꩜

18+

[ceruleanheaven]

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

[gravvy15]

Having my phone stolen while traveling inspired me to actually draw on my iPad for the first time in 5 years. Emery and Samira loosely based on chapter 6 of “let it happen” by strryeyedlvr on A03 and Jack Vettrianos “After Midnight”.

[emilys-bangs]

𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫-𝐜𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 | 𝐞.𝐰

Tags: established relationship, fluff, fem!reader, reader is drunk, emery is a softie, tiny bit of grumpy x sunshine, reader wears emery’s jacket, no use of yn

Summary: Emery especially likes you when you’re drunk. (You especially like her when she’s soft.)

Word count: 1.1k

Emery toys with the car keys in her pocket as she strolls into the bar, her eyes sharp, instinctively scanning the space in search of you. It's dimly lit and thick with people, louder than she can stomach these days. You like to tease her for it, how she's gotten older, more weary, but she's well past the days of hangover-less morning-afters and music that pounds its way through her skull. 

You're decidedly not. Which is why she very carefully makes her way through drunken parties, sidestepping trays and drinks, until she finds you.

You don't notice her at first, the bright glare of your phone screen washing over your face, your knee bouncing with a restless rhythm as you scroll through something. Emery glances at her own phone. It's been a little over fifteen minutes since you'd called her, telling her to come over. She knows you get anxious about it, so she'd stayed in her clothes instead of changing into something for bed, picked up her keys the minute her phone rang. 

Fifteen minutes in this traffic is a miracle, and yet Emery's stomach is still heavy at the look on your face. She's too far away for her voice to carry, but you finally set your phone down, hands wringing together as you scan the bar. 

Your eyes find hers almost immediately. You perk up, your face brightening as you wave an excited hand. "Em! Hey, over here!"

Her smile drops when she gets close enough to see a damp blotch down the front of your shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin. "What'd you spill, hon?" She frowns, shrugging out of her jacket. You give a shrug of your own as she wraps it around your shoulders.

"Wasn't me, some dude wasn't looking." Your lips press together into a small—much to your dismay—pout. You get your arms through the sleeves and adjust the cuffs around your wrists, eyes a little glazed as you look up at her. "Spilled half his bottle on me."

Emery fits the zipper and tugs it up your chest. "Fucker. Where is he, I'll gut him." She murmurs, relieved when your lips pull into a smile.

"You would?"

"Sure I would. You cold?"

"Just sticky."

She keeps an arm around you as you slip out of your stool. You exchange goodbyes with your friends and gather your things, promising them another hangout, soon, soon, teetering a little into Emery's side. She holds out a hand in an idle wave and nudges you around, starts guiding you through the crowd. You're not entirely wasted, but she still keeps her arm firm around you, planting you to her side. 

Your fingers hook into the waistband of her sweatpants. Emery hides a smile, steering you away from a waiter with a full tray. She could never say it, but she loves the way you cling—especially when you get like this, all soft and uninhibited. Perfectly hers.

Out on the street, she hears your voice clearer, a little thickened with a slur.

"Will you shower with me?"

She adjusts her grip on you, complying when you loop your arm through hers and hug it to your chest. "Can't exactly trust your hand-eye coordination, now, can I?"

Your smile peeks out from behind her arm. It seeps into your voice, ringing like a bell. "You can just admit you want to, Emsie."

Emery pauses, her brows knitting. "Who the hell is that?"

You laugh, eyes bright, and she kisses you. Emery hates it when people kiss on the street, in the middle of a sidewalk, but you make her do it without thinking. She can't help it, never can. She's long ago stopped trying. 

You taste like the drinks you've had—sweeter, messier than you usually are. Emery feels the slow rush of your pulse under her thumbs.

"Thanks for comin' to pick me up." You say happily. She hums, wipes a bit of loose makeup under your eye.

"Did you have fun?"

"Mhmm." You take her hand and wrap her arm around your side again, tangling your fingers with hers instead of letting go. "Missed me?"

Emery's lips twitch. "I don't know if I've ever told you, but you're a little self absorbed."

"That," you laugh, poking her side, "is Em code for yes. I missed you too, baby."

She hates how her stomach flips, how she melts when you say it, so saccharine. Emery shakes her head as she pulls out her keys from your—her—pocket and unlocks the car.

"I don't think that's healthy for either of us."

You blow a raspberry. "Who cares about healthy?"

She stopped caring about a lot of things since she'd met you. 

Your cheeks are visibly hot as Emery opens the car door for you, her hand on the small of your back to nudge you in. You frown down at the high step and reach for her arm, clutching her bicep as you get on. It doesn't usually give you much trouble, but your balance is a little off, and your shoes are less than practical. 

"Got you," Emery murmurs, looping her arm around your waist, sweeping the other one under your legs and lifting you the half inch distance into the high seat of her jeep. She leans back and reaches for the seatbelt before you can, pulling it snug across your body and buckling you in.

Your smile is lopsided when she looks back up at you. "I could've done it, Emery." You say softly, tangling your fingers in her hair.

"I know." She cups her hand over yours, leans in to kiss you. You wrap both your arms around her neck like it's a hug, making her laugh, tilt her head back to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "But I missed my girl."

She feels the heat radiating from you. Truth is, she can't always get herself to say stuff like this, sickeningly gentle, but sometimes it slips out and she lets it. It's all the better for watching you melt, the smile splitting your cheeks even as you bite your lip, try to hold it.

Emery thumbs it out, feels the heat along your jaw as she steals one more kiss. It breaks with your laughter, low, airy giggles she'd never hear in the light of day.

"Softie." You mumble.

Unfortunately so.

[emilys-bangs]

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 | 𝐛.𝐡

Tags: babysitter!reader, implied insomnia (baran), yearning, fluff, tiny bit of angst, age gap (but no ages mentioned), reader is a college student, the author is (briefly) projecting, petnames, one use of yn

Summary: In the dead of night, you and Baran find momentary solace.

Word count: 2.3k

You're painfully aware of the fragile silence around you, and yet you still can't stop yourself from stifling a curse into the palm of your hand.

"What the ever-loving fuck," you mutter, eyes scanning the document on your laptop. You have four whole pages highlighted in red. Four pages of straight bullshit that your classmate wrote, so neatly—so completely—countering every single point you've made in half your shared essay. A laugh bubbles out of you at the sight. "What the fuck. People don't have fucking eyes anymore."

You feel a near-hysteric panic start to take hold of you, creeping in under your disbelief and silently wrapping tight fingers around your throat. They squeeze, and your mouth parts open for breath. 

Your deadline is two days from now. You'd been pestering the asshole to finish his part for the past week, and, lo and behold, here it is—poor grammar, sixth-grade-level vocabulary, every word pulled out of his ass. You'd scrounged for all of the necessary references yourself. You'd divided the work, reiterated—multiple times—the structure of the paper, your thesis statement, the point each of you would be arguing—and yet.

You laugh again, your eyes hot with tears and the glare of your laptop screen. It's like you're frozen in time. You can't move, can't do anything but read the words on your screen, over and over.

Jesus fucking Christ. Amir could write you a better paper if you'd asked.

Your eyes are still stinging when you finally get yourself to look away. Exhaling, you close them and rub hard, trying to dispel the burn. Surely it's not too late to contact your professor. You're two days from the deadline, yes, but you'd finished your part weeks ago, and you have the proof in your document logs. And your text threads. You didn't work your ass off the entire semester for some fucking idiot loser—

You take a deep breath and sit up in your seat. The leather creaks around your movement, protesting the hours you've spent there. (God, how many has it been already?) 

You don't even want to know.

You drain the last of your ice-cold tea and set your shoulders, cementing your decision with a nod of your head. Just as you're pulling up your student email, a sudden sound breaks the stillness you'd been sitting in.

Footsteps. Going down the stairs. You go still, eyes darting to the clock in the corner of your computer screen.

1:53. 

Surely not Amir. The footsteps are too heavy. You crane your neck towards the door just in time to see Baran flinch as she shuffles into the kitchen, her eyes squinting against the bright lights. She raises up a hand to shield them, rasps out your name in a voice that has you shivering.

"Shit, sorry." You slip out of your seat and switch off the overhead lights, leaving only the warm, soft glow shining down on the stove top. "You okay? What are you doing up?"

Baran lowers her hand and blinks against the new light. It does her wonders, you notice, bathing her in gold, softening her features. Her scrunched brow loosens, the creases on her forehead smoothing out. 

You fight against the urge to peek down where her robe has split open.

"I could ask you the same thing." She sighs, turning to the cupboards and grabbing a glass. Her eyes dart to your laptop on the counter. "Working?"

Trying to.

"Yep."

She fills her glass and takes a seat next to you. You allow yourself a closer look at her—not the thin, comfortable cut of her nightgown, but her face, the darkened half-circles under her eyes. Her hair is distinctly rumpled, frizzier than it was earlier, tight curls losing their shape; there's a weary exhaustion to the way she moves, controlled posture gone. She looks like she'd been fighting a war with sleep and lost miserably.

You're still staring as Baran takes a slow sip of her water. Her eyes flick to yours just as you raise your gaze from the glazed, wet shine of her lips. 

"What are you working on?"

Jesus, you've never heard her voice like that. A little rough, grating. It chafes against your skin.

"Oh, just an essay. It's a joint project, unfortunately." You minimize the tab, bright white light zapping out into the darkness of your wallpaper. "More of a headache than it's worth."

Baran's eyes track across your face. "Looks like it's been giving you trouble."

You smile wryly. "Can you tell?"

"It shows on your face," she hums, entirely serious. "Here." She leans in closer and lightly grips your chin between her fingers, ghosts her thumb over the corner of your mouth. Then she trails it up, to the tail of your brow. "Here." A soft rub, her voice draping over your skin. "You hold a lot of tension here. In your body, in general. It's not good for you." She says softly, taking her hand back. Your throat is tight even after she settles into her seat and laces her fingers together, leaning her cheek against her knuckles, her eyes pinning you down despite their bleary exhaustion.

You wet your dry lips. "From a physiological perspective, or…?"

Her mouth quirks. She sits up straighter again, her robe whispering in the silence. "It starts in your muscles," she explains. "They lock up tight. Let that fester long enough and it'll start to give in to tension headaches, migraines." Again, her touch flutters over your skin. She lightly touches the hinge of your jaw, traces across, up, to your scalp, skates her fingers down to your shoulder. 

You feel the breath hitch in your chest. 

Baran gently presses down with her fingertips, as if testing for something. "All of this, just constantly squeezing around your head. Perfect pressure cooker." Her tone goes wry. "Never mind, of course, the damage to your digestive system, your cardiovascular and immune systems…" 

"Yikes."

"Your body remembers everything that happens to it. It keeps score." She says quietly. Her smile fades, eyes sobering. "Nothing is worth it, Y/N. If it's at the cost of your health…" she shakes her head, "fuck it."

You briefly jolt, hearing her curse. It's far more attractive than it should be, a little raspy, the sound sharp from her teeth. 

The words ring in your ears. Exhaling, you slump against the counter, eyes darting to your computer screen.

"It's not always that simple, Doc."

"I know, honey. But you come first." She squeezes your arm. Her touch is warm, the silk of her robe like water on your skin. You're in a strange limbo; you've gotten used to her touches, easy, comforting—motherly. Because you know that's how she means them. You're just a kid to her. Nearly two decades older than her son, yes, but all in all, a kid. She doesn't mean anything when she does this. You know she doesn't. Sometimes, you don't feel anything out of the ordinary when she does.

And sometimes, her touch is like a bolt of lightning through your skin.

You set your chin in your palm, her hand slipping away as you eye the exhaustion on her face. You've seen her tired. You know what she looks like when she's barely holding herself together at the seams. 

"And do you follow that example?" Your voice is quieter than you mean for it to be.

Baran inhales, her chin dipping. "I try to." She says earnestly. "I don't always succeed, but…I try to not let it get too far out of my control."

Your laptop goes dark, stealing some of the light from her face. The shadowed half-moons stand out under her eyes, dragging harshly into the cool brown of her skin. Your chest tightens at the sight.

"So," you glide your fingertips over the smooth granite of the counter, "what's keeping you up?"

Baran's lips thin as she shrugs. Her eyes dip back down, her hands wrapping around her glass, fingers knitting together where they overlap. Here, on the island, you're further from the stove top light. There's just enough for you to see her gnaw on her lip, a small crease forming between her brows. 

She doesn't often hold back. Hell, she's probably the most forthcoming person you've ever met. You don't expect her silence, but you sit in it, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes in, out, rubbing her thumb along the length of the glass.

"It's a combination of things," she finally admits, surprising you. "I've…I have trouble sleeping, sometimes. I've struggled with it on and off since I was a kid."

You feel your mouth open and close, silence grabbing your throat. Jesus. You're horrible at comforting people. You never know what the situation calls for, what to say. If someone like Baran even needs it from someone like you, if she'd want, accept it. 

You pick at your thumbnail, cringing as you settle on: "That must be exhausting."

Baran smiles at you, beautiful, exhausted, and you figure maybe you didn't fumble it so bad. "Sometimes. But," she gives your shoulder a little nudge, "having company is nice."

Your own brief smile falls away as you notice the heaviness of her eyelids. "How are you gonna go to work in the morning?" You ask softly.

Baran tucks some of her hair behind her ear. "I'll manage." She says, setting her cheek in her palm. Her mouth twists wryly. "I know it's a bit hypocritical of me after that whole"—she waves a hand—"spiel, but." 

"C'mon," you murmur. "You're not exactly in a forgiving field."

"No." She agrees.

But she's only human. A 12 hour shift isn't anything easy on its own, but a single lapse in judgment, one overlooked mistake can result in a dead patient on her hands. The weight of it slams heavily onto your shoulders, dropping into your gut. It's laughable compared to a college project gone awry.

"Can't you at least go a little later?" You go back to picking at your thumbnail. "Or take the night shift for today or something?"

"I can't take the night shift," Baran exhales, quite docile. "And going later would mean having an attending stay overtime for me, which is…" she shrugs, shaking her head, "I'll manage. It's not anyone's fault but mine."

You frown. "It's not your fault if you can't help it."

She gives your hand a squeeze. "I'll be fine." Her voice is gentle.

You gnaw on your lip. The wheels turn in your head, a little slow with her too-close proximity, the skip of her thumb over your hand.

Finally, you ask, "You leave at 6:30?"

"6:15."

You nod, hook your thumb into hers, push away the regret you'll feel in the morning. "I'll take you tomorrow."

Her eyes soften. "Azizam, no."

"Yes." You insist.

"You don't even have classes tomorrow—"

"Exactly! I'll drop you off then go back home and crash, easy."

Baran frowns. "No."

"Yes. I'm setting my alarm, you can't stop me." You reach for your phone, but you stop when you see her purse her lips. 

You know it's unwarranted, ridiculous, but her displeasure settles heavily in your stomach. Jesus, she'll be the death of you. 

You put the phone down. 

"Come on," you coax. "Is my driving really that bad?"

"You know that's not it."

Before you can think it through, you're wrapping your arms around her in a sideways hug, setting your chin on her shoulder like Amir does when he's begging for something particularly hard. "Please," you say quietly, giving her a little squeeze. "Just let me do it, Baran. I want to."

You realize you've fucked up when you find her mouth in your direct line of sight—and right below it, when you try to hide, the loose neckline of her nightgown. The swell of her chest. You only see a blur of freckles before you force your eyes up into hers—another mistake, Jesus, what even possessed you to do this—

Baran sighs, and you feel it go through you. 

"Fine." She says reluctantly.

You beam and hurry to let go. She shakes her head at you, but you can tell there's no real heat to it.

"Excellent."

"In that case," her eyes dart to the clock on the oven, "are you going to bed?"

You nearly wince at the thought. You idly drag your fingertips over your laptop's mousepad, coaxing it awake. "I should, but I want to take care of a few things first. Gonna move over to the couch," you find yourself saying, "if you want to join me."

You tentatively look back at her. She pauses for a split second then nods, resigned.

It's somehow more still in the living room, but Baran lights the lamps, and the darkness shrinks back. The distance between you and the night shrinks, too. The warmth of her body is a tangible thing on the other end of the couch, a blur in the corner of your eyes as she lays down, sits up, discards her robe. 

Your poor self control gives; you look up as she's tugging a blanket off of the back of the couch, not before she unfolds it and settles it over her bare legs, tugs it up to her chin.

Writing a simple email takes you a lot longer than it should. Your brain stutters through half of it, the words coming out clumsy and stiff—or not at all.

"I guess we can leave 6:30," Baran says suddenly. "If you're still intent on driving me."

You look up from your laptop, flashing her a grin where she has her face half buried into the cushions.

"Sweet."

taglist: @lotties-ashwagandha, @professorsapphic, @azishimi, @mourningthewicked, @mimzamo, @geodeprentixx

[glassesprentiss]

pretty girl is home <3

[pittgifs]

[sadmortician]

adoration

[poisonofthepaint]

i'd rather be with you

emery sneaks in early from work, and wakes you up with a surprise.

cw: MDNI!!!!!!!!!! somnophilia in a way, but nothing hapens until reader is awake, nipple play, oral, fingering, penetrative sex (all r!recieving), slight degradation, implies pillow princess reader, lmk if i missed smth

a/n: no walsh this season means cope, enjoy my pittlings 🫡

You’re awoken by two cold hands sliding up the sides of your body. You know who it is without even opening your eyelids, which feel like they weigh a thousand pounds right now. You softly hum as her hands continue to explore. Emery mostly minds her manners— mostly,  before she isn’t able to take it anymore. They trail further up, to the hem of your sweatshirt. Her fingers ache to go further. You can practically feel the desperation in her touch.

“You’re not even going to say good morning?”

Emery lets out a light laugh. She slightly moves up towards you, sacrificing her pride, to kiss your cheek. Her breath is warm as she leans into your ear, “It’s not morning yet.”

That catches your attention. Emery isn’t shy about her ambition, about the hours of work she needs to put in to feel sane. She wants to be the best, so she’ll always be first on the clock, and the last to leave.

You lean over to grab at your phone that sits on the chocolate brown nightstand next to you. The device blinds you with the time, 4:26. Your head hits the soft, sage green pillows, “How are you even home?”

“They scheduled too many people, figured I’d head out early.” Her hands start moving towards your breast again. 

“Since when do they schedule too many people? There’s always too much going on at that hospital.”

Emery sighs, and removes her hand from your shirt. “Why do you have so many questions when I’m trying to fuck you?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your chest. You didn’t factor that into the words that were leaving your mouth. You were still half-asleep, wondering what God to thank now that you finally got to sleep next to your girlfriend. It wasn’t easy to have a good night's sleep with Emery. She was a great surgeon, and that’s because she built herself into one. It didn’t come naturally for her, she worked her ass off to get the spot that she has. People told her countless times that she should pick a different specialty, but she refused to listen. And she sure showed them. She would never tell you this, but she feels like if she lets up for one second, her whole reputation will come crashing down.

“I’m sorry,” you move her hands back onto your body, and her thumb rubs tight circles right where your waist meets your hips. “I’ve just never seen you come home early, I’m very confused.”

Emery hums to herself. “Can’t you just be grateful?”

You snap yourself out of it, and nod your head, finally opening your eyes enough to see the look of hunger in her eyes. She was right, what were you doing? Why all the questions?

Emery wastes no time in pushing your shirt up to your neck. Her hands quickly find your right nipple and begin to pinch and pull. The moan that leaves your body is lewd, and probably too loud considering the time. But you didn’t really care. Her mouth kisses the middle of your chest before it wraps around your left nipple. You reach your hand towards her head to ground yourself. Her hair is still tied up in a bun, that’s probably been in for ten hours at this point. You rock your body against hers, hips pressing up into her thigh that's conveniently placed between your open legs. 

Her lips pull off your nipple, and you whine into the open air. Emery makes quick work, though. The sheets ruffle as she lowers herself to the bottom of the bed. She hooks a finger into your waistband, but doesn’t pull them down yet. Instead, she presses open-mouth kisses to the lower half of your body. You feel like she’s trying to cover you in them. She acts like the kisses are marks that let everyone know your hers– like she’ll die if every inch of you isn’t covered in her scent. 

Her hands continue to tease you under your underwear, on your hip, or on the edge of right where you need her, but never right where you want it. No one warned you about this part of dating a surgeon. She knows exactly where to tease, and when. Her hands are so precise, you genuinely believe that all the surgery has helped her hands grow their own brain cells. 

She finally seems satisfied, and takes her fingers out from your waistband. She pulls the lace material off of your body and throws the garment across the room.

She takes a few moments on top of the bed. She’s sat up on her knees, looking at you with so much lust, you’re convinced she’s creating her own layer of hell in that moment. 

“Why so much staring when I’m trying to fuck you?” You quip, wanting her to get on with her desires. 

“Yeah, like you ever do the fucking. I just need you to lay here and look pretty for me. It’s all you're good at, anyway.” Most people would be offended by this statement, but all it does to you is bring a warm wave of pleasure down your body. “I’m just trying to admire what’s mine.”

Despite her words, she does get a move on with it. She settles in between your legs, blows gently on your heat, just enough to make you squirm. She starts by lightly teasing your clit, pressing, but barely, just so you knew she was there. Emery was always attentive to your needs; to how your body responds to her. She knew what you needed, and you loved letting her have full control over you. Your hips pressed up for the second time that night, letting her know she was doing something right. 

“God, you get so wet without me even doing anything. Or were you dreaming about me before I got here?” Emery asks. She’s not really looking for an answer, she just wants to hear you whine. You go to grasp at her wrist, and press her hand harder. “C’mon, you know better than that.”

You pull your hands back and cross your arms over your eyes, digging the inside of your elbows into the sockets. Emery begins to press harder on your clit, and you feel her other hand snake up to press a digit against your entrance. The room suddenly feels too hot to bare, and you sit up just enough to pull Emery’s Penn sweatshirt off your body. 

“So good, fuck,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. It feels like there’s a pile of hot coals sitting in the bottom of your stomach. Like your desire is actually burning for her, it always was, if you're being honest. She has always had a magnetic pull about her. Her cold demeanor never deterred you, it only made you want her more. You felt so lucky that you knew how to play her games, that you knew what she wanted you to do like the back of your hand. There were never any questions. You just understood each other.

All at once, Emery pulls away from you. Before you can even get an exasperated noise out of your body, you can see Emery’s hand shooing you away. She climbs off the bed and kneels down on the floor, and you understand. When she stands up, she has the harness and strap-on in hand. Again, you’re still trying to think of who to thank for this. Much like everything else, Emery is a master of getting it on quickly. She’s back on the bed, and lining up at your entrance in record time. The silicone head presses in gently, and you let out a puff of air.

“There y’go, baby, breathe.” Emery mumbles, mouth against your ear again. You wish the hot air didn’t drive you as crazy as it did, but every time she whispers words in your ear, your head gets a little bit fuzzier. 

Her thrusts don’t let up for a second. She has the stamina of an olympic athlete. She can go for as long as needed. But you already feel like you’re close. Between her teasing, and your sleepy headspace, it all hits you ten times harder. The strap rubs the perfect spot inside of you, and your legs wrap around her waist instinctively. “Right there?” she asks, even though she already knows.

Your mouth falls open. A sound tries to come out, but your breath is hitched again, so you choose to nod.  

“Already so fucked-out, aren’t you?” The more talkative Emery gets, the more you know it’s getting to her. The strap must be rubbing on her clit just right, because she’s panting in your ear like she’s close too. “When they asked who wanted to go home, I leapt at the chance. I’ve been wanting to fuck this sweet cunt all night, honey. You don’t even know how hard it was to keep my head screwed on straight today.”

You whimper at her words.

“It’s starting to become a problem. Any time I get a chance to think, it’s about you. You’re taking over my brain.”

“Sorry, sorry, just— please, Emery.” you say, hoping your pleas will convince her to let you come.

Emery ignores you, “I mean, what’s the point of being the best surgeon if I don’t have the best girl to come home to, huh? I swear, I’m starting to like showing you off more than my surgeries. I’m addicted to how you fucking feel– to how you make me feel.”

You snake your hand down and hold her hip as she thrusts into you. Your mind is practically blank at this point, but part of you knows that this is the nicest thing Emery has ever said to, well, anyone. She really loves you. You know it.

“Y’wanna come? Come with me, sweetheart. You got it.”

All it takes is a few more strokes before you're both being sent over the top of the rollercoaster. Your cunt twitches around the strap, and you grip onto Emery so tight that you’re positive she’ll have a bruise on her hip in the morning.

After a few moments of heavy breathing, Emery moves slowly to take the strap out of you. You wince at the removal, but it's quickly soothed by kisses on her neck. She sits up just to tear the strap off, and then crashes down on the bed next to you. You instinctively crawl into her open arm, laying your head down on her chest. The moonlight is bright in your joint bedroom, and you can make out her brown eyes staring down at you. She leans up to take her hair out of the bun, running her fingers across her scalp once it’s finally free. 

“Did you really leave work just to fuck me?” you ask, genuinely curious if it was just pillowtalk.

She sighs through her nose, “Go to sleep.”

That counts as a yes, you think, before following doctor’s orders, and closing your eyes.

[emerywalshsonlywife]

i just need to bite and/or suck on her neck vain once in my life and i will be SETTTT

[local-lesbian-tree-demon]

they should invent a body that feels normal to be inside of

[robaran]

They tried every anti-seizure medication, but I still had episodes every few months or so.

[as-syllable-from-sound]

you come around, i'm ruined (baran al-hashimi x wife!reader) wc: 4k .ೃ࿔* this is the part of loving a doctor nobody warns you about: the missed dinners, the late nights, the absence. you miss your wife even when she's around you. you miss her more when she's not.

tags: domestic arguing, angst, communication issues, kind of bad!wife baran but also deeply stressed out and overworked baran, established relationship, married, 80% hurt 20% comfort, probably the most out of character i've ever written baran but angry angst isn't my strong suit so bear with me

note: this was in fact based on an ask but i can't find it :(( shout out to whoever requested this!!

It's nearing ten o'clock when you finally hear the tell-tale signs of Baran slotting her key into your apartment door. It opens and Baran comes in bringing the cold with her, the cold air swirling into the semi-heat of your apartment.

The heat’s been weird all week (it’s barely working in your home, in the hallways and in the lobby it isn’t working at all) and it only grates on your already poor mood that Baran keeps the door open as she shrugs off her coat and slides off her shoes when she could have closed the door first. It doesn’t make you any happier that she doesn’t call out your name, or even announce that she’s home. She enters as a mute.

You watch her come around the corner, eyes adjusting to the dimness of the apartment that you keep luminated strictly with candles and warm-toned-lightbulbed lamps. Brown eyes sweep across the table, the food. You, sitting there.

"Hi," she says, a little out of breath, a little surprised. It pisses you off even more. Why should she be surprised that you made dinner? You always make dinner. She’s going to come home two hours late and act like it’s out of the ordinary for you to go out of your way to welcome her home?

"Hello," you reply shortly, stabbing at your room-temperature asparagus forcefully, pushing it into your mouth without even looking at her.

"....It smells great in here,” she tries, setting her bag down on the counter slowly. The hair on the back of her neck sticks up as she senses your terrible mood. “I sent you a message."

You glance at your phone. The screen is still dark, as it has been for the last two hours. "That’s weird, because I didn't get it."

She pulls her own phone out and frowns at it, pressing something. A beat later yours buzzes on the table. You look at the time stamp: nine forty-one. Six minutes ago. Running behind. Don't wait up.

You scoff at it, tossing your phone back down on the table where it clatters noisily. Baran raises an eyebrow at your petulance, already unimpressed.

"What?"

"Well, it’s not really helpful to send a message when you’re six minutes away from home when I’ve already been ‘waiting up,’"

you say. Baran makes a throaty sound, pulling her hair tie loose from her hair, letting her curls, messy from a long shift, tumble down her back.

"I know. I'm sorry. We had a stroke victim and a polytrauma back to back and it just—"

"Compounded?" you supply.

Her hands come behind her back, fingers laced in that formal, slightly braced posture she gets. "Yes."

"Right."

You push back from the table and pick up your plate, crossing to the kitchen. Your food has gone so cold that there’s a chill condensation on all your vegetables, so you won’t even try with the microwave. Plus, the action gives you somewhere to go and something to do while the thing you're not saying works its way up your throat. You scrape the plate into the bin.

Behind you, you hear Baran open the refrigerator. The soft sound of a container being taken out followed by the microwave door. This is the part where you're supposed to ask her how her day was, where you welcome her home with softness and care, where she stands at the counter with leftovers and you sit on the other side and she tells you the anonymized, de-identified version of her day and you tell her about yours.

"You could've called," you say instead, to the sink.

She hums the same pitch as the microwave. "I’m sorry, I know."

"Before nine-forty-one, I mean."

"I know." A tightening in it. "It was a busy shift."

"They're all busy shifts, Baran."

The microwave beeps one high tone, followed by several staccato notes that are piercing and annoying as fuck, but neither of you move to kill it.

"What does that mean?" she asks, tone inviting conversation. She's being careful. You turn around. Baran’s standing at the counter with her arms crossed and her food forgotten in the microwave. Her face is wearing the same careful open invitation but careful blankness she brings to patient rooms and team meetings and it makes your blood boil that she dares to shut down her emotions at you.

"Don’t do that," you huff, "You know what I’m talking about. It’s always a busy shift. I have been eating dinner alone at that table for three weeks and you don't — you didn't even — you didn't call! You didn't text until six minutes ago. I didn't know if you were even okay."

Baran's jaw tightens. "I'm clearly okay."

"No shit, I can see that now." You gesture at her. "Don’t patronize me. I didn't know that at seven o'clock!"

"You know what my job is," she says. "You've always known what my job is."

"I know." And you do and have never once asked her to be anything other than what she is. But it feels like she’s issuing a reminder and it sinks under your skin in a way you can't talk yourself back from tonight. "I'm not asking you to quit your job, Baran. I'm asking you to send your wife a goddamn text when you're going to be two hours late."

"I sent you a text!"

"When you were basically already home!"

"I was in a trauma bay before then, Y/N!"

"You weren't in a trauma bay from five-thirty to nine-forty, when you could've—"

"I was managing a department," she cuts you off and you can hear the cold settling in, the temperature dropping in her affect as she start to feel cornered. "I was covering for a resident who called out, handling a consult that should have taken twenty minutes and took ninety, and then yes, a trauma at seven. So no. I didn't have time to provide a running update on my whereabouts."

"A text. One text. At some point before nine forty-one."

"I'm sorry I didn't send it sooner." Offered the way she'd offer a concession across a conference table.

"Are you?" you ask.

The blankness falters. "What?"

"Are you actually sorry? Because you sound like you think I'm being unreasonable and are just saying that to get me off of your back."

"I think," she says, and you can hear the aggravation rising in her voice, "That you understand the demands of my job, and that we've had this conversation a thousand times!" "

“That's kind of my whole thing, Baran! We keep having it!"

Baran's chin comes up a fraction in indignation. You've learned to read her the way you learn the layout of a house you live in, the places where the floor dips, the light switch that's around the corner instead of beside the door. That small upward tilt of her chin means she's about to defend herself. "I am doing the best I can," she says. "I work twelve, sometimes fifteen hour shifts in a department that is chronically understaffed and I come home to you every night—"

"Oh, right, I’m sorry that that’s such a chore.”

Her eyes swarm with anger and confusion. "That is not at all what I just said."

"Pretty damn close to it though, no? This is a thing you do for me? On my behalf?"

"I was not—" She stops. Presses her lips together. When she speaks again the careful management is fraying at the edges, like she's having to hold the even tone with both hands. "I was making the point that I show up. Every single night I'm here."

"Congratulations that you come back to your home to your wife," you snap. "Oh my god! What the fuck was that even supposed to mean!? You come home to the life you set up and you're pissed about it?"

"Y/N—"

"It doesn’t actually count because you're not even here."

Baran's eyes flash red. "You keep just throwing that type of shit out. What is that supposed mean? Use your actual words!"

"I sit across from you at dinner and ask you how your day was and you give me bullshit," you cry out, hands flying up. "You don’t trust me to help you carry any of it so you dumb it down. And take out names because you don’t trust me to hold them. I ask you about your co-workers and your friends and your highlights only for you to give me shit because you don’t want me to know them! You keep your whole job in a separate room and then wonder why I feel like I'm on the outside of your life."

She stares at you incredulously, eyes darting around your face as if looking for a sign you’re kidding. "Y/N, I am legally and ethically obligated to protect my patients' privacy.”

"I know what HIPAA is, Baran."

"Then you know I cannot come home and narrate my shift to you! I am not ‘keeping my job in a separate room’ from you. I have professional standards to maintain that exist for very good reasons."

You scoff and watch a stronger kind of anger wash over her face. “It does, Y/N!"

"I'm not asking for patient files when I ask you to tell me about your day." The shaking starts somewhere in your hands, but quickly reaches your voice. "I just want to hear about you because I fucking miss my wife. You come to bed after I'm asleep and you're gone before I'm up. I miss you, Baran. When you're right here I miss you."

Baran stays silent and you feel your stomach turn with rage and sickness. "Say something, Baran."

"I don't know what you are looking from me right now,” her voice trembles. "You want me to tell you things I can't tell you, and when I find a way to protect the people in my care while still coming home to you every night, you tell me I'm not present enough? What's the right answer? I've already cut down my hours. What exactly else am I supposed to be doing differently?"

"I know you're trying," you say. "I know you work incredibly hard, Baran, I see it. I have never once asked you not to, but there's a difference between being busy and making me feel like the last thing on your list."

Her face drops from frustration to hurt. You both stand in that narrow kitchen for a few moments, puffing out heated breathes. Baran gets her act back together first.

"Eshgham, you could never be the last thing on my list."

"Baran," you say her name and watch her stop. "When did you last ask me how I was doing? Not how my day was. How I am. When did you last ask me something about my life that wasn't perfunctory just to get through a meal?”

Baran looks at you with something that could be the beginning of understanding, but there’s still something missing from your usually so emotionally intelligent wife. Maybe it’s the late hour or the grueling shift, who’s to say, but you are stunned by what she replies: "I think we need to stop. We’re just exhausted and this is turning into something larger than it is."

You know that she knows that’s a fucked up cop-out. That chin rises again and she squirms (as much as Baran Al-Hashimi ever squirms, anyway) with a little readjustment of her shoulders, a slight turn of her head. You can see her looking at you out of the corner of her eye, watching the first flicker of shock morph onto her face when your eyes start to water.

"Right," you whisper.

"I'm not dismissing you," she adds, eyes going a little softer, a little nervous at your reaction. "I’m just saying we're both tired, and maybe this isn't the right time to talk about this."

"Maybe this isn't the right time to talk about this," you repeat, feeling a humiliating burn rise in your throat. "Uh-huh. You've said that before."

Baran's jaw tightens again, getting defensive. "Because you tend to have these conversations when we're both depleted and nothing productive comes out of it."

"Well you never start them at all! I always have to. And every time you find a reason the timing is wrong, and then the morning comes and you're gone."

Baran scoffs in offense. "That is not what I do."

"You just told me I was making it into something larger than it is," you say, and your voice breaks on it this time, actually breaks, and you hate it, hate that you've gotten here, hate that this is the version of you she gets right now. "You literally just said I’m blowing this out of proportion but you won’t even let me finish."

"I didn't—" she starts.

"Yes you fucking did."

The microwave has been done for ten minutes and the food you made for your wife is getting cold again inside it. You are standing in your kitchen with your wife and you have never felt farther from her than right now.

Baran runs an exhausted hand over her face. "I just came off a twelve-hour shift, I walked in the door ten minutes ago, and—"

"And I've been here all night," you shoot back. "Waiting for you."

"I didn't ask you to do that!"

You gape. You have absolutely no response to that, and she falters at your shock. Those lips part slightly, brown eyes go a bit wider.

You breathe out a laugh. "Wow."

"Hold on. I didn't mean it like that."

"Okay."

"I was just—I'm saying you don't have to wait up—"

"Believe me, I heard you." You reach up and press your fingers against your eyes for a moment, breathe in through your nose, drop your hand and turn away.

"Please, Y/N, just pause for a second," she straightens up to follow you, and it's the most raw she's sounded all night. "I didn't mean that you shouldn't—"

"I know what you meant," you say, picking up your phone and storming out of the kitchen. "I'm going to bed."

"Y/N," she rounds the corner and is immediately on your tail, tone edged with panic. "Wait, please. That was entirely out of line. I cannot believe—I should not have said that. Can we just talk for a few more moments, please?"

"I'm tired." And you are. Past words, past the point of anything useful. "We'll talk in the morning."

You hear the silence behind you. She knows that you've borrowed the line. You go to the hallway and pause at the linen closet, pulling out the extra pillow and the blanket from the top shelf.

"What are you doing?" Baran's voice is upset behind you, thready and raspy.

"Getting some things," you say.

You hear a sniff and see her shadow moving from its reflection on the wall in front of you. She’s either wiping her eyes or anxiously running her fingers through her hair. "Are you not sleeping in our bed?"

You look at her over your shoulder. She's standing closer than you expected with her arms crossed over her chest like she's self-soothing. Her hair is tousled and tangled around her worn face. Her lip is trembling slightly from where she’s moving her mouth around in that familiar fidget you used to soothe with your gentle thumb over her soft lips. The most familiar person in the world to you. But also the most painful right now.

"I think I need some quiet right now," you say.

She opens her mouth and closes it, and it's so unlike her, that small faltering, that your chest aches with it. "Y/N," she whispers, taking a half step toward you. "Please. Don’t— don’t go down the hall.”

“Why not?”

Baran looks crushed that you even have to ask her that. "Because I do not want us to go to bed angry, and I said some very awful things I need to apologize for. That I want to apologize for.”

You purse your lips partially to look tough and partly because if you don’t your bottom lip with quiver again. “So now that I'm threatening to go, you want to be around me?"

Baran’s face crumbles. “I always want to be around you, azizam. That—that was never what this was about. You have to know how much I love you."

It comes out almost like a beg, or maybe bewilderment, like she can't quite fathom that you might have lost the thread of it. "You have to — even tonight, even when I was — you have to know that. Right?"

"I know you love me," you sigh.

She takes another step toward you and then seems to catch herself, she's not sure she's allowed. “I want to be around you. I chose this life with you. I will always choose this life with you,” She swallows her words and it hurts your heart. Baran always knows what she's going to say before she says it. She usually doesn’t hesitate. "I’m sorry. I was just trying to get through the shift and get home and I forgot that getting home isn't the finish line.

Her voice dips into a fragile octave. "You're not just— you're not just the place I land."

You tilt your head, swallowing around the thick, burning clamp in your throat. "But I can be if you’d let me."

Baran shakes her head immediately. “No. I mean you’re so much more than that to me. You're not just some… I don’t know. Soft surface meant to absorb my stress when I need it.”

Her hand comes up and she presses her fingers over her mouth for a second. "That is a horrible thing for me to make you feel," she says softly. "You are the only place I actually want to be. I've done a terrible job of reminding you of that, honey. I am so sorry."

Her eyes hold a wet, heavy brightness. She reaches out, the backs of her fingers dragging high and light against your arm, leaving the exit wide open. She leans in when you don’t pull away, her weight settling against you as she pulls you into her arms, cradling you to her body. The familiar scent of her (hospital sanitizer and the faint, warm amber of her perfume) floats around you. You are exhausted, and you are still so hurt, but Baran exhales—a long, shuddering breath that deflated her entire posture against you:

"I'm so sorry, eshgham. Please, please come to bed with me. At least for a little while. And then after, if you decide you still want to sleep in the guest bedroom, I'll help you set it up."

You pull back just far enough to look her in the eyes, breaking the comfort of the embrace before it could soften you too much. "Okay," you finally say, your voice quiet, flat, and entirely unembellished. "But I need you to know that you’re not just dragging me to bed so we can pretend everything is fine."

Her eyes, dark and pooling with unshed tears, scan your face. The exhaustion was there, but so was the hard line you had just drawn.

"If I come with you, we are dealing with this right now," you insist. "For real."

"Yes," she promises, her voice rough. "I am not looking to dodge this conversation, aziz. All we'll do is talk. I promise."

But promises to talk are cheap, and you know it. She hasn’t promised to actually change her behavior, and the sting of how easily she had brushed your feelings aside for most of the night was still burning. Her fingers slide down your wrist to find your hand, her grip tight and pleading. You don’t squeeze back. You let your hand stay limp in hers.

"I was really lonely tonight, Baran," you say into the dimly lit hallway, "And I feel like I can’t talk to you about that without this happening.”

Baran’s hands come up to cradle your face, tilting it toward what little light there is, like she needs to look directly at the damage she caused. "I am so sorry,” she breathes, eyes full of molten sorrow. “You should never have to navigate my exhaustion just to tell me you miss me.” She’s quiet for a second, biting at her shaking lip. “I don’t think I have said it yet, but I missed you too. I missed you the whole day and the whole drive home and I walked in the door and just—”

“I want to believe you,” you interrupt like a plea, “But, Baran. You couldn’t even send me a check-in message? And now you’re saying you missed me the whole day? I don’t know what to make of that. I don’t know how to believe that.”

Her thumbs are still against your face, so very still that you can see her actually working through it. "I think I compartmentalize in a way that isn't fair to you. I tuck you away somewhere safe in my head while I'm at work so I can get through it."

“But I can’t see that," you defend, "I guess it’s sweet to know you do think about me, but if you just lock it all inside of you, how am I supposed to know about it? You’re asking me to trust something invisible and that just isn’t fair."

Baran closes her eyes for just a second. "I’m sorry," she says. "You’re right. I bring that same containment home to you. That’s—"

"Fucked up?" you suggest.

Baran laughs, watery and lovely and relieved that you're opening up to her once more, even just a little bit. "Yes, very, very fucked up."

Her head tilts down to look at you more directly. You let her do her little analysis. You know that beautiful, brilliant, spinning brain inside that gorgeous head needs a few moments to finish its churning.

You count to ten-mississippi before taping your fingers where they’re still around her neck into the base of her skull. "Talk to me. That’s kinda the whole point here."

She exhales, slow and shaky. "I wasted tonight," she says quietly. "Well. Not just tonight, but I think you know what I mean."

You nod. "I do."

“I am so sorry. You keep making dinner and waiting up and asking me how I am and I just…" her voice goes small, "I took all of it and I gave you nothing back."

Her eyes trial down to your lips and she tilts her head down ever so slightly, telegraphing every micro movement. Her kiss is as soft as rain, meant to reassure and also repent, before she pulls away and continues.

"I have been so careless with you," she whispers into you parted mouth, and her first tears fall. You let fall into your arms. You rub a hand over the bumps of her spine, keep your other hand on the back of her neck.

"Baran," you say, into the side of her head.

"Mm."

You pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are wet and raw with an openness she doesn't always let out of its enclosure, and on any other night it would undo you completely. Tonight you hold onto yourself.

"You know I love you more than anything in this entire world, but I'm not doing this again. I can't keep having the same fight and going to bed with the same apology and waking up to nothing having changed. This is — I need you to understand that this is me telling you that I'm running out of road here."

"I understand," she says seriously, squeezing your head.

"Do you?"

Brown eyes meet yours and they do not waver, they do not flinch. They bare themselves completely to you as she replies, firmly: "Yes."

You look at her for a long moment. "Okay," you say finally. "Then come to bed."

໒꒱ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

ao3: lieutanttrouble | masterlist

[pittgifs]

[wesandresons]

SEPIDEH MOAFI as GIGI GHORBANI THE L WORD: GENERATION Q “Season 2, Episode 1 - Late to the Party”

[loveridden1999]

in a way i am my own dead wife

[delambelles]

THE PITT — 2x12 & 2x15

[sapphicswph]

a quick silly smau while i work on my other fics

baran x fem!reader

suggestive/nsfw , mdni