here's a little bit about me: my name is kris (or krissy whatever you prefer), i'm twenty-two, and i'm a lesbian.
writing is a creative outlet for me and has been for a very long time. i write more than just fanfic, but im only sharing fanfic for now. i've found community here in a way that i didn't expect since i started sharing my work. so far, i've only shared fics for resident evil, but i am a fandom girlie so i will eventually branch out.
i also love love love yapping into the void on here. i really love interacting with everyone!!
all of that to say, expect this blog to stay pretty active for the forseeable future.
this diva is very anti-AI. when you see spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, remember that there's a real person typing these little stories and smile <3
here's my masterlist
requests are welcome, but i do mostly write for myself.
Summary: Maybe you aren't as straight as you thought after all.
Word Count: 3.9k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
Masterlist
The first time Cassie McKay sees you, you’re backing through the ambulance bay doors with both hands locked around the frame of a stretcher.
“Fifty-eight-year-old male, sudden onset substernal chest pressure while carrying boxes upstairs,” you say as the wheels strike the seam between pavement and tile. Your voice stays level despite the movement around you. “Diaphoretic and nauseated on arrival. Twelve-lead shows elevation in II, III, and aVF. He’s had three hundred twenty-four milligrams of aspirin. Pressure dropped to ninety-two systolic after one dose of nitro, so we held the second. Two large-bore IVs, no known allergies.”
Cassie falls into step beside you, one hand closing around the stretcher rail while her eyes move from the monitor to the patient. “Mr. Daley, I’m Dr. McKay. We’re taking you straight back.”
The patient turns his gray face toward her. “Am I having a heart attack?”
“I think you might be,” Cassie tells him. She doesn’t soften the truth, but her thumb presses briefly against the back of his hand. “You got help quickly. Your paramedics did exactly what you needed, and we’re already moving.”
You look at her then.
Most doctors meet your eyes during a handoff because they’re listening for information. Cassie meets yours like she’s making sure you’re still included in the room after your part is technically finished. Her gaze is direct, dark, and strangely steady in the noise of the Pitt.
Your next sentence catches in your throat.
“Last pressure was ninety-six over sixty-two,” you manage. You hand her the printed rhythm strip, careful not to let your gloves brush her fingers. “No change in pain.”
“Got it.” Cassie glances at the strip, then back at you. “Good catch.”
It shouldn’t matter. You hear some version of it every shift from nurses, residents, and attending physicians. You give a short nod, help transfer the patient, collect the sheet from your stretcher, and leave while the cath lab activation unfolds behind you.
Your partner catches the ambulance doors before they close. “You coming?”
“Yeah.” You drag your gaze away from the trauma bay. “Of course.”
The doors swing shut behind you.
The second time Cassie sees you, you’ve got rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair and a six-year-old girl sitting upright on the stretcher with an oxygen mask over her face.
“Known asthma,” you report as Cassie approaches. “Two days of upper respiratory symptoms. Her inhaler wasn’t helping tonight. Initial saturation was 87% on room air, with diffuse inspiratory and expiratory wheezing. She’s had two albuterol and ipratropium treatments and oral dexamethasone. She’s at ninety-five percent now, and air movement has improved.”
The little girl reaches for your sleeve when you begin stepping away.
You stop immediately. “I’m still here, sweetheart.”
Cassie notices the change in your voice. It’s the same voice, but its edges have lowered. You crouch until you’re level with the girl’s frightened eyes, one knee pressed to the wet floor.
“This is Dr. McKay,” you tell her. You angle your body so the child can see Cassie without losing sight of you. “She’s going to listen to your lungs and help you keep breathing easier.”
The girl studies Cassie over the clear plastic mask. “Does she give shots?”
Cassie pulls the stethoscope from around her neck and sits on the low stool rather than towering over the stretcher. “Only when I have to. I’m much more interested in borrowing your lungs for a minute.”
The child’s eyebrows pinch together. “You can’t borrow lungs.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” Cassie warms the stethoscope diaphragm between her palms. “Can I listen to yours instead?”
The girl nods.
You stay while Cassie examines her, although your partner has already stripped the used linens and replaced the oxygen cylinder. When Cassie finishes, you squeeze the girl’s hand and promise that her mother is right behind the ambulance in a car.
At the curtain, Cassie catches you with a quiet, “Hey.”
You turn too quickly. “Yeah?”
“What’s your name?” She taps the side of her own chest. “Your radio strap keeps covering the badge.”
You tell her.
Cassie repeats it once, like she’s checking the pronunciation. Then her mouth curves into a tired smile. “I’m Cassie.”
“I know.”
The answer comes out before you can stop it.
Her smile deepens. “Right. The doctor introduction. That would explain it.”
Heat crawls beneath your collar. “That’s definitely why.”
Your partner calls for you from the hall. You lift one hand in an awkward farewell and follow the empty stretcher back through the doors.
Cassie watches you go.
After that, your arrivals develop a rhythm that only makes sense if no one looks at it too closely.
You come in three times during one of Cassie’s shifts. The first time, you bring an older woman with a fractured wrist. The second, a college student who fainted after donating blood and then tried to walk home without eating. The third, a man with a deep laceration across his palm from attempting to repair a lawn mower while it was still running.
“You again,” Cassie says when you wheel the third patient into a treatment space.
You set the brake and glance over the stretcher. “You say that like I brought him here personally.”
The man lifts his uninjured hand. “This was mostly my fault.”
“Mostly?” Cassie raises her eyebrows while pulling on gloves.
“The mower started it.” He gestures toward you. “She said you people could sew my hand back on.”
“I said we’d have someone evaluate the injury,” you correct. You unwind the outer layer of blood-speckled gauze enough for Cassie to see the wound. “Distal circulation, sensation, and movement are intact. Bleeding controlled with direct pressure. Tetanus status unknown.”
Cassie leans closer without disturbing the dressing. “The good news is that your hand is still attached. I’m going to work very hard to keep it that way.”
The patient exhales. “See? She’s less scary than you.”
You rest one hand against your chest. “That’s devastating.”
Cassie’s laugh surprises both of you. It’s low and brief, worn thin by the shift, but it makes warmth spread beneath your sternum.
You leave smiling.
Then Cassie doesn’t see you for eleven days.
She notices by the third.
On the fifth, she looks toward the ambulance entrance every time the alert phone rings. On the seventh, Dana catches her standing at the central desk with a chart open and her attention fixed on two unfamiliar paramedics rolling an empty stretcher toward the exit.
“Lose something?” Dana asks. She keeps typing as she speaks.
Cassie looks down at the chart. “No.”
“Then I’m sure the ambulance bay appreciates your supervision.”
Cassie leans one hip against the desk. “Do different crews rotate through different hospitals?”
Dana’s hands pause over the keyboard. She looks up slowly. “Are you asking me to explain emergency medical services to you?”
“I understand emergency medical services.” Cassie folds her arms. “I’m asking about receiving patterns.”
“Units post in different zones. Calls take them wherever calls take them. Patients have destination preferences. Hospitals go on diversion.” Dana studies her for another moment. “And paramedics occasionally get days off, despite our best efforts.”
“That’s all I was asking.”
“Sure.” Dana returns to the chart. “Which paramedic?”
Cassie pushes away from the desk. “I have patients.”
“They’ll be relieved to hear it.”
You return on the twelfth day with a cup of gas-station coffee in one hand and no patient in front of you.
Cassie’s relief arrives so quickly that it irritates her.
You spot her near the charge desk and change direction. For one hopeful second, she thinks you came inside to see her. Then you hold out a folded piece of paper.
“We found this under the stretcher mattress,” you say. “It belongs with the chart for the lawn mower guy.”
Cassie takes the form. “You disappeared.”
Your fingers remain on the edge of the paper for a second too long. “I did?”
“You were here three times in one day, and then you weren’t here at all.” Cassie releases the form when you do. “I was starting to think you’d been reassigned to a different dimension.”
You smile into the rim of your cup. “Four days off. Then three night shifts. We transported mostly to Mercy and Allegheny General.”
“So there is a system.”
“There’s an attempt at one.” You take a sip, then wince at the taste. “Why? Did you miss me?”
Cassie’s expression stills.
The question was meant to be teasing. You hear that only after it’s out, when your own pulse begins beating in your ears.
“I noticed,” she says.
Something in the quiet answer makes it hard to breathe normally.
You crush the paper cup slightly between your fingers. “Well, now you know I’m alive.”
“That’s useful information.” Cassie’s gaze drops to your hand. “Your coffee might not be.”
“It’s terrible.”
“You keep drinking it.”
“I make a lot of questionable choices at work.” You step backward before your face can reveal more than you understand. “I should get back to the truck.”
Cassie watches the doors close behind you again.
This time, she looks less perplexed by the leaving than by the fact that you’d come in at all.
You’ve always been straight.
The statement has the familiarity of an address you learned as a child. You’ve repeated it without needing to inspect it. You dated boys in high school, men after that, and once spent nearly four years building a life with someone you assumed you’d marry. None of it felt false. Some of it had even been good.
Straight is the word you’ve always used, so straight is the word that should continue working.
It becomes less useful every time Cassie McKay looks at you.
You try replacing attraction with admiration. Admiration explains why you notice the patience in her voice when a frightened patient lashes out. It explains why you remember the loose strand of hair she tucks behind her ear while she reads an ECG. It might even explain why her praise settles somewhere deeper than professional approval should.
It doesn’t explain why you think about her mouth.
That realization arrives in the cab of the ambulance at two in the morning while your partner sleeps in the passenger seat and rain ticks softly against the windshield.
You stare at the dark entrance of a closed pharmacy across the street.
“Oh,” you whisper.
The word fogs a small patch of glass.
After that, you become terrible at being around her.
You’re warm one day and distant the next. You seek Cassie out after a handoff, then escape the moment she gives you her full attention. When she asks whether you’ve eaten, you answer with a detailed description of the protein bar in your pocket as if she requested a nutritional assessment. When your hands brush over a clipboard, you nearly drop it.
Cassie notices every change.
Of course she does.
She lets it continue for two weeks before cornering you in the ambulance bay after you deliver a stable patient with a dislocated shoulder.
The overhead door rumbles shut behind the departing ambulance. Your empty stretcher stands between you, remade with a clean white sheet. The bay smells like exhaust, rain, and industrial disinfectant.
“Did I do something?” Cassie asks.
You look up from fastening the last strap. “What?”
She slides both hands into the pockets of her white coat. Her posture is casual, but the line between her eyebrows isn’t. “Sometimes you talk to me like we’ve known each other for years. Sometimes you look at me like I’ve caught you committing a crime.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yesterday you saw me in the hall and walked into radiology.”
You pull the blanket straighter. “I could’ve needed radiology.”
“You were carrying three empty oxygen cylinders.”
“Maybe they needed radiology.”
Cassie presses her lips together. The attempt not to laugh makes the concern on her face harder to bear.
You grip the stretcher rail. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Okay.” She draws the word out gently. “Then is this about someone else?”
“No.”
“Is it about work?”
“Not exactly.”
“Do you dislike me?”
Your head comes up. “No.”
The answer is so immediate that it echoes off the concrete walls.
Cassie’s eyebrows lift.
You close your eyes. “That’s the problem.”
Silence settles between the distant monitor alarms and the hiss of rain outside.
When you look again, Cassie hasn’t moved. Her expression has softened, but she doesn’t rescue you from the explanation.
“I’ve always been straight,” you say. The words sound defensive even to you. “I’ve never questioned it. I’ve never had a reason to question it.”
Cassie takes one slow step closer. “And now?”
“Now you keep being here.” You give a helpless gesture toward the emergency department behind her. “Which is unreasonable, because you work here. You’re supposed to be here.”
The corner of her mouth twitches.
“Don’t laugh,” you mutter. Heat spreads across your cheeks. “I’m trying to have a crisis.”
“I’m not laughing.” Cassie’s hands leave her pockets. She rests one palm on the end of the stretcher, still leaving the full length of it between you. “I’m trying not to make your crisis worse.”
“You’re the crisis.”
“That feels like an unfair amount of responsibility.”
A startled laugh escapes you. You lower your forehead to the cool metal rail. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” Her voice becomes quieter. “You don’t have to decide what this means while standing next to an ambulance.”
You lift your head. “You’re not uncomfortable?”
“Because you might be attracted to me?” Cassie considers that with exaggerated solemnity. “I’ve survived more upsetting news.”
Your eyes narrow. “Might be?”
Her smile finally appears. “You walked into radiology to avoid me.”
“Right.” You rub both hands over your face. “Subtle.”
“Not especially.”
The smile fades from her mouth, leaving warmth behind. She traces one finger over a scratch in the stretcher’s metal frame.
“Would you let me buy you coffee?” she asks. “Outside this building. When neither of us is responsible for keeping anyone alive.”
Your heart kicks hard enough to make the bay feel unsteady. “Like a date?”
“Only if you want it to be.” Cassie holds your gaze. “It can also be coffee with someone you find confusing. I’m comfortable being confusing.”
“I noticed.”
“You can say no.”
“I don’t want to say no.” You curl your hands around the rail again. “I’m just not sure what I’m saying yes to.”
Cassie nods, and the absence of disappointment makes your chest ache. “One cup of coffee. One conversation. You don’t owe me a conclusion afterward.”
The ambulance radio crackles from your shoulder, dispatch asking your unit to confirm availability.
You key the microphone and answer automatically. When you release it, Cassie is still waiting.
“One cup,” you say.
Her whole face changes. The smile is small, but delight brightens it from underneath. “I can work with one cup.”
Cassie chooses a diner that’s open all night because neither of your schedules fits conventional meal times.
You arrive first and spend six minutes sitting in your car, questioning every item of clothing you own. Your sweater feels too deliberate. Your jeans feel insufficiently deliberate. You nearly leave twice.
Then Cassie pulls into the space beside you.
She gets out wearing dark jeans, worn boots, and a green jacket over a plain black shirt. Without her scrubs and hospital badge, she looks unfamiliar enough to unsettle you all over again. She spots you through the windshield and raises one hand.
You make yourself open the door.
“Hi,” Cassie says as you meet between the cars. Her hands tuck into her jacket pockets. “You came.”
“You sound surprised.”
“You have a documented history of leaving whenever I look directly at you.”
“That was before you had coffee to use as leverage.”
“Good. I was afraid I’d have to stare at the ground all night.” She turns toward the diner entrance, then glances at you. “Still okay?”
The question is simple. The room it gives you isn’t.
You nod. “Still terrified, but okay.”
“Those can coexist.” Cassie opens the door and holds it for you. “I learned that in medical school.”
The diner is nearly empty. A jukebox glows in one corner, and the air smells like coffee, syrup, and fries that have soaked into the building over several decades. You choose a booth near the window.
Cassie waits until you sit before sliding onto the opposite bench. She picks up the laminated menu, studies it for three seconds, and puts it down.
“You already know what you want,” you say.
“I’ve been here after enough night shifts to have a standing order.”
“Then why open the menu?”
“I wanted to look adaptable.” She folds her hands on the table. “Did it work?”
“Not even slightly.”
“That’s disappointing.”
Your nervousness loosens enough for you to smile.
After you order, the server leaves two mugs and a bowl of creamers on the table. Cassie wraps both hands around her coffee but doesn’t drink.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says.
You peel the paper from a creamer. “It’s the only reason we’re here.”
“I thought we were here because my workplace coffee could dissolve surgical instruments.”
“That too.” You pour the cream and watch pale clouds turn through the dark surface. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Cassie lifts her mug. “Drink coffee?”
“Go on a date with a woman.”
She takes a careful sip before answering. “It’s a lot like going on a date with anyone else. We talk. We figure out whether we like each other when nobody’s bleeding.”
“I already like you.”
The words slip out softly.
Cassie lowers the mug. Her thumb moves once over the ceramic handle. “I already like you too.”
The quiet certainty in her voice settles your nerves more effectively than reassurance would have.
You look through the window at the wet parking lot. “I keep feeling like I should have known.”
“Known what?”
“That I could feel this way about a woman.” Your finger follows a drop of condensation down the side of your water glass. “People talk about figuring themselves out like the answer was always waiting for them. Like they look backward, and every part of their life suddenly makes sense. I look backward and mostly see men I genuinely cared about.”
Cassie leans one forearm against the table. “That doesn’t become untrue because you’re sitting here with me.”
“Then what does this make me?”
“Someone sitting in a diner with me.” Her gaze remains steady when you look at her. “Anything beyond that is yours to name, if you ever want to.”
You study her face. “You really don’t need me to know?”
“I need you to be honest with me.” Cassie’s fingers tighten slightly around her cup. “I don’t need you to produce a label so I can feel secure about one date.”
There’s history in the careful way she says it, something learned through years that didn’t unfold neatly. She doesn’t offer the history as a lesson or make your uncertainty about herself.
You reach across the table before you can overthink it. Your fingertips stop beside her hand rather than covering it.
“I’m attracted to you,” you say. Your pulse flutters at the base of your throat. “I know that much.”
Cassie looks down at the small distance between your hands. “That’s useful information.”
“You said that when I told you I was alive.”
“Both facts matter to me.”
You turn your palm upward.
Cassie pauses long enough to let the choice remain yours. Then she places her hand in it.
Her fingers are warm. There’s a faint indentation near one knuckle from hours spent in gloves. You close your hand carefully, as though the gesture might startle either of you.
It doesn’t feel like an answer.
It feels better than one.
The food arrives, and conversation gradually moves into safer territory. Cassie tells you about starting medicine at an age when most of her classmates seemed offensively well-rested. You tell her about the first call of your career, when you forgot the apartment number before reaching the second floor and had to run back outside to check.
“You abandoned the patient?” Cassie asks. She points a fry at you, scandalized.
“For eight seconds. My preceptor was already upstairs.” You dip a fry into ketchup. “I spent the rest of the call pretending I’d returned to the ambulance for clinically significant equipment.”
“What equipment?”
“A pen.”
Cassie laughs, head tipping forward until her hair falls across one cheek. You stare, then remember that staring is something people can see.
She tucks the hair back. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The look that sends you into radiology.”
You cover your eyes with one hand. “I’m never recovering from that.”
“Probably not.” Her boot nudges yours beneath the table. “I might let you build new material.”
By the time the plates are cleared, two hours have passed.
Neither of you mentions that one cup of coffee became refills, fries, pie, and the slow discovery that silence between you doesn’t need to be filled immediately.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The parking lot reflects the diner’s blue and pink lights in broken patches. You stand beside your car while Cassie rocks once on her heels, suddenly less composed than she was across the table.
“How was your first date with a woman?” she asks.
You rest your hip against the driver’s door. “I don’t have enough comparative data.”
“Very scientific.”
“I might need a second trial.”
Cassie’s breath catches. Her smile arrives slowly. “For accuracy.”
“Obviously.”
She steps closer, stopping with enough space between you that the choice is visible. “Can I kiss you?”
Fear moves through you first. It isn’t disgust or regret. It’s the sharp awareness that something you considered fixed is about to become real in a new way.
Cassie sees the hesitation and begins to step back.
You catch the sleeve of her jacket.
“I’m scared,” you admit. Your fingers tighten in the fabric. “I still want you to.”
Her expression softens. “Those can coexist.”
Cassie lifts one hand and waits until you lean into it before touching your cheek. Her palm is warm from the diner. Her thumb rests near the corner of your mouth.
The kiss is gentle and brief.
Nothing in the world rearranges itself. The pavement stays wet beneath your shoes. A truck passes on the road. The diner’s sign continues buzzing overhead.
Still, when Cassie draws back, your hand remains curled in her jacket, and your whole body feels startlingly awake.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Concern flickers across her face. “Okay good or okay bad?”
You look at her mouth, then meet her eyes. “I’m going to need more data.”
Cassie laughs, relief warming the sound. She presses her forehead lightly to yours. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Your radio is silent in the car. Her pager is quiet at her waist. For once, neither of you is being called through a set of doors.
You don’t know what word you’ll use tomorrow. You don’t know whether the second date will become a third, or how this will fit around twelve-hour shifts, Harrison, missed meals, and the kind of work that can change a person before breakfast.
You only know Cassie is standing close enough for you to feel her breath, and you aren’t looking for an exit.
When she asks whether she can call you, you say yes.
Gonna provide a little context here, it's a little snippet of the Cassie Mckay x single mom reader story i want to write.
you are a single mom, obviously, and a social worker but that's not relevant here. This is Cassie walking you home after a very eventful shift where your grandmother ended up as a patient in the ED. That brought in your estranged mother- and some really interesting news to you that i'm not going to spoil.
Anyway, Cassie kissed you on the forehead while comforting you after all of the 'excitement' died down.
So yeah here's this.
....
"You kissed me, um, earlier," you say, biting the skin of your bottom lip before looking at Cassie. "On the forehead. In the ambulance bay."
Cassie closes her eyes, nodding. The low light on the steps of your building masks the pink in her cheeks, but oh, she feels it.
"Yeah, I did," she nods again, then looks away, eyes looking at the cars parked around the street. "I did, sorry, if I crossed a line–"
"No, I didn't mind," you stop her. "It was nice, comforting."
Cassie's eyes snap back to you, the two of you look at each other for a long moment. There's a certain buzz in the air. You feel it, Cassie feels it. But the second you move to take a step forward, Cassie takes a step back. Holding back, as always.
You breathe out, blinking as you look up at the sky above you, then back down. You're used to this, the push and pull with Cassie. However, there are only so many times you can be invited in and shot down.
"Right," you breathe out, rubbing your hands together as if cold. You shake your head with a disingenuous laugh. "I've had a long day, I miss my son."
Cassie stands silent, watching as you turn to enter the building. You open the door, walk in, and close it behind you. Cassie stares at the door. She pinches the bridge of her nose as she turns on the steps and starts down them. As she reaches the sidewalk below, she hears the door open again. She stops in her tracks as you close the door behind you.
"Is it my age?" you ask before Cassie can turn to face you.
Cassie stays still, back to you. Maybe it's better this way, she doesn't have to look at you, you don't have to look at her. Maybe this is the way she'll finally be honest.
"Cassie? Is it me– am I making this up? Am I crazy? I feel crazy–"
"You're not..." Cassie trails off with a sighing breath as she turns to look look up at you at the top of the steps. "You're not crazy."
You hold a hand out like a question, like you're asking her to hand over information. Cassie squeezes her eyes shut, before opening them again. She adjusts the backpack on her shoulder, not out of necessity, more to give her hands something to do.
"Then what is it?" you prod. "I don't want you to feel like you have to want me, but the least you could do is talk to me about why or why not. Don't I deserve that?"
Cassie runs her hand over her face. You think that's what you deserve? A simple explanation? If the two of you were to go down a list of the things Cassie thinks you deserve, you'd be here until November. This isn't a matter of what you deserve. It's a matter of what she doesn't.
It'd be so easy to just blame this on age. She's eighteen years older than you. In truth, she couldn't care less about that. You're both adults, with kids and bills and 401k's. And yes, Cassie does believe that age should be a factor in choosing a partner, but she doesn't think it's relevant in regards to what you're trying so sweetly to share with her.
Again, this isn't you. This is Cassie. Cassie, who despite feeling like a teenager, being unable to get a grip on her feelings for you, cannot will herself to let you in. Not in that way. After every shitty relationship, after every bad hand life has dealt her, she's not ready.
But, oh God, looking up at you. Seeing the soft and inviting expression you wear in spite of the confusion you undoubtedly feel. The way you're allowing her far too long to gather her thoughts. Cassie really wants to be ready.
Cassie hasn't done this in a long time. Maybe ready isn't a feeling. Maybe ready is a decision. Feelings, she's not sure about, but decisions, she can make them.
There are five steps separating you and Cassie.
Her body moves to walk up them, she's not sure what she's going to do when she reaches the top. But one, two, three, four, five, and she's face to face with you once again.
"Cass," her name, your voice. Her favorite sound these days.
The city air surrounding you two is even more charged than before. For a moment neither of you move, sitting with the feeling that precedes what you both know is coming.
This time, Cassie moves first. It's only fair. The final step that closes the distance between you is fast but not rough. Your hands reach for each others bodies in a way that feels familiar, her hands on your waist and yours tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. In sync, you both pull each other closer. And, after what feels like an enternity of want, your lips finally meet in a kiss that is gentle and sweet but still leaves your head spinning.
Cassie isn't sure she's ever felt this weak in the knees, gripping at your shirt over your waist. You taste exactly as she thought you might, sweet. Whether it's lip balm or the latte she saw you nursing earlier, she's unsure, but either way she's pleased.
When you break at the lips, Cassie can't ignore the almost smug look you wear, but the only sound that escapes either of you is laughter that is simultaneously nervous and giddy. Her hands remain respectfully on your waist. You move one of your hands to her shoulder, the other coming forward, you brush her cheek with your thumb.
....
blah blah blah, more on that later. without full context maybe this is bad but trust i think you divas are going to love it.
i have three multi part fics i want to write and no time to write them.
jill valentine x redfield! reader,
barbara gordon x allen-west!speedster! reader, 
and cassie mckay x young mom! oc or reader i have yet to decide
these ideas are swimming around in my head and they will get done eventually but i am moving states in a month and im getting everything ready for that so god knows when it'll happen.
i also have not forgotten about sex pollen with grace ashcroft.
it'll be wonderful to have time to write again but oh what a privilege it is to be this busy.
Warnings: age gap (Cassie is 43, reader is 28, I dunno why I chose that age lol), slight obsession (maybe?), yearning, Cassie overthinking a lot and yearning for you in a sinful way.
Summary: It was wrong…right? Having a crush on your coworker. On your younger coworker. But you were so beautiful. So sweet and kind. How could she not? How can wanting someone feel sinful?
A/N: And I'm baaaack✨ So, it's been a wild ride for a few months. So much happening in my life, and yesterday was the cherry on top. So, to distract myself, I decided to slowly come back to writing. I might be rusty, mostly right now I'm focusing on song-fics. I have so many unfinished stuff but I'll get there. For now, my newest (has been for four months lol) crush is Cassie McKay. I actually have another version for this song. I got carried away with an idea and ended up writing something so different from what I thought lol. So hope y'all like this. Please share, reblog, comment, it'd help a lot after the shitty months I've had. Thank you for reading in advance!
*not my gif*
Cassie knows exactly how old you are.
That is, unfortunately, part of the problem.
Not because you’re a kid…you’re not. You’re grown, sharp, capable, entirely old enough to know your own mind.
But you are younger than her by fifteen years, and Cassie feels every single one of them in moments like this.
Three in the morning, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the rain tapping against the kitchen window, and Cassie is standing barefoot in an oversized T-shirt with her phone in her hand, staring at the text you sent her forty minutes ago like it personally insulted her.
You: you awake?
Nothing suggestive. Nothing even flirtatious, technically.
Just two words from you, sent after a rough shift. Probably because you forgot your charger in Cassie’s car and wanted to know if you could grab it tomorrow.
That’s it. That should be it.
And yet Cassie has been standing in the dark kitchen for the better part of an hour because the sight of your name on her screen at 2:17 a.m. did something awful to her pulse.
It isn’t normal. That’s the part she keeps circling back to.
Not the wanting itself, Cassie has wanted people before. She knows what attraction feels like, what it means to notice someone, to imagine the weight of a hand or the press of a mouth.
No, what isn’t normal is how completely you’ve taken over her inner life.
How you’ve become the first thing she looks for at work without meaning to. How her mood shifts depending on whether you’re on shift with her. How she’s started collecting details about you like a thief; your coffee order, the songs you hum under your breath when you’re charting, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re concentrating, the exact shape of your laugh when something catches you off guard.
It feels childish.
Embarrassing.
Like being dragged backward into some version of herself she thought she’d long outgrown.
Cassie is fourty-three years old. She has a son old enough to roll his eyes at her. She has a mortgage and a retirement account and a lower back that acts up when she’s too stressed.
She should not be standing in her kitchen at three in the morning wondering what it would feel like if you kissed her.
And yet, her thumb hovers over your text. She types yes. Deletes it. Types that you can grab it tomorrow. Deletes that too. Because neither of those is the problem.
She sighed and shook her head as she turned off the light of the kitchen and then walked back to her room to lay down.
The problem is that if she answers you right now, you’ll answer back, and then there will be another text and another after that, and before she knows it she’ll be sitting on the edge of her bed at three-thirty in the morning smiling at her phone like an idiot because you said something funny, and she is too old to be doing this.
Too old to be wanting you like this.
Too old to be imagining how your lips tasted. Too old to be imagining you in her arms. Too old to get excited about you sending her random songs that could mean nothing, and yet, she enjoys each song. Too old to imagine how your lips would feel against her skin.
Too old to be losing sleep over the possibility that maybe you want her too. She kept recalling things she never did, and yet, her mind was filled with thoughts of it. Of you.
Cassie locks her phone and tosses it onto the counter like it burned her. Then she leans both hands against the cool marble and closes her eyes.
This has gotten out of hand.
It was manageable at first, or at least she thought it was.
A harmless crush, if she was being honest. A passing thing. You were funny and smart and shameless in a way that made everyone around you feel a little brighter. You flirted with half the department and called everyone pet names in that lazy, playful voice of yours that made it impossible to tell when you meant anything by it.
Cassie told herself she wasn’t special. Told herself she didn’t want to be. Then you started saving her a coffee when you worked mornings. Started showing up in doorways with that grin and saying, “Thought you forgot to eat again,” while handing her half your sandwich or a full one.
Started touching her without thinking, fingers at her elbow steering her out of the way of a gurney, palm at the small of her back in crowded hallways, your knee bumping hers under the break room table while you talked about nothing.
Tiny things.
Nothing things.
The kind of things that should not matter.
Cassie let them matter anyway. That was her mistake. No. Wanting you wasn’t the mistake. The mistake was realizing, slowly and then all at once, that the way you looked at her was different. That you watched her when you thought she wasn’t paying attention.
That your voice changed when you said her name, dropping into something softer, something private. That one night after a brutal shift, when she was leaning against the ambulance bay wall trying not to cry from sheer exhaustion, you stepped into her space and touched her cheek so gently it nearly took her knees out from under her.
“Cassie,” you’d said quietly, thumb brushing beneath one of her eyes, “it’s okay…you’re allowed to cry too, you know?”
She’d looked at you then, really looked, and seen it. Not imagined it. Not wished it into being. Seen it. The warmth in your expression. The concern. The awful, unmistakable tenderness of it. And because Cassie is a coward in exactly the ways that matter, she stepped back. She made some excuse about getting home, about being tired, about needing sleep.
You’d let her go. Of course you had. That’s part of what makes this worse. You’ve never pushed. Never crossed a line she didn’t draw first.
Never made her feel cornered or silly or like she’s imagining things. If anything, you seem almost careful with her sometimes, as if you know there’s something fragile in the space between you and you’re trying not to scare it off.
Cassie doesn’t know what to do with careful. She knows what to do with reckless. Reckless she can fight. Reckless she can call a bad idea and walk away from. But careful. Careful makes her want to stay. And staying is dangerous.
Because it means thinking about your mouth when she’s brushing her teeth before bed. It means replaying the way you laughed last week when she snapped at you for stealing fries off her plate, the way you’d just smiled and said, “You’d miss me if I stopped.”
It means wondering whether you know what you’re doing when you stand too close, when your hand lingers half a second too long at her waist, when you look at her with those open, impossible eyes and make her feel like she’s seventeen and stupid and standing on the edge of something that could ruin her.
Cassie hates it.
Worse…she loves it.
That’s the part she can’t forgive herself for. Because she knows better. She should know better.
She has spent fifteen more years in the world than you have. Fifteen more years learning how quickly people can become habits, how attraction can turn into attachment before you realize you’ve crossed a line, how badly it can hurt when you build a life around the wrong person.
She should be the responsible one here. The adult in the room. The one who sees this for what it is and puts an end to it before it becomes something harder to survive.
Instead she’s lying in bed at night imagining what it would feel like if you climbed into it beside her.
Not sex, not at first. That would almost be easier.
No, what undoes her is the softer stuff. The humiliatingly intimate things. Your head on her shoulder while the TV plays in the background. Your socks kicked off by her couch. The shape of your body curled into hers under the blankets, your hand sliding warm and sleepy beneath the hem of her T-shirt.
Cassie stares at the ceiling and thinks about you saying her name in the dark. She thinks about your mouth against her throat. She thinks about how easy it would be to ruin herself if you ever asked.
And then, because apparently self-destruction is a hobby now, she thinks about the age difference. About what people would say if they knew. About the way some of the younger nurses already tease her for being “old” whenever she references a song they don’t know or complains about her knees after a double shift.
About you laughing and saying, “You’re not old, Cass,” the first time you heard it, your hand warm around the coffee you had brought her. “You’re just dramatic.”
She had rolled her eyes.
You had smiled.
Then, quieter, like the words had slipped out before you could stop them: “I like that you’re older.”
Cassie had nearly dropped her coffee.
You must have seen it on her face, because your own expression changed immediately, surprise, then panic, then that breathless little laugh you do when you’re trying to cover embarrassment.
“I just mean,” you had said too fast, “you know things. You’re calm. You don’t freak out over every little thing like the rest of us.”
Cassie had stared at you.
You had gone pink all the way to your ears.
And for the rest of the shift, Cassie could barely look at you without hearing it again.
I like that you’re older.
She hates how often she thinks about that sentence. How many different ways she’s replayed it. Sometimes in your voice, soft and shy and a little startled. Sometimes in the darker corners of her imagination, where the words sound lower, rougher, spoken into her mouth with your hands at her waist and your body pressed close enough that she can feel exactly how bad an idea it would be.
Cassie turns onto her side and drags a hand over her face.
This is pathetic. She is pathetic.
No one is making her do this. You’re not seducing her. You’re not luring her into anything. If there is a line being crossed here, it’s in the privacy of Cassie’s own mind, and she is the one crossing it every night.
She’s the one replaying your laugh until she falls asleep. She’s the one wondering whether you’d taste like coffee or peppermint or the cherry lip balm she once saw you pull from your pocket. She’s the one taking innocent moments and making them filthy just by wanting them too much.
Like yesterday, when you bent down beside her desk to plug in a monitor and your shoulder brushed her thigh.
That was it.
An accident.
Barely a touch.
And Cassie had spent the next ten minutes staring at the same chart without reading a single word because all she could think about was your hand sliding higher, your mouth at her knee, your voice going soft as you asked if she wanted—
She stopped herself there.
Too late, because the heat is already there, low and aching and humiliating. Cassie throws the blankets back and gets out of bed. The apartment is cold under her bare feet as she crosses to the bathroom, flicks on the light, and grips the edge of the sink with both hands.
Her reflection looks tired.
Haunted, maybe.
A woman in her forties with sleep-creased skin and messy hair and a mouth that still feels too aware of one younger woman who has never even kissed her.
It would be funny if it didn’t feel so much like losing control.
“What are you doing?” She asked herself quietly. There is, of course, no answer. Only the truth she doesn’t want to say out loud: she is wanting you.
Not abstractly. Not harmlessly.
Specifically. Constantly. In ways that make her feel guilty not because she’s done anything wrong, but because she hasn’t, and she still can’t stop.
She imagines you with an ease that terrifies her. At work, cornering her in the supply room with that bright, reckless smile and asking why she keeps looking at your mouth.
At home, barefoot in her kitchen, wearing one of Cassie’s old T-shirts and nothing else.
In bed, climbing into her lap and taking Cassie’s face in your hands like you know exactly what you’re doing to her.
She imagines telling you no. Imagines how quickly that no would fall apart if you touched her throat and whispered, “Then tell me to stop.”
Cassie’s eyes close. Her head drops forward. This is what the guilt really is, she thinks. Not the age gap, not even the wanting itself. It’s the fact that if you asked, she doesn’t know that she’d be good enough to refuse.
That if you looked at her with that careful, open expression and said her name in that soft voice and kissed her once, just once, Cassie might give you everything she’s spent months trying to keep from you.
Her restraint.
Her sleep.
Her dignity.
Maybe worse than that. Maybe the quiet, carefully ordered life she’s built around never needing too much from anyone.
Because you make her need. That’s what’s so dangerous about you.
Not that you’re younger. Not that you’re beautiful. Not even that you flirt like breathing and laugh with your whole mouth and say her name like it belongs to you.
It’s that you make Cassie feel fifteen years younger and fifteen years more terrified all at once. Like there is still time to ruin herself for the right person. Like there is still time to want something this badly and survive it.
Her phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. Cassie startles so hard she nearly knocks over her toothbrush.
She looks down. Your name.
Again.
A second text.
You: if you’re asleep ignore me lol but I had a weird dream and now I can’t sleep
Cassie stares. The room goes very still. She should not ask. She knows she should not ask. But curiosity is a cruel thing, and wanting you has already eroded enough of her common sense that the rest gives way easily.
Her fingers move before she can stop them.
Cassie: what kind of dream?
The three dots appear almost instantly.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Cassie’s pulse is in her throat now, too loud, too fast. When your answer comes through, it’s only one line.
You: you were in it
Cassie reads it once.
Twice.
A third time, just to make sure she isn’t hallucinating from lack of sleep.
Her hand tightens around the phone. There are a dozen possible interpretations for that sentence. A hundred. Maybe you dreamed you were late for shift and she was covering triage. Maybe you dreamed you borrowed her charger and forgot to give it back. Maybe this is nothing. Maybe you are not standing on the other side of the same line she’s been pacing for months.
Maybe.
But the air in the bathroom has gone hot and thin anyway, and Cassie can’t seem to get enough of it. Her thumbs hover uselessly over the keyboard. She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what would be safe to say. So of course what comes out is the worst possible option.
Cassie: that sounds dangerous
The reply takes longer this time. Long enough for Cassie to regret everything. Long enough for her to start drafting excuses in her head, ways to laugh it off tomorrow if she has to, ways to pretend she didn’t mean anything by it.
Then your answer arrives.
You: yeah
You: it was
Cassie closes her eyes.
There it is.
Not a confession. Not exactly. But close enough to make her knees weak. Close enough to make the entire apartment feel charged, like one wrong move could split it open. Her phone buzzes again before she can recover.
You: go back to sleep, Cass
You: I’m sorry
You: I shouldn’t have texted
And that, somehow, stupidly, that’s what undoes her. Not the tension. Not the implication. The apology. The way you retreat the second things get too close to the edge, as if you’re trying to protect her from something you don’t even know she’s already drowning in.
Cassie stares at the messages until the screen dims. Then she unlocks it again. Types once. Deletes. Types again. This time she sends it before she can lose her nerve.
Cassie: you don’t have to apologize to me for wanting something
The message goes through. Cassie’s breath catches the moment it does. Because that is not neutral. That is not safe. That is, in fact, maybe the most honest thing she has said to you in months.
Three dots appear immediately. Stay. Disappear. Come back. Cassie feels sick with anticipation. Finally, your answer arrives.
You: good
You: because I don’t think I’m going to stop
Cassie stared at the screen until the words blur. Then she laughed once, softly, helplessly, at the woman in the mirror who thought she was still in control of any of this. She set the phone down for a moment. Turned off the bathroom light and grabbed the phone again. And went back to bed knowing full well she’s not going to sleep at all.
She stared at her phone again, at that last message you had sent. God, the need to ask you to come over. Or ask if she was allowed to go. She bit the inside of her cheek, then her lower lip. She sighed as she typed.
cassie mckay who loves watching the strap slide inside you, her mouth falling open as she gazes at it plunging in and out of your walls.
cassie mckay who will just randomly have her mouth hanging open while staring at you, to the point you have to playfully close it for her.
cassie mckay who also knows it turns you on seeing her with her mouth open and her tongue out, she’ll start playing up to it pretending she’s concentrating when really she’s just wanting you to notice.
cassie mckay who has an oral fixation and loves anything in her mouth. imagineeeee she’s trying to quit smoking (i know she’s sober i just feel like she can’t kick this habit) and will just nurse anything with her mouth. i feel like she’d steal tongue depressors from work just so she has something.
cassie mckay who in that same vein, LOVES marking you up. you are her new chew toy, she loves licking and biting your skin, sometimes she’ll just gently suck on the skin of your stomach or thighs without realising she’s doing it.
cassie mckay who is a lip biter. especially when it comes to you. her mouth will slowly fall open as she prizes your underwear off and she sees your cunt for the first time, before biting her lip knowing it’s the sexiest thing she’s ever seen.
(honestly tho she loves having her gob open idk what her problem is but i hope she never stops)
Entire Fic Triggers: Suicidal Ideation. Psychological Torture. More to be added.
July 18, 2017.
Eight years ago, a science facility in Russia was bombed. It was all over the news. Americans feared that whatever attacked Russia would attack them.
It never did.
Only one survivor came out of the rubble… but the news never caught that.
There was a skyrocket in the amount of murdered individuals that were found in America each year, yet nobody could ever figure out who did the dirty work. Whoever it was… they were damn good at it.
Six years ago, that two-year killing spree ended. They never found who the murderer was, but they assume that they died… or did get caught, just never revealed they killed thousands in the span of two years.
That’s a case that still haunts America to this day. Who was it who murdered all those people?
Well, that’s an answer that only the Redfields and the woman herself know. Chris and Claire have kept quiet this whole time—they knew it wasn’t really her. She wasn’t in control.
The blonde woman? She feels guilty six years later, in 2017. But she knows that if she utters a single word, she will be killed.
Especially with the fact that the Redfields managed to pull enough strings that they got their adopted sister into the DSO, a “rookie” under some Agent Kennedy. They’d told her that she could trust him. That he wouldn’t intentionally hurt her.
As long as she didn’t bring up being an Umbrella mercenary.
The hazel-eyed woman sits in a chair, reading some loved, worn paperback—The Lightning Thief, the cover reads—completely engrossed in the words on the page. The world of Percy Jackson enamors her, and it pulls her out of her own reality. Just for a moment, she feels like she can join a quest with the trio, and actually do some good.
Chapter 17, We Shop for Water Beds
It was Annabeth’s idea.
She loaded us into the back of a Vegas taxi as if we actually had money, and told the driver-
“Josephine Winchester?”
The blonde looks up.
“Come in, please. Agent Kennedy will be with you momentarily.”
The woman nods, putting her book in her bag and following the short man into an office. There’s not much in it—a bookshelf against the wall, a coffeepot on the file cabinet. The walls are a boring grey. There’s a picture frame behind the desk—a man and two girls. One girl’s much younger than the other two people. That must be this Leon guy, she thinks to herself. She looks a little closer—That’s Claire!!
But who’s the blonde girl? Doesn’t matter. She’ll ask Claire tonight.
She sits in a chair across from the desk, and the short man leaves, shutting the door behind him.
Once again, she’s all alone in an unfamiliar place, her heart racing. What if Chris and Claire were wrong? What if he does hurt her? What if he knows everything-
Calm down, bitch, she thinks to herself. But her fingers still tap on her bag nervously as she waits.
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“Chris- Dude, no, we just got back- Yeah, she’s fine. She’s alive and doing well, they should release her soon- Chris, I don’t care! I don’t have-
…Well, fuck you too.”
Of course Redfield had to hang up. The asshat doesn’t know how to take no for an answer, and Kennedy? He was supposed to be on vacation.
Instead? He had to talk to some new rookie that the Redfields took in.
Sliding on the blue suit jacket, Leon brushes his dark hair out of his light blue eyes, heading to the small office that he calls his own. He doesn’t have a place to call home, maybe. But that office? That office is his.
A younger blonde woman sits at the desk. Small, petite, but clearly strong. A confidence about her that shines through the nervousness radiating off her back.
“Miss Winchester?” he asks, shutting the door and making his way to his seat. He sees her quickly drop a book into her bag, but he doesn’t catch the title. Something worn with a dark cover.
The woman looks up at him with a timid smile, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m Leon Kennedy. I’m assuming the Redfield siblings told you about me?”
A nod.
“I won’t bite. I promise. They told me about you as well. I have a feeling you’re going to fit in. This’ll be short, promise.”
Josephine sighs softly and nods, and he watches her with a gentle smile.
“Let’s start. Tell me about your childhood.”
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Her childhood?? Fuck, that’s the last thing she wants to talk about. Her childhood wasn’t good. It’s the kind of childhood that the government kills you for. The kind of childhood that Agent Kennedy would kill her for.
Deep breaths, bitch. Half-truths. You know what you’re doing.
Stay quiet.
Don’t make a sound.
Don’t get yourself killed.
Slaughter them all.
Don’t think about the fact that you’re eleven and she’s six.
Don’t think about the fact that you’re just a weapon.
She didn’t know. She truly didn’t. They didn’t tell her.
She just did what she was told to.
Otherwise she’d be killed.
Flip the switch, and the thing inside of her would kill her. She’d seen it. All of the girls were brought together because they were born with this thing in their brain, and they were special.
After a moment, Joey sighs softly. “I lost my parents at a young age.” Half truth. “I moved around a lot on the streets. Until Chris and Claire found me… six years ago?” Also a half truth.
The man before her—Kennedy—nods slowly. His light blue eyes pierce into hers, and where anybody else would look away from the intensity, Josephine meets his gaze, standing her ground as she has done her entire life.
After a moment, the man speaks once more in that warm, rich, low timbre. “Why the DSO? Why are you interested in being an agent?”
The blonde woman shrugs noncommittally. “I’ve always been a naturally good fighter. Living on the streets does that to you. And… I want to help people the way I never was helped. I know that the DSO handles bioweapons. But I want to help.”
The response is perfect. A little too rehearsed, but better than “Chris and Claire threw me into it.”
Regardless, the darker-haired man smiles softly and nods. “That’s a good reason, Miss Winchester,” he says, his hands folded atop the desk. “I have a feeling you’ll fit in well here. The Redfields have told me a lot about you, and you seem promising.”
Joey smiles softly at the compliment, giving a halfhearted shrug.
“Fighting experience? Tell me about it.”
And that’s when she freezes. She can’t tell him about Umbrella. She can’t tell him about her abilities. For being 22, she’s seen far too much.
Instead of the full truth, she alters it. Tells Agent Kennedy that she learned how to use a knife from some guy who protected her from a couple creeps one year. Tells him that Chris taught her how to use a gun.
He seems to believe it.
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He doesn’t fully believe it.
Maybe it’s the way her eyes shift. Maybe it’s the way her voice wraps around the words differently than before.
It’s as though she’s trying to convince herself.
Sure, she may just be nervous. He knows what that’s like.
But something feels… off. He makes a mental note to dig into her file a little deeper later.
After about an hour of getting to know her history and whatnot just a bit, Leon stands.
“It was nice meeting you,” he smiles, holding out a hand in hopes of her shaking it.
The woman grabs her belongings and hesitantly takes his hand, her delicate, slender hand dwarfed in his own. However, she does have a strong grip. And her palms are much more calloused than he would have expected.
“I’ll give you a call when you can come in and start training. I need to have a conversation with my team first. But I assume it will be within the next week, if that’s alright?”
Josephine nods, her hand leaving his and clutching her bag.
“Alright, Agent. I’ll see you then.”
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Those words… didn’t make her as happy as she should’ve been. Maybe if she was anybody else, she’d be ecstatic. But Josephine… couldn’t care less. It wasn’t her thing.
If they knew, they’d do her job for her and put a bullet in her brain. The world would be in a better place if that happened.
“…Thank you,” she murmurs, standing and collecting her belongings. She walks to the door, giving a polite smile as she leaves the office. Everyone in the building is very kind…
She sighs as she climbs onto her bike, putting an earbud in and allowing Nickelback’s Something In Your Mouth to fill her ears, singing along as she rides home, her blonde hair flowing out from under the red helmet.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, she becomes a DSO agent.
Tomorrow, she plays rookie.
Tomorrow, Josephine Winchester has to keep her head on a swivel daily.
Fuck, that thing better not come tomorrow. Or anytime soon.
IM WORKIN ON SUM FOR JILL RIGHT NOW BUT HEAR THIS FOR SOME OLDER JILL
tired, overworked older!jill who’s eyeing you from above. her lips are parted, shaky breaths waterfall from her rosy lips while she tries to not think about the “fuck— mo—mmy,” leaving you. jill rolls her strap deeper into your swollen cunt in victory of a night well spent. she’s only cum untouched once, and won’t give you that power again. she tries to remain strong with seething breaths, deep growls and low hums.
jill had recently come back from another mission, and the only thing she wants to do in her down time is dedicate it to you. she’s only been home for three days yet you’ve been taken out more times than nights have gone by. she tells you it’s because the mission made her miss you so much and you can believe that’s true. don’t you remember the night she came back with a busted lip, scratched cheek, sleepy smile and flowers? she even refused to come into your shared apartment until you stepped out of it so she can take you to dinner at this small hole in the wall? it’s been gestures like that where you feel like you have to return the favor.
so you do. as you take her on the living room floor with your back arched, you let her fill you up.
with a tsk, she pushes your face into the throw pillow she ripped from the couch before taking you from behind. she’s absolutely filling your womb and leaving her signature with every thrust. her softened abs contract with every roll of her hips with her rough hands grip your hip— fingers caught between your tummy and thigh.
“oh—“ jill feels your eagerness; your ass slams into her hips, mismatching the pace until she takes the chance to slow down. she swears a part of her can feel it as you take her silicone, fingers leaving your neck to comb through her hair. “fuck, i missed you fighting back on me,” her eyes shut. “take it— good girl.”
you don’t mean to come off so hungry— maybe you do. jill has done everything to earn such an eager girl bouncing on her cock in the middle of the living room. her hands aren’t enough. you need to be inside of her skin, mending with every part of her, but you’ll take leaning against her chest.
she’s there to hold you when you sit up on your knees, back pressed to her bosom, feeling her hardened nipples. her arm wraps around your waist with her hand guiding your ass to her hips. she sinks down over her ankles, leaning back only a bit to give you the range to ride against her before she grabs a fistful of your hair to pull you into a rather gentle kiss. her lips ghost over yours, nose brushing with yours and when you nip at her lips, she parts your lips with her tongue and invades your mouth.
“m—mom—my~” you’re voice cracks over the clapping sounds of your flesh meeting from your effort alone.
jill shakes her head; she knows you’re getting a bit antsy since your fingernails suddenly dig into the meat of her thighs. “no—“ she breaks the kiss for a moment, both hands propped on your hips. “you’re gonna keep going.”
you shake your head, about to disagree until she coaxed your hips off hers to guide you up and down on the toy.
“i can’t,” you let out with a sharp breath.
“you can,” jill protests.
“jill,” your harsh whisper lingering in pent up energy makes the older woman chuckle.
no way were you were complaining about the size of her cock when you just had it in your mouth before you got on all fours for her. “didn’t have a problem when you tried to take over,” her voice rasps out in short breaths, “yeah?” am arm slithers around your neck, taunting you. “ah, shit,” she coos, leaning into your ear, nodding as if you can see her and the fake sympathetic look on her face. you still follow her hands, pussy slick and making the messiest sounds as you land back on her thighs with each guided pound. “guess it’s my fault for spoiling you, you’re getting lazy.”
that’s all she had to say for you to kick it in gear, finding the tenacity to keep bouncing on her. “n…o i’m not—“ the friction sends her head back, moans occupying the shared space, “it just— fuck, it feels so good, i want you to fuck me.”
jill pauses for a second, swallowing down a shaking groan while keeping your down on her cock. “what the hell are doing to me?” her hands fall off of you, running her fingers through her hair. “get on your fucking back and spread your legs.”
