you. “Learn somethin’ new every day!”
Your head cocks to the side. “So you don’t believe me?”
Eyes wide as saucers, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to explain the sky to a mole.
“Of course I don’t believe you! You sound crazy! I mean you’re…” He searches for the words, but how does one sum up almost a decade of watching? Of wanting— “You. …And I’m me.”
It’s softer. Lower. Just where he should be. Because really, you’re the sky. And he’s just a burrower. Too afraid to leave the caverns he’s carved in his mind, even for warmth. For light. For a smile that doesn’t shine—
“Right…” Your mouth pulls, dim, and the huff of breath sounds derisive, like you can’t possibly pass it for a laugh, but still, you try. “You’re you, and I’m me—”
He nods along, internalizing the sound of his own words on your lips. If you believe it, that will be enough. It will be enough.
“Just boring…me—”
The sentence drips with resignation. As if it’s a truth you’ve cuddled up to long enough for the feelings to subside. Roommates with your own distaste. A years-long relationship molded into resentment. He feels sick.
“What?”
You resituate yourself, pulling inward, and if you could transform the atoms in the air, Eddie thinks there’d be a wall already reaching above the highest branches.
“No, I just— It makes sense.” You tug at your sweater until your hands are almost hidden, and regret nips at his bare skin, colder than the breeze. “It’s totally true; you’re so cool—”
He swallows the words, but they catch in his throat. Unusual and untrue. And despite his quiet, “Cool?” that slips out, coated in disbelief, you carry on, adding brick after brick.
“You’ve got your band, and that game you love to play—”
Now that’s just strange.
“D&D?” he mutters, blanching at the sentiment. Because, yeah, he thinks it’s cool. But he can count on one hand how many other Hawkins residents think the same.
You perk up a bit, and he feasts on the split-second of sunlight. “Yeah! That’s the one. And you literally run a club for it. That’s, like, the definition of cool.”
It’s the high. It’s the marijauna in your system. Either that, or you and he have vastly different definitions of cool—
“And your music taste! I hear you drive up to school all the time; you’re always blasting that metal stuff! It’s so…” your eyes wander, as if searching for the right word and his mind fills in the usual blanks: loud, shitty, annoying, satanic. “unique!”
You’re too good. He’s decided it. Not because of the popularity, like he had chalked it up to before. This is different. It’s pure.
And he’s tar.
“You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me my music taste was…unique, I’d be broke,” he huffs, crossing his arms like the act will protect against your budding smile, growing back like the first bloom of May flowers.
“Well, I’m sure they just haven’t tried it yet.” And you’re so sure. He can hear the optimism in your voice and it’s deafening.
But then, it’s like time reverses, and in comes the April shower to drown the delicate bud; you retreat into yourself, again. Smile fading, insecurity rearing.
“I’ve never… I mean— I’ve never really tried it before, either.”
Now you won’t look at him, and the insinuation of your words alone is enough to haunt him.
With a sigh, he closes the distance, sitting beside you on the bench. For a moment, he only listens to his own pulse. The rushing in his ears. He waits for the confidence to speak, unaware it’s a bus that will never come.
But impatience gets the best of him, and he decides to walk it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel— It’s just— I just—” He groans, watching the thoughts pass him by while he fails to hang onto even one. His skin feels too tight and he’s certain the only solution is to peel it off his miserable bones. “I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”
The admission rings out like a shot in the autumn air, and the silence that follows lands like an atom bomb, breaking the sound barrier in a mushroom cloud of mortifying truth.
He doesn’t know why he said it.
Why he thought cutting himself down while you’re bleeding makes some sort of difference. How it could possibly count as some kind of balm to your wounds.
But you wear your wounds well. And truth leaks from you without loss. It pools without inhibition. Not yielding, but seeping. Filling the cracks in him—the tunnels that quake—with something malleable and pure. Not viscous and sticky. Not like tar.
His head hangs low, eyes following the way your thumb smooths over your wool skirt. Then his gaze tracks downward, and he wishes it wouldn’t. But your skin looks so soft, and he traces the curving terrain until he sees your pearly-white Keds digging into the dirt.
You could probably make it to China before he finds the right words to fix this.
“You know, I’ve never had to convince a girl not to like me.” The quirk of his lips doesn’t change the tone, despite his best efforts.
You cross your ankles, old wood creaking under you. “No?”
It’s simple. Gentle. You’re humoring him. And it’s a kindness he can’t afford, but you give it to him anyway, charity case that he is.
“No.” He huffs, something like a snicker but without the joke. “Usually, it’s the opposite.”
More atomic silence. And he starts to wonder if he ever actually learned how to behave properly. If he fundamentally misunderstands how to have a conversation.
Or maybe he was just swapped at birth with an alien whose sole purpose is to elicit discomfort. And maybe there’s a human version of him out there, travelling among the stars, charming and suave, dripping with bravado. Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s what he’ll—
“What’s the argument then?”
His brows furrow, and he swings his head to look at you. But the second his eyes meet yours, he has to force himself not to flee. Not to make a coward’s retreat.
“What?”
“The argument,” you respond coolly. “How are you gonna persuade me not to like you?”
God, he wishes you’d stop saying it. Maybe it’d be easier to hear if it didn’t sound so earnest. If it didn’t sound like it came from a well of truth.
His foot taps on the ground as he thinks, hands flexing restlessly. “Well…I guess I kind of thought the everything about me was argument enough.”
You stare silently, and his flesh might as well be made of a cellophane the way your gaze seems to expertly track the gears turning in his mind.
“But clearly not,” he murmurs.
Your lips quirk. “Nope.”
The glint in your eyes should scare him. Should shake him to his core. Because there’s something about this particular glimmer…
With the determination of a predator poised to attack, or a vulture itching to pick him apart, you watch. Quietly. Waiting. It’s the kind of look only the helpless are on the other side of. He should be terrified.
But he’s not. His hands aren’t shaking out of fear, and his stomach doesn’t flip out of nerves.
No, it’s something else entirely.
Your chin tips, and your smile curls around the words. “To ensure a fair hearing, the court must consider all evidence; Mr. Munson, you may proceed.”
His grin stretches, and he turns his body the slightest bit towards you.
“Okay,” he nods, pondering the laundry list of reasons he has locked and loaded, ready to go. Who’s the lucky winner? What’s the bare minimum he can share without mortally wounding his pride—well, more than it already is. “Alright, well, sometimes I forget to wear deodorant, and I end up smelling really bad.”
Before he has a chance to regret his choice, your laugh drowns out every doubt. It cracks through him with an unbearable weight, leaving behind splintered shards of bone instead of prison bars. His heartbeat sounds louder now.
And for a moment—only a moment—he forgets why he said anything at all. He forgets the point. He forgets that the melody floating from your lips doesn’t belong in his dysfunctional orchestra.
But the urge is there. To hear it again. To be the cause.
Your eyes squint from the size of your smile. “Shut up.”
Locked in your gravitational pull, he moves closer—minutely, and he wouldn’t if he could help it.
“No, I’m serious! It’s bad! That’s why I gotta leave school early sometimes, I start to smell like vegetable soup by 2 p.m.”
His grin is stuck as he watches your head fall back, the melody growing stronger, lodging somewhere deep in his brain. Between cobwebs and old, out-of-tune earworms. He imagines bottling the sound and building a shelf just to hold it.
“You’re an idiot,” you huff breathlessly, the word not carrying the same sting it usually would if it came from anyone else. Because there’s no bite to it. No teeth, even.
He leans in before he can stop himself. “Ah, see, that’s a good one, too! I’m an idiot!”
But the melody quiets, and the violins screech a nasty response as your smile starts to fall.
“No, you’re not.”
It’s firm and final, like you truly believed it even before it slipped from your lips.
“Yes, I am,” he says, soft yet steadfast. “I’m a three-time super senior army crawling my way to a ‘D’ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s class. And I’ve had two full tries at it.”
You cock your head, eyeing him closely. Then—
“Well, practice makes perfect. Plus, I think it’s totally your year.”
Your smile is back and so is the warmth in Eddie’s body. If he had any sense, he’d steer the conversation elsewhere, because somehow, you’ve managed to flirt with him over his tragic academic history. You’re too powerful. You and your honeyed words, so sweet and thick, he could choke if he’s not careful.
He shifts, but can’t bring himself to move away. “Okay…what about this—I wanna do music.”
Your brows raise and he can tell you see through his pitiful attempt.
“Well…you’re in a band,” you shrug. “I kind of already knew that—”
“No, like, professionally. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna go to L.A. and, I don’t know, like, get a record deal and shit, and just make music.” The light still shines in your eyes and he knows you’re not getting it. “No college for me, no office job, no suburbs—no picket fence kind of life.”
Your gaze never strays from his. “Eddie, that’s not a bad thing. That’s—that’s inspiring.”
God, you’re making this hard. Especially when you look at him like that—like he’s something to be enamored by. Something worth looking at. Something pretty…
“No,” he shakes his head, clinging to the reality where you aren’t leaning closer to him, where your soft, perfumed skin doesn’t brush against his rough, bargain-bin jeans. “No, it’s a pipedream. It’s basically me begging to live in a van for the rest of my life because you and I both know it will never—”
“Eddie,” you cut in, grabbing his hand, “let me save you the energy. There’s nothing you can say that will stop how I feel. This isn’t a new thing. I’m not going through a phase. It’s not just a blip or a crush— I like you, Eddie Munson.”
His heartbeat slows, skipping every third thud like an old record, and he now knows the weight of your hand in his.
And for the first time since his fingers brushed yours while passing the joint, he can’t look away. No amount of self-control or misplaced willpower can drag him up from the depths of your imploring gaze.
“I like you a lot. You’re sweet,” and his face must’ve twitched because you grin and add, “When you’re not trying to act all tough and broody.”
Cellophane. He’s complete cellophane around you. Weak and pliant and see-through. His posturing means nothing, and he wonders if you always knew that.
If every snide comment to the jocks came with a footnote in the smallest print only you could read: I’m jealous they get your time. They don’t deserve it.
If every breezy look elsewhere gave him away as you’d walk past his table in the lunchroom, swaying skirt billowing in the winds of his repression.
“—and you make me laugh, and you’re honest.” Your hand squeezes his and he can’t quite bring himself to hold it yet. To open up. To keel over and admit defeat. “I just feel like everyone here…pretends to live the life they think they should live. But you don’t do that. You just live. And I think that’s beautiful.”
Your chin tips low and he has a near physical reaction from losing the heat of your attention.
“I think you’re beautiful.”
His mind whirs, sirens blare, but they’re silent. Unhelpful. Useless. Exactly what he feels like in the wake of your confession. And the only thought he can hold onto long enough to realize it’s just as useless is: he should buy a lottery ticket, or something.
“I—”
He watches you shift, doesn’t hear you breathe.
“I…think you stole my line…”
The pitiful excuse for a chuckle comes too late. Too weak to sound genuine, but just strong enough to deflect. Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Deflecting? Distracting?
Rejecting, apparently. At least that’s how you seem to take it, the way your hand slips from his so easily. The way your shoulders hunch and your legs squeeze together.
Small. You’re making yourself small for him.
And he’s just too unsteady. He’s not firing on all cylinders, not since you clipped his wires a ways back. Somewhere around you’re pretty and I like you. Just left of I told my friends and down the street from you’re cool.
“Sorry. That was…a lot. God.” Your frown is back and you turn to say something, then give up before you even start. A beat. Then, “I—I’m sorry if I scared you off with all of that.”
You say it as if the moment’s done. As if he’s not still clinging to your words with a white-knuckled grip.
And you retreat.
Not in any real way.
No, you’re still sitting next to him, still closer than ever before, but now, chipping away at your nail polish seems to be far more interesting than anything he could offer.
“Well…I’m still here…” he tries, unsure.
“Yeah…. You’re still here,” you echo quietly.
Showing mercy to your manicure, you shove your hands into your lap, twisting your fingers up. He recognizes the movement. The attempt to banish the need. The need to touch. He’s felt it too. Feels it now.
The bricks stack higher as your wall grows; a structure never meant to be scaled.
But he’s a burrower.
“You know…” he ponders, forcing the humor from his tone. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s not the weed…”
That gets you.
He hears the melody again, sees your wry smile.
“Shut up,” you whine, shoving his chest.
He moves fast and with grace as he traps your hand with his, holding your palm just over where your first laugh torpedoed his ribcage. Where the prisoner waits.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper, voice full of awe—the kind that quickly begins to carve away at his weakened flesh.
He huffs, low and earnest. “Yeah…. The prettiest girl in Hawkins just told me she likes me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re lucky I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest over this.”
You smirk, and he thinks it might just kill him. Like actually.
“Hm, well, now I feel like I’m kind of missing out on that…”
He snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Oh, yeah? You want me to keel over right here, right now?”
Your smile turns demure and he knows it’s a lie. Then, you give an innocent shrug that can’t even fool him.
“I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be extremely flattered—”
He jolts suddenly, grunting and groaning, curling his fingers tighter around your hand as he falls back against the edge of the wooden picnic top.
You gasp, turning to prop a knee on the bench as you lean over his stiff body. “Oh my God, medic!” Your empty call echoes in the air, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. Then, your voice falls to a low mutter. “Ohh, what do I do, what do I do? Damnit, I should’ve paid more attention in First Aid.”
Eddie convulses some, really driving the near Oscar-worthy performance home. Then he peeks an eye open, choking out, “M-Mmm-mouth.”
Your mask slips as you smirk, leaning closer. “Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it over all the dying.”
He slumps even more, the table digging beneath his shoulderblades as he sputters, “Mmm-mouth-to-mouth—”
You sit back, chewing the inside of your cheek and leveling him with an assessing stare as he twitches. “No…that can’t be it…”
Both eyes open as he brokenly utters, “No, it definitely is— With tongue! The tongue helps—”
You snicker, “Oh, yeah? It’s a necessity?”
He squeezes your hand. “Yeah, big—big necessity.”
You lean in, so close, and his mind turns to static as your perfume invades his senses.
This is it. It’s going to happen. Almost a decade of dreams that left him waking up in sticky discomfort, and he’s going to know the taste of—
“See, I just don’t remember that in the course,” you shrug, pulling away abruptly. “Mouth-to-mouth, sure, but adding tongue?”
One last shot, he reaches into the sky dramatically, convulses, then slackens in a lifeless heap, accented by his best death rattle.
He hears you call out, some half-assed plea that wouldn’t convince a soul, but then everything stops. Your lips slot against his, soft and plush and timid, and you might as well have used the paddles, the way his system shocks into action.
His hand finally releases yours, but you don’t move it, and he settles a gentle grip on the back of your head. Heavy enough to beg for more, soft enough to leave room for an escape, if you so choose.
But you don’t. Instead, your tongue glides along his top lip—a teasing kind of sweetness he accepts gladly, thankfully. He responds in kind—in hunger.
He can taste your cherry lip gloss, hear your surprised hum. It’s a tiny sort of sound he swallows with a groan of his own.
Then the pressure is gone. The taste, the noises—all gone. The music has stopped and the dizzying dance comes to an end with a blinding grin.
“Oh my God, it’s a miracle,” you pant, smoothing your palm up his chest until you reach skin.
He sits up, dazed, and you don’t move away, just letting him hover close like the proximity isn’t debilitating.
His next words slur out before he has a chance to think of a smoother line— “Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?”
And you laugh. And he’s learning that maybe you don’t want smooth. Because if you did, he certainly wouldn’t be your first call, and you wouldn’t be so quick to serenade every dumb comment of his.
So he thanks whoever rents the big house in the sky that you have a thing for burnouts and tries not to choke as you slide onto his lap, your pretty skirt splaying out across worn fabric.
Your lips find his again, your fingers get lost in his hair, you don’t bother hovering, and he starts writing a mental Last Will and Testament.
Jeff will get his Sweetheart, Mike will get his D&D manuals, Dustin will get his cassette tapes, and Gareth will finally get those twenty bucks he’s been whining about since last summer. He’ll leave it to Grant to dispose of his stash, and in payment, he can have the stack of porno mags under his bed.
Though, he might just give them away whether he dies or not, because he’s pretty sure, with the way you’re pressing down on him, they’ll soon be rendered useless.
Goosebumps rise along heated skin and something prickles up his spine as your nails rake through his curls. His mouth works against yours, a mind of its own as its aim widens, and he’s suddenly nipping down your jaw, tasting the tang of perfume on your neck.
Your chest racks with heavy, panting breaths and noises that sound like earnest attempts at his name. It’s intoxicating. His lips swell from struggling to keep up with his greed, but he can’t stop. There’s a burning kind of ache deep within him, and it’s growing.
His hands find their way to your hips, and he can’t tell if it’s you who moves freely, grinding down like you’re searching for something, or if it’s him and the ravenous need he’s not certain can be controlled.
“Fuck—”
“Eddie,” you call, tightening the grip on his hair until he groans. His cock flexes, straining against the oppressive zipper of his jeans and missing a kind of warmth he’s itching to know.
“Hm?” he grunts into your neck, barely aware. He’s pretty sure he could devour you whole. But then again, he’d much rather savor you, pick you apart and feast on your supple flesh for ages. The smallest little bites until your sweet noises grow louder and louder; scratchy and desperate like the mindless roll of your hips against denim.
“E-Eddie—”
Your voice pitches up, his name breaking on the crest of your movements, and you hunch toward him like the pleasure is a weight your shoulders can’t possibly bear.
And something twists in his gut then, something raw and hungry.
He wants to hear that again. Hear his name shatter on your tongue as his hands explore beneath your dainty skirt. He wants to feel the vibrations of your moans as he kisses every inch of you.
“Mm, yeah, baby?”
“I want— Want you,” you grit out, like the words take effort you can barely muster.
“Fuck— I know, I wan’ you, too. So bad. So fuckin’ bad.”
If it were any other time, he might feign control. Might deepen his voice with a confidence he doesn’t have. But this is not just any other time. It’s you, in his lap, whispering needy little pleas into the air like it’s obvious. Simple necessity. Like he’s not just a warm body and you’re not picturing someone else.
His fingers curl into the waistband of your skirt, and it’s as if you remembered there was more to be said because your hips stall and you press against his chest.
He swallows the disgruntled whine, and accepts your direction. Doubt creeps into the fog of his mind, but you don’t leave him time to get lost when your thumbs smooth over the stubble on his jaw, the worry in your eyes outweighing his.
“Eddie, I, um, I want—you,” you finish stiltedly, looking at him like you’re waiting for the penny to drop. “But, I, uh, I’ve ne—” It spins. “I don’t really—” And spins. “I mean, not that I’m, like—” And spins. “I’ve just never really—”
It drops, a metallic clang bouncing off the walls of his skull, and suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t touch you at all. His hands hover over your hips and the something-molten deep in his gut turns out to be much more familiar than he thought. Hot, bubbling, careless and incessant in its need to stain. To contaminate.
“Never?” His brows furrow, trying to decipher the discomfort on your face. If it’s him—if it’s the tar—he might just leave town now. Screw graduation. Screw a diploma— “Like never ever?”
Stupid question. At this rate, he should look into surgically removing his foot from his mouth before he tries to speak next—
“Guess I was just…waiting,” you shrug, thumbing the hem of his shirt. Then your movements become less innocent as your nails trail against his skin. So light, if he weren’t acutely aware of everything you do, if his stomach didn’t twitch in time with his restless cock, he wouldn’t have caught it.
“Sweetheart,” he almost warns, feeling like he misconstrued this moment for something serious, when clearly, you’re toying with him, spreading your palms along his waistband like you can’t see him shiver. Like you can’t feel his length straining beneath you, flexing against its jean prison, reaching for the warmth of your core.
“S-Sweetheart,” he repeats, the endearment sounding more and more like a plea as you rake your nails through the wiry curls just below his navel.
You go on, apparently undeterred by his fraying control. “I’ve been on dates—”
He doesn’t care. His eyes track yours and the glide of your tongue along kiss-bitten lips.
“Guys have tried—”
Okay, he cares. What?
“I’ve just never really—wanted to.”
Fuck.
You grind down, passing the motion off as adjusting your position, but Eddie doesn’t trust that gleam in your eyes. And you confirm it in the way your palms smooth down his arms until you press his hands to your hips. Making him touch you. Contaminate you. You encourage it, even. Wrapping your grip around his wrists as you guide his hands beneath your wool top.
“But it’s different with you.”
He shudders.
“Sweetheart.”
It’s certainly a plea, now. A cry for mercy as your fingers return to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, travelling up, up, up until he’s entirely covered in goosebumps, and he worries you can feel the pitiful call of the convict in his chest.
“I don’t want to. That’s not what it feels like—”
God damnit, he’s so confused and all the blood rushed from his brain long ago. There’s nothing up there anymore.
“‘S not like that. ‘S like,” you lean in close, letting him feel the words against his lips before he ever hears them, “a need. Like there’s something missing right now.” You roll your hips and he chokes on the breath he was holding. “And I think— No, I know, if I could just—feel you…inside me—I would be okay again. Better.”
“Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, thrusting up with the coordination of a muscle spasm. He lets his forehead fall against yours in an attempt to gather control. “You—you can’t just say shit like that.”
You peck his lips and he chases the small affection. “But it’s true. I don’t wan’ anyone else. Just want you. Inside me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, trapping you in a kiss that borders on consumption more than anything sweet.
He can feel you everywhere: on top of him, in his hair, under his shirt, sinking claws into his sides; your touch is kindling to the fire raging low inside him.
Suddenly, he’s reminded of the foiled condom he removed from his wallet just the other day. The old thing was practically useless, worn down and crumpled from years of sitting idle in between the folds of cracked leather. But something is better than nothing, and now he’s cursing his past-self for his terminal case of realism.
The clink of metal draws his attention back, and he hadn’t noticed your lips leave his or how your hands have grown eager, already past his belt and now fiddling with the button on his jeans.
“Wanna feel you, Eddie. I need to,” your honeyed whines wash over his body, sending a buzz through his veins. But then the purring sound of his zipper sliding open reminds him—
“Shit,” his hand wraps around your wrist. “Wait, I don’t— I don’t have anything,” he admits lowly, miserably.
You smile, kissing around his mouth like you’re drawing the shame out, and him in. “It’s okay…. I just want you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “All of you.”
And something inside him rumbles, something sick and starving. Once-weak, but now growing in strength. It’s mean and sharp, with teeth that can cut through steel and an appetite that can devour innocence whole.
It’s not unfamiliar, this beast. He’s known it for ages. It’s an old friend. A confidant. Something to speak to in the darkest moments, but never to trust. Something to surrender to during the sweatiest nights, when his hand cramps but the need still aches. Still hungers.
It’s got an imagination, too. Twisted as can be, it preens at the thought of possession, of staying. Of skin stretching and bones shifting, of curly-haired children that have your eyes and his smile. Soccer practice between label meetings, the sun beating down on hot sand as little feet kick at his back. A ring with weight and a necklace to match.
It’s like a plague on his thoughts. But it’s not. Not really. Because he doesn’t have to fear the lies anymore. The want. The bubbles are melding, his world is clashing with yours. And the beast tells the truth, now.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your lips, the words sounding more like a warning than anything.
“Mmm,” you hum, trailing your affection down his neck. “Been there, done that. I’d rather keep you alive for this.”
And you’ve crossed his wires so expertly, he’s practically sparking beneath your touch.
Imbued with a new kind of power, he slides you from his lap before shucking his leather jacket off and swinging it onto the table’s surface. His shirt follows with, finding a strategic home among the layers.
You seem to catch on because you climb onto the table, laying yourself out just like before. He grins, helping you out of your top, only to fold it up and leave it where your head can rest.
Both of you pause, taking just a moment to stare. Openly.
He tracks your gaze as it trails across his chest, noting each tattoo. Then his eyes widen as you distractedly remove your bra like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t fucked his fist to the thought of this very moment.
The material slides down your arms and you settle back, pretty as a picture, laid out all for him.
“Jesus…Christ, sweetheart, fuck.”
You smirk, and there’s that gleam again. Evil and conniving and he’s a willing victim, first in line, and hopefully last.
“See anything you like?”
He gulps, kneeling on the bench below, itching to touch you, but holding onto manners with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah. See a whole lot.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” You grab his hand, guiding it to your breast with a squeeze. “This isn’t a museum, you can touch.”
“Oh, s-shit,” he stutters, losing all decorum as his other hand joins in, kneading the supple skin. Your sighs possess him, and before he can overthink it, his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue circling and laving at the tightening peak.
“E-Eddie!” Your hand flies to his curls and he groans, parting his lips wider, needing to feel more of you in his mouth.
You writhe beneath him, a victim of a fiendish kind of gluttony as he moves to your other breast, tweaking the wet peak he left behind.
He explores your body zealously, taking his time tasting and nipping every bit he can reach until you start tugging at the roots of his hair, forcing him up.
“Need you,” you huff breathlessly, yanking at his jeans. “Now.”
“W-Wait—” his hands land on yours, slowing your movements.
Your mouth parts as you look up at him, wide-eyed and completely desperate, and he feels his control unspooling like flimsy yarn.
“No, Eddie, I already told you—”
“It’s not that,” he shakes his head, kissing you quiet. “I just— We can’t just…”
You watch him patiently, clinging onto every half-thought he struggles to produce.
“I gotta— No, I—want to make this good for you…obviously,” he grunts, cringing at the lack of suavity. “And to do that, um, we can’t just…”
You nod, encouraging him as his face grows hot. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’ll be able to explain the concept of foreplay to you right now. Not when you’re looking at him like that, bare and ready for him.
So he sighs and kisses you once more, this time slow and careful. Full of things he can’t quite say, but he hopes you understand.
“You trust me, right?”
“Of course,” you respond instantly, eyes shining so bright.
He swallows, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. “And you’ll let me take care o’ you?”
You lean into his touch, almost shy as you nod. “Yeah. Yes…please.”
And a piece of him breaks off, then.
Splintered by your soft words, the plea that landed like a hammer on his scuffed lacquer.
One single chip in the barrier, and the beast rises in a crashing escape.
His lips find yours—messy, needy.
Wanton greed curls around every cracked rib, reaching out like smoke unfurling. Searching for something to envelop, to take. To take and take and take. Your breath, your taste, you. It wants it all.
He wants it all.
The words tumble out too easily. “Such pretty manners, huh?”
You shudder, hiding your face in the curve of his jaw.
“Pretty manners in a pretty girl,” he practically purrs, letting his hands slip down your body until his fingers invade the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Gonna let me take care o’ you, hm? Gonna let me get you all nice and ready?”
Your breathy sigh warms his neck as he shimmies the fabric down your legs, laying you back, gently.
You squirm beneath his gaze, squeezing your thighs together. “Eddie…”
“Shh, patience, pretty,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your curving terrain until he’s toying with the powder blue fabric. “Gotta be good for me. Think you can do that?”
“Mhm,” you hum, choking on the note as he softly pushes your legs apart.
“Ohh, look at you…” His eyes darken and he thinks he could get used to this. To seeing you all laid out for him like a meal. A feast that could last him forty days and forty nights.
You shift, almost imperceptibly, as he drags your panties down, but he noticed. He always does with you. “Be good,” he warns lowly.
“I’m trying.”
Your whine falls to static as he watches a single string of arousal cling to the blue gusset with a fragile strength he aches to snap.
The trees rustle overhead and the sun peeks through, lending a perfect spotlight to your wet folds, and he groans, pocketing your underwear with little consideration.
“Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous, baby, think I’m losin’ my mind,” he mutters, kneading the fat of your thighs.
“Eddie,” you call, wiggling into his grip, and he’s never been more certain that you’re a temptress put on this earth to destroy him and everything that he tries to be. Controlled. Polite. Genetlemanly.
Every stuttering breath, every twitch of your hips, every slow blink—you’re chiseling away at the lacquer, unaware of all that lies beneath.
“Eddie, pl—ease!”
His middle and ring fingers glide through your folds while his opposite hand holds your hips down as you try to grind onto him.
“Knew you’d make the prettiest sounds. …Pretty sounds, pretty manners, pretty girl,” he chants the words like a mantra, entranced as he raises his fingers up to watch your arousal glisten in the evening light. “Pretty.”
You whimper, and suddenly it feels like he’s been pulled from the depths as he stares down at your face, pinched in pleasure. You’re waiting as patiently as you can and he has to reward that.
He spreads your folds once more, listening intently as he slips a finger inside. Your broken moan speaks almost directly to his cock, and he can feel a stream of precum soaking his boxers.
You call his name again, your chest moving in perfect time with the pulse of your warm walls. He responds to your plea for more with a second finger, and your nails sink into his wrist.
“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good,” he utters restlessly, leaning closer to your soaked cunt. He glances up, notes your closed eyes, and decides to feed the beast.
With one stolen moment, he breathes deep, cataloguing the scent. Your perfume, your cherry lotion, and now you. The most intimate of all. And he can’t stop now.
He knows your touch, your heady scent; he wants to know your taste, too. The real thing. Not just your lip gloss or your languid tongue in his mouth. He needs to know you deeply, fervently.
His fingers drag inside you, a slight curl every time you buck your hips. He hears your whines, sees you dripping down his hand, shimmery and inviting.
Then he pulls out, much to your loud chagrin. And before he can scrounge up any last attempt at control, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s groaning at the taste—so sweet, he could choke.
“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, mouth full as you stare at him. He almost feels the need to apologize. He robbed you of the friction you were so desperately seeking just so he could be selfish. Though, he feels like he might never stop being selfish around you, so maybe he’ll allow the precedent.
He’ll blame the beast. It’s not really him.
It’s not him who wants to drown in you, force you to ride his face until he passes out. It’s not him who wants to leave bite marks along your quivering thighs until salt coats your cheeks and you beg him just to fuck you.
It’s not him who wants to live in your sweltering heat, carve out a place for himself. Make your walls know the shape of his cock, feel you milk him dry until something takes and you’re his and a part of him is yours.
It’s not him, it’s the rotted want.
The need that grows hot, like a wound that has festered long enough. A gash you cut into him sometime ago.
Bleeding for years and he never even knew it.
The infection has driven him mad.
But he’s beginning to think maybe you’re suffering just the same. Fevered skin and heavy limbs, weak from the wait. Like him. Withered and hungry. So long watching the have’s, resolved to be a have not—
“Eddie, please, I need you.” Your hips search for him, for pleasure, for friction, and he drops lower, his breath spreading over your fluttering folds.
“I know, sweets, I know. But I gotta get you all ready, gotta make it good for you,” he whispers, staring as fresh arousal glints in the golden rays. It’s like you’re trying to entice, to coax.
“‘S already good,” you slur, and it sounds like the words are burning to ash on your tongue. He can feel you overheating. “‘S so good, please, just—”
“Said you trust me, right?” He smooths a hand up your body until he finds your breast, kneading it some more.
“Yes,” you huff, scooting closer to him.
He licks his lips, and the lie comes quicker than he’d like. “Just a little bit more. Wanna make sure you’re all re—”
His voice becomes muffled as he presses his face against your cunt like a starved, rabid thing. Your fingers thread deep through his curls—a knee-jerk reaction—and he laps at you with open-mouthed kisses and agonizingly precise flicks of his tongue.
You squeal and your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his fingers sink into the supple flesh, prying you open as his tongue breaches your slit with pointed thrusts.
Your back bows, arching high off the table and he pulls you closer to him, finally satisfying what has felt like an insatiable ache.
Because it’s different with you. He’s never felt this…full. Every pulse, every lewd slurp, fills him; he gorges himself on you. On your taste, on the way your moans crash over themselves like waves trying to drag you both under.
His fingers slip in once more and your body goes rigid—the perfect picture of marbleized ecstasy. His tongue circles your clit and pleasure carves into your every curve, sculpting a release that courses through you like rolling thunder.
His name dies a thousand times on your parted lips, and your hips begin to flee.
“O-Oh, God!”
He slows to a stop, smoothing a thumb over your twitching muscles. “Fuck, you taste so good— Knew you would,” he pants, sucking his fingers clean. He settles over you, whispering against your mouth. “Knew you would—”
“Tell me I’m yours.”
It’s sudden. An order.
Every syllable hammers into him, shattering something fragile. Shards of control—of disbelief, of belonging—bite at his skin. He’s paralyzed by it, a nerve punctured somewhere deep inside.
And you look worried, like that simple sentence wasn’t meant to land so heavy, but you don’t take it back. Instead, “Tell me I can be yours.”
He swallows hard, nearly choking on nothing.
He has wanted. Longer than you, he thinks.
But it’s all been in vain.
Then you show up, move mountains and shift worlds with only your audacious honesty and a quarter of a joint for courage. He could really learn a thing or two from you—
“Yeah,” he whispers, staring into eyes he never thought he’d see this close. “You’re mine.”
With a shuddering breath and a kiss so gentle, he’s almost certain reality falls away, his mind latches onto the moment your hands blindly find his jeans, urging the material down his thighs.
He helps you, watching intently as you take him in—all of him—his cock weeping and flexing, reaching for something he never imagined asking for.
You don’t speak, but he sees a reflection in the shine of your iris. It’s familiar. It commands. It guides as you drag your fingers along corded muscle with a level of reverence that leaves him dizzy.
Peering down, he holds back every sound, his chest heaving from the marathon of your touch.
You’re pacing yourself. Exploring—testing, in a way, like you’re figuring out what makes him tick.
Confidently kneading here, a delicate brush there.
Sinew twitching, his length jumping, stomach flipping.
Your nails rake through the dark curls at his navel and you follow the trail until it grows coarse, an observant hum at his body’s reaction.
“Pretty,” you mutter lowly.
His frame trembles, the single word falling from your lips like a ton of bricks.
As your hands wander, you don’t bother with permission and that almost makes him double over.
There’s no question of can I? There’s only the surety of being yours, like an apodictic artifact you’ve excavated from a shallow grave.
Because he did lay it to rest.
So many times.
Every morning his head lifted from his pillow, he buried it again. Every time your skirt caressed his desk, he threw roses. Every laugh he never caused, he said a prayer.
But he could not abide an eternity of peace.
Darkness would fall and he’d dig and dig and dig, the dirt already loose and the trees whispering their greetings. He’d drag up old ghosts—truths only meant for the moon—and dance with them all night.
Then, like clockwork, golden light would send him reaching for the shovel; the sun would rise and he was resolved to live without.
Now it’s you who has disturbed the holy ground and it’s freeing. To be exposed. To be known.
Your gaze settles on his face, and he wishes he could understand the thoughts in your mind, the ramblings behind your eyes.
For a second, he thinks he recognizes the quiet curve of your lips, but—
“So pretty.”
He chokes, his body jerking as your hand circles his cock, firm, yet gentle. Possessive.
Your unwavering attention and innocent smile turns the blood in his veins molten. His hips buck into your grip, unintentionally coating your soft palm in the sticky precum dribbling from his tip.
“S-Shit, sweetheart—”
He hunches over, weathered wood scratching against his knees as he tries to warn, to caution you on just how easy he is. How little effort it’d take him to lose it, to let himself fuck your hand like a poor, desperate slip of a thing.
“I’m ready,” you say, leading him down. “Please.”
He allows your thighs to hitch onto his hips, allows you to hold him, and he allows himself to be this close. To find purchase between your legs, to indulge in the heat of your core.
He memorizes your features—the determined furrow of your brow, the flutter of your lashes. The version of you before him.
He so badly wants to tell you what he sees.
“God, you’re— Fuck!”
Your breath hitches as you press his cock to your folds, and he tries for coherence, but it all falls away when he feels you. Soft and wet and so inviting; you’re killing him slowly.
“Please, Eddie,” you huff, your hips rolling like you mean to catch him. “Need to feel you, I swear to—”
The sentence shatters on a sharp moan the moment he takes control, letting his length glide against your slit. He’s coated in no time, practically drowning in you, but he doesn’t stop.
It’s like a trance, the way he moves, watching fresh drops of precum mix with your arousal. He wants to taste that, too. You and him, together. He wants to know.
You don’t seem to notice his paralysis, instead focusing on bucking your hips just right, and when his tip catches on your entrance, something shocks him into motion.
Your body wraps around him shallowly, sucking the blunt edge of him in. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t ignore your babbled pleas for more.
For once in his life, he allows himself to take. It’s not begrudging permission, not shameful resignation to his more selfish nature. It’s enthusiastic, it’s encouraged, it’s accepted.
He pushes into you slowly, meeting your parted lips with ragged breaths, and your walls cling to him in a joyous welcome. Your pulse drums against his length, squeezing him in a sudden clench; he thinks he mutters advice, something about relaxing, but he’s not sure.
Reality is bending and he’s thought about this so much, imagined this very moment countless times, and yet, nothing could have prepared him for how your nails take a chunk out of him, how you’re trying with all your might to pull his hips closer, huffing in impatience and cracking under the need.
You’re just like him.
He hadn’t realized it until now.
He saw shadows, heard the strain of your voice.
But he hadn’t looked in your eyes, hadn’t been near enough to hear the call.
The call of the hungry and withered. Of the wanton and greedy.
He hears it now. Loud and clear.
Responding in a bellowing groan, he sinks into you fully. His lips flutter over your face, savoring your once-delicate features as they warp in pleasure.
“F-Fuck! Ed— Eddie, more,” you cry, squirming for friction.
“More,” he echoes mindlessly, latching onto the order. A real kiss, sweet and loaded like a gun soon to go off, then, “More. The pretty girl wants more— Gets what she wants.”
The words fall from his tongue with little thought—little care. Static whirs in his brain, blocking out everything but you.
Drawing back steadily, he steals one more glance at you—checking in—then drops down in a sudden snap, guided by your fingers digging into the taut muscle of his ass.
Sweat beads at his spine as his skin sticks to yours on every impact. His arms hook under your knees, changing the angle just to hear that shrill whine he’s quickly growing addicted to.
All you manage to say is his name, over and over again like his thrusts are evicting every syllable from your chest.
The shadows rise, spreading rapidly, and it feels much like possession coursing through him.
He shudders, his stuttered breaths syncopating with the pulse of your cunt, choking him on every shove in. Your eyes have rolled back now, and your body moves with him, pliant, as if his to mold—to inflict upon, however he sees fit.
A malleable offering of sheer innocence, laid at his altar.
And it was your idea.
The lamb’s idea to come to slaughter.
“F-Feels good, huh?” he grits, watching you surrender to him so beautifully.
Your response catches, snagged halfway up your throat, clawed back by a resounding whimper as you nod.
“Yeah, it feels good,” he parrots, fighting back the raging fire deep in his gut—the one that threatens to engulf you, too. Because he’s not done yet. Not nearly.
His hips pound into you, cock dragging along your walls at a punishing pace. The beast hums and he smirks as you try to form sentences.
“S-So— Agh! I— Mmmph!”
He nods like he understands every unspoken word. “Now you see why I had to get you all ready? Hm? You were so cute, thinkin’ you could just take it. So brave, comin’ here, all sweet on the freak.”
“Eddie!”
You have the audacity to paw at him, to pull, to try to meet his strokes in crumbling desperation. He drops your legs, shoving your hands above your head as he presses down onto you, pinning you against the picnic table, the structure rocking with the movement.
His long, rhythmic thrusts dwindle to swift, sharp ruts, the action bordering on animalistic.
“But now look at you. All mine,” he huffs, dark eyes roving over your trembling body. Then his gaze travels lower, where his cock burrows into you—where you take him so easily, opening up like he said the magic word a thousand times over. “Practically made f’me, fuckin’ look at you. Stretched full and so damn pretty, too. We fit real nice together, don’t we, baby?”
You whine and he maneuvers your wrists into one hand, helping to prop your head up with the other.
“Look at you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “So wet, you’re drownin’ me, sweetheart.”
Something splinters on your face and he follows your eyeline, notices it fixed on the milky ring that circles the base of his thick shaft and the matted down curls you couldn’t stop admiring earlier.
“Oh,” he drawls, a wicked, wolfish grin stretching his lips. “You like that?”
You nod and he practically preens. You are just like him.
“Like seein’ me covered in you? Marked?”
Your response is nothing more than a brittle whimper and he can feel you clench around him, already so close to falling into the after—the space in time where you will know what it feels like to be thoroughly picked apart, to be undone. By him.
“You’re markin’ me,” he growls into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your jugular, trying not to bite. “Think it’s only fair you let me do the same, hm? What do you say, pretty girl? Gonna let me really fill you up?”
“P-Please! Oh, God, please, Eddie—”
His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, practiced circles on the swollen bud and you freeze, arching into his chest, searing your sweat-soaked flesh to his. Your cries fall silent as you gape, convulsing at every third swipe he makes.
Your walls trap him in a vice grip, fluttering and milking rope after rope of cum from his flexing length. He shivers uncontrollably, feeling his warm spend flood the tight space until it leaks, shoveled out by his now-pitiful ruts.
He tries to prolong it. Tries to steal the moment from time itself and live in it; play house with the present. But then his body finally gives out, muscles slackening, and your arms are there to catch him, welcoming the iron hold he traps you in.
Raspy whispers are muttered into your neck, tattooed by the heat of his breath; quiet sentiments he’s not certain you hear over the noise of two settling souls. And maybe it’s better that way. Maybe they’re things to hoard—at least for a little while longer.
He trails kisses up your jaw, blindly searching for your lips, only to find them unresponsive. Worry fills him immediately.
Maybe he was too rough. He did notice the half-moon marks scattered along your thighs.
Maybe he was too mouthy. He can never think straight when it comes to you.
Maybe he was just too much—
“Eddie,” you call gently, pulling him from somewhere deep and dark.
He meets your eyes, surprised to see them wide and wanting, shining with that honest gleam that makes him feel so exposed.
“You are mine.”
So you heard.
He wasn’t cautious and he said the words meant for an empty bedroom out loud. And you heard.
Your fingers thread through his curls, dragging his wavering attention back to you.
“You are mine,” you repeat, softer but no less confident.
He wonders how something so delicate could detonate something so sturdy. Years and years of denial, blown to smithereens in three words.
And you make it look easy.
Make it sound plausible.
That he could be yours, just as much as you want to be his.
He nods, hanging onto you like a lifesaver as debris from the wreckage floats by. He swallows and his voice barely forms around the letters, breaking under the weight of it all.
“O-Okay.”
And he surrenders.
He believes you.
A/N: For the love of god, please be sweet and talk to me about this fic. I think I looked at it for too long and now I don’t know if it’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever written or if I’m just too close to it rn, I’m being so for real.
summary: Steve catches a glimpse of his future while at your wedding reception and doesn't want to waste another second without putting his baby inside of you.
pairing: husband!Steve Harrington x wife!f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, unprotected piv, breeding kink (obv), use of the word 'daddy' but like...not the way you're thinking, oral f!receiving, semi-public sex, praise, big dick!steve, riding, lots of kissing, fluff, traditional gender roles, set between seasons four and five so spoiler free, but canon divergent because max isn't in a coma but i would literally never have a wedding without my ginger baby there with me, no beta
wc: 4.6k
note: i've only read over this once so sorry for any mistakes! i wanted to get this out into the world. i hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!! <3
[masterlist] [AO3]
Sometimes, Steve thinks that loving you is an integral part of his DNA.
He’s never been happier than he was this afternoon, standing up there at the altar in the church beneath stained glass windows. He’d chosen to recite the vows he’d written for you in the back of his biology notebook in tenth grade. You were so beautiful and so strong, even back then, that he’d known no matter what happened, you were going to be the absolute love of his life.
Steve proposed with a plastic ring in Mike Wheeler’s basement that he’s pretty sure had teeth marks in it. Everyone was there, and Steve knows he should’ve planned better. Waited for a time that was more romantic, waited until he had an actual ring.
But he’d seen you fold your arms around Will and Lucas at the same time and promise them pizza next weekend and all Steve could see was the future mother of his children.
And so much had been taken from the two of you already; innocence, peace, time. He didn’t want to waste another second.
So he’d picked up the ring from the sienna colored carpet and got down on one knee and spilled his guts in front of everyone.
And when you’d said yes, it had felt like a breath of fresh air. Felt like reclaiming what had been stolen.
Dustin had screeched in excitement like a wild animal and Max and El started jumping on the couch and started planning the party before the tears had even dried from the corners of your eyes.
There’s a lot of things that went wrong from then until now. The caterer had bailed at the last minute and Mrs. Wheeler had borrowed every roaster on the block to make enough roasted chicken to feed everyone.
Steve couldn’t do his hair like he wanted that morning, could never do it quite the way you could, so he’d sat with his eyes closed tightly while you used that Farrah Fawcett hairspray and styled his hair in your wedding dress.
He hadn’t peeked, though he wanted to. But Steve had felt the brush of both silk and lace and knew the smell of your perfume from memory.
The strap of your heel broke, so Joyce had glued it to the side of your ankle with liquid bandage and after the church ceremony, you’d spent the rest of your time in those beat up sneakers you always wore.
And on top of everything else, there was still the looming question about Vecna’s unconfirmed death that hung like a dark cloud in your mind.
But still. Even with all that had gone wrong, the Harrington wedding had turned out perfectly.
There isn’t a single thing about it that Steve would change.
Not when everything leads him here. Standing off to the side of the dance floor, finding a moment of quiet to himself for the first time all day.
There’s a glass bottle of beer in his hand and he clinks his ring finger against the side of it, hearing the ting it makes and reveling in it.
He watches you and sees the rest of his life.
You’re in the middle of the dance floor. The glittering pins in your hair sit a little askew now, and the bottom seam of your white dress has grown dusty. But Steve thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than you do at this precise moment.
You’re dancing with Max and El. Swaying your hips and twirling them in circles. They’re smiling hard with exertion-reddened cheeks and giggling so loud that Steve can hear them over the steady thrum of music.
A widespread grin stretches across your pretty mouth. Finding just as much joy in the moment as the two girls who idolize you.
There’s this light behind your eyes when you look at them. A soft adoration, a maternal instinct deeply ingrained.
It only serves to reassure Steve impossibly more that you’re perfect for him.
He feels giddy with excitement, thinking of what’s to come. Thinking about how ten years from now he’ll be coming home from a long day at work to see you dancing just like this, except you won’t be on a dance floor.
Instead, you’ll be in the middle of the kitchen in the home you share with him. There will be soft music on the radio and food on the stove and you’ll be spinning two little toddlers that hopefully have your eyes and your nose and your smile.
He wants to fill the house with your children, truthfully. Wants to lay awake at night hearing giggles from boys who are up well past their bedtime and trip over princess dresses in the hallway and spend Saturday afternoons at the ice cream parlor. He wants to argue about bath time and eating peas with dinner and why the pink cup is no better than the green one.
Steve wants it all. And he wants it with you—his beautiful, sweet girl.
His wife.
Something shifts inside him. Something equal parts desire and devotion.
He sets the bottle in his hands on the nearest table, and makes his way to you. His suit jacket is long gone, and he’s got the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up to his elbows.
You have your back turned to him as you and Max try to demonstrate a terrible example of salsa dancing to El. But as he nears, you smile at him over your shoulder. As if you’d known he was coming, as if you could feel him like a secondary part of yourself.
Steve holds his hand out to you, palm up and open. “You guys mind if I steal my bride back for a little bit?”
Both Max and El make sounds of irritation. “But we just got her!”
He laughs, unable to control his mirth. “I know, I know. She’s a wanted woman, what can I say? I’ll bring her back, alright? I promise.”
Max places your hand into Steve’s with a glare on her face. “Don’t hog her, Harrington. You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he says, pulling you away from the dance floor. Steve conveniently waits until Max is out of earshot before he grumbles, “Monopolizing my own wife. God. Ridiculous. And did you hear that? Her tone?”
Your giggles are music to his ears. “She was just having fun, that’s all.”
Steve pauses. Slides one hand around your waist and uses the other to gently cradle your cheek. He smiles softly when you lean into his touch, the bustling crowd around you fading into nothing but background noise. “She loves you,” Steve says. “Believe me, I get it. I know exactly how she feels. And you wanna know what else I know?”
“Hm?”
“I know that you’re the most beautiful woman on Earth.”
You scoff and roll your eyes playfully, but Steve just pulls you closer.
“What? It’s true. And I mean, like—every version of it. In every alternate dimension that exists, you're just as perfect as you are right here and now.” Steve’s voice lowers. Just a fraction, almost undetectable. “My perfect, beautiful girl.”
The flush that crawls up your cheeks is nothing short of breathtaking. He loves seeing you like this. All soft and bashful because of him. “God—Steve. There are people around, you know.”
Your words make him laugh. “Sweetheart, they just watched us get married. Like, literally—all of them. I don’t think anyone will be very surprised if they overhear me calling my wife beautiful, Mrs. Harrington.”
“Yeah, I know. But you’re talking like…you know…”
“Like what? Am I–I’m talking weird?”
“No, not weird. Just…” Your face flames as you lean in close, voice lowered. “Kinda like you do when we’re alone. Like we’re about to…”
You don’t have to finish for Steve to hear your unsaid words. “Oh, I see,” he said, feigning innocence. “You mean the bedroom voice?”
With a turn of your head, you sweep your eyes across the space around you. But no one’s listening, all too caught up in their own joy. “Yeah. That.”
Steve just laughs and wraps his arms around you fully now, pulling you close and kissing the top of your head. There’s a teasing tone to his voice as he says, “Aw, babe. I’m sorry. C’mere.”
He’s certain you can feel the stiffness between his legs, even through all those layers of tulle and silk. Your eyes widen just a fraction as you look up at him with your lips parted, likely to chastise him in that spirited way he loves.
But Steve doesn’t give you the chance. He just leans down, presses his mouth to your ear, and whispers an admission. “Seeing you with the girls just…” Steve sighs all dreamily and shakes his head. “I dunno—it’s just got me thinking about the future, you know? About our kids. About how great a mom you’ll be. How pretty you’ll look with my baby in your belly.”
You hide your face in the crook of his neck, but Steve can feel the wide grin that stretches across your face.
“And I was also thinking about how I…I don’t wanna wait anymore,” he confesses.
When you tilt your head back to look at him, you’re still smiling but there’s something else in your eyes now, too. Hesitation, almost. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s the point? Tomorrow isn’t promised, we both know that. And I know we’re not really prepared but we could be by the time it’s…you know—time. And who’s ever really ready to become parents, anyway?”
“Steve,” you say, voice quiet.
“I just can’t stop seeing it in my head, you know? I even dream about it. They’re the only good dreams I have anymore. And I just…I don’t know. I want that. I want it with you. And I don’t want to wait for a day to come that isn’t promised.”
Your stare is heavy, really listening to his words even though he’s stumbling over them. It makes him feel seen in a way that only you have ever given him. Makes him feel understood.
“What I’m trying to say is that I’m ready. I mean…if–if you are, too.”
He pauses. The words are out now and there’s no taking them back. And Steve tries to tell himself that he’ll be happy with any answer you give him. Whether you want to start now or a year from now or five—as long as it’s with you, he’ll be happy.
But he can’t deny the relief that floods through his veins when you giggle and nod your head and say, “Okay. I’m ready, too.”
Steve smiles so hard the apples of his cheeks tinge pink. “Yeah?” He holds your face delicately in his hands and presses his forehead to yours.
“Mmhm. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, don’t we? Might as well start now, right?”
Desire swirls low in his abdomen at the idea alone. Steve thinks you're right—you should start now. “C’mon,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours and tugging you through the crowd of people.
He heads for the room at the back of the venue where you’d been tucked away to get ready for the ceremony. You pass the boys all laughing together at some solo cup-stacking competition they’re having, making a big mess and being rowdy as usual.
Steve claps Dustin on the shoulder as he walks by and says, “You better clean that up when you’re done, Henderson,” he says. And then he points his index finger at him and says, “You hear me?”
Dustin just nods through his laughter, too wound up for a proper response as Will’s tower clatters to the floor.
The moment he pulls you down the back hallway, everything becomes much quieter. The sounds of the reception can still be heard but it’s muffled, especially once he ushers you into the small room and closes the door behind you.
There’s makeup products and hair brushes and your casual clothes from this morning strewn across every viable surface. Opened duffel bags and unzipped backpacks sit propped up against the vanity in the corner, and the sofa in the center of the room is made from crushed velvet.
Steve’s shoulders drop and he smiles wide the moment he looks at you.
“They’re going to notice we’re gone, you know,” you say, the sound of your voice much clearer now that you’re alone. “What’re we doing all the way back here?”
He smiles wide and crowds you against the door, using one hand to lift your chin. His mouth is less than an inch from yours, his eyes all starry when he looks at you. When he speaks, you can taste the heat of his breath. “I want you,” he explains. And then even clearer, voice low, “Want you to make me a daddy.”
Your lips part, and Steve reaches behind you and clicks the lock on the door into place. “Now?”
“Why not? You said it yourself. Got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“I hadn’t meant it literally,” you say lightheartedly. “People will come looking for us.”
“Let them,” he says, and means it. He only cares about you and him and this exact moment.
Steve waits for you to respond. Tries to find hesitance in your eyes or apprehension in your body language. But he comes up empty, and when you sink your teeth gently into your bottom lip, he knows you want him just as badly.
And then you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his hungrily. You taste like mint and ambrosia and home. Steve slides his tongue into your mouth and drinks you in, his cock already painfully hard in his dress pants.
He slides one hand to the nape of your neck and the other to the small of your back, hauling you impossibly closer.
Your hands are faster than his, tugging his dress shirt out of his slacks and working at the buttons. You whimper into his mouth and Steve sighs at the beautiful sound.
He pulls away only long enough for you to push his shirt off his shoulders, and you use the opportunity to say, “You’re going to be such a good daddy, Steve.”
And Christ, he’s fucking done for. Just like that. His cock throbs painfully, his pupils dilate, and suddenly the urge to be inside of you is absolutely unbearable. His voice trembles, but he’s smiling wide as he asks, “Oh, yeah?”
Steve drops to his knees before you and slips his greedy hands beneath your fluffy white dress, wrapping desperate fingers around each of your ankles.
“Mhm.” You grant him some reprieve by gathering the fabric in your hands and pulling it up.
He climbs beneath your dress and lets out a slow, shaky breath when he sees the pretty lace you’ve chosen to wear all for him. White, matching your dress and the garter around your thigh. Steve leans forward and presses a kiss to your pubic bone, an affectionate caress that’s more appreciation than lust.
“I know you will be,” you continue. “Can see it in the way you treat the kids in our lives now. Can even see it in the way you treat me. Always taking such good care of everyone around you. Always一”
You inhale sharply as he parts your thighs and runs his flattened tongue against your seam, over the lace that still covers you. Steve licks you again, relishing in the faintest hint of your taste, breathing in deep. “Keep going, baby,” he mutters.
“Always…God, Steve.” Your hips tilt, giving him more access, asking for more without asking. But it’s okay, because you’re right. Steve knows just what you need, and he’ll always take care of you.
He hooks his fingers at the edge of your panties and carefully pulls them down your legs and over your sneakers, slipping the soft fabric right into the pocket of his dress pants.
“You’re such a hard worker,” you say. “And I know you’ll always make sure our little family will never want for anything. I think about一”
Steve spreads your knees wide and places a wet, open mouthed kiss on your clit, groaning low in his chest at the taste of you. You’re so warm and wet already. “What do you think about, pretty girl?”
You hike your dress further up so you can grasp his shoulder for support, eyes fluttering closed. “About you taking care of scraped knees and signing homework assignments and—”
He sucks your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue. It pulls a moan from deep in your chest and has your head thudding back against the door.
Steve reaches between your thighs and gently strokes his fingers over your entrance. Once, twice—teasing in the way he always is, before finally pushing them inside.
“Steve—”
He hums against your cunt, the vibration rocking inside you, reverberating all the way down to your curled toes. He releases your clit from his mouth only long enough to say, “Don’t stop, baby. M’takin’ mental notes. Keep talking.”
It takes a minute before you speak up again. Because once he hooks his fingers inside of you and kisses your clit all wet and sloppy, all sense of rational thought empties from your brain.
Still, you try. You try because it’s Steve and you want to make him happy. Want to make him proud. Want to be as good for him as he is for you.
“Piggyback rides in—in the kitchen, and ice cream on the weekends and—fuck—that feels so good. You’re so good, I—”
He can feel you getting close. Can feel your velvety walls clamping down tight around his fingers, squeezing him desperately, all but begging for more.
Steve resists. Lets you get close enough to taste the edge, and then he pulls back. Slides his slick-soaked fingers out of you and licks them clean. His breath is shallow and filled with need, but he goes back for just one more taste of you. Flattening his tongue and sliding it through your syrupy folds, savoring it.
When he climbs out from under your dress and stands up to face you, there’s a flush on your cheeks and a big smile on your face. Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen you look this happy.
And he doesn’t need to ask why, because he feels it, too.
In all the chaos, in all the uncertainty, you have become home to him. His lone place of solace.
And now you’re his, undoubtedly, with his ring on your finger and his last name and a big smile, and Steve’s heart pinches tight.
It feels like something out of his wildest fantasies. Something he’s only conjured in a dream until today.
There’s only a single dream that would ever compare to this one. One he knows you want just as badly.
And Steve’s about to give it to you.
He cradles your face in his hands and kisses you softly, every movement filled with devotion. He takes your hand in his. “C’mere,” he says, leading you to the couch.
Steve takes a seat right in the center and pulls you down onto his lap. The tulle of your dress makes the position a little awkward, fluffing up between you. You and Steve both laugh, but it’s manageable with only a little maneuvering.
You press your hips against his and Steve groans low, feeling the heat of you even through his dress pants. He kisses you hard, drinking in the taste of you, his hand holding firm at your jaw.
“All mine now,” he murmurs against your lips. “My sweet girl.” He reaches beneath your dress and finds the buckle of his leather belt. It clinks as he undoes it and shoves his slacks down just enough to pull his cock out, already so hard for you it throbs in his hand. “Tell me you want it,” he says.
Your answer comes quick and desperate. “I do. Please, Steve. I want it. Want you.”
He lines himself up at your entrance, but doesn’t push inside. When he speaks, it’s with that voice again. Low, intentional, dark. “Yeah? S’that right?”
“Yes一!”
“Then take it, baby.”
You lower yourself onto his cock, rolling your hips in a way that has his breath stuttering on an exhale. A pained sound comes from someplace at the back of your throat, but Steve knows you’ll be okay. Knows it's big but knows, too, that you’ll work through it. “Oh, god.”
“I know. S’okay. Breathe, sweetheart.” Steve leans in close, brushing his nose against yours affectionately. “Yeah, there you go. Good job, baby. Doing so good for me.”
He kisses you softly this time, lips moving gently against yours. Encouraging you to take all of him. And when you do, Steve lets himself sink deep into the feel of you around him. Soft and warm and so fucking wet your arousal drips down onto the dark hair at the base of his cock. “Feels…”
“Does it feel good, baby? All full?”
You nod and a whimper leaves your mouth when he shifts beneath you, angling his hips so he’s just a little bit deeper. Touching parts of you that only he ever has, that only he ever will.
Steve reaches beneath your dress and splays his palms wide on the sides of your thighs. “Gonna look so fuckin’ pretty with a baby in your belly,” he mutters.
His words spur you on enough to roll your hips against his. Careful at first, testing the feeling. But it doesn’t take long for you to find a good rhythm.
You feel like heaven around him. Perfect friction that has his toes curling inside his shoes. He fits so perfectly inside you he thinks he could fucking live here, just like this, with your pussy wrapped tight around his cock like it’s where it belongs. “Fuck, baby. Yeah. Just like that.”
You ride him with your hands braced against his broad shoulders, fingernails leaving crescent moon shaped indentations in his freckled skin. Your whimpers quickly turn to moans and the thought crosses Steve’s mind that someone could hear, but he doesn’t care. Not when you say, “You’re so big. Want you to fill me up ‘til一hmm一’til it sticks.”
Steve slides his hand further up your thigh, his thumb finding your swollen clit, still slick, coated in his saliva. “Kiss me, baby. Wanna taste you.”
You press your mouth to his and it’s like heaven to him. Steve can’t think or see or feel beyond his perfect, pretty wife and the way you beg so fucking prettily for him to give you his baby. To fill you up with his cum until it’s spilling out of you and sliding down your thighs.
He licks into your mouth and sucks on your tongue, unraveled by you completely. “So fucking beautiful,” he muses.
Your walls pulse around him, and Steve circles your clit with his thumb a little faster, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher.
“Did some research a little while ago,” he says between kisses, lips red and spit-soaked. “Better chances if you cum first.” He’s breathing fast, his own release coiling tight at the base of his spine the longer he’s inside you. Steve knows he won’t last.
Not like this. Not with you in this fucking dress and with his last name. Christ.
“So you gotta cum for me, baby,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “Cum for me so I can make you a mama. Hm?”
Your hands on his shoulders tighten, and a wide grin spreads across his face as he feels you twitch around his cock, clit pulsing beneath his thumb.
“Yeah, that’s it. There you go. S’fucking…so good for me, baby. Jesus fucking一squeezing me so tight. M'gonna be the best daddy, okay? I promise.”
He thinks he can hold off long enough for you. Thinks he can fight release until you’re all twitching and sensitive in his arms. Thinks he can do what the textbooks say to give you the best chances, thinks he can do this right.
But then you look him right in the eye and say, “Cum with me, cum with me. Please, Steve, please.”
And Christ, he’s weak for you. Putty in your hands. And you sound so pretty, begging for him like that. What on Earth is he supposed to do except exactly what you ask?
His release hits him hard, darkness clouding his vision, his skin tingling in every place he can feel your warmth. “Love you so much, baby.”
You slide your hands up the back of his neck and thread your fingers through his hair, kissing him in that way you do. The way that makes him feel like the most cherished man on the planet, leaving him aching to be impossibly closer.
His orgasm fizzles out, but Steve stays buried deep inside you until his cock softens. And even then, he lifts his hips a couple more times, thrusting up into you, making sure his seed reaches your cervix.
You take a second to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, wincing in the process.
Steve sort of feels bad…but there’s another part of him, too, that likes seeing it. Likes when you walk a little funny because of him, likes knowing you can feel him even when he’s gone.
He helps you right your dress and tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. Steve buckles his belt and the two of you laugh as you try to help him with the buttons on his dress shirt.
The party still thrums loudly on the other side of the door. “Max is definitely going to kill you,” you say, reaching for the door.
Steve chuckles and lets you take his hand and lead him back towards the rowdy crowd in the front of the reception hall. “Oh, for sure,” he agrees.
Just before you make it out of the shaded hallway, Steve pulls you back. Spinning you into his arms, delighting in the sweet sound of surprise you make. “Wait,” he says. “One more for the road.”
You smile and press your lips to his. Softer now, but no less heated. “I love you,” you tell him, and Steve wonders if that nervous, giddy feeling he gets hearing those words from you will ever go away.
“I love you, too, baby. Gonna love it even more when there’s two of you.”
Dustin calls his name from the other end of the room, louder even than the music, and there’s a massive pile of paper towels on the floor between him and Mike as they scramble to clean up some mystery green liquid.
He turns his head to find Max behind the DJ booth now, playing some Madonna song and giving the actual DJ a hard time.
Steve shakes his head. “We were gone for ten minutes. Ten minutes!”
You laugh, and the sound brings him so much happiness of his own that he can’t help but smile even with his frustration. “I’ll see you on the way to the honeymoon, husband,” you say.
The word sends a tingle down his spine. “Double the attempts mean double the luck,” Steve teases. “I’ll be seeing you later, wife.”
You both begin to back away in opposite directions. Steve towards Dustin while you move towards the soundbooth. But your fingers stay intertwined until the very last second. And only when your hands drop fully do either of you turn away.
Steve knows then, no matter what happens, that he’ll be okay.
As long as you linger with him for the rest of his life.
also i firmly believe that jj and hotch have one of the most underappreciated friendships in the whole series because she's essentially his sidekick in s1 in the same way that spencer is gideon's sidekick, but unlike gideon & spencer, hotch always trusted her & treated her essentially like an equal who was totally capable and competent. and what really cemented it for me was that one scene in season 1 where hotch tells her cases with kids are hard for him since having jack and that it's okay if she has trouble with the fact that most of the cases that come across her desk have victims just like her. there's just a mutual respect there that i really love
You’re determined to hide how sick you are from Baran. But fate has another plan… one that lands you right in her ER.
wc: 4.8k // tags: sickfic, fem reader, protective baran, illness symptoms, lots of pet names, fluffff
a/n: I can't seem to stop writing sickfics w baran...hope you enjoy!! 🤭💗
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As the automatic doors slide open, a blast of air conditioning hits you head-on, making you shiver violently and tuck deeper into the coat that it’s definitely too warm outside for you to be wearing.
But despite the sunny spring weather outside, you’re absolutely freezing and you are not taking off your fuzzy jacket anytime soon. Walking into the medical building, you grab a mask from the dispenser up front and also sanitize your hands for good measure. You know you probably look like a walking biohazard, what with your red nose, flushed cheeks, and obvious fever chills, and you’d like to do your best to keep anyone else from catching whatever bug from hell you have.
You affix the mask to your face and wearily walk down the tiled hallway, squinting at the signs through your watery eyes. You’ve been to this building of PTMC before, where you see your usual doctor, but it’s your first time going to urgent care.
You steadfastly ignore the bright red “EMERGENCY” sign pointing in the opposite direction. No way you’re going over there today. Your mission is simple: find urgent care, get meds, go home – all without running into Baran.
A small wave of guilt coils in your stomach as you follow the signs to urgent care. You normally love dropping by to see Baran while she’s on shift, you often bring her lunches when she forgets to pack one, or pick up a box of donuts for all the staff to cheer them up. You love to see her smiling at you, the tension easing between her eyebrows as she wraps you in a warm hug.
But not today. You’ve been hiding this cold – well, you’re not sure it’s just a cold at this point – from her for four days now, which is longer than you thought you’d be able to get away with. But she’s been extra busy and stressed from work, pulling some overtime to catch up on charting, and it was easy enough to postpone your nightly video calls until things calmed down a bit.
You planned to just ride the cold out and have her be none the wiser. You have no intention of being yet another source of stress in her life, and you can take care of yourself just fine. The only problem is…your body doesn’t seem to be quite on the same page. You’ve been running a 102 fever for three days straight and your throat is so sore that you’re barely able to drink water. This morning, when the room spun after you stood up and you almost blacked out, you decided maybe it was time to consult a doctor. Not your girlfriend. But urgent care should work.
You shuffle around the corner into the urgent care waiting room, and your heart drops. There’s a handwritten sign taped to the front desk, written in all caps: URGENT CARE CLOSED. GO TO EMERGENCY ROOM FOR CARE.
You stand stock still, staring at the sign and feeling a bit like you want to cry. Right. Closed. You’ll just have to go to a different hospital. Sure, this is the one closest to you and the only place you know your insurance covers, but you can find another urgent care. You’ll just have to drive home, research in-network places, then drive out to another place, wait to see someone, and…
Even just the thought of it all is exhausting. Without really deciding to, you drop into one of the vinyl chairs in the lobby of the deserted urgent care. You just need a minute to rest and then you’ll get it together and go home.
A middle-aged, brown haired woman in scrubs standing behind the front desk looks over at you. She puts her hand on her hips, frowning at you. “You okay, hon?” she calls.
“Fine,” you try to say, but your voice is gravelly and you dissolve into a coughing fit instead.
The woman clucks her tongue but you’re too distracted trying to breathe to pay attention. When the coughing finally eases, you wipe irritated tears out of your eyes to clear your vision, and realize that the nurse is now in front of you, holding out a paper cup of water.
“Here you go, hon, small sips,” she says, giving you a sympathetic look. “That’s some cough you’ve got there.”
You nod silently, not wanting to risk another coughing fit, and pull down your mask to take a few sips of water. The nurse’s frown deepens when she gets a good look at your face.
“Stay right there sweetie, I’ll be right back,” she says, striding away. You’re too exhausted to question where she’s going.
The nurse returns with a blood pressure machine and a thermometer. Before you really can muster up a protest, the cuff is around your arm and the thermometer under your tongue. The nurse frowns at the machine when it finishes, tutting again.
“Ah, yep, thought so,” she says, unwrapping the cuff. “Your pressure’s low and your temp’s way too high. I’ll call over to the ER. They need to see you ASAP.”
“No – I’m fine,” you croak, sitting up a little straighter. You cannot go to the ER, not while your girlfriend is there. “I’ll just go to a different urgent care.”
But the nurse has already returned to her position at the desk and is on the phone with someone. She gives you a stern look and points to the seat, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she wants you to stay put.
You’re not going to impose on Baran like this. You clumsily get to your feet, intending to head back the way you came. But as soon as you stand, your vision starts going spotty. You sway on your feet, blinking rapidly and trying to get your balance. Suddenly everything sounds far away, muffled, and you can’t quite think straight.
Before you realize what’s happening, someone is pushing you down into a wheelchair and telling you to put your head between your knees.
Only halfway conscious, you do just that.
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Baran takes a sip of tea, relishing the floral, jasmine taste. The tea has long since gone cold but it’s the first moment she’s had all day to drink any. The emergency room has been nonstop today, as it often is, and she’s been flitting from one urgent case to another, barely having a moment to breathe.
Dana, a few paces away, hangs up the red telephone and nods to her. “Got a fresh one for ya, doc,” she says. Baran sighs slightly and Dana gives her a sympathetic smirk. “You chose this life, remember?”
“So I did,” Baran says, smiling a little. She nods for Dana to continue. “Details?”
“Just got a call from urgent care, they’re still closed from being short-staffed, so they’re diverting everyone to us.”
“Lovely,” Baran sighs, taking another sip of tea.
“Isn’t it?” Dana grins. “Anyway they’ve got a female, late twenties, febrile, tachy and hypotensive. She almost fainted in the waiting room, one of the nurses is bringing her over.”
Baran nods, a list of tests and diagnoses already taking shape in her mind. “Which room?”
“I’ve got North 8 open,” Dana says, glancing up at the patient board.
“Sounds good. Assign her to Samira and I’ll supervise,” Baran says, putting her cup away in the corner of the desk where she usually leaves it. “I’ll want vitals right away, please.”
“You got it,” Dana says, already striding away to find Samira.
Baran takes a steadying breath and heads over to check on her pediatric patient with a leg laceration.
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The bright lights of the emergency room bring you around. You’ve been in a daze, your eyelids heavy and your thoughts sluggish as you were wheeled down here from urgent care. But now you’re resting in a hospital bed, fluorescent lights beating down on you, and your head is starting to clear.
You haven’t seen Baran yet, which seems like a minor miracle. Maybe you’ll actually be able to get in and out of here without her noticing? It seems like a longshot, but hey, you can hope. One thing’s for sure: she will definitely not be happy to find you here.
A woman with dark hair and kind eyes pulls aside the curtain, coming over to your bedside. You’ve met a lot of the doctors in the ER but she’s one that you haven’t run into before.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Mohan and I’ll be treating you today,” she says, giving you a friendly smile. She glances down at the tablet in her hands. “I heard you gave Martha over at urgent care a bit of a scare.”
You wince. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” you say croakily, coughing a little into the mask you’re still wearing. “Just a sore throat and a fever.”
Dr. Mohan gives you a sympathetic look. “These things can escalate quickly. We’re going to give you some fluids and something to bring down your fever, and also run a panel to see what kind of virus this is, okay? And we’ll do a rapid strep test as well.”
You nod, still feeling like this is all overkill for a bad cold, but knowing that you’d probably risk fainting again if you tried to get up.
“Try to get some rest,” Dr. Mohan continues. “I’ll have my attending come take a look at you, and a nurse will get your IV started.”
Your stomach drops. “I don’t need an attending,” you rush to say, eyes going wide. “I’m fine with just you.”
Dr. Mohan’s lips curve up, her eyes crinkling with slight amusement. “While I appreciate that, I’m a resident and it’s standard procedure to have my attending consult with me on patients. She’s plenty friendly, I promise. I’ll be back soon.”
You start to protest again but Dr. Mohan has already slipped out of the room. You sink back against the pillows, defeated. Something tells you Baran won’t be feeling so friendly when she gets wind of you being here.
Five minutes later, a familiar voice calls out from behind the curtain. “Knock, knock,” Baran says good-naturedly, pushing aside the curtain with her eyes fixed on a tablet. “How are you feeling, Ms…?”
You see the exact moment she reads the name on the chart. Her eyes go comically wide and she immediately snaps her head up, her mouth dropping open with shock.
“Azizam? What –?” The tablet is forgotten somewhere on the bed as Baran rushes to your side. She looks more panicked than you’ve ever seen her, and guilt settles like a stone in your stomach. This is exactly what you’ve been trying to avoid all week, worrying her like this.
“Are you alright?” Baran cups your face, taking your mask off so she can see you properly. “Oh sweetheart,” she says when she sees your face, frowning deeply. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? How long have you been sick? You should have told me.”
“I’m okay,” you try to reassure, but your raw, congested voice isn’t helping your case much. You reach for Baran’s hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of it in the way that soothes her. “Babe. I’m okay. Just breathe.”
“This is not okay,” Baran retorts, but she lets out a long breath and closes her eyes for a second, seeming to gather herself.
“Alright. First things first,” she says, slipping into that familiar doctor tone you know so well. She frowns up at the monitor you’re attached to, then reaches for the discarded tablet. “Your pressure is low, sweetheart. No wonder you fainted.”
“Almost fainted,” you correct with a small grumble.
“So very reassuring,” Baran says dryly. She taps on the tablet, her eyes quickly scanning your chart. “102 degrees for three days, azizam? And you didn’t say anything?”
She looks up at you, hurt clearly shining in her chestnut brown eyes.
A lump rises in your throat that has nothing to do with your cold. “I’m sorry,” you say honestly, reaching for her again. “I was just…” you sigh, which unfortunately triggers a coughing fit.
Baran sits next to you while you work through it, rubbing your back in broad, soothing strokes. “Oh, eshgham,” she murmurs when the coughing dies down, stroking your hair away from your face and kissing your forehead. “Sweet girl. You are so sick. I’m going to take care of you now, alright?”
You blink up at her, scrubbing a few tears off your face. You’re not sure if they’re from the cough, emotions, or both. “You’re not mad?”
Baran sighs, pressing her lips to your temple again. She gets up to fill a plastic cup with water and brings it back to you, resuming her spot at your side.
“I’m very worried, and I want to know why you felt like you couldn’t tell me you weren’t well,” Baran says, stroking your hair while you sip the water. “But no, sweetheart. I’m not mad. I have a feeling you thought you were protecting me.” She raises a knowing eyebrow.
You feel your cheeks heat guiltily. “You’ve just had so much going on this week,” you rasp, taking another sip of water. “I thought maybe it would just pass and you wouldn’t have to deal with me. You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”
Baran looks at you for a long moment, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and affection. Then she shakes her head and murmurs something in Farsi that you don’t understand, kissing both your cheeks.
“What?” you ask, looking up at her in confusion.
Baran rubs her thumb over your cheek, giving you a soft look. “I said, you are my life, darling, and you don’t even realize it. I’d do anything for you, azizam. Taking care of you isn’t some burden you need to protect me from. I’m your partner. I want to take care of you,” Baran says earnestly, holding your gaze so you’ll read the honesty in her words.
Your eyes fill with tears again. “...I’m sorry,” you mumble. You really don’t know what else to say. Now that Baran is here, looking at you with nothing but love in her eyes, all your reasons for hiding this from her seem completely ridiculous.
“Dooset daram,” Baran murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I love you. No more sorries, joonam. We can talk more later. Right now, let me just focus on taking care of you.”
She flips her hand over and presses the back of it to your forehead, frowning with concentration as she feels your temperature.
Your lips twitch. “Isn’t the thermometer more accurate?”
Baran gives you a quelling look. “The thermometer is helpful medically. My hand is helpful as your girlfriend who wants to know how you really feel.”
You decide not to argue with that logic, since you’ve put her through enough already.
Baran’s hand moves to your wrist next and she looks at her watch, taking your pulse. She counts for a little while, then glances at the monitor. If her nod is any indication, she agrees with the pulse showing on screen. Your heart warms at her thoroughness.
“When did the symptoms start?” Baran asks, looking at you closely. You can tell she’s watching to make sure you don’t hide anything.
“Four days ago,” you answer honestly. “Sore throat first, then congestion, then fever.”
“And the dizziness? When did that start?”
“Started this morning,” you grimace. “When I got up.”
Baran sighs, that concerned look back on her face. “Have you been eating, sweetheart? Drinking enough?”
“It’s been hard with my throat,” you admit.
Baran lets out another long breath, leaning in to give you another kiss. “Alright. You need IV fluids and a strep test. And also a viral panel and some acetaminophen.”
You nod, smiling a little. “That’s what Dr. Mohan said.”
“She’s a good doctor,” Baran says. She runs a hand up and down your arm. “But I’ll be keeping an eye on you. You’re not leaving until my shift is over.”
You make a face. “That’s like five hours from now.”
“Mhm,” Baran hums, giving you a no-nonsense look. “Just enough time for you to get plenty of fluids and rest, and for me to drive you home.”
You start to open your mouth to protest but Baran holds up a hand. “Sweetheart. Don’t argue. You’re not going to win, and you already barely have a voice.”
You snap your mouth shut.
Baran chuckles softly, bringing the blankets up to your shoulders and tucking you in. “Just rest, azizam,” she says warmly. “That’s your only job right now, okay? I need to check in on some other patients, but I’ll make sure they get that IV started right away and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just ask anyone for me if you need anything, alright?”
You nod, your eyes already starting to feel heavy. Baran stands and watches you for a moment, looking reluctant to leave.
“You can go,” you croak, your eyes already falling shut. “I’m fine, babe.”
“You’re not fine,” Baran murmurs, and you feel her lips press to your forehead. “But I’m here now.”
You hold that comforting thought in your mind as you drift off to sleep.
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You’re woken a short time later by someone pushing back the curtain and entering your room.
“Hi, I’m Perlah,” says a petite woman you vaguely recognize, giving you a friendly smile. “I’ll be your nurse for today. I need to get an IV started on you, okay?”
“Sure,” you croak, coughing a little and sitting up straight. “I’m a tough stick though.”
Perlah grins at you like she appreciates the challenge. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
True to her word, she gets your vein on the first try and inserts the IV. You can feel cool fluid running into your arm, which makes you shiver again. Perlah frowns at you.
“I’ll get you a warm blanket,” she says, giving you a critical once-over. “And check on the orders for the acetaminophen, it’ll help your fever.”
“Thank you,” you reply, sinking down into your pillows. There’s something so relieving about being somewhere where you’re not managing your illness on your own anymore. Everyone in the Pitt is taking such good care of you.
After Perlah leaves, it isn’t long before Baran returns. She checks your IV site first, tilting your arm this way and that until she seems satisfied that it’s been inserted correctly. Then she goes over to the infusion pump and examines the settings, frowning slightly.
“Am I gonna live, doc?” you try to joke, although you cough right afterwards.
Baran turns to look at you, seeming to surface out of her medical musings. “Just checking that everything’s correct,” Baran says mildly, sitting down at your bedside and feeling your forehead again. “Can’t be too careful.”
“Perlah knows what she’s doing.”
Baran gives a vague hum, then strokes some of your hair away from your eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Marginally better?” you offer, shrugging a shoulder.
Baran gives you a dubious look. “I don’t believe you.”
“Well then why did you ask?” you huff, crossing your arms. You’re not actually mad at her, though, she’s always like this when you’re sick. Overprotective and endlessly worried.
“My apologies, azizam,” Baran murmurs and kisses your forehead. She fusses with your blankets, smoothing them out. “I just wish I could get you feeling better already.”
“Being here is helping a lot, actually.”
“Because you shouldn’t be alone when you have a fever this high,” Baran chides gently, her brown eyes soft as she gazes down at you. “You must have been miserable, all alone in your apartment, feeling like this.”
She looks genuinely pained by the thought, so you reach for her hand and squeeze gently. “I’m okay, babe. I survived,” you try to reassure her. “I’ve taken care of myself alone before.”
“Well that stops now,” Baran says, a hint of firmness creeping into her voice. She strokes your cheek, her fingers soft against your skin. “No more hiding things, alright sweetheart? If you don’t feel well – even if it’s something small – you tell me, right away.”
You hesitate, looking up at her. “...Even with all your work stress?”
“Absolutely,” Baran confirms, nodding. “You are my priority. I’m never too tired to take care of you.”
Your stomach does a funny little swoop. You already knew how much Baran cares about you, of course, but it’s another thing to have all that love and attention directed at you, and to see the fierceness in her eyes.
“Dooset daram,” you say. You lift her hand and kiss the back of it.
“I love you too, eshgham. More than anything,” Baran smiles, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to both of your cheeks. She smells like her familiar combination of green tea and rosewater curl cream, and the scent makes you feel instantly comforted.
Perlah enters the room, carrying a small plastic cup with two pills in it and a blanket. “Got your meds,” she says, refilling your water cup and bringing it over to you. “Bottoms up, please.”
Baran watches eagle-eyed as you swallow the pills, then stares at Perlah as the nurse adjusts the settings on the IV pump.
Perlah turns to Baran, chuckling a little. “Geez, you got me feeling like I’m back in nursing school. Think I’ll pass clinicals?”
Baran’s cheeks flush and she drags a hand through her hair. “Sorry, I don’t mean to hover. You’re doing great, Perlah, thank you.”
You give Perlah a knowing look. “Don’t take it personally. She’s overprotective,” you explain with a grin.
“It’s hard not to be when you show up at my ER unannounced, hypotensive and only half-concious,” Baran retorts, her voice dry.
You shrug, cough-laughing. “Fair enough.”
Perlah and Baran step away, and you return to resting. A little while later, Trinity Santos pops around the curtain. She’s carrying a cafeteria tray with several items on it.
“Hey, I heard our favorite goddess of the donuts was here and not feeling too hot,” Trinity says, walking into the room. She pulls up the table next to your bed and sets the tray on it. “Mohan says you need to eat, so I got you the good stuff. No tuna salad, and the chicken noodle soup, not the minestrone. I don’t know what’s in that minestrone but I can tell you it isn’t good.”
“Thanks, Trin,” you smile, feeling touched. Even though Trinity would never outright admit she cares about you, gestures like this lets you know that she really does.
Trinity shrugs, eyeing you. “Don’t mention it. Just get better, ‘kay? You’re still super pale.”
“I’ve been told my blood pressure is low,” you say. You start to sort through the food, trying to figure out what will hurt least on your still-painful throat.
“It is,” Trinity confirms, glancing up at the monitor. “You’re a little tachy too. You need rest and fluids.”
You hold up your arm with the IV in it. “Working on it.”
“Good,” Trinity nods. She watches you for a moment, then adds, “Need anything?” Her tone is nonchalant but you know it’s a big deal for her to ask.
“I’m fine,” you smile, and gesture at the food. “This is great. Thanks again.”
Trinity heads out of the room, checking on you one last time before leaving. You stare at the food on the tray warily. You haven’t had anything to eat for what must be almost a day now. Everything hurts too much to swallow, even broth, so you just gave up on trying.
You tentatively pick up a container of red jello and a spoon. It tastes good in your mouth, but the second you swallow, you immediately regret it. It feels like you’re swallowing knives, not soft goo. You cough afterwards and massage your throat, pushing the tray away. Yeah, food is definitely still a no.
You end up dozing off. Your headache is improving, but you’re still exhausted, so it’s not hard to fall asleep.
When you wake, Baran is at your side again. She’s holding your hand, looking down at you with a mixture of love and concern.
“Hi, sleepyhead,” she smiles when you blink your eyes open. She cups your cheek fondly. “You got a good nap in.”
You rub your eyes and sit up a little, glancing at the wall clock. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour,” Baran says, tucking hair behind your ear. “That’s good, you need the rest, azizam.”
You nod, then cough and take a sip of water. Baran looks at the tray of food pointedly. “Sweetheart. You haven’t eaten anything,” she says carefully, raising her eyebrows.
You make a face, touching your throat. “It hurts to eat.”
She frowns, concern flashing in her dark eyes. “Even the jello?”
You nod unhappily.
Baran sighs, but she sounds more worried than exasperated. She smooths your hair again. “Eshgham, if you have a sore throat so bad that you can’t eat, that is a big deal. That means you tell me or you go to the doctor right away, not in a day or two. Yes?”
“Got it,” you croak, wincing slightly.
“Alright.” Baran kisses the top of your head and stands. “I’m going to do your strep test and I’ll prescribe you something for your throat. Be right back, sweetheart.”
The strep test is deeply unpleasant but Baran is quick about it, thankfully. After she swabs your throat, she hands you a cup filled with clear syrup and a small pink basin.
“Swish this around in your mouth and gargle,” she instructs, taking off her gloves. “It’ll numb your throat to help with the pain. Hopefully we’ll be able to get some food in you afterward.”
You look at the cup warily. “Or I could just…not eat?”
Baran gives you a firm look. “Azizam.”
“Fine,” you sigh, taking the medicine and the basin. The syrup tastes awful and has a strange numbing effect, but you have to admit that your throat immediately feels better as soon as you spit it out.
“Better?” Baran asks, taking the cup and basin from you and setting them aside.
“Much,” you admit.
“Good,” Baran says, then peers at the rapid test on the counter. “Well, you definitely have strep, sweetheart,” she sighs. “It’s already positive. No wonder you’ve been in so much pain, poor thing.”
It’s just then that Dr. Mohan enters the room again. “Strep was positive?” she asks, coming over to Baran’s side.
Baran nods, showing her the test.
“Well you also tested positive for influenza A,” Dr. Mohan says, turning and giving you a sympathetic look. “I was just coming in to tell you the results. That’s a miserable combination.”
Baran looks up sharply at the news. “She’ll need to start oseltamivir phosphate,” she tells Dr. Mohan, who nods in agreement.
“Already put in the order. The pharmacy should have it ready soon.”
“Thank you, Samira,” Baran says, her shoulders dropping an inch with relief.
Samira puts a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Of course, Dr. Al. I told you I’d take good care of her. Let me go put in an order for amoxicillin as well.” She ducks out of the room.
Baran gives her a grateful smile and returns to your bedside. “Azizam, we’re going to start you on Tamiflu and an antibiotic,” she explains, holding your hand. “Hopefully both will have you feeling better in a few days.”
“A few days?” you groan, slumping a little. “I was hoping this would be a quick fix.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Baran hums. She gives you a small, sad smile. “If I could fix it right away, I would, I promise.”
“I know you would,” you say with a sigh and a cough, squeezing her hand. “Sorry I got so sick.”
“Shh, no.” Baran shakes her head. “You don’t apologize for being unwell, not with me. The only thing you need to do is let me take care of you.”
Your chest fills with warmth. You look up at her, your eyes going a little watery. “You really are the best, you know that?”
Baran grins and kisses your cheek. “Glad you think so, eshgham.”
You know you’re in for a few more days of misery. But as long as you have Baran taking care of you, you’ll definitely be just fine.
need reader in their 20s trying to convince mckay they’re not too young and mckay being overwhelmed by guilt and reader is just trying to get to her to give in till she finally does and it leads to… car fucking perhaps?
Born Too Late
cassie mckay x f!nurse!reader
summary: it never even crossed your mind that you and your older coworker could be something more. that is until you kissed, leaving you hopelessly in love with cassie mckay. but cassie swears nothing can ever happen again— you’re too young.
warnings: 18+ fluff, smut, angst, age gap (reader is in her mid 20’s, cassie is 43), kissing, fingering (cassie!receiving), oral (r!receiving), patient assaults a nurse, possible medical inaccuracies, mama bear dana evans, happy ending
word count: 9.3k
a/n: i was originally planning on this being somewhere between 2-3k words, but my mind just kept going lol. as i got deeper into the story, a lot of the angst was inspired by waco texas by ethel cain. enjoy!♡
"Am I good to go, Dana?"
"Yeah, kid."
"Okay, sweet. You better leave too, Lena's got things covered." Your gaze drifts from Dana to the night shift charge nurse sitting across from where you and Dana are standing. "Right, Lena?"
"I think I got everything covered", Lena says. "Ever since y/n has started working here, you've been getting out earlier than you used to. She's a good one."
A small smile spreads across your face. "Ain't that the truth", Dana replies with a soft smirk. "I'll leave in a minute. Have a good night, kid."
"You too", you say before walking away.
Once you reach the lockers, you throw on the winter jacket you brought. You then gather all of your belongings.
As you pull out your bag from your locker, you hear someone else coming in. A familiar voice pipes up behind you. "Man, I am not looking forward to driving in this weather."
Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you turn around to find Cassie looking at you. "Me either."
Cassie walks over to her locker and punches in her code. "Winter is always so depressing, but it's always been somewhat comforting to me." You watch Cassie as she slides on her winter coat.
"Same", you look at the ground for a second, pondering, and then your eyes return to Cassie. "As stupid as it sounds, there definitely is something comforting about the darkness."
Cassie pulls her bag over her shoulder and closes her locker. "Yeah", she says, eyeing you thoughtfully. Cassie sucks in a breath and pulls her lips in a smile, her dimples showing. "Well, I'm going to head out."
You nod. "Same."
In silence, you and Cassie walk out of the hospital. The second you step outside, the cold winter air hits you. Shivering, you tuck your hands in your jacket pockets.
Both you and Cassie look both ways before crossing the street to the parking garage. As you're walking across the street, Cassie turns to you and breaks the silence. "Did you, uh, manage to get first floor parking today?"
You shake your head. "No, second floor. They really need to reserve more staff spots."
"Right?", Cassie exclaims.
You walk side by side with Cassie as you make your way up the parking garage stairs. After you make it to the second floor, you glance at Cassie. "I'm this way", you tell her, pointing to the right.
"I am too." The faintest smile tugs at her lips.
When you reach your car, you stop walking. Cassie's now a few feet ahead of you. "This is me."
Cassie looks forward and then back at you with an amused, hung smile. "No way, I'm right here", she says as she points to her blue car. There's only one car between your spaces.
You stand on your tiptoes and peek at her car. "I didn't know you had a blue car."
"Yup. My dad gifted it to me when I graduated medical school."
"That's so sweet", you say with a warm smile.
"I'm grateful to have a dad like him."
"Most dads are shit", you joke, but it comes out heavier than you intended.
Cassie stares at you, analyzing your expression. She awkwardly pulls her lips into a tight-lipped smile and rocks back and forth on her toes.
"Shit, sorry, I didn't mean for that to come across as a mood killer", you say as your gaze drops to the ground. "That wasn't supposed to make it seem like I was jealous or I was trauma dumping I swear, well, if you even took it that way—"
You stop talking when you feel two hands on your biceps. Surprised, you look up to find Cassie in front of you. How did you not realize she walked over to you?
With a small chuckle, Cassie shakes her head. "Honey, I didn't take it like that", she reassures you through an amused smile. "Just stop overthinking, okay?" Her eyebrows pulls together as she looks at you. She gives your biceps a gentle yet grounding squeeze.
"Sorry", you whisper.
"Stop apologizing", she replies, her voice lower and softer than before. Cassie's eyes drop down to your lips, gaping for a few seconds, and then she looks back up into your eyes.
Your breath hitches. All of a sudden you feel lightheaded. Without thinking, you lean in, your lips attaching themselves to hers.
Cassie squeezes your arms again and kisses you back. But only five seconds into the kiss, she pulls back and lets go of you.
Your brain short circuits, and you can't think of anything to say. Cassie seems to be in the same headspace.
You blink a few times and curl your hands into fists so you can dig your nails into your palms, pulling yourself out of whatever trance you were just in. "Oh my god. Shit. Sorry." You run your hands over your head. "I-I'm so sorry", you stammer.
You turn around, mentally kicking yourself for what you just did, but you unexpectedly hear Cassie rasp out, "Wait!" Before you even have time to think, Cassie grabs onto your wrist, pulling you back to her.
Her lips slam against yours. She lets go of your wrist and cups your face. Your arms wrap around her neck.
The kiss gets messy quickly. Cassie's tongue pushes into your mouth, tangling with yours. She then pulls back just enough to trap your lower lip with her teeth. Immediately after, her mouth is on yours again.
The tiniest whimper escapes you which she swallows with a small groan of her own. Cassie's hands move from your face to your waist, digging her nails into your hips.
BEEP!
Suddenly, you both jump apart. There's a car alarm going off the row over from where you and Cassie are parked. You look at her breathless, unsure of what to say.
Cassie lets out a shaky breath, and then pulls her keys from her jacket pocket. "Uh, I should go", she says, her voice barely above a whisper, and takes small steps backwards.
"Oh, um, yeah, yeah." You tug your bag's strap up your shoulder, needing something to hold onto. "Sorry", you murmur.
Cassie laughs, the tension in her expression leaving. "I told you to stop apologizing." She unlocks her car and opens the driver side door.
Chuckling, you grab your keys. "I want to apologize for that", you jest.
Still smiling, Cassie rolls her eyes playfully. "You better not."
You put your hands up in surrender. "Fine."
"Good." She looks at you for one more moment, and then tears her gaze from you to her car. "I'm gonna go now. Goodnight."
"Goodnight", you say back, barely loud enough for Cassie to hear.
"Drive safe", she tells you before getting in her car.
"You too", you mumble more so to yourself as you unlock your car.
By the time you start the car and place your bag on the passenger seat, Cassie's already backing out. For someone who just mentioned road safety, she sure was driving fast for a parking garage.
Sighing, you drop your head to the steering wheel. Did that really just happen? Did you really just kiss Cassie? As in your coworker Cassie? The one who has a son and is almost twice your age?
And yet, you wished you could go back in time to that moment. To that kiss. That perfect kiss Cassie McKay gave you.
Before that night, you never saw Cassie as more than friends. Yeah, you always found her pretty, but the thought of Cassie being your girlfriend or simply hooking up with her had never crossed your mind. But now? You're addicted to her.
An hour after you got home Cassie texted you saying she's the one who needs to apologize. There's a line she crossed that can't be ignored again. She asked you to just forget about it.
But you couldn't. So since then you would flirt with her at work every now and then. Text her a picture of yourself when you had a fun outfit. Touch her in a way that affectionate friends would.
It wasn't enough though. You needed more. You needed her.
A month after your kiss, you pulled Cassie aside one evening after a shift to talk about it. It was clear she didn't want to even think about the kiss, let alone having a conversation about it with you. Still, you confessed to her that you wanted to kiss her again.
And for a moment it seemed like she was going to kiss you right then and there in the ambulance bay, but she didn't. Instead, Cassie told you it was a mistake. In her own words it was "highly inappropriate" and she's "disgusted by herself."
It hurt to hear her say that. You can still remember how your eyes stung as you held back tears. Miraculously, you were able to keep from crying. All you could muster out was a measly "okay."
The second you made it into you car you broke down. It took you almost 30 minutes before you could drive back home.
Now, that kiss with Cassie was a year ago. She's never brought it up since. At times it felt like a faint dream. Almost like a childhood movie you start doubting was real.
While you weren't heartbroken anymore — at least not as bad as before — you still gravitated towards her.
Dana noticed. She knew something changed.
Since your first day at PMTC, Dana took you under her wing. She's always been observant over everyone, but especially you. Which is why her mini lecture with you right now was not surprising in the slightest.
"When you're with a patient, your attention needs to be fully on them." Irritated, you sigh and cross your arms, looking at Dana as she continues. "You shouldn't be glancing across the ER, and you should never be staring at another doctor working a totally separate case. Your focus needs to be on your patients."
"Dana", you start, "I—"
She holds a hand up. "Save it, kid. You've been making eyes at McKay for months now, and it's starting to affect your work."
Your eyebrows draw together, confused. Cassie was not on your mind nearly as much as she was a year ago. "I'm fine, Dana. Maybe I've looked for", you lower your voice, "her once or twice, but it's because I'm going to consult her."
"Uh, huh", Dana says, not buying what you're saying. "Whether you're doing it every minute or once every day, you need to cut it out. I already told you that it's interfering with your ability to treat patients, and it's doing the same to her."
Your eyes widen. "What do you mean?"
"I'll pull McKay aside too. Whatever nonsense is going on between you two needs to stop or at the very least leave the workplace."
"Dana, there's nothing going on with us."
Dana takes her glasses off and rests a hand on her hip, side eyeing you. "I don't believe that's true, but if it is, you still need to find a way to treat patients the way they deserve."
A pang of guilt hits you. Have you been doing a bad job lately?
Of course, Dana seems to notice you second guessing yourself. "Kid, you're a great nurse." She places a hand on your shoulder. "But if you want it to stay that way, you need to cut out whatever bullshit you and Cassie got going on. Capiche?"
You draw in a breath and nod. "Got it."
She gives your shoulder two taps before walking away.
"Fifty dollars says those girls keep making eyes at each other", Princess whispers in Tagalog to Perlah as you look over a chart. You were completely oblivious that they even heard your conversation with Dana.
"Bitch, that five dollars would go down the drain. Of course they're going to continue to stare", Perlah says back to Princess. They look at each other and then start laughing at the situation as you walk away to attend to a patient.
There was only an hour left in your shift as you sat beside Perlah at the nurse's station. After your conversation with Dana, you avoided Cassie as best as you could. Out of sight out of mind, right?
Perlah glances at the board above you, and then turns towards you. "Sweetie, there's a seven year old girl waiting to get her cast off in South 19 if you're up for it."
"Hm?", you murmur as your head jerks to the right where Perlah is. "Oh, um, yeah, I can do that", you say, forcing a smile.
You stand up and grab the patient's chart. Grace Fisher. Left arm cast removal. Simple enough.
You head over to South 19, softly humming a tune to yourself. But when you open the curtain, you freeze.
Cassie.
She turns and her sparkling blue eyes find yours. "I, uh..." You draw in a breath and will yourself to look away. With a smile you introduce yourself to the girl, Grace and her mother.
After you greet them, Cassie walks over to you. She lowers her voice so only you can hear her. "Robby asked me to take care of this real quick. He's trying to clear out as many patients as possible before night shift gets here."
Without looking at her, you nod. "I can do it if you need to get back to your other patients."
Cassie points to a tray behind her. "I already have the stuff. I was explaining to Grace how a cast saw works before you came in."
Still facing forward, avoiding eye contact with Cassie, you shrug. "Guess you don't need me then", you mutter somewhat bitterly.
Cassie's voice softens automatically. "No, no, you can stay. I mean if you want to."
You take a few seconds to think, only making this interaction more awkward than it already is. A weary breath escapes you as you finally face Cassie. "Okay."
"Do you want to do it? I've noticed you've been doing desk work most of the day."
Was Dana right? Was Cassie watching you?
"I'll do it. Thanks, Cass", you say before walking over to grab the cast saw. You don't see the smile that lights up Cassie's face as you call her "Cass."
You grab a stool and sit beside Grace. "Dr. McKay here already explained to you how this works, right?"
Grace nods, clearly nervous. Her mom grabs her daughter's free hand. "She did", Mrs. Fisher tells you.
"Okay, great", you say in your softest voice. "Do you have any questions before we start?" Grace shakes her head. "When your cast is off do you want to pick out some stickers?" you ask as you lean in. "I know where all the good stickers are hidden."
Grace smiles shyly. "Okay."
"You're so brave. I'm going to start on the count of three. All you're going to hear is some buzzing, okay?" Grace nods, more assertive this time. "Ready? 1, 2, 3", you say, starting to remove the cast.
Even though Cassie is just a few feet away from you, you focus on the patient in front of you. Cassie however, can't take her eyes off of you. She doesn't even realize she's smiling as she watches you chat with Grace, helping the anxious kid become more comfortable.
"All done", you tell Grace. "How does it feel?"
"Awesome", she says with a big smile. "Can I get stickers now?"
You chuckle. "Of course, sweetie. I'll be right back, I'm gonna go grab them now."
You stand and head out of the room, Cassie follows you. "You were really good with Grace", she says.
"Thanks."
"You've always been good at soothing kids."
"I was an anxious child, so that probably helps."
"The best doctors and nurses apply their own experiences to their work."
"Like you", you murmur without a second thought.
Cassie blushes slightly, but you don't catch it. "And you."
You fight a smile as you walk into the nurse's station to the drawer where Perlah and Princess keep stickers and grab a few sheets. When you turn around Cassie is right in front of you.
"Oh, sorry", she says, stepping aside.
"It's okay", you assure her as you walk back to South 19 to give Grace some stickers. Cassie follows you in silence.
When you reach the room, Cassie walks ahead of you and pulls open the curtain. "After you", she says while holding a hand out.
"Why thank you Dr. McKay." You can't fight back the smile creeping up. Wow, that's the first genuine smile you've had all day. Huh.
"My amazing nurse here has some stickers for you to chose from, sweetheart", Cassie says to Grace.
You hand the stickers sheet you have over to Grace and let her pick a few. She ends up choosing a mermaid, a princess, and a cat. "Good choices", you tell Grace with a wink. Then you look over to her mom. "You guys are all good to go."
"Thank you both", Mrs. Fisher says.
"It was our pleasure", Cassie says with a kind smile.
You look at Grace and put up a hand. She gives you a high five with a big grin on her face. "You were so brave", you tell her.
Cassie opens the curtain, and Mrs. Fisher and Grace step through. She points up ahead to the left. "The exit is just this way. Would you like one of us to walk you guys out?"
"No, you've done enough already."
"Okay", Cassie says. "Have a good night."
As they leave you start walking to the break room, in desperate need of a cup of coffee. "Hey, wait up", Cassie calls out to you. Once she's caught up with you, she takes a deep breath. "Can we talk after our shift?"
You come to a halt and hesitantly turn towards her. "About what?"
"Just... stuff."
Your brows pull together. "That's very descriptive", you say before resuming walking.
"I just don't want to get into it right now. I don't want to stress you out or distract you."
You open the break room door and see Langdon pouring himself a cup of coffee. Hushed, you mutter to Cassie, "well you kind of already are."
"Lucky for you guys, I just made another pot", Langdon says as he walks out.
"My savior", you call out over your shoulder.
Once Langdon is gone, Cassie continues. "It's nothing to worry about. Just go about the rest of your shift like usual, okay?"
The rich, earthy aroma of the freshly brewed coffee fills your nose as you pour yourself a cup. "I'll try."
"Meet me by the lockers when we're off the clock?"
You turn towards Cassie and lean against the counter. For the first time since this morning you really take in Cassie. Her hair is all messy and falling out. Her lips are a little dry. She looks tired. But still gorgeous. So damn gorgeous.
Nodding, you take a sip of your coffee. "Mm, will do."
"Okay, great." Cassie gives you a small smile that reveals her dimples as she reaches forward and places her hand on your arm. Her touch is so warm and tender. "See you then", Cassie says before pulling away and leaving the break room.
You're left alone, coffee in hand with the heat of Cassie's touch lingering on your arm. Despite Cassie saying the reason why she wants to talk to you isn't bad, you're still nervous. You wanted your shift to be over now and you wanted your shift to last forever at the same time.
You check your phone. 7:12pm.
Nervously, you bite the inside of your cheek as you lean against your locker. You've been waiting for Cassie for five minutes now. She was likely still wrapping up everything she needs to so she can leave and night shift can take over.
Five more minutes pass. You pull your water bottle out of your bag and take a sip. Right now you were wishing it was vodka.
You close your eyes and lean against your locker, taking a few deep breaths.
"Tired?"
Startled, you open your eyes. Cassie's opening her locker.
"Yeah, a little bit."
"Here." You watch as Cassie pulls something out of her locker. "It's a protein bar. You've been downing coffee all day, you need something to eat."
As you take it from her, your fingers touch, lingering longer than necessary before you pull away. "Thanks." You open the wrapper and take a bite. It's peanut butter and chocolate— your favorite.
Cassie throws on a jacket, grabs her bag, and closes her locker. Then, she turns to you. "Walk with me?"
Your mouth is full with a bite of the snack Cassie gave you, so you just nod. She walks to the exit with you at her side. Before you leave the building, you toss the protein bar wrapper in the trash by the door.
"Are you, uh, doing anything after you get home?"
You have a bite in your mouth, chewy and delicious. Before you respond you bring a hand over your mouth. "No, nothing."
"Same."
Cassie doesn't say anything else after that. An awkward silence brews, tension growing.
You take the last bite of the protein bar and put your hands in your pockets. After you finish chewing you look at Cassie. Her eyes are on the street in front of you two.
"Cassie?"
"Yeah?"
A shaky breath leaves you. "What did you want to talk about?"
Cassie nods, knowing she can't put it off any longer. "Well, um, Dana talked to you today, right?"
You and Cassie walk into the parking garage. "Yup, just like she does everyday." Cassie tilts her head at you.
"You know what I m—"
"Where are you parked?"
"Oh, uh, just down this way", Cassie says, pointing at the back of the parking garage.
"I'm on the opposite side."
"Okay." She slides her hands in her jacket pockets. "I'll walk you."
You nod, leading the way.
Cassie says your name, her tone laced with seriousness yet it's still gentle. "Dana talked to you today about me, correct?"
"Correct", you confirm under your breath.
You hear Cassie let out an exasperated breath from behind you. "I just want to make sure we're on the same page."
"The same page about what?"
"That nothing's going on."
Scoffing, you shake your head. "I'm aware."
"Okay, then why is Dana telling me you're always looking at me?"
Stopping in your tracks, you turn around so you're facing Cassie. "Me? What about you?"
She crosses her arms and sighs. "Look, Dana's already on my ass for this. She thinks you're not as focused as you should be. I wanted to ask you if there's anything you want to tell me."
"Like what?" you bite out.
"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you!"
You huff out a laugh. "Fine. Do you want the truth?"
Cassie takes a step closer to you. "Yes."
Your eyes scan hers for a couple moments, making sure you should confess. "Fine. Ever since you kissed me, I haven't been able to get you out of my head. We only talked about it once and all you said was it was gross and inappropriate. Like what the fuck? You never even asked me how I felt. You just stated it was a mistake."
Cassie takes a deep breath like she's thinking over her words carefully. "Because it was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened, and I'm ashamed. Besides, you kissed me first!"
"You— you", you gester at her, "you kissed me. Yeah, I kissed you, but for a second and then I apologized and walked away." You point your finger at her, clearly upset and angry. "You pulled me back. You kissed me again. You were the one who wanted more."
Cassie closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. "And I apologized for that. I told you, it shouldn't have happened— I shouldn't have done that."
"So I'm just a mistake to you?" You can feel tears starting to pool in your eyes, but you force them back.
"You're not a mistake, but what I did to you was."
"What you did? You literally just told me that I kissed you first!"
"Yeah, but it was my responsibility to end it, not pull you back to me."
"Why?" You cross your arms. "Because I'm your coworker?"
"Yes... and you're too young."
You blink a few times, taken aback. Your brows pinch together, confused. Did Cassie feel guilty?
"I'm disgusted by myself because I wanted to kiss you and I wanted more", she admits, her voice shaky.
"I wanted more too, Cassie. You could've told me—"
"That's exactly why I didn't! We can't be together, it's just not right."
"Because I'm younger than you?"
"Because you're so much younger than me. Jesus Christ, I could be your mother!"
It's getting harder to fight back the tears forming. "So... all of this is about your guilt?"
"Oh my god", Cassie says while shaking her head. She looks down at the ground for a few seconds before looking back up at you, her eyes finding yours. "It's wrong", she whispers, her voice breaking. "I hate myself for kissing you."
A single tear slides down your cheek. Cassie looks like she's about to cry as she watches you.
"I never meant to hurt you."
"But you did", you muster out, another tear falling. Cassie tilts her head in a way that looks like she wants to absorb your pain.
"I'm sorry", she whispers.
You inhale deeply, centering yourself, and then wipe away the tears stained on your cheeks. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that I kissed you. I'm sorry that I've burdened you. And I'm sorry I've made you hate yourself. If I could I would transfer that hate onto me. I would rather you hate me than hate yourself. So I'm fucking sorry."
Without waiting for a response, you spin around and walk towards your car. You hear Cassie calling out your name, her voice breaking slightly, which makes tears spill again.
When you reach your car, you get in as quickly as possible. As soon as the door is shut, you start sobbing. In an attempt to ground yourself, you place a hand over your chest and tap.
You just wanted this feeling to go away. Why did Cassie have to pull you into that damn conversation? How were you supposed to go to work now and face her?
Your eyes start to sting as you keep crying. You know they'll be red and puffy in the morning. Maybe you'll just call out of work tomorrow.
If only you hadn't kissed her that day. All of this could've been avoided. But you did. And there's no going back.
"I'll go grab Mohan for you, Dana."
"Thanks, kid."
"No problem." You leave the central nurse's station and head over to north wing of the ED where Samira is.
It had been three weeks since the blow up with Cassie. You ended up calling out sick for the next three shifts you had. Cassie called out the following two days, returning just a day before you, although, you never knew about it.
Dana did, however, and knew something had happened. She never pushed either of you to talk about it, only leaving little hints here and there. Both you and Cassie never took the bait.
As best as you could, you tried to avoid working the same shifts as Cassie. Luckily, Cassie's schedule is pretty set in stone since she works around Harrison. Even so, she still works a lot— just like you.
When you did work together, you went out of your way to avoid her. If someone assigned you on a case with her, you passed it off to someone else. If she was in the break room, you weren't. If she was talking to someone you needed to talk to, you just waited no matter how long.
Avoiding Cassie took such a toll on you that you ended up working night shifts every now and then. It fucked up your sleep schedule to go back and forth, but you couldn't fully commit to only working nights. Switching between night and day shifts to avoid Cassie was worth losing sleep over.
Today you were not on night shift. You were working the day and so was Cassie. So far you've been doing a pretty good job of not seeing her.
You round the corner and enter room two, where Samira should be. But when you open the door it's just a patient. Before you leave to go search for her, you decide to make sure this patient doesn't need anything.
You introduce yourself and grab his chart. Tommy Krill. A 30 year old white man who passed out in a bar due to dehydration. His brother brought him drunk and and high off of MDMA a little over an hour ago.
"Mr. Krill how are you feeling?" you ask as you walk over to his bed. He's groggy, he likely just barely woke up a few minutes ago. "Do you know where you—"
All of a sudden a fist hits your chest and you stumble back, not fully processing what's happening. Mr. Krill frantically pulls out the IV he's hooked up to and all of the monitors that are connected to him. He looks over to you. You're running out of the room.
He chases after you. "Hulahoop!" you yell out, "hulahoop!"
Jesse's at your side in the blink of an eye and steps between you and the man chasing after you. Donnie is there just a few seconds later, helping to restrain the patient.
"That bitch was trying to kill me!", Mr. Krill shouts over and over.
You lean against the wall of pedes, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Your eyes are on the floor as you try to focus on your feet.
Faintly, you can hear someone calling your name. Multiple somebodies.
When you look up you see Robby and Dana rushing towards you.
"What the fuck happened?" Dana asks angrily.
"The patient in 6 attacked me."
Dana grabs your arm gently, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on your forearm. Her touch is a contrast to the anger in her face. It looks like Dana's about to kill someone.
Robby does his best to examine you while you stand there. "Are you hurt?" he asks.
"No, I'm fine. He did punch my chest, but I'm okay."
"That motherfucker", Dana mutters furiously.
"I just need a few minutes and then I'll be good to go back to work. I don't need a—"
"What the fuck? Are you okay, what happened?"
Out of nowhere, Cassie's now at your side. Concern and fear are written all over her face.
"No, no, I'm fine."
"You still need an examine", Robby tells you. "It's protocall. You can get back to work after if you want." His gaze meets yours, and he gives you a small nod. "I'm going to go pop in and check the son of a bitch who hit you."
"He hit you?!"
"Cassie, I'm fine."
"He punched her in her chest", Dana tells Cassie, her voice laced with rage. "Can you examine her? I'm going to call the police."
"Yeah, of course", Cassie says. She places a hand on your shoulder. "Come on."
Pushing off the wall, you rub your eyes. "I'm telling you I'm fine. Let's just make this as quick as possible."
Cassie nods, still clearly worried. She reluctantly takes her hand off of you. "South 16 is open", she says, her voice soft.
You don't say anything, you just walk over there. Now that the adrenaline is leaving your body, you feel a small ache under your boobs on the left side of your ribs.
Once you reach room 16, Cassie holds the door open for you. For a second you glance at her, but quickly look away after you make eye contact.
"Sit on the bed", she instructs you gently.
"Cassie—"
"Now", she says more firmly but still soft.
"Goddammit", you whisper to yourself as you sit on the edge of the bed.
Cassie untangles the stethoscope she has around her neck. You sit up straight as she comes closer, knowing the drill. "Any pain?" she asks as she puts the stethoscope over your heart.
"No", you lie.
"Take a deep breath for me."
You do as she says. Cassie then moves the stethoscope to the other side of your chest before checking your back.
"Your breathing is good."
"I could've told you that", you mutter.
Cassie places her stethoscope back around her neck, her hands gripping the ends as she looks at you. "Are you going to tell me where it hurts?"
"I told you I'm fine", you grumble, your gaze on your feet.
Cassie sighs and takes a step closer to you. "I'm gonna have to check for injury now."
"Fine."
Her eyes remain on you, just standing there before proceeding. Cassie places her right hand under your right breast. "Any pain?"
"No."
Cassie moves her hand to the left, lightly pressing. She touches a spot that makes you wince. You do your best to hide the hiss that started to slip out.
Crossing her arms, Cassie takes a step back. She says your name in a commanding tone that you know comes from concern. Reluctantly, you look up at her. "Let me see."
This is the first time since the parking garage that you've really looked at Cassie. She looks more tired than usual, like she hasn't been getting enough sleep.
"I'm fine", you say as you pull up your scrub top. "See?"
Cassie comes closer to you and crotches down slightly so that she can better see where you're hurting. Gently, Cassie presses down on that same spot.
Trying to hide a reaction, you take in a deep breath. But Cassie sees right through you.
She lingers, her hand resting on your side before she pulls back. "There's light bruising. It'll probably get a little darker, but not anything too bad."
"I told you I'm—"
"Fine, I know", Cassie cuts you off. You can't help the smile that wants to come out as she finishes your sentence.
Cassie notices you're fighting a smile which makes her smile.
You tug down your scrub top and look up at Cassie. "Thanks for examining me."
She nods with a small smile that shows her dimples. Then, she leans back on her heels. As Cassie's weight shifts to her toes, she puts her hands in her scrub pockets. "So, um... that guy really punched you?"
"Just my luck."
A small chuckle escapes Cassie. "At least you're okay." Then, she shakes her head in disbelief. "God, what an asshole."
"You could say that about all men", you half joke. "At least he doesn't hit that hard."
"Still hard enough to leave a bruise."
"I've been hurt worse."
Fuck, you didn't mean for that to come out the way it did. The tension in the room grows, but your eyes don't leave Cassie's.
"Uh... I mean physically. N-not emotionally."
"It's okay."
"Sorry", you say, almost a whisper.
"I told you to stop apologizing."
You raise your eyebrows, somewhat playfully.
"You're making me want to apologize for apologizing."
Cassie can't help but laugh which makes you do too. The air feels lighter. Happier. Right.
But as soon as your laughter fades, and you're left looking at one another, it feels heavier again.
"I mean it though. Seriously, don't ever apologize to me." Your head tilts slightly, trying to figure out what Cassie means. "You have nothing to be sorry for, and that includes apologizing for 'burdening me' because you aren't a burden."
Your heart stops. For a moment you forget how to breathe.
"You shouldn't have apologized for 'making me hate myself' because that's on me. Not you. It never was." With a bated breath, Cassie shifts her weight to her other foot and crosses her arms. "And you shouldn't have apologized for kissing me."
Like a deer in headlights, you are frozen. If you move, maybe you'll cry. You don't know what to say anyways. So you just sit there. Taking Cassie in. Her blue eyes seem dimmer, replaced by pain.
"I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sorry that you keep changing shifts because of me. I'm sorry for ever making you feel like you did something wrong because you didn't. I'm sorry I didn't ask you what you need, I just assumed I knew what was best. And I'm so fucking sorry for hurting you."
Cassie steps forward and grabs your right hand from below. You look down as she puts her other hand on top of yours. You're scared to look back up because you know if you look at Cassie you'll break.
"I never ever wanted to hurt you. I've missed seeing you around the ED. Way more than I thought I would." Cassie keeps one hand on yours while the other leaves and finds your chin. "Can you... look at me?"
You feel the nervousness in her voice because it's the same feeling flowing through you. Cassie tilts your chin just a little bit— not wanting to push you, but encourage you.
Your eyes shut as you lift your head up. Slowly, you open your eyes. Cassie's are staring down at you tenderly with a hint of vulnerability.
"What if...", Cassie looks away, the words she's trying to say are difficult for her to get out. "What if you find someone younger? That you like better?"
It feels like a piece of glass just cut your heart. You give her hand a comforting squeeze and place your other hand over hers. "Cass... that won't happen."
"How do you know for sure?", Cassie whispers, her voice trembling.
"Because as long as I know you, I know there won't ever be someone as kind or caring or beautiful." A salty tear falls down your cheek. "Cassie", your voice falters. "Um... look at me? Please?"
She does. She's met with a warm smile. Your warm smile.
Cassie sees the tear on your cheek and instinctively brings her hand to your face. She cups your cheek and her thumb gently brushes over your tear, erasing it. "Can, uh..." Cassie pauses, swallowing before continuing, "Is it alright if I kiss you?"
Right away, you nod. Without wasting any time, Cassie leans down and presses her lips against yours.
Your arms wrap around her neck while hers find your waist, sliding to your lower back. The kiss isn't messy, but it isn't soft either. All of the things you've been feeling for each other pour out into the kiss.
There's a knock at the door.
"Jesus", you mutter, startled. Cassie pulls back, but leaves her hands on your waist. She looks over her shoulder, and you peek around her.
Dana.
"I was just checking to see how, uh", Dana nods at you, "you're doin'."
"Oh, fine. I-I'm fine."
"I'm glad", she replies with a smug smirk. "The cops will be here within the next half hour for a statement." You nod. "Finish up in here and get back to work."
"Got it, Dana. We'll be out in a minute", Cassie says.
Dana looks at you, then Cassie, back at you, and then Cassie again, still smiling, before she leaves.
Cassie turns back to you, her face flushed. You giggle, finding it cute which makes her laugh.
She leans in and gives you a soft, promising kiss. When she pulls back her face seems lighter than it had been in a while.
"We have to get back to work", Cassie says as her hands reluctantly leave your hips.
"Yeah", you murmur. Slowly, you stand up. Cassie offers her hand to steady you which you don't need, but you take anyways.
"After work can we talk? A good talk, I promise."
With a chuckle, you nod. "Yes."
Cassie cups your face and gives you a doting forehead kiss. "Come on", she whispers.
You and Cassie leave the room and try to go about the rest of your shift like everything's normal. But both of you are smiley— way more than usual, especially in the last three weeks.
For someone who just got assaulted, you sure were visibly happy, unable to stop beaming.
"Cassie", you moan as she pushes you against her car, her lips attached to your neck. Your hands are exploring Cassie's back, and hers are caressing your sides up and down.
"Pocket", she mumbles against your jaw. "My keys are in my right pocket."
Cassie trails her kisses up to your mouth, devouring you as your hands find her scrub pants. You squeeze her ass before diving into her pocket to pull out her keys.
Panting, you pull back and hold up the keys in between you two. Cassie's eyes are filled with lust, reflecting yours. She takes the keys from you and unlocks her car. "Give me your bag", she orders.
Quickly, you slide your bag off of your shoulder and hand it to Cassie. She takes a step to the right and opens the passenger side door. Swiftly, she then throws her bag on the floor and yours on the passenger seat before looking back at you.
"Um... do you want to go in the back?" Cassie asks you nervously, her confidence faltering.
Right away, you spin around and open the back door of her car and climb in. Cassie follows behind you. Once she's in, she closes the door and you throw yourself at her.
Your arms wrap around Cassie's neck and you kiss her hard. Her head rests against the side window, and her hands find your hips. You moan when her tongue tangles with yours, deep and needy.
Slowly, Cassie pushes off the car door and leans forward into you. She keeps one hand on your hip, her grip tight, and the other finds the back of your head. Cassie pulls you to her as close as possible, your kiss deepening even further. She then lowers you onto your back, her lips never leaving yours.
Cassie's mouth trails down your neck, sucking a mark on the right side. She mumbles your name against your skin, which makes you moan.
Cassie gives your neck a few soft kisses over the spot she was just sucking, and then pulls back to look at you. "I don't usually do this. But I haven't gotten laid in years and I like you so much. Sorry if the car is uncomfortable. If you want to stop let—"
You plow your lips against hers, cutting her off which elicits a moan from her. Your hands are on the back of her neck, pushing her into you. You pull back just to put your mouth on her jaw, giving her wet, sloppy kisses.
Just enough so you can speak, you pull back in between kisses. "It's kind of hot", you say, smirking against your skin. "I've always wanted to try car sex. Guess I never found the right person."
"Until now", Cassie says as one of her hands trails down your chest — making sure to avoid where that patient punched you — to your stomach until she reaches the end of your scrub top. She places a hand underneath the grey fabric onto your stomach while you nibble on her neck.
You tug at the hem of Cassie's scrubs. "Can I take this off?"
Immediately Cassie nods, her hands leave you as she rushes to take her top off, you helping. After her scrub top is discarded, she leans down to capture your lips.
While Cassie maps out the inside of your mouth with her tongue, your hands find Cassie's back, and your fingers work on unhooking her bra.
After her bra comes undone, she shrugs it off. Cassie then scoots back and eagerly hikes up your scrub top along with the tank top you have underneath it. She kisses and licks your sensitive stomach, your breath hitching. Slowly, Cassie kisses her way up to your sternum. When she reaches your bra, she pulls back and fists the fabric of your top.
"Arms up."
You do as Cassie intructs. She swiftly discards your top, followed by your tank top. You arch your back so Cassie can unclasp your bra. She does so with ease, throwing it on the car floor.
Cassie admires you for a few moments. And then she dives down, putting her mouth on your right breast. As she sucks and licks your plump flesh there, you put your hands on the back of her neck.
Cassie trails fiery kisses to the other side of your chest, taking your hardened nipple into her mouth, softly biting. You let out a small moan. She keeps sucking and nibbling, and you take out Cassie's ponytail.
The second her hair is down, your grab a fist full, desperately needing something to hold onto. You direct Cassie back up to your face, kissing her hard.
Her hips roll into your lower half. A moan escapes Cassie which you devour instantly. You can tell she's growing more and more needy.
"Cassie", you murmur against her mouth.
"Hm?"
"Switch."
Cassie pulls back slightly, taking in your flushed face before she moves off of you. You sit up, moving out of the way so Cassie can lay down.
Once she's in your former spot, you hook your fingers in her scrub bottoms and look at her for permission. She nods, her face already red and sweaty. You pull down both her pants and underwear. When they hit her ankles she kicks them off along with her shoes.
As fast as you can, you kick your shoes off too. You then turn back to Cassie, her entrancing blue eyes on you. Your left knee is at Cassie's side on the backseat, and your other leg dangles off the seat, your right foot touching the floor.
You lean down, once again capturing her lips with yours. Cassie grips your hips tightly, pulling you to her. You trail your right hand down her chest, to her stomach, and then to her core.
Cassie gasps and her nails dig into your hips. Your fingers move down her already soaked slit. Still kissing Cassie, you slowly slide one finger inside of her.
A groan leaves Cassie's mouth and goes into yours. She pulls back from your kiss just enough to mewl, "God, baby."
Her words send a shiver down your spine. You put your middle finger inside her cunt, joining your pointer finger. Cassie's hips jerk forward involuntarily.
As you pump your fingers in and out, your thumb finds her clit, gently pressing against it. Cassie bucks up into your touch, moaning. She takes her mouth off of yours and leans up to kiss your neck.
You curl your fingers inside her in a way that makes Cassie whimper. Your thumb starts to draw circles over her clit. "Right there", she whines against your red, kissed out skin.
Your fingers work faster, and Cassie's hips chase your hand. She lets out several moans, the sound going straight to your core. You feel her clench around your fingers as she lets out a raspy groan.
Your hand slows down as Cassie comes down from her orgasm. She's slightly embarrassed at how fast she came undone, but you couldn't care less— if anything you find it hot.
Once Cassie's hips come to a stop, you pull out your fingers which are now drenched in her arousal. You pepper a few kisses on her jaw.
"Fuck", she murmurs. Cassie grabs the back of your head firmly but not rough, and puts your mouth on hers. She takes your lower lip between her teeth for a few seconds before releasing it. "I wanna taste you."
"Cassie", you whine.
She lifts you off of her, and then sits up. Without saying anything, Cassie looks at you, her eyes dark, and points at the backseat where she just was.
Right away, you lie back. Cassie urgently pulls down your pants. Once they're off she leans down and presses light kisses on your throbbing cunt through your underwear.
"Please, Cassie", you say through a moan.
She looks up at you, a smirk growing on her lips. "Look at you", she murmurs. "So fucking beautiful."
A needy whine leaves you. Cassie chuckles and hooks her finger in the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down. She grabs your right leg and places it over her left shoulder, and then puts her hand on the inside of your left thigh, pushing it out.
Cassie takes you in, all spread out and needy for her. When she looks into your eyes, they're clouded by desire, silently begging for Cassie to give you some kind of release.
Finally, she lowers herself down to you. Cassie presses kisses in between your thighs tantalizingly slow, making you squirm. When she finally reaches your center, her lips attach to your clit which makes you moan.
Cassie swirls her tongue around your bundle of nerves. Your hands move to her head, and you push her messy bangs to the side so you can better look at her.
You gasp as Cassie spreads your lips apart with her tongue. The needy whimpers that you let out spur her on. Cassie drags her tongue down to your opening, pushing in.
"Fuck, Cassie."
She hums, pleased, and keeps moving her tongue against your pussy. You can't help it as your hips jut forward, needing more.
Cassie looks up at you with half-lidded eyes. You let out a soft moan which makes Cassie groan into you, the vibrations only bringing you closer to the edge.
She comes up for a breath and licks her lips which almost makes you cum right then and there.
Cassie puts her mouth on your clit again. She sucks and bites, making you writhe beneath her.
Your hips roll into Cassie's face as she brings you closer and closer to the release you so desperately need. Her nails dig into your hips— you just know there's going to be marks tomorrow.
Cassie looks up at you as she continues to lap up every inch of your cunt. "Come for me, baby", she tells you in her soft doctor voice.
Your head throws back against the seat, and your eyelids flutter shut. Cassie's mouth pushes into you harder as you arch up into her. You let out a shaky moan and grip Cassie's hair so tight like you're trying to rip her hair out. Your orgasm washes over you, your legs shaking, and a single tear rolls down your cheek.
Cassie's mouth remains on you as she helps you ride out your thigh. Her grip on your hips slowly loosens. You lie under her with your eyes shut, catching your breath.
You feel a few gentle pecks on the inside of your thighs before Cassie sits up. She leans against the headrest of the seat on the right side and looks over to you.
Gently, Cassie grabs your wrist, pulling you up. "Come here", she murmurs.
Cassie pulls you onto her lap, her arms immediately wrapping around you. She places a long, tender kiss on the top of your head as your sweaty bodies connect.
"Sorry, I, uh... that wasn't really a talk", Cassie says.
You burst out in laughter, Cassie doing the same upon hearing your infectious laugh. It's music to her ears and hers is to yours.
You shrug. "I don't mind."
Still smiling, Cassie kisses your temple. "Do you want to maybe come over? No pressure", she says somewhat nervously. It only makes you smile, finding it cute. "We could, uh, well tomorrow after work you could grab your car. Oh, and we could stop and get takeout. If-if you want..."
Your head drops to Cassie's shoulder. "Cassie?"
"Yeah?" she asks, looking down at you.
You give her a soft kiss on her shoulder before resting your head against her again. "That's perfect."
It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. You had your favorite coffee in hand. And your girl at your side.
Maybe it was the Cassie haze you were still in that was clouding your vision, but it was such a perfect day.
As you and Cassie walk over to the hospital, you don't say anything, but every now and then you look at each other smiling and blushing. It takes everything in you to not hold her hand right now. The last thing either of you need are people gossiping about you guys.
When you make it into the hospital, you and Cassie drop your belongings off in your lockers, and then head into the ED.
Robby and a few other day shift staff members are gathered at the hub. Dana, Javadi, Santos, Whitaker, Perlah, and Princess were the only ones here yet.
You take a step away from Cassie, leaving a bigger gap as you both approach the rest of the group. You're greeted by smiles.
Dana steps forward and gives you a hug. Her hugs always feel like getting hugged by your mom when you were scared or upset as a child.
"How you feeling today?" she asks.
"I'm good, there's just a little bruising, but it doesn't hurt", you answer before taking a sip of your coffee.
"Yeah, right, it doesn't hurt", Cassie says with a scoff.
You side eye her and place your coffee on the desk next to you. "I'm fine."
"Holy shit", Javadi says, her eyes wide.
Confused, you look at her. "What?"
"Did the patient who assaulted you do that?" Javadi asks, concerned as she points at your neck.
Still confused, you pinch your brows together, and then attempt to look down to see what Javadi is pointing at.
Oh.
Your eyes shoot up. You rack your brain for what to say, but you can't think of anything.
"Hm", Dana says, examining the mark. "It's oddly mouth shaped." She smirks and looks at you and then Cassie, quick enough to not arouse suspicion.
"Oh, uh..." Everyone is looking at you confused. Everyone besides Santos who's trying to hide a smile, Dana who still has a smirk on her face, and Cassie.
Cassie who's trying so hard not to smile but failing. You glare at her. But that only makes it harder for Cassie to fight back a smile.
She grabs the nearest clipboard to her and raises it to her mouth as she stifles a laugh. You're still staring at her, but you can see in her eyes that she's smug— proud of the lovebite she marked you with.
Robby looks between you two a few times, and then claps his hand together. "Okay", he draws out. Robby turns to you. "You're not in pain, correct? All the... bruising is normal?"
"Uh, um, yeah", you stutter out.
"Then back to work people", he orders.
As people disperse, your eyes find Cassie's again. She's still fighting back laughter. You continue to glare at her, but slowly a smile creeps up on your face.
At the same time, you burst out in laughter.
Perlah and Princess turn to each other. In Tagalog, Princess murmurs to Perlah, "I would have fifty dollars in my pocket right now if you took me up on that bet from a few weeks ago."
Perlah shakes her head with a small smile. "Betting that two people who so clearly love each other will stop making eyes at each other is stupid."
Princess and Perlah turn to look at you and Cassie, and see you giggling with one another. You're in your own bubble. The only people on your radar are each other.
After weeks of tension and avoidance, this morning you're closer than ever before. Beaming and laughing at each other's side.
Most of your coworkers don't know what changed or just shrug it off. But the few that know? They're thrilled.
But it doesn't even come close to how estatic you and Cassie are.
Your little slip of the tongue makes her mind start spinning. Something she's already wanted but now, you've asked for it.
Happy Kinktober my fellow queens and queers
The case files were stacked three deep on the conference table, and you'd been at this for hours. Emily was theorizing about the unsub's pattern—something about lunar cycles and victim selection that was making your head spin.
"So you're saying he picks victims based on the moon?" you asked, leaning back in your chair.
"I'm saying there's a correlation we should consider—"
"Oh gag me," you said, the words coming out more playful than dismissive as you rubbed your temples. "That's the most Reid thing you've ever said."
The room went quiet. You looked up to find Emily staring at you, something shifting in her expression—a flicker of heat quickly masked by professionalism. Alvez smirked from across the table.
"I mean—the theory. The theory is very Reid-like," you backpedaled, feeling your face flush.
Emily's lips curved slightly. "Noted." But her eyes held yours a beat too long before she turned back to the files.
Emily's eyes had an extra sparkle in them when she sat down for dinner, tossing her hair over her shoulder, hand delicately wrapped around her wine glass. You raised a brow but said nothing as you slid her plate in front of her.
Settling across from her, she thanked you for cooking and eyed you as you sat. Oh, so she's planning something. You knew Emily enough to know when she was up to something, when her wheels were turning.
She casually asked about your day as she reached for your hand, fingers gently intertwining with yours. She listened intently, nodding, responding with the same depth, as if she wasn't obviously distracted by an image in her own mind.
As she took the plates to the sink you followed, leaning against the counter and watching her, eyes tight with observation. "You're up to something." She chuckled and washed the dishes silently.
It wasn't until she closed the dishwasher that she answered, "I'm just thinking about something."
You chuckled softly, "Yeah I can tell, what's going on up there?"
She laid the towel on the counter and looked at you. "I wanna try something with you."
"And what might that be?"
Emily introducing something new in the bedroom wasn't a new concept, she wasn't ever shy about it. Casually mentioned during breakfast, while you brushed your teeth, even once in the produce section. So her quietness made you intrigued.
She looked at the floor. "Em I'm not gonna run away because you suggest something, you know this."
Her eyes found yours. "I've been thinking about it since your little incident earlier." She stepped closer. "When you told me to gag you in front of the entire team."
Your stomach flipped. "I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant." Her voice dropped lower. "But it got me thinking about what it would be like if you actually meant it."
She stepped closer, hand finding your hip, thumb pressing against the bone there. "I've been thinking about it for weeks. The sounds you make when I'm inside you, when you're close." Her voice dropped lower, intimate. "I want to see what happens when you can't make them. When you have to feel everything without being able to tell me about it."
Your chest flushed, heat spreading up your neck. She noticed, of course she did, her free hand coming up to trace the path of color blooming across your skin. "You're thinking about it now."
"I'm always thinking about you," you managed, which pulled a real smile from her, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"That's not an answer." She leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Do you want me to gag you? Want me to take away that control you're always so careful about maintaining?"
Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you, gripping hard enough that your knuckles went white. Emily's hand on your hip tightened, holding you in place, and you realized you'd been trying to shift away without meaning to. Not from fear, but from the intensity of wanting it, of wanting her to do exactly what she was describing.
"Yes." The word came out rougher than you intended.
She pulled back just enough to look at you properly, searching your face. "You're sure? We can talk about it more, establish—"
"Emily." You cut her off, reaching up to cup her face. "Yes. I want you to."
Something shifted in her expression, that profiler's mask dropping away to reveal pure want. She kissed you then, hard and claiming, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your knees weak. When she pulled back you were breathing hard, lips already feeling swollen.
"Bedroom," she said, voice carrying that tone you'd learned meant she was done negotiating, done waiting. "Now."
You moved, her hand finding the small of your back as you walked down the hallway. Your mind was racing, imagining what she had planned, what it would feel like to give up that particular piece of control. Emily was always attentive, always watching your reactions, adjusting based on every sound you made. Without those sounds, she'd have to read your body in different ways. The thought made your thighs clench.
She guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, standing between your legs. Her fingers traced your jawline, tilted your chin up so you had to meet her eyes. "I need you to understand something first."
You nodded, trying to focus despite the way her proximity was making it hard to think.
"This is about trust. About you trusting me to read you, to know what you need even when you can't tell me." Her thumb brushed across your bottom lip. "If at any point you need to stop, you tap my arm three times. Hard enough that I'll feel it no matter what we're doing. Can you do that for me?"
"Three times," you confirmed, demonstrating against her forearm. Tap, tap, tap.
"Good girl." The praise made your stomach warm, made you want to earn more of it. She kissed you again, slower this time, thorough. Her hands moved to your shirt, fingers working the buttons with practiced ease. "I'm going to undress you first. Going to take my time with you."
She did exactly that, peeling away each layer of clothing with deliberate care, pressing kisses to newly exposed skin. By the time you were naked and she was still fully clothed, you were already trembling, already desperate for more contact. She pushed you back onto the bed, hands on your thighs spreading them apart.
"Stay just like this," she instructed, stepping back. You watched as she moved to the dresser, opening the drawer where you kept the toys you'd accumulated together. She pulled out something you didn't recognize, black fabric with a buckle. When had she bought that?
She caught your expression and smiled. "I may have done some shopping this week. Wanted to be prepared in case you said yes."
Emily returned to the bed, sitting beside you. She held up the gag, letting you see it properly. It was simple, elegant even, a wide band of soft fabric with a ball in the center. "This is going to go in your mouth. The ball isn't too big, but you'll feel it. You won't be able to talk around it, but you'll be able to breathe fine through your nose. If you need to stop, remember—"
"Three taps," you finished.
"That's right." She leaned down, kissing you once more before bringing the gag to your lips. "Open for me."
You did, letting her slide the ball into your mouth. It pressed against your tongue, foreign and strange, making you immediately aware of every sensation in your mouth. She fastened the buckle behind your head, checking that it wasn't too tight, that your hair wasn't caught. Her fingers lingered at the nape of your neck, gentle despite the dominance of the act.
"How does that feel?" she asked, and you made a sound that was supposed to be "good" but came out muffled and indistinct. The reality of not being able to speak properly hit you then, made your heart rate spike. Emily's hand immediately moved to your chest, palm flat over your racing heart. "Breathe, baby. You're okay. You're doing so well for me."
You focused on breathing through your nose, on the weight of her hand, on the way she was watching you with such intense focus. Gradually your heart rate slowed, and she smiled. "There you go. See? You're perfect."
She stood then, finally starting to undress herself. You watched hungrily as she revealed skin, the curves and planes of her body that you'd mapped with hands and mouth countless times. When she was naked she climbed onto the bed, straddling your hips. The heat of her against you made you moan, the sound strange and muted behind the gag.
"That's what I wanted to hear," she murmured, rolling her hips against you. "Those desperate little sounds you make, all trapped now. You have no idea how hot that is."
Her hands moved over your body, touching everywhere except where you needed her most. She traced your collarbones, palmed your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they were hard and aching. Every touch made you want to beg, to tell her what you needed, but all that came out were muffled whimpers and moans.
"You want to tell me something, don't you?" She pinched your nipple, just hard enough to make you arch. "Want to tell me to touch you properly, to stop teasing." Her hand slid down your stomach, fingers dancing along your hip bone. "But you can't. You just have to take what I give you."
Your hands fisted in the sheets, hips trying to lift toward her touch. She pressed you back down with her free hand, holding you in place. "Stay still. Let me explore you the way I want to."
It was torture, exquisite and maddening. She touched you everywhere, kissed a path down your neck to your breasts, sucked marks into your skin that would bloom purple by morning. And through it all you couldn't do anything but make those trapped, desperate sounds, couldn't beg or plead or tell her how much you needed more.
When her hand finally, finally slid between your legs, you nearly sobbed with relief. She groaned at what she found there. "God, you're so wet. Is this all from me teasing you? From not being able to talk?"
You nodded frantically, trying to press into her touch. She allowed it this time, fingers sliding through your wetness, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make you shake. Your hands came up to grip her shoulders, nails digging in.
"That's it," she encouraged, fingers moving in steady circles. "Show me what you need. Your body can tell me everything your mouth can't right now."
She worked you higher, reading every twitch and tremor, adjusting her touch based on how your hips moved, how your breathing changed. It was different like this, more intense somehow. Without the ability to speak you were more in your body, more aware of every sensation. And she was right—she could read you perfectly, knew exactly when to add more pressure, when to ease off.
When she finally slid two fingers inside you, you made a sound that was almost a scream, muffled and raw. She groaned in response, forehead pressing against yours. "You feel so good. So perfect around my fingers."
She fucked you slowly at first, thumb still working your clit, watching your face with that intense profiler focus. You were completely at her mercy, unable to ask for more or tell her to go faster, could only hold onto her and let her take you apart piece by piece.
"I can feel you getting close," she murmured, curling her fingers to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Can feel you tightening around me. You want to come, don't you? Want me to make you come while you can't even beg for it?"
You nodded desperately, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it all. She kissed your temple, your cheek, her pace increasing. "Then come for me, baby. Let me feel it."
Her thumb pressed harder against your clit, fingers curling just right, and you shattered. The orgasm hit you like a wave, making your whole body arch and shake. The sounds you made behind the gag were raw and desperate, and Emily swallowed them with her mouth against your neck, working you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive.
She gentled her touch, slowly withdrawing her fingers. You whimpered at the loss, body still twitching with aftershocks. Her hands moved to the buckle of the gag, carefully unfastening it and easing it from your mouth. You worked your jaw, tongue feeling thick and clumsy.
"Hey," she said softly, her fingers gentle as she cupped your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. Her eyes searched yours with concern and tenderness. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you managed, your voice rough and breathless, still trying to gather yourself. Your heart was still pounding hard in your chest. "That was... fuck, Em."
She smiled, looking both pleased and a little smug, that satisfied glint in her eyes that you'd come to know so well. A strand of hair fell across her flushed face. "Good?"
"So good." You reached up and pulled her down into a kiss, deep and slow and grateful, pouring everything you couldn't quite put into words into the press of your lips against hers. Your fingers tangled in her hair as you held her close, not wanting to let go just yet.
She collapsed beside you, both of you breathing hard, skin flushed and damp with sweat. She pulled you close, pressing kisses to your forehead, your temple, anywhere she could reach.
"So," she said after a moment, voice lazy and satisfied. "We're definitely doing that again."
You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. "Yeah. Definitely."
She traced patterns on your shoulder, fingers light and soothing. "Thank you for trusting me with that. For letting me try it with you."
You turned to look at her, seeing the vulnerability beneath the confidence. "Always, Em. I'll always trust you."
She kissed you then, soft and sweet, and you settled into her arms, body still humming with satisfaction, mind already wondering what she might suggest next.
