; age gap . guided smoking?? . fluff . established relationship
"Hey stranger".
You recognise your wife's voice. The thick accent that snakes around the syllables has become a distinct comfort. You turn and are met with her shorter figure leaning against the brick wall of the ambulance bay, arms crossed over her chest.
Exhaling a cloud of smoke you smile softly at the woman. "Hi" you murmur as she approaches. Dana stands in front of you, tilting her jaw up. She's close enough that her sweet perfume is mingling with the sharp smell of your cigarette. Her eyes travel to your left hand, said cigarette held firmly between your index and middle fingers spouting smoke.
"Those will kill you, you know?" She takes it from your hand and brings it to her lips, taking a long drag before dropping her hand to her side. "I could say the same to you" you murmur, eyes fixated on her lips as they blow smoke to the side. "I'm old" she retorts.
You chuckle. "Maybe I'm just trying to catch up" you shrug, gesturing for the half smoked cig. "Give it back". Dana sighs and brings her hand up between the two of you. You reach for the cigarette again but she flinches away when you do.
"Baby..." you practically whine out. Your wife grins at your desperation before bringing the cigarette to your lips. The faint lipstick mark left on the paper makes your stomach curl with lust. "Inhale" she instructs and you do, eyes locked on hers.
You welcome the bittersweet taste into your mouth. Dana watches you closely and finds herself jealous of the smoke, the way it gets to lick at your mouth and coil around your insides.
The woman revels in the way you lean back from her hand to exhale, tilting your head so your jawline is highlighted from the strain while the smoke spills from your lips.
"You got any patients?" Dana rasps out. You shake your head.
The woman hums, her jaw momentarily twitching upwards. You take the opportunity to lean down and press your lips to hers. You exhale into the kiss, hand finding Dana's waist and squeezing as her tongue dips into your mouth. The dull burn of the cigarette still lingers in your chest, harsh flavour on your tongue as you press the muscle further into Dana's mouth.
The kiss is slow but charged, the weight of each of your days being made easier with the proximity of the person you both feel most comfortable with, each other.
Your actions elicit a low groan from the nurse, her hand landing on the front of your scrubs and gripping tight. "You think– you'll be home... early tonight?" Dana huffs out as you kiss her between words unrelenting. You nod, kissing the corner of her mouth before leaning back and taking in her slightly disheveled appearance. "I'll make sure of it" you say softly to her.
You can’t fight yourself from leaning back in, groaning when her palm is firm against your collar pushing you back. “Down girl, we should probably get back to work”. Her eyes remain on your lips and you chuckle.
ooooooh nikki who is plays very very very possessive but in such a cute fun way. imagining her at a party with her butch, watching him talk to sarah and not giving a fuckkkkkk. watching them laughing together and playing around, and feeling infinitely fond of her friend and her partner, enjoying every second of seeing them getting along so well. when your conversation dies down with sarah, nikki comes over and casually asks you to come to the bathroom with her for a “wardrobe malfunction.” no one is weirded out or suspicious, the vibe of the party stays light and fun while she drags you off to the bathroom.
the second the door closes, she plays the role of ‘the mean possessive girlfriend’ bc she can tell you get off on it sometimes. she has you pinned against the door with her knee between your legs. her hand is in your hair, tugging your head back so she can leave marks all over your neck. eventually, when she is satisfied with how worked up you are, she sweetly kisses you on the nose and says “you know i dont actually care, right? i like that you get along with my friends so well, and i trust you completely” in the most sickeningly sincere way imaginable.
nikki pulling the full-coverage concealer she knows is your shade out of her bag. realizing she planned this all out so you could have your full possessive gf fantasy without having to go back out there with any evidence.
her possessive outburst might have been fake, but the flip she gets in her stomach when you decline the concealer and go back out there proudly wearing the marks she gave you? when you show all her friends how you are sooo good for her and belong to her completely, even if hickeys are a little juvenile or immature? that feeling is very real.
maybe she is a little possessive after all.
pairing: nikki freeman x butch!reader
genre: suggestive
wc: 626
“Baby?”
Nikki stands with her arms behind her back, and she’s looking between you and Sarah sheepishly.
“Yeah?” you ask, turning to face her completely.
“Come with me to the bathroom? I had a little wardrobe malfunction.”
You stand up and look her over, leaning in close to ask, “Do you need my jacket?”
You make sure to cover her as she leads you to the bathroom by your belt. Nobody sees it as possessive or suspicious because Nikki tugs you by your collar and your belt all the time.
Following her into the bathroom, you look at her with concern, ready to help with the wardrobe malfunction she spoke of. But the second you close the door behind you, you’re being pinned up against it. Nikki nudges your thighs apart and shoves her knee between your legs.
Oh. She’s doing this possessive bit again. It makes a lazy smile grow on your lips.
“You and Sarah got way too touchy.”
Nikki tangles her hand in your hair and yanks your head back, leaning in to bite down on your neck, making you hiss at the feeling of her teeth sinking into your skin.
Humming, you place your hands on her hips and chuckle into her ear. It makes Nikki’s face burn.
“We were just messing around,” you tell her.
She huffs and nips at your neck, making her second hickey on your skin.
Nothing’s going on between you and Sarah. You’re like her annoying younger brother. Nikki knows this.
“I don’t like when you’re with her.” Nikki plays into that possessive girlfriend role she knows you love.
She moves to the other side of your neck and makes more bruises on your skin, moaning and whining into your neck as you hump her knee and breathe out her name.
“You’re mine,” she grunts, with your skin sucked between her teeth. She pulls back slightly to admire her marks on your neck, finding the bruises looking so pretty on your skin.
Her possessive marking goes on for a few more minutes before she stops. She’s more than satisfied with how riled up you are because of her words and marks.
Nikki kisses you on the nose so sweetly that it makes your head spin even harder than those rough kisses from earlier.
“You know I don’t actually care, right? I trust you. I like that you get along with my friends.”
Her tone is so sincere that it makes you feel sick. You get a rush of love for her that hits you so hard it sends you reeling. Nikki’s always been the sweetest. That’s why you love her so much.
Despite feeling so lovesick for her, you tease her. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Nikki smiles with you, and your heart flutters at the sound of her giggle. You look at her like she’s your entire world as she digs through her bag, thinking about how pretty she looks tonight. You admire her pretty lips. Her eyebrows. Her nose. That mole right under her eye that makes you melt. Your entire body starts melting into a puddle.
She pulls out the concealer that’s in your exact shade, and you realize that she planned this whole thing.
You push her hand away and shake your head. “Don’t wanna cover it up. Let’s just go back out.”
Nikki’s stomach flips and twists with arousal at your refusal to wear the concealer. She grows uncomfortably wet as she thinks about you walking back out to the party, covered in her marks. Marks to let everyone know that you’re hers. Marks to let Sarah know that you belong to her, even if she trusts both of you completely.
She wants to make more marks just for the hell of it.
Streetlights stand tall at the edge of the sidewalk and despite the season flowers have started to sprout around their bases, seeds flung from the beaks of passing birds that find their homes in the gaps where metal meets concrete, kaleidoscopes of soft petals reaching up towards a sun that had long since laid to rest in the earlier hours of the evening.
Hazy warmth saturates the air, objects appear more like suggestions than physical things and you're barely able to see more than 20 feet in front of you as the streetlamps seem to use all of their energy focusing on the cracked asphalt at their feet, worn down after years of helping people traverse the neighborhood.
Children who rush past their parents, hair flying wild and arms flung open as they careen down the street, imagination working overtime while they pretend to be planes or spaceships or race car drivers; dreams too impossibly big to be contained in such small bodies and spilling out into the world around them.
Teenagers traipsing back and forth between their house and the moving van when summer starts to slip away, days spent laughing in the back of movie theaters and strolling through thrift stores giving way to jampacked class schedules and college textbooks stuffed with neon sticky notes, bright strips of paper that hold their futures in-between marked pages crumpling as they pack their childhoods into cardboard boxes, checking and rechecking their lists to make sure nothing gets left behind.
Old people leisurely ambling down the pathway, trading recipes passed along from their grandchildren or sharing secrets overhead in the produce section of the grocery store as they were sifting through vegetables; only going quiet when they're interrupted by the rattling of a larger-than-usual stone caught in the wheel of one of their bags.
Gusts of wind sprint through the street, racing each other like hunting dogs going in for the kill as they brush past the sides of your car, breeching through the sanctity of your scrub pants and pushing hundreds of tiny needles into the flesh of your thighs while goosebumps rise along your arms as you lean back against the hood of your car.
A quiet tingling sounds to your left and you watch while the neighbor's cat slowly creeps out from underneath a bench, swiveling its head from left to right before darting across the road and slinking into someone's garden.
Leaves crunch underfoot as you readjust yourself slightly, shades of red and yellow plucked from the branches that nurtured them and left to grow muddy and dull in the road.
Smoke tendrils curl upwards before melting into the dark sky, particles dispersing amongst the stars and suffusing the air around you with the faint smell of tobacco.
Moments continue to pass in near silence, Pittsburgh reduced to the occasional hum of tires spinning against asphalt and periodic inhales after your girlfriend takes a drag from her cigarette.
It's started to relax you on impulse. Muscles beginning to untense the second you see the familiar flash of white pulled from the charge nurse's pocket. Secondhand smoke becoming a soothing balm that works its way beneath your skin, settles in your bones and eases the tension from your limbs with every exhale from the older woman.
You remember after a few weeks of sneaking around, stolen moments spent in storage closets or pressing Dana up against the wall of the ambulance bay during her breaks for a short lived reprieve when you thought no one was looking, Cassie had pulled you into central 6 to ask if you'd started smoking.
She'd yanked the curtain closed behind her in a noble display of privacy, as if the flimsy plastic was going to do anything against an ER that thrives on being in everyone else's business, and spun on her heel to look at you with a furrowed brow and crossed arms.
"Well… have you?"
She'd purposefully left a gap between the edge of the curtain and the wall, small enough to trap you in the conversation but large enough that staff knew whatever was going on could be paused if the room was needed for a patient.
"Uh, no? Why would I- " Confusion slips into your voice as you return Cassie's question with one of your own, only to cut yourself off halfway through your sentence after letting your eyes drift from the R2's face to the parted plastic behind her.
From your current angle only a small section of the hub was visible, but it was enough for you to briefly notice Dana staring at the curtains with such intensity it was a wonder she hadn't burned holes through the material before her attention got stolen away by a puzzled med student thrusting a tablet in her direction when it dawned on you.
Burning paper and tobacco had started to linger around your form the same way it lingered around the charge nurse and now you had to confront the fact that neither you nor Dana had been as subtle as you thought you were being.
Somewhere in between your morning breakfast order expanding to include another sandwich, pushed gently into Dana's hands at the start of every shift, coffee cup with your last name scrawled across the cardboard in messy sharpie left by her computer at the nurses' station alongside a pile of protein bars to remind you both to eat and Dana's hands tugging at your belt loop whenever she needed your attention that had your head turning towards her even in the middle of other conversations, your coworkers had read between the lines, picked up on what was quite obviously a thing but that either of you refused to name.
There was one time she had called you over from the other side of the ED, brows pinched together and eyes narrowed as she looked down at the patient chart attached to her clipboard. You'd slid up behind her, sporting a soft grin that always accompanied the sound of her voice, pressed close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body even beneath the layers of clothing separating you.
Sweat and your shower gel clung to her skin, made your head go fuzzy enough that your hands instinctively came up to grip her waist as you read what's scribbled on the page in front of you; cacophony of hospital noise fading to a dull hum when her weight sunk further into you. Your fingers had automatically started rubbing circles into her hips, faintly creasing the fabric of her scrubs in your attempt to soothe her when someone coughed behind you. Loudly.
Your ministrations on her hips ceased almost immediately before your hands pulled away to hover just above her hips instead, as if that was somehow less strange than actively groping the charge nurse; commotion of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center flooding back with full force and reminding you that you were at work.
None of your co-workers were meant to know that you're dating, let alone watch you practically feel up your girlfriend in the middle of the ER.
But then the moment was over and a glare from Dana sent curious eyes hurrying back to their own tasks. On a quiet day there's not enough time to stop and stare, let alone on a day like that when there were patients practically spilling in through the windows.
The PTMC's ecosystem continued to function with only the occasional glance to where the charge nurse was cocooned in your arms while you mumbled into her ear about an error on the patient chart gripped between her hands.
Like predicted, word had spread fast around the ED and two days later a representative from HR was presenting you and Dana with relationship disclosure forms and informing you about a meeting that had been scheduled for later that week to discuss 'appropriate workplace conduct'.
You can feel your muscles sink even further into the cold metal, do nothing as your body turns docile against the acidic earthy smell that floats through the air and remains docile when it suddenly becomes much stronger, ardently burning its way up your nose as a long exhale is directed at your face.
It's gone almost as quickly as it appeared, silvery wisps evaporating to nothing and you lazily roll your head towards the woman beside you.
"Had to make sure you weren't falling asleep on me handsome." Dana's voice lilts teasingly around the words, corners of her lips pulling into an amused smirk that widens even further when you let out a low groan in protest.
Clearly you were wide awake.
You watch with half-lidded eyes as she moves from her place beside you and tucks herself between your spread legs, fabric letting out a quiet rustle when her limbs accidentally brush against yours.
She looked practically holy like this.
Stood between your legs looming over you, streetlamp perfectly positioned at her back for light to flare around her head like a halo. Molten warmth drips over her as smooth as honey, threads itself through her hair and glints off of the hoops in her ears, sticks to the shoulders of her ❪ your ❫ jacket and blurs across the dark leather as she steals another drag from her cigarette.
It takes everything in you not to fall to your knees then and there, a sudden need to drop onto the concrete and worship. To bruise yourself bloody as evidence of offerings made with lips, teeth and tongue. To listen as she guides you through the motions, a saint preaching to her choir.
Dana can feel your eyes on her while she exhales smoke into the air, head turned slightly further to the right than it was a moment ago so it misses your face this time, feels you watch her movements as she brings the cigarette back to her lips.
Your eyes immediately finds hers, skirt over her features until you lock onto the blue ones looking back at you and she can see the glow of the streetlights reflected in your gaze, such reverence in your expression it temporarily steals the oxygen from her lungs and leaves her scrambling.
"What's the staring for hmm?" Tenderness curls in her chest while she watches you blink slowly, eyelids moving in slow motion, fighting a loosing battle as you try to stay awake long enough to allow her this simple pleasure. "You want some?"
Your hands tuck themselves into her jacket in lieu of a response, moving through the gap in her zipper like a surgeon, steady with precision as they pull her further into you, inside lining warm from the impression of her body against the fabric as it brushes over your skin.
Being this close allows you to see the faint stain her lipstick leaves on the paper and you're suddenly very dizzy, fingers squeezing a fraction too hard at the flesh of her hips. She fits between your palms like they were made to hold her, like they were molded to shape of her body before you'd even met.
You tilt your head slightly further up, muscles in your neck shifting despite the strain of being hunched over patients all day and wait patiently, silently adore her while she takes another pull from her cigarette.
Embers glow pathetically at the cylinder's tip as she takes one final drag before her hand comes up to cup your jaw, tight enough for your brain to short-circuit thinking about the marks that her nails were definitely going to leave behind, holding you steady while she moves her face forward and blows smoke into your mouth.
Tobacco burns across your tongue and presses up behind your teeth until Dana pacifies it with her lips on yours, licking bitterness from inside your cheek and replacing it with the taste of cookies brought in by one of the med students after a sleepless night and break room coffee.
If anything was going to make you believe in soulmates it was this.
"Come on. Let's get you home sleeping beauty."
An exaggerated groan breaks free from your lips when Dana tugs on your hand, prompting you to drag your body from its resting place against the cold metal, briefly reaching down to pick up her bag from its position by your feet before rising to your full height.
Taking a step forward feels like pushing back against every force in the universe.
Exhaustion hit you like a tidal wave at the sight of your front door, flooding through your musculature and slipping into your bloodstream, mingling with the cells and platelets, infecting the plasma, racing through your veins until it can be felt in every outermost inch of your body.
Dana's hand is warm in yours as she pulls you along behind her like the obedient dog you are, fingers laced together and squeezing once in encouragement, a reminder that it won't be much longer until you can collapse into bed on top of her and hibernate like bears for the next three days.
Shoulders press closer with every step forward, overworked minds unable to distinguish where one of you ends and the other begins, jackets rustling every time your limbs knock together, a call and response known only to the two of you on the evenings when you're too tired to do anything but the bare minimum.
Dana gets there first, body stilling at the locked door whilst yours crowds behind her, heart flipping in her chest when your forehead slumps against her shoulder, chastising herself for behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl even after years of being on the receiving end of your soft touches.
Your arm pushes into the space between you, reaching for the keys attached onto your belt loop. A happy jingle sounding through the air and the shock of cold metal on the heat of your palm lets you know you've found them.
Hand extending past your girlfriend's hip, you slot the key into the lock and turn. Metal quickly folds on itself and a quiet click grants you access to a reprieve for the next 3 days.
The smell of home envelopes you instantly. Wraps itself around you as you follow Dana through the front door, almost stumbling into her with how close your body is to hers.
It's warmer in your apartment than it was outside -but only just- building stood still for hours with no one around to turn on the heating or pull blankets from the back of the couch when a chill started creeping into the air.
"Home sweet home." Dana mumbled as you shut the door behind you, slide the key into the lock for a second time and turn.
Lights are flicked on and the heating is cranked up as the pair of you begin to shed your outer layers.
You drop your bag onto the floor with a dull thud and then gently put Dana's bag down next to it, always more careful with her belongings than your own, wait as she slips your jacket from her shoulders and hang that up too.
It had been sunny when you walked into the ER, so sunny that Dana decided to forgo a jacket entirely while you threw yours on the backseat, listening to her teasing while you held the car door open for her and shoving it straight into your locker when you got to work.
But a passing comment from Parker during handover about it being colder than usual had you tucking her into your 'unnecessary' jacket after the day shift had been dismissed, smirk wiped off of your lips when your girlfriend kissed your cheek and then promptly spun on her heel, leaving you to chase after her.
Dana's ID card is the first thing to land on the sideboard, metal clip clattering onto the varnished wood with a small bounce and knocking into one of the picture frames littered across the surface from the force of her throw.
It's a picture of the pair of you crammed into a singular chair at a restaurant, Dennis and Robby, Parker and Samira, Abbot and Shen fill the seats around you, plates of pasta piled higher than the Eiffel Tower. Matching pink bands sat around everyone's wrists, a sign that you were part of the medical conference crowd looking to blow off steam after being packed into the events hall a few streets down.
Every charge nurse and attending that wasn't currently on shift at the PTMC was required to attend and clearly management could sense the storm brewing because the invitations arrived alongside plus ones and room reservations for a nice hotel to try and ease the annoyance of staff having to add this to their already packed schedules.
Robby was one of only two people actually looking at the camera, earthen brown eyes flickering with warmth as he stares down the lens, top buttons of his shirt undone and right arm slung over the shoulders of the boy next to him.
Dennis was facing the table, neck bent as if the weight of Robby's limb is enough to bowl him over, fingers following the wood grain and skin flushed red enough that the chef could easily confuse him for a tomato and try to drag him back to the kitchen.
Samira had her head turned over her shoulder while she speaks to someone just out of frame, candle light glinting off of her collarbones, one hand resting on the table as the other points to something on the other side of the room, painted lips moving like she's in the middle of explaining whatever it was that caught her attention, completely unaware of the woman staring at her side profile like they're the only two people in the room.
Parker was leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, hair pulled back to expose the gold bars scattered throughout her ears, glass of amber liquid clasped between her fingers as she watched Samira speak with the expression of someone who knows that they're well and truly fucked.
Abbot was on his feet, reaching across the table towards the napkin aka 'scoreboard' in front of his opponent, amusement in his eyes and wedding ring noticeably absent, easy grin on his face that showed the whites of his teeth after he beat John in another round of 'rock paper scissors'.
Shen had furrowed brows and pursed lips as he processed his third consecutive loss of the night, hands a blur in front of him as he gesticulated wildly, his shirt collar was crooked and there was a ridiculously large glass with several silly straws on his coaster, but there was enough space to see his foot linked with Abbot's chair leg.
Dana was pressed flush against you, intricate flower-shaped clasp pulling her hair away from her neck to reveal dark bite marks littered along her flesh, any semblance of professionalism held up with concealer and stern 'ah ah ahs' when you got too handsy discarded in the wake of soft hotel sheets and not technically being at work, light catching on her painted nails while she pushed her earring back into place and smirked at the camera.
Your arms were slung protectively around Dana's waist, one hand grasping her hip while the other gestured in front of you, legs spread wide to accommodate hers between them, tie ruffled, head titled upwards, lipstick smeared across your cheek, eyes glued to your girlfriend's side profile with a love-drunk grin splitting your face that could put Cupid to shame.
One chair was noticeably missing from the table, squirreled away by another patron while Dana had been in the bathroom, everyone only realizing what happened after they were already disappearing into the crowd with her chair in tow.
Your girlfriend had taken one look at the table when she got back and rolled her eyes before situating herself in your lap as if she owned it. Fortunately you were able to control yourself enough not to have a heart attack in the middle of dinner.
Her hands reach up and pull at the claw clip holding her hair back, carefully undoing it and running her fingers through the loose strands, before she drops it next to her ID card. There's a spare in her bag, alongside another spare in yours and one that got placed in your locker after a couple weeks of knowing her, but she likes having one by the door so she won't forget it.
Your keys shortly follow, rattling through the air and crashing onto the table with a loud thump that earns you a look from your girlfriend, head cocked to the side and lips pursed in a way that made you think she was reconsidering Abbot's suggestion of keeping you on for a double.
But when you shoot her a dopey smile as she's pulling pens out of her pockets, eyes flicking downward to watch as the plastic cylinders hit the wooden surface and roll a few centimeters sideways before pulling out your own pens and letting them gather alongside hers, she forgives you a thousand times over, would put up with you slamming your keys down everyday if it meant you came home and let your pens roll towards hers on the table.
An almost silence settles back into the air, only the sounds of your pockets being emptied echoing through the hall. Your wallet is added to the ever-growing pile forming on the console, alongside Dana's glasses and a protein bar that had been sitting in your pocket for the better part of your shift.
Maneuvering around you to the opposite side of the hallway, Dana listens to you pulling more things from your scrubs: gum, loose change for the vending machine, a tiny superhero figurine given to you by a peds patient as she tugs off her shoes before kissing you on the cheek and making her way towards the bathroom.
Abandoning your phone on the counter feels like a herculean task, torn between not wanting to miss something important and not wanting to be disturbed for the next 72 hours.
But no one can deny the relief that floods through your body as you tug off your own shoes and pad toward the bathroom after your girlfriend.
Dana walks into the kitchen, footsteps as soft and light as a jungle cat, feet protected from the hardwood floors by her fuzzy socks.
Cassie and Victoria had come over for movie night a number of weeks ago, and three-drinks-deep Victoria found the contrast between yours and your girlfriend's footsteps to be the funniest thing in the world. Even Cassie had cracked a smile, though you're pretty sure that had more to do with her girlfriend's unbridled joy than it did with the way you walk around your own house.
Rounding the counter to where you're standing in front of the fridge, she takes in your knitted eyebrows and folded arms as you stare at the shelves, appearing to be caught in a battle of wills with the dancing cartoon mascot grinning back at you from a half-empty jar of jelly.
Her arms circle your abdomen, hair that's still wet from the shower brushing your neck as she situates herself behind you.
She lets her hands slide beneath the material of your hoodie, scraping her nails up and down your happy trail once, twice, three times before slipping lower to toy with the waistband of your boxers, fingers mindlessly running across the fabric, occasionally dipping beneath the elastic to scratch at the skin of your hips, a self-soothing habit she picked up years ago.
"I got your glasses for you." Your hand gestures vaguely in the direction of the kitchen island and sure enough, there they are, folded neatly waiting for her.
She lets out a soft hum of recognition and pulls herself away from your back so she can reach over and grab them.
Something feels slightly different when she slips them onto her face, eyes flitting back and forth trying to figure it out until she notices.
You cleaned them for her.
Dana curls herself around you once more, presses a kiss to your covered shoulder in thanks as her fingers slip back down to the waistband of your boxers.
Both of you can see the abysmal state of your fridge, hear it softly thrumming as it proudly displays its contents; one shelf home a single protein bar and another housing a bowl of leftovers from two nights ago that neither of you had time to finish.
Goosebumps rise along your skin as Dana's breath fans over your neck, each small bump a reminder of how easily she can pull a reaction out of you by simply existing.
A defeated sigh passes through your lips and you let your head smack lightly against the side of the fridge door. "We seriously need to go grocery shopping."
You allow yourself to stew in resignation for another moment before pulling yourself together and closing the fridge door, clearly you weren't going to find anything to cook in there.
Dana thinks about it, thinks about you pushing the shopping cart, list in hand, looking for the specific kind of pasta that always gets served when you have people over for dinner, while she walks alongside you, hand tucked in your back pocket, leaning her head on your shoulder, waiting for you to realize you're in the wrong aisle and she almost suggests you go. Wrap up warm in your jackets and head out into the cold street armed only with your hunger to make decisions of what to get.
But then she thinks of the tiredness that clings to her body, staved off slightly by the water beating down on her shoulders, pulling her closer to the sweet release of sleep every minute."Could go tomorrow, don't have any plans in the morning."
"Sure sweetheart. That sounds great." Spinning around to face her makes you yearn to slow down time, bring it to a complete stop and turn it physical, tuck this moment into your wallet alongside twenty dollar bills and a crumpled post-it note with Emma's lunch order scrawled on it.
She's wearing one of your hoodies, sleeves slightly too long and bottom hem brushing over the waistband of boxers clearly stolen from your side of the dresser, ends of her hair still damp with leave in conditioner as she stares back at you through her glasses. Even the socks she's wearing are yours.
You have never been more sure that you were meant to love someone than you were right now. "Do any of the clothes you're wearing belong to you?"
A teasing grin starts to appear on her face as she takes a step forward, "It's not my fault your boxers are so comfortable," her arms tighten around your torso, “if you don't want to share you can just say so," she's so close you could individually count her eyelashes, "but that would be pretty hypocritical if you ask me, hmm?"
It takes you a moment for your brain to catch up. Too lost in the smell of laundry detergent and dryer sheets that clings to the material of her sweatshirt to realize what she's hinting at. Until something solid lightly rubs over your ankle and you turn your focus onto your feet.
Feet that are currently wearing Dana's socks.
You relent with your hands in the air, palms facing outwards and fingers spread so she knows you're serious. Pay your dues with a kiss pressed to her lips, her nose, her forehead before moving towards her neck and leaving little kisses along the line of a jaw until she laughs.
It slices through the near silence of the kitchen and sparks across your skin, sends butterflies fluttering through your stomach. Although you can't remember butterflies ever being this loud.
"C'mon loverboy," Dana softly tugs on the collar of your hoodie, pulling you away from her neck the same way someone guides a dog away from their favorite chew toy, "gotta get some food in you before you turn into a full blown grizzly bear."
She's gracious enough to let you get away with a final kiss to her lips as parting gift, nudging you towards the hallway to retrieve your discarded phone after you get too eager and try for another, waiting until your back is turned to let out a soft chuckle that only gets louder when your stomach growls for the second time in two minutes.
Takeout it is.
Everything is bathed in soft blue light, shadows flicker across the walls before disappearing back into the darkness seconds later while some poor soul gets brutally murdered on the screen in front of you.
It's so late that the only things currently airing were a low-budget 90's horror movie or the same cheesy sitcom marathon that they run every weekend, and even after a day of being pulled from trauma to trauma, watching someone get an axe to the foot was somehow still the better option.
A series of soft raps echo in the hallway and Dana's head whips in the direction of the sound, heart briefly stuttering in her chest with every knock against the wood until she blinks, remembers the sound of your voice as you ordered dinner.
It seems the combination of bone-deep exhaustion and 30 minutes of watching people get stalked through the woods by a masked killer has left her slightly more jumpy than usual.
Leather rustles at her side and Dana notices you getting up to answer the door, stroking your hand over her thigh in a comforting gesture as it follows the rest of your body into a standing position. Briefly pausing to lean over and place a kiss on her nose before continuing your journey towards the entryway.
You return a few moments later, takeout in one hand and Dana's glasses in the other.
The promise of hot food can be smelt in the air, spices mingling together and becoming more prominent the further into the living room you get.
A small wave of your hand gestures for Dana to stay seated when she moves to help you unpack everything. Handing over her glasses providing a momentary distraction as you pause to watch her slip them onto her head.
She rolls her eyes fondly, "I'm starting to think you might have a staring problem kid," hands reaching for the single container you managed to take out the bag before your attention was pulled elsewhere.
"I don't know what you're talking about." But your eyes had clung to the loose strands escaping the hold of her glasses too long for your claim to hold any weight and you finish unpacking the rest of the food in silence.
Time ticks by slowly, minutes melting into each other until the title card for the next movie is flashing on the screen.
A second pair of chopsticks breeches the carton of noodles in your hands, gently batting your own chopsticks to the side and starting to twirl, gathering noodles before retreating back from where they came.
You turn to your left and stare at the woman beside you, dressed in your clothes and curled into your side, head resting on your shoulder, glasses pushed up to keep her hair back, soft glow of the television catching on the lenses and making it seem like there were stars laced in between strands of blonde, absentmindedly letting her chopsticks float over her takeout container as she focuses on the screen in front of her.
Warmth spills from your chest, urging you forward until your lips are pressed against the top of Dana's head, stay there for a while so you can inhale the scent of vanilla clinging to her hair, temporarily untainted by the hand sanitizer and smoke that will already be clinging to her an hour into her shift and press a final kiss to her hairline before pulling away.
Yeah, if anything was going to make you believe in soulmates it was this.
゛synopsis ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ JOCK!VI X SOCCER PLAYER!READER ── .✦ COLLEGE SETTING // your captain, vi, has always been cocky. she has the looks, popularity, and is the soccer team's leader. there's always been tension between you two; the eye-fucking, the thick silence when you two are the last ones in the locker rooms, and rivalry on the field. you don't buy it for one second that vi once made a girl finish in under a minute.
wanna bet?
ᝰ.ᐟ tags; short drabble, butch!vi, butch!reader, masc terms for vi & reader are used, vi has top surgery scars, verse!vi/verse!reader, switch!vi/switch!reader, fingering (both receiving), quickies, dirty talk, sexual tension, pubic hair, vi's a little shit but so is reader, oral sex, cowgirl position, strap referred to as cock (but no strapping occurs)
⌗ list ; @pathosprit , @scardreams, @catsarebetterthanhumansworld, @thatredheadloserlesbian
The clang of metal echoes in the locker rooms as your teammates begin to shove clothes into their bags. It's a Friday, and that means a lot for different people. Some are excited over being able to rest their feet and minds after an excruciating exam season. Others will celebrate with alcohol. The lucky ones will get to unwind with someone else in bed.
Which is what Vi is currently boasting about in the corner.
You two have never gotten along.
She's a jock. Not the 'asshole who bullies people into doing their homework' kind of jock. This was college. No one really gives a shit about that kind of popularity here, considering students spend half the time stressed over classes.
But Vi was known around campus. She threw good parties at her place, was an excellent player on the field, did well in her classes, and supposedly fucked well. It probably helped that she was easy to get along with, too. Was she the kind to smile and hug someone in the hallway? No. Was she rude? Also no. She was charming, actually.
And you hated her for that.
What did Vi not have?
There's always been a certain... tension between you two. The lingering stares when you two undress to take a shower at the lockers. The slow grins she gives you when you score. Your teammates aren't blind to it, and even your coach ─ Sevika ─ has called you two out for putting more effort into arguing on the field than you two do in training. But they're never really arguments.
No, Vi's just a cocky little shit with you.
"Aw. Out of breath already?"
"Come on, is that even a real push-up?"
"How long do you last in bed if you can't even run a full lap?"
Which was not even true, mind you. You could run twenty laps around the field. Vi just liked to poke you. Just you. She was encouraging and a little teasing with the others from the team, but not like that.
And now she's there, boasting about how she once made some girl finish in under a minute. It was hard not to listen in on the conversation. Vi was just there─ shirtless with those tattoos shifting as she rolled her shoulders and stretched out her arms, grinning and laughing.
You stand from the bench with an audible scoff, shoving a hoodie into your bag before slinging it over your shoulder, "A minute, Vi? Please, She probably faked it to push that mouth of yours off without feeling bad for you."
The locker room goes silent before some blondie muffles a chuckle against her fist. Vi tilts her head to look at you over her shoulder. Her eyes don't furrow in anger. Her lips don't purse like many people do when thinking of an insult.
No. Vi turns to face you properly, folding her arms over her chest to lean against the concrete wall. One brow quirks, much like the corner of her lip does.
"You think I don't know when a girl is faking it?"
"I didn't say that," You argue, breaking eye contact to glance at the door instead. That's your excuse, at least. Looking into those grey irises for too long always makes you antsy. "I just doubt you actually made someone hit the big O in under a minute."
Vi's grin grows. She chuckles, sliding the towel over her shoulder off to make it snap against the air, "Wanna bet, pretty boy?"
Fuck.
You don't allow silence to serve as your answer for long. You'd rather die than let Vi know how much those particular words make you weak at the knees. It's been too long since you last slept with someone. Sure, you masturbate, but it's not the same. You need the weight of a body over yours, damp limbs dragging against each other, grunts breathed out against your ear. Vi's definitely a groaner.
"You wish."
"I'll be at my dorm! Y'know the one!"
Of course you do. Of course you fucking do because of that one damn time coach made you drop Vi's bag in her dorm, and you had to stand outside for a whole thirty minutes because a sock was hung on the doorknob.
For the rest of the evening, you’re restless. You try to knock yourself to sleep by allowing your hand to wander beneath your undergarments, but it’s a lost cause. You can’t get off.
And you can’t stop thinking about Vi.
It’s frustrating, thinking about that cocky little grin with one crooked tooth. Her muscles, and her ass— good God. The stretchmarks that run along her triceps from the rapid gain of muscle. You even try to imagine her doing the touching when you rub your clit, but again, it’s a futile effort.
Would it be wrong to amuse her? She had been the one that’d told you to visit her dorm, and you’re not dumb enough to not know what she’d been implying.
You’re thankful it’s a Friday. During the weekends, many return to their homes. Vi never does, and you know that because of how close your dorms and not because you’ve recognized the footfalls of Vi’s footsteps when she passes your hall to round the corner and reach her own room.
But it being a Friday means that little to no people are within the residence. And so, you can sneak down the hall and towards Vi’s room is. You knock twice on the wood, briefly glancing down at the knob before it twists. No sock. Thank fuck.
The music playing from Vi’s room becomes much clearer once the door opens. Some heavy-metal shit, though the volume isn’t too loud. Vi’s stripped to some sweats and a wife beater. Her makeup’s off for the evening— no eyeliner, and no smudged, dark eyeshow over her eyelids.
“You came.”
You do not like the way that word rolls out of her mouth. Or, well, you do— but, you don’t want to like it. The innuendo in it isn’t lost in your ears.
“Yeah, don’t cream your pants,” Your hand smacks her in the chest as you make your way into the room. “Won’t be here long.”
You’ll only be a minute if Vi wasn’t bullshitting you.
Her bedroom’s just what you expected. It’s clean, kinda. There’s no underwear, clothes, or socks just lying about random spots on the floor. It doesn’t smell bad, thanks to a candle burning on a dark-wooded nighstand. But there’s the occasional thing— the scattered books and notes on her desk, the numerous band posters ranging from 80’s rock to modern metal bands, and a ruffled bed.
“You were a My Chemical Romance fan in middle school, weren’t you?”
“Guilty.”
Vi slips past you, making a deliberate show of bumping her shoulder againsy yours, before plopping herself on her bed. The hard mattress — because of course the uni wouldn’t invest into good ones — dips slightly under her weight. She manspreads, and that might just get you going like that grin she now wears does.
It’s silent between you two for once. Usually there’s constant bickering and biting. A slap to the back or arm. Insults that come off as compliments in the eyes of everyone else.
“Are you just gonna stand there or am I gonna prove to you that I wasn’t lying?”
The nerve.
“Yeah, yeah— I’m going.”
As you raise your shirt over your head, you’re momentarily blinded, and Vi’s hands take the opportunity to seize your hips and drag you towards the bed. You stumble, but she eases you down onto her lap as you work your shirt off and toss it to the ground. There’s only a brief moment of eye contact before she slots her mouth over yours.
The kiss isn’t sweet.
It’s slow but deep. Her hand grabs a handful of your ass to grind you down against her packer, and the breath she steals from your lungs is enough to work her tongue past your lips and into your mouth. Her free hand cups you by the back of your neck, angling your head to mirror hers.
She nips your bottom lip. You do the same to her tongue.
Vi pulls back with a wet pop and hiss, all too quick at working her own top off. Your hands fall on her inked-up shoulders, down to the front of her chest until your thumbs meet the tattooed vines beneath the scarring there. She hums low in her throat as you explore her body— the ridges, every dip of muscle, and the certain level of softness that comes with not being standing or deliberately flexing.
“Like it?” Vi rasps against your throat, briefly sucking the thin, sensitive flesh into her mouth before dropping her lips to the base of your neck. “C’mon. Tell me what you like about me.”
Your hips roll down against Vi’s, and she chuckles quietly when she catches you rutting against her packer on your own.
“Your body?” You scoff. Your hands plant themselves on Vi’s shoulders to push her down onto the dark sheets. “That’s about it.”
“Sure it is.”
Vi turns the tables by rolling you two over. Your head damn near slams against the wall her bed’s up against from how quickly you were put on your back, but Vi doesn’t give you time to argue to her about it. Her mouth works its way down your sternum, and she keeps your hips pinned to the bed with one hand. Her lips ghost over your belly button, and you don't have to look down to see the smirk on her lips when it prompts a shudder from you.
Your eyes lock onto the ceiling fan as her free hand begins to tug your sweats down your legs. It's easier to stare at something than at her, but it's impossible to forbid goosebumps to arise over your body when Vi's breath hits your inner thighs. Her fingers give a tug to the waistband of your boxers, and upon hearing no complaint and only receiving a raise of your hips to make things easier, Vi lowers them past your thighs.
"Oh, look at you," Vi coos, bending your knees to make your feet plant themselves on the bed and leave your legs spread open in a 'V'. She catches the curse under your breath as her fingers brush over the hairs covering your mound, and you can't help but jump when she spreads you open. "Been thinking about this all evening?"
You had been, of course. Why else would you be so wet? You're pent up from hours of trying to tip yourself over the edge.
"Shut the fuck up and suck me off already, Vi. I expect to cum in a minute."
She noses at the pubic hairs before spreading you open even more. But, a finger pointing at the nightstand catches in your peripheral just as you're preparing yourself for the feeling of her tongue and mouth on you.
"Time it."
"What?"
"Time it." Vi repeats, shooting you a deadpan.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"You want under a minute so I'll give you under a minute. Time. It."
Was this what she deemed as foreplay?
You sit up with a groan and reach for her phone, sliding the control center into view to access the timer. You turn the screen to Vi, thumb hovering over the green 'start' button. Just as you press it, "Starting no—"
You don't get to finish your sentence before Vi's mouth is on you. Most people start of slow, but Vi sure as hell isn't part of that group. Her lips close over your puffy clit with a press of her tongue and hard suck, and your back slams down against the mattress with a choked out whine. Your hands drop down to the top of Vi's head, fingers twisting into the dry, black-dyed strands with a firm pull. She groans against you in turn, loudly, and presses her face firmer between your legs. Her fingers don't tease your entrance much— just a slide up and down over your slit as to not take you by surprise before she's sliding one finger in to the third knuckle. Then, another.
Her fingers curl experimentally, and not for lack of experience. Every person out there has their little quirks. Different likes and dislikes. But once Vi finds your little spot, she knows from the way your hips buck to thrust against her mouth. She pumps her digits, but never enough to peel away the pads of her fingers away from the area that has you both relaxing and clenching around her.
The end of her tongue flicks over the tip of your clit, over, and over, and over. It's maddening, how those light and quick touches are already working you up into an orgasm. Your head tilts to the side, just enough to catch the screen of Vi's phone.
Forty seconds.
You can hold it for twenty more, right?
"Eyes on me."
No, you can't.
You drag your gaze down to Vi, who moves her left arm to curl under your knee. You can hear the obscene noise from your cunt as Vi's fingers give a little spread before pressing into your g-spot again. Her tongue presses flat against the sensitive bud of nerves, and again, she brings the bead into her mouth and suckles, harder now.
"Holy shit, Vi," You gasp out her name, words dying out in a whimper. "Fuck you, you cocky little shit, honestly—"
Vi doesn't take the insult to heart, not when you choke on a wail as your cunt clamps around her fingers like a steel trap. She works you through your orgasm, slowing the gentle pumps of her fingers and peeling her mouth away from your mound. She unhooks her left arm from your leg to reach for the phone and hit 'pause'.
She turns the screen to you, and wait patiently for you to catch your breath to look at it.
Fifty-eight seconds.
Damn it.
You cringe at the sound that comes from the apex of your thighs as Vi pulls her fingers out, and make a very visible grimace when she brings them up to her mouth to suck clean, "You're disgusting."
Vi raises a brow at the irony of your insult, but doesn't push it for once. Instead, she strips herself naked in one simple go — sweats, underwear, packer, all of it — before climbing on top of you. Your eyes drop to the sharp lines of her abdomen, then to her junk. The fuzz there is a bright pink, much like her hair was in the first semester.
"Didn't dye it down there?" You tease.
Vi scoffs, "I'd rather not bleach my bits."
You raise your dominant hand to splay over the sharp angle of her hip, then down to her navel. Vi shudders and raises herself on her knees, eyes fluttering shut as your palm cups her fully. She's wet— drenched, even. So much so her arousal is sticking to the strong, lean muscle of her inner thighs.
"You're a mess, Vi."
"Fuck," Vi chokes on a whimper, head bowing enough that her bangs obscure half of her face. You stare, mesmerized by the way her throat bobs and lips hang open as she steadies herself. "Say more."
"Oh? You're into dirty talk?" You tease her mind and body in one, working your middle and ring finger up and down her slit. Your thumb finds the swollen bud, peeking out from beneath its hood, but the stimulation you offer is slim to none. "What would the team say if they knew they captain actually turned into a whiny little mess when fucking?"
"Shut up," The threat lands empty, for Vi's words leave her in a high-pitch. She reaches for your wrist, almost desperate to just shove your fingers or whole hand in her. But you resist. She's not the only strong soccer player here. "I'm not like this with other people. Just let me ride you already."
"Me, or my fingers?" You croon, head tilting back. You don't wait for an answer before sliding both fingers into her heat in a smooth slide, and Vi's quiet little cry was certainly worth the fucking wait. "You're riding my fingers, but if you want to ride my cock, I can go and get it."
"No," The answer leaves her quickly. She shakes her head, rolling her hips down to stuff your fingers into her down to the very last knuckle. Her palms plant themselves on your abdomen, right beneath your ribs, to steady herself as she begins to ride your hand. "Just keep your fingers angled like that and add another—"
"Another?" You interrupt, staring up at Vi with a grin. To think the captain who's always teasing and laughing at you for doing one sit-up less than her is like this— desperately bouncing up and down your fingers with sweat rolling down her neck and mouth parted. "Can you take it?"
"Yes, I can take it. Just fuck me, damn it!"
You oblige quickly, slipping in a third digit. You're rewarded with a wanton moan from Vi, and just as her upper half bows forward, you're sitting up to catch her chest against yours. The position's not as comfortable now, but Vi makes it work by reaching down to keep your hand steady. Your wrist burns at this point, but the little grunts and short groans Vi breathes out against your ear with each rhythmic pump of your fingers and the movement of her hips is certainly worth it.
"Come on," Your lips drag over Vi's ear, just as your free hand slips down to cradle her waist. Vi nudges her nose against your throat, wet lips sliding across your damp skin. "Come for me, yeah? Be a good boy."
"Oh, fuck," Vi hisses in bliss at the term, curling an arm across your back. She's close— you can feel it by the way she clenches around your fingers and how noisy her cunt's become. Your fingers have no trouble sliding in and out, and neither do you struggle to press against her g-spot and roll your thumb over her clit in tight, quick circles. "There, there—!"
Her hips roll down one final time before she comes with a loud groan against your throat. Her nails, though quite short, leave burning trails across your back in one quick, firm swipe. You hiss against her ear, but keep working Vi through her orgasm like she had done with you. She shudders and twitches as you pepper slow kisses over her ear, but doesn't push you off.
After a minute to come down from her high, Vi pulls herself up and away. She crashes onto her bed on her back with a huff, an arm draped over her eyes. It's not a first for you to see her in all her naked glory, and it won't be the last, but it's always hard not to admire the shape of her body.
You take a glance at the clock on her nightstand. It's not even been ten minutes since you arrived here. Damn.
"Wanna hit the shower?" Vi sits up and cracks her neck, jerking her chin towards the bathroom door.
You scoff, standing up with a nod, "You sound like coach."
A sharp sting hits your backside, courtesy of one of the shirts Vi had picked up, "Don't compare me to that old hag."
mom's best friend baran with butch reader who has a crush on her for a while that he's willing to do everything just to hit.
hearing that baran does yoga from your mom so when baran comes over, you start bringing up wanting to start yoga but don't know how so baran naturally invites you to her house so you can learn the basics.
baran knowing your true intentions but still offering to teach you cuz she honestly has a crush on you too but feels way too guilty and turned on to act on it.
the teaching session going innocent at first but when baran sees your muscles she can't help but start groping you and telling you it's just so she can correct your form.
also, baran sending you videos of her yoga sessions so you have a reference but you can't focus on learning the poses when she's all sweaty and grunting in the videos... definitely not inspired by those sepi gym pies
butch, whose interest in yoga skyrocketed when his mom made him go to baran's house to drop something off, and baran answered the door in her yoga clothes. sports bra, yoga shorts, hair up in a messy bun. you nearly dropped whatever you were supposed to bring her when she smiled at you, all breathless and sweaty. butch, with the biggest strap boner ever, trying not to stare at her chest while walking inside. baran, who can't help but tease you a bit because you're not exactly subtle with your staring, hugging you before you leave, pressing her chest against you tightly.
bringing it up when baran comes over to your house, coming up with something about back pain and wanting to alleviate it. maybe trying to impress her and saying that you find 'inner peace' 😭 baran, who knows you're bullshitting, eagerly offering to teach you. she knows you're just trying to spend time with her and ogle her, and it turns her on so much, even if she feels guilty about the age difference. you're grown enough, but you're her friend's daughter. but she can't help herself! her mind will drift to you when she's in bed with her hand between her legs. she'll have the most perverted thoughts ever when she visits your mom and you're walking around the house in your chest tape and shorts.
butch, who acts dumb just so baran can manhandle them and force them into the correct position :3 mumbling an apology when she walks over to show you the right stance, face blushing and stomach flipping when her hands touch your arms. having to bite your lip super hard while she borderline gropes you, flexing for her and staring at her face, just hoping she'll try something.
butch staring at baran's cleavage while she teaches them poses. having trouble following along because you're so distracted by the way the sunlight highlights her pretty face.
baran growing wet because of butch's strap print through their shorts...
baran whispering into your ear while guiding you into positions, hands forcing your thighs apart and showing you the proper form.
cocky!butch asking baran the best pose for sex which leads to baran getting fucked on her yoga mat :p or maybe it's butch who ends up doing the knee-to-chest pose while baran fingers them :3
going home hard and wet as fuck, needing to take care of the throbbing between your legs because baran got you so worked up :( after cumming, you grab your phone and go to text her, but she sends you an image before you can even type. it's a selfie of her in her yoga clothes, but it's angled down a bit, showing way more breast than her face. she tells you that she had fun teaching you, and that if you need her to send any videos as reference, or if you wanna come over again, just let her know :)
baran grunting louder than usual in her videos just to get you worked up...starting her videos off by giving you a view of her cleavage, then propping her phone up so she can teach you a new pose :)
perv!baran touching herself to the videos you send back, because of course you're gonna send her videos of you in your sports bra/chest tape and your gym shorts!!
desperate, eager to fuck butch who breaks one day and begs to come over after baran sends him a video of her yoga session @__@ telling her that you know what she's doing and that you can take care of her. confessing your crush and telling her how often you've thought about doing things to her. baran getting the best fuck of her life from some butchcock, screaming out your name and scratching up your back. she thinks that her marks are gonna look so pretty when you come over for your next 'yoga' session <3
Some of the many different ways your girlfriend (turned fiancé [turned wife]) tells you that she wants to have sex with you.
Contains ~
Texts and dialogue. Heavily suggestive themes, but none of the actual sex (sorry). Swearing. Mentions of alcohol and weed. AFAB reader and AFAB Ellie. Masc Ellie. Reader can look however you want her to look, she has no physical description in this other than that she has a female body shape.
Standing in your kitchen, humming languidly to yourself, you mix the brownie batter in the floral patterned bowl. Flour coats every surface of the small room, including your nose.
You can hear the shuffling behind you before you find your fiancé's arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you back into her warm body.
"Hey, sweetcheeks."
You smile wider at her low murmur. "Hi, Els. Everything okay?"
Ellie nods against your shoulder, tilting her head to press her lips on the spot just beneath your ear. Her lips are slightly chapped but comforting nonetheless.
"The brownies will take thirty minutes..."
"Good. Thirty minutes that we can use wisely."
You turn, grinning at your soon-to-be wife. "What are you suggesting, Elizabeth Williams?"
"That isn't my name," she rolls her eyes before grabbing your hips and tugging you closer, chests pressed together and noses nearly brushing. "But I'm suggesting..."
And then she breaks out into a sort of sexy sound effect, if you will. A 'bow-chica-wow-wow' kind of noise. Something utterly dorky, but almost endearing...?
"God, you're such an idiot," you huff before colliding your lips with hers.
Let's just say... she got what she was suggesting after you put the brownies in the oven.
You were surprised she asked since you two had kept your relationship such a secret. It was easy since she was in the ER and you were in Peds. Her rough start with Robby being such a prick was a big motivator to keep Baran from looking unprofessional in any way. Not that it was. She just didn't want a reason to have her ethics questioned.
When you pointed that out she had cradled your face and said if Robby could have had a minimum of two workplace relationships that definitely did not work out. She could and should show off her very healthy relationship with her amazing talented girlfriend.
She takes you shopping for a suit. She tells you hers is navy and nothing else wanting you to not be influenced by her. When you come out in the suit you really like you find yourself out of it very quickly and nearly getting caught by the attendant. Thankfully Baran's mind was a bit more clear and able to produce some excuse as to why it was taking so long. When you get home she puts on her dress and she finds herself out of it rather quickly as well but with no interruption thank god.
When you were getting ready the night of the Gala Baran and about to leave Baran surprised you with cufflinks in the shape of a cursive B. She smirked at you with an air of possession simmering under her gaze. "So there's no confusion about how you belong to." She said before dragging your dumbfounded body out to the Uber. In the car she fixes your hair and tells you how absurdly handsome you looked. You tried desperately not to completely crumble under her attention.
At the Gala you two entered together, Baran arm wrapped around yours in a way that left no room to question what you were to each other. Eyes immediately landed on you which then did a double take when you reached the bottom and she leaned in kissing your cheek smiling like no other. "I'm so happy Azizam that I get to let our coworkers know how lucky I am." She whispered.
You drank, ate, and danced for part of the night. But most of it was talking to everyone who knew you and Baran. Her residents (the Pittlings as she lovingly called them) were the most enamored trying to get the whole story. But Baran had told them that was more a story for a bar than a Gala. Your coworkers took a different approach and asked Baran if she had to remind you as much as they did to drink water and eat your lunch as they did. She didn't have to but promised them she'd work on that with you at home. Your coworkers were passing money around after that and you didn't bother asking what that was about. You'd know come tomorrow.
The both of you wrapped up the evening taking shots when the Pittlings so by the time you got home you were both teetering between tipsy and drunk. But one thing was very true. You were both extremely horny.
None of your clothes made it to the bedroom. You made an immediate pitstop at the front door. Then the kitchen counter. Then the couch. Then the hallway wall. When you finally made it to the bedroom you pulled an unknown amount of rounds before collapsing into each other at 3am knowing that tomorrow would be the longest day of work for multiple reasons. But neither of you found the will to care.
Rita Calhoun x Navy Seal!reader
Warnings: lots of flirting!, Rita being a lil shyt, sass city
WC: 3.1k
Authors Note: I'm back! Life has been pretty rough lately so writing has been hard. I missed my ladies. Thank you @roylekel for this request! This is part 1 and I'll keep adding to this story as the mood strikes. Enjoy my loves <3
Your sister had insisted you “do something normal,” which was how you ended up in a boutique self-defense studio off Madison Avenue — the sort of place where the air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and generational wealth.
You took a place near the mirrored wall, hidden but observant, dressed in your faded Navy sweatshirt and joggers.
If your sister wanted you to blend into civilian life, you’d try, terribly, but you’d try.
Leave was supposed to feel restful. Instead, it felt like wearing someone else’s clothes.
The instructor had just started explaining wrist breaks when the door opened with the soft but unmistakable confidence of someone used to entering rooms worth entering.
A woman stepped inside — late, unbothered. Camel coat draped over one arm, sunglasses still on, a coffee from a place with no posted prices.
Her presence didn’t fill the room so much as recalibrate it. Her gaze passed over glossy-haired associates and executives, then caught on you.
You raised your fingers in a lazy two-finger salute before you could stop yourself. Old habits. She lifted one eyebrow above the rim of her sunglasses and almost smiled.
The instructor cleared his throat. “Welcome, we’re just getting started. You can join any group.”
She removed her sunglasses with leisure, revealing sharp, assessing hazel eyes. “Lovely. And here I was worried I’d missed all the fun.”
The instructor gestured her toward a cluster of women. She ignored it, walking directly toward you.
“Is this spot taken?”
You shook your head. “Help yourself.”
She looked at you a beat too long, playful in her gaze. “You stand out,” she said.
You huffed a soft laugh. “Look who’s talking.”
Her smirk softened into something warmer. “Touché. Two standouts in one room—imagine the odds.”
A beat passed before you asked, “You got a name?”
She let out a soft huff of laughter. “Rita.”
The name carried weight, like she expected you to recognize it. You only noticed the way she said it — controlled, polished, practiced — like a signature on expensive stationery.
“And you?” she asked.
You gave her your name, and she repeated it back in a low, testing murmur, as if trying to decide where to place you in her mental puzzle.
Before either of you could say more, the instructor clapped his hands. “Pair up with a partner!”
Rita didn’t look away from you.
“Well,” she said, sliding off her jacket and rolling her sleeves to her elbows. “Shall we?”
You weren’t sure whether she meant the drill. Or the trouble she’d very clearly just invited you into.
Either way, her confidence was a gravitational force.
She stepped closer, enough that you could smell her perfume — expensive, the kind worn by women who never rushed for anything. “I work with cops,” she said, lowering her voice as if leaning on a bar instead of standing on a padded gym floor. “I can tell when someone walks in with training. And you scream ‘military.’ What branch?”
You kept your stance loose, hands relaxed. “Navy.”
She gave you a once-over, the kind that began professional and slipped into something amusing. “Navy what?”
“…Just Navy.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s an adorable lie,” she said, folding her arms.
“Or a deflection. And I get the feeling you’re very good at those.”
“Oh, I’m excellent at it.” You let a slow grin appear, just to watch her reaction.
Before she could ask anything else, the instructor called out, “Volunteers for the next demonstration?”
Your hand went up out of habit. Hers rose a half-second later.
She glanced sideways. “Guess we’re doing this.”
The drill was simple: break a wrist grab, step back, counter—at least for you.
Rita, as it turned out, was stronger than her frame suggested and infinitely more competitive. She engaged like she did everything in life: with expectation of victory.
The first time you redirected her wrist without effort, she blinked, scandalized. “How—what—okay. Again.”
You repeated the motion with the same gentle precision.
Her eyes narrowed. “You are absolutely not just Navy.”
“Maybe I work a desk.”
“Oh yes,” she said dryly. “You radiate ‘administrative support.’”
You leaned in, voice dropping. “Are you investigating me, Rita?”
Her breath hitched — barely, but enough to betray her. “I’m observant,” she countered. “It’s not every day someone like you shows up to a Saturday class in Midtown.”
“Someone like me?”
A devastating smile curved her mouth.
“Strong. Very controlled. Annoyingly skilled. You could’ve tossed me across the room, but you were being polite.
You chuckled. “Want me to stop being polite?”
She blinked rapidly, regaining composure with visible effort. “I—no. Well… later? Perhaps. Purely for educational purposes.”
God, she was fun.
When the seminar ended, the others drifted out with water bottles and weekend plans. Rita didn’t move. She lingered against the mirrored wall, tapping her phone without ever unlocking it, as if waiting for a reason to stay.
You walked toward her. “Headed anywhere?”
She looked up, caught. “Home.”
Then, before you could respond: “I’m two blocks away. And before you ask — no, I don’t need a ride.”
“Didn’t say you did,” you replied, amused. “I just figured maybe I’d walk with you.”
She huffed an involuntary laugh. “Direct, aren’t you?”
“Efficient. In my line of work, it helps.”
“And what line of work is that?”
You shrugged. “Right now? Vacation.”
Her expression softened, like light catching glass. “You don’t seem like someone who relaxes easily.”
“I don’t.”
She smiled — a real one, the kind that settled low in your chest. “Well. If you’re bored, there’s a place around the corner with terrible pastries but excellent people-watching.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You offering to spend more time with me?”
“You’re interesting.” She said it simply, like an unnegotiable fact. “I don’t meet many people who can flip me without dislocating my shoulder.”
You pretended to consider. “Alright. Coffee.”
As you walked beside her onto the street, she nudged you lightly with her elbow.
“So,” she said, that signature sly curve returning to her mouth, “when you inevitably tell me what you really do… make it dramatic.”
You bit back a grin. “Trust me, I’ve got material.”
She laughed and the sound of it slipped into your bones, loosening something that had been clenched tight for far too long.
For the first time since returning home, you felt… human again.
—
The café was the kind of place that tried to look effortless and failed — curated rustic, with reclaimed wood tables and pastries arranged like museum pieces.
Rita pushed the door open with her shoulder and held it for you, though she did it with the kind of casual precision that made it seem like she held doors only when she wished to — not out of obligation, but out of strategy.
“Order whatever you want,” she said, waving vaguely at the chalkboard menu. “Just don’t choose the almond croissant. It tastes like ennui.”
You snorted. “Noted.”
She ordered an Americano; you ordered something with oatmilk and foam that made her raise an eyebrow like she was adding the detail to a dossier.
The two of you took a small corner table, half-hidden behind a pillar, where the noise softened to a pleasant murmur. You settled opposite her, and she draped her coat over the back of her chair — the kind of coat that suggested private drivers and winter weekends in the Hamptons.
She studied you again. You were starting to understand that she didn’t do anything halfway — not her career, not her wardrobe, not her scrutiny.
“So,” she said, wrapping elegant fingers around her mug. “You’re on leave. From…?”
You could deflect. You usually did. But something about the way she asked made it feel like a dare — one you didn’t mind rising to.
“Navy,” you said. Then, because her gaze invited precision: “Navy SEAL.”
She went very still. Then slowly blinked, as if recalibrating her assessment of you.
“Well,” she murmured, leaning back. “That is considerably more dramatic than I expected.”
“You asked,” you said with a shrug. “And you wanted dramatic.”
“Please,” she scoffed, though her eyes were gleaming. “If you’d told me you were a dentist, I would’ve assumed there was a classified component. You radiate competency.” Her mouth curved.
You sipped your coffee. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” she admitted without shame.
A moment passed — not awkward, but charged.
She rested her chin on her hand, studying you with something warm, curious, and interested.
“You know,” she said lightly, “you still haven’t asked what I do.”
“I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”
She hummed at that — amused. Then she said, with a small, elegant shrug, “I’m a defense attorney.”
You raised your brows. “You defend criminals for a living?”
“I defend the Constitution,” she corrected smoothly. “Sometimes the Constitution is standing behind a man who did terrible things, but that’s hardly my fault.”
You laughed, unable to help it. “You’re dangerous too.”
She lifted one shoulder. “In Manolo Blahnik, even.”
Rita leaned in slightly, voice low enough to be intimate. “So let me get this straight. You jump out of planes and storm buildings… and you voluntarily spent your Saturday in a self-defense class full of women who buy crystals for protection?”
“Trying to stay sharp,” you said. “And my sister signed me up.”
“She has excellent taste,” Rita murmured, her gaze making a slow path over your shoulders, your jaw, the way you sat. “Very excellent taste.”
Heat flickered under your skin — not embarrassment, but recognition. She wasn’t subtle. She wasn’t trying to be. She was enjoying this: the reveal, the banter, the proximity.
When the coffees were nearly finished, she glanced toward the window, then back at you with a different expression — a quieter one, though no less certain.
You watched her trace the rim of her mug with one fingertip, an uncharacteristically pensive gesture from someone who seemed otherwise incapable of second-guessing herself. It struck you how… human she looked in that moment.
You cleared your throat. “I should tell you something.”
Her attention snapped back to you, alert in that lawyerly way. “Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you’ve grown attached in the last two hour.”
Her mouth curved, sly. “Impossible to say.”
You leaned your forearms on the table. “I’m only in the city for two weeks. Leave. Then I fly back out.”
There was a brief tightening around her eyes, there and gone so fast you might’ve imagined it. But she recovered with a practiced smoothness.
“Well,” she said, “some people are worth knowing even on a countdown clock.”
You smiled, softer than you meant to.
“So,” you said, trying to sound casual and not at all like your heart had just done something inconvenient, “can I see you again while I’m here?”
Rita’s brows lifted, undeniably pleased. “Are you asking me out?”
“Yes. I’m asking if you’d like to get coffee again,” you countered. “Maybe somewhere with pastries that don’t taste like cardboard.”
She laughed — a low, warm sound that made her look less polished and more reachable. She studied you and you had the strange feeling of being evaluated for admission to a club you hadn’t applied to but very much wanted to join.
“I suppose,” she said, though the softness in her voice betrayed that she’d made up her mind before you even asked. “My schedule is… demanding, but I can make time.”
“I can be flexible.”
“I get the impression you’re many things,” she said, “but flexible wasn’t one I expected.”
“Try me.”
Rita let her gaze drift down your forearms, your shoulders, then back to your eyes. “Oh, I intend to.”
Your pulse jumped—a subtle little traitorous thing—and the corner of her mouth lifted like she’d heard it.
She reached for her coat, smoothing it over one arm. “Before we do coffee again, meet me tomorrow evening,” she said. “There’s a place I like. Excellent wine list. Do you own anything that won’t scandalize the hostess?”
You blinked. “I have… a jacket.”
“A jacket.” She repeated it as if tasting the word and finding it adorable. “Fine. We’ll make it work.”
You stood as she did, stepping closer than necessary, only realizing too late how little distance there was between the two of you. Her breath brushed your cheek. She didn’t step back.
“Two weeks,” she murmured. “We’d better not waste any of it.”
You gave her a slow nod. “Agreed.”
Rita slipped on her sunglasses, elegant armor returning. You didn’t miss the tiny curve of her lips before she turned toward the door.
She paused with her hand on the frame, glancing back at you once.
“Don’t go jumping out of planes before tomorrow,” she said.
“No promises.”
You watched her walk away, feeling the strange, startling buzz of excitement settle in your ribs.
—
Your sister nearly dropped her glass when you told her you had a date.
“A what?”
“A date,” you repeated, trying not to smile. “Tonight.”
“With who?” she demanded, already crossing her arms like she was about to interrogate you under a bare bulb. “You’ve been home for three days. How did you even meet someone? You can’t talk to anyone without scanning for exits.”
You shrugged. “Self-defense seminar.”
She blinked. “You went to that thing I signed you up for?”
“I was bored.”
“And?”
You hesitated, then said too casually, “Met someone.”
Your sister’s eyes widened with glee. “Oh my god. You like her.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You like her,” she repeated, marching to the hall closet like she’d been preparing for this moment since your enlistment. “And you are absolutely not wearing that ‘Navy sweatshirt trying to be a personality’ thing on a date. What’s the vibe?”
“Wine bar,” you said, surrendering to the inevitable. “Fancy. Fancy enough that she asked if I owned anything that wouldn’t scandalize the hostess.”
Your sister grinned like she’d been handed an Olympic-level challenge. “Say no more.”
An hour later, your bed was buried under what looked like half of her closet: tailored jackets, crisp shirts, slim-cut trousers, all in deep neutrals and sharp silhouettes. But she kept pushing garments aside, muttering to herself.
“No, softer shoulders… no, this color is wrong for your skin tone… no, you need something that says ‘I’m dangerous, but I’ll also hold your drink while you fix your lipstick.’”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Absolutely.”
In the end, she chose a dark charcoal suit that fit your frame like it had been waiting its whole life for you. Strong lines, clean detail, understated but undeniably butch. A crisp white shirt. Polished boots.
You looked in the mirror and felt like yourself.
Your sister stood behind you, her hands on your shoulders. “You look good,” she said. “Like… actually relaxed. I’m proud of you.”
You swallowed, caught off guard by the warmth in your chest. “Thanks.”
“Now go,” she said, waving you off. “Go be charming and mysterious and broody but emotionally available just enough. And if she’s awful, I’ll come drag you out by your ear.”
“She’s not awful,” you said before you could stop yourself.
She turned, eyebrows raised. “Oh. You really like her.”
—
Rita had told you to meet her at a wine bar on the Upper East Side — the kind of place with marble steps, whispered lighting, and a front door that looked like it judged your worthiness before opening.
You arrived a few minutes early.
Which meant you got to watch her walk in.
And god — you were taken.
Rita wore an expensive suit with a tailored blazer and a skirt that fell mid-thigh, just long enough to be professional and just short enough to be lethal. A silk blouse in a deep jewel tone. And Manolo Blahnik heels that made her legs look like they belonged in a museum.
Your first coherent thought was that you had no business looking at her like that — and your second was that she wanted you to.
Her eyes swept over you — the suit, the posture, the way you stood when you were trying not to be nervous. Her lips parted slightly, like she’d been caught off-guard.
“Well,” she said after a beat. “That jacket will not scandalize the hostess.”
“High praise,” you murmured.
“From me? It is.”
The hostess led you to a quiet corner booth, the lighting low and flattering, the room filled with soft conversation and the faint clink of crystal glasses.
Rita crossed her legs, and you had to subtly rewire your brain.
“You clean up well,” she said, glancing at you over the top of her wine menu.
“So do you.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I always clean up well.”
“I noticed.”
She smirked, pleased.
The night unfolded easily. Rita teased you for being the kind of person who noticed exits and angles; you teased her for noticing everyone’s motives. It felt strangely easy, the two of you slipping into each other’s rhythms without effort.
She talked about the art scene with the familiarity of someone who actually frequented galleries; you admitted the last museum you’d been in was on a foreign base and mostly full of old maps.
Rita laughed — a clean, unpolished burst of amusement that startled something loose in you. She looked softer like this, her brilliance still flaring in her eyes but less guarded, less curated. You didn’t mean to feel it, that small thrum of wonder in your chest, but it bloomed anyway.
“You know,” she said, swirling her wine, “I never do this. The whole… letting someone get to know me thing.”
“Same,” you admitted. “But I’m making an exception.”
Her eyes softened. “So am I.”
Time slipped. The restaurant began to empty. At one point, her knee brushed yours beneath the table — subtle, then neither of you moved.
By the time you stepped outside, the night had settled into a cool, quiet glow. Streetlights shimmered on the pavement.
“This was…” she began, then paused, unusual for her. “Unexpected.”
“Good unexpected?”
She met your eyes, and whatever armor she wore in court wasn’t present here.
“Very.”
You hesitated, savoring the moment — then reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
A small, helpless sound left her lips—the first unguarded thing you’d heard from her.
“May I?” you asked.
“Yes,” she said, almost a whisper.
You leaned in, pressing your lips to hers.
Rita kissed like she handled arguments — controlled, articulate — but there was a spark beneath it, something warm that opened the moment your hand rested lightly on her waist. Her fingers curled into your lapel, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.
When you finally pulled back, she was still holding your jacket, eyes slightly dazed, lips faintly parted.
“Well,” she murmured. “I suppose I’ll be thinking about that for an unreasonable amount of time.”
“Same,” you said, breathless in a way you never let yourself be.
She stepped back just enough to regain composure, though her voice was still velvet-soft. “Tomorrow? Coffee?”
“If you want.”
“Oh,” she said with that devastating half-smile, “I very much do.”
She walked away then, heels clicking, perfume drifting behind her — but halfway down the block, she glanced over her shoulder.
