BR⭐️

The air on the film set always smelled the same: a specific mixture of hot LED light dust, burnt coffee, and an invisible layer of compressed ego.

But today, the air was different. It was static, charged with an electricity that made the hair on my arms stand up. Billie was sitting in the director's chair, headphones pressed tight against her ears.

Her fingers tapped against the armrest with an irregularity that betrayed her irritation.

She had been like that for hours, watching the monitor, dissecting every movement, every blink, every sigh I let out.

This wasn't just a sex scene; it was the emotional climax of the movie, the moment when my character—a woman who had spent her entire life hiding her true nature—finally let her guard down before the woman who, in the fiction, was destroying and building her at the same time.

"Cut," she said. Her voice, amplified by the PA system, sounded like a whip crack in the deathly silence of the studio. "I need a break. Ten minutes."

The lighting crew began to move with the speed of those who fear drawing the boss's wrath. I stayed there, in the middle of the set, my breathing ragged, trying to stabilize my heart rate. I felt the weight of her gaze even before she walked toward me.

Billie didn't walk; she glided with an intimidating confidence.

She stopped just inches away. No greetings, no "good try." Just a cold, analytical, almost clinical look.

"What was that?" she asked. Her voice was a raspy whisper, but it carried an edge capable of cutting metal.

"I tried, Billie. It’s a complicated scene, emotionally it's..."

"I didn't ask you about the difficulty, I asked you about the execution," she interrupted.

She took another step, invading my personal space until I could smell her perfume: sandalwood and something metallic, almost industrial.

"You're acting, and I specifically asked you to stop doing that. It lacks passion, it lacks hunger. If you can't give me that kind of surrender in front of the camera, you’re going to ruin my scene. You're there, in front of me, and it sounds like you’re reading from a restaurant menu."

I felt the heat rise up my neck, mixed with a frustration that burned.

"It's not that easy," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "You're the director, you have total control here. It’s easy to ask for absolute vulnerability when you have a screen in between protecting you from having to expose your own body."

Her eyes narrowed. There was a silence so tense that I swear I could hear the buzzing of the lights above our heads.

Billie let out a dry laugh, without a hint of joy. She grabbed my chin with one hand, forcing me to look up. Her grip wasn't painful, but it was definitive. It was a declaration of professional ownership that felt strangely personal.

"Do you think control protects me from anything?" she whispered, in a tone that made me shiver. "Then I think we need a directing exercise. Something more... private."

She walked away, turning her back on me without saying anything else.

"See you in my suite at ten. Bring the script, though I doubt we're going to use it."

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of anxiety and anticipation. I arrived at her suite at exactly 10:00 PM. The hotel hallway was silent, but my heart was pounding in my ears like a war drum.

When the door opened, I found a different Billie.

She was no longer the implacable director with the walkie-talkie and the furrowed brow. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that hid her thighs and her hair was messy, as if she had run her hands through it for hours.

She let me in with a gesture. The room was in twilight; the heavy curtains blocked the city light, letting only the amber glow of a floor lamp in the corner cast long, deep shadows on the walls.

"You're late," she said, closing the door with a metallic click that echoed in the emptiness of the room.

"Are you going to teach me or are you just going to scold me again?" I replied, trying to regain my dignity, even though my hands were trembling slightly.

Billie detached herself from the wall and walked toward me. She didn't stop until our breaths mingled. Her hands rose slowly, traveling over my shoulders, stopping at my neck.

"The problem," she began to say, her voice vibrating against my skin, "is that you're afraid of what you might feel if you let go. You're afraid of what my body hides, you're afraid of the reality of what I am, and, above all, you're afraid that you might like it so much that you can never pretend to act again in your life."

She stared at me, daring me to look away.

"How can you be sure it's simple if you're not even in the scene?" I challenged her, feeling the air become unbreathable. "You only say what to do. Directing from the outside is easy."

Billie smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who knows exactly where they are going to take you.

"You're right. Let's rehearse. And this time, I am going to be the only one directing the rhythm of your breathing."

The silence in the room wasn't empty; it was charged with a tension that I could almost taste. Billie didn't move away.

On the contrary, she closed the last centimeter that separated us, and I felt her heat radiating through her clothes, a heat that promised to burn away any reservations I had left.

"If you want to know why I'm so demanding, you're going to have to stop analyzing me and start feeling me," she whispered, in a tone that made it clear this was no longer a conversation about work. "Take off your clothes. I don't want an actress in front of me, I want a real woman who isn't afraid to show her desperation."

My pulse quickened, beating against my ribs with a frantic rhythm. I obeyed, moved by a mixture of curiosity, defiance, and an attraction I had been trying to repress for weeks under the lights of the set.

My hands searched for the hem of my blouse, and as I undressed under her uninterrupted gaze, I felt her scrutiny like a physical touch on my skin.

Billie discarded her t-shirt in a fluid movement, revealing a firm, athletic physique, a figure that had always remained hidden during the months of filming.

But what left me speechless, what made my knees buckle, was seeing her without barriers.

The presence of her anatomy, imposing and direct, forced me to understand at once why she had always projected that aura of superiority and control. She didn't just direct; she possessed a physical reality that demanded absolute attention.

"On yours knees" she commanded, her voice dropping to a deeper, raspy, almost authoritarian tone.

I dropped to the carpet, feeling the texture under my hands as I looked up at her. Billie positioned herself in front of me, and when she reached out to guide my head, it wasn't a soft caress.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling my scalp just enough to force me to open my mouth, to expose myself completely to her demands.

"Look at me," she said, and although her order was simple, the weight of her gaze anchored me to the spot. "You're going to learn that passion isn't something you act. Passion is something you demand. You're going to show me that you have the hunger I asked for. Start."

I didn't have to ask what she meant. I leaned in, my lips brushing the skin that was pulsing with her own excitement.

The initial contact was electric, a surge that traveled down my spine. Billie let out a choked gasp, an involuntary response that gave me a rush of power.

I began to work slowly, learning the anatomy she presented to me, letting my tongue and lips trace the boundaries of what I was willing to give, feeling her hardness increase in my mouth.

She guided the rhythm with a hand on the back of my neck, pressing, demanding more, forcing me to deepen.

"That's it, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice cracking a little. "Don't stop. I know you can give me more. I want you to feel what I am. I want you to lose yourself in this."

The experience was overwhelming. My senses sharpened to the point of pain; I could smell the musk and desire, the taste of hot skin, the texture of her skin under my hands as I explored her.

Billie began to let out words, little instructions loaded with a degradation that, far from offending me, turned me on.

She called me names that no director should use with their actress, reminding me that in that moment, in that suite, there were no cameras, no budget, no production company. It was just us, united by an urgency that threatened to consume me.

"You're so desperate to please me," she mocked, her hand lowering to caress my cheek with a harshness that contrasted with her tone. "What would the crew say if they saw their lead actress begging for a little more?"

She forced me to continue until my jaw ached and my lungs begged for air. Every time I tried to pull away, she held me back, reminding me that "acting" was unacceptable.

It had to be raw. It had to be real. And it was. I was losing the notion of where my will ended and hers began.

Billie, sensing that I was reaching the limit of my endurance, pulled me gently backward, forcing me to lie on the bed.

The fabric of the sheets felt cool against my hot skin, a contrast that made me shiver.

She didn't let me rest. She positioned herself between my legs, her gaze analyzing each of my gestures, looking for that spark of "hunger" she had rebuked me for not having.

"Now it's your turn to learn," she said, lowering her body onto mine.

"Let's see if you can maintain this level of intensity when you're the one in control."

The air in the room felt thick now, heavy with the scent of our shared desire. Billie moved with a deliberation that kept me in a state of constant alertness. There was no rush in her movements, which was an even crueler form of torture.

She wanted every fiber of my being to be tuned into what was about to happen.

She positioned herself between my thighs, and the weight of her body on top of mine was a constant reminder that, in that space, she dictated the rules of gravity.

Her hands traced lines of invisible fire over my torso, lowering to my hips to spread me, exposing me to her in a way that made me feel dangerously vulnerable.

"You've been acting with such restraint all day," she murmured, her lips brushing the sensitive skin of my neck before lowering slowly. "Let's get rid of that. Let's break everything that holds you back."

Billie began to explore my body, but not with the softness one would expect from a lover. Her fingers were decisive, expert, almost technical in their search for my breaking points.

Every time my body arched from a surge of pleasure, she would stop, forcing me to seek her contact, to beg her with my eyes to continue.

It was degradation disguised as a lesson. She reminded me, with small whispers in my ear, how "unprepared" I was for the role she herself had given me, how much I lacked to understand true surrender.

"You're so wet," she said, her voice loaded with dark triumph as her tongue descended, claiming her territory. "For someone who says she doesn't know how to be passionate, your body seems to have a very different opinion."

The contact of her mouth, mixed with the excessive amount of saliva she used to lubricate me, created a friction that pushed me to the brink of overstimulation. Each lick was precise, a direct hit to the nerve that controlled my ability to think clearly. The way she used her mouth, without modesty, without pause, forced me to let out moans that embarrassed and excited me in equal parts.

It was a sensory orgy where she was the artist and I was the piece she was molding to her whim.

"Feel that?" she asked, stopping for a second to look at me from below, her eyes darkened by excitement. "That's the hunger I talked about. And it's only the beginning."

Billie didn't wait for my spasms to cease. With cruel efficiency, she forced me to adopt a more open position, my knees driven into the mattress while she positioned herself behind me.

The temperature contrast was absolute: the sweat beading on my skin cooled under the air conditioning, but the heat emanating from her as she pressed her sex against my entrance was scorching.

"Don't you dare close your eyes," she ordered, her right hand finding the back of my neck and pulling with just enough force to make my head tilt back, exposing my throat to her wet, erratic kisses.

I felt the first contact, a firm thrust that forced me to let out a choked gasp. Billie didn't enter all at once; she took the necessary time to stretch me, to force my tissues to yield to her size.

I felt how she widened me, how every millimeter of her claimed space inside me, stretching my internal walls until I felt I was being filled in an almost impossible way.

"Look at me," she ordered, grabbing my hair to force my head back. "Look at what I'm doing to you. Stop hiding. Stop pretending you aren't exactly what I wanted in that scene."

"Look how easily you yield when you stop fighting," she whispered against my ear, her voice a deep vibration I felt in my own bones. "I was stretching you from the first take, since I saw you on the first day on set, and you didn't even notice."

Her thrusts began slowly, deeply. Each sway was an exercise in control. She filled me completely, withdrawing just enough to strike again against my most sensitive spot, hitting over and over again with surgical precision that made me see stars.

It was constant friction, the sound of our flesh hitting in time with her raspy breathing, a rhythm that forced me to keep going even though my lungs burned.

"Billie... please," I managed to articulate, my voice broken.

"Please what?" she mocked, increasing the intensity, her fingers sinking into the skin of my hips, marking me with the pressure of her knuckles. "Do you want me to stop or do you want me to really fill you? Because if you want it to be real, you're going to have to endure this."

Each thrust felt like a brand. She stretched me to the limit of my elasticity, feeling how my walls pulsed against her, trying to embrace her heat.

The sensation of being stretched like that, of being invaded with such possessiveness, caused a masochistic response that prevented me from asking her to stop.

I wanted more. I wanted that sensation of absolute fullness to erase any trace of the actress I was hours before.

"You're so tight," she complained, but her tone was loaded with dark desire. "You're clinging to me, do you realize? You can't stop acting, can you? Even now, your body tries to pretend you don't love this."

"It's... it's not acting," I gasped, feeling a new wave of pleasure begin to rise from the base of my spine.

"Prove it to me. Scream. Let the whole hotel know the director finally broke her lead actress."

Her movements turned wild. The swaying lost the technical cadence to become a succession of fast, deep blows that forced me to stumble forward, only for her to pull me back again, preventing me from escaping.

The rubbing of her member against my walls, the friction, the overstimulation of my clitoris that she continued to caress with one hand while the other subdued me, all converged into a sensory chaos.

I felt she was molding me from within.

Every time she stretched me, I felt how my nerve endings ignited, one after another, until my consciousness was reduced only to the point of contact.

The verbal degradation was the fuel that kept my brain blocked; every word of hers, every insult disguised as an instruction, made me want to try harder to please her.

"That's it, let go," she ordered, while her thrusts became more erratic. "Let me stretch you, let me fill you until there's no room left in you, until you're just me."

With an agile movement, she flipped me completely, leaving me with my back to her, and without giving me a breather, she sank inside me again.

When my hips started moving on their own, responding to her rhythm with a desperation I couldn't control, she let out a growl of satisfaction.

She knew she had me. She knew it when my spasms began to be violent, shaking my whole body, and she, far from softening the rhythm, accelerated it, hitting with a force that made me sob, taking me to the edge of the abyss again and again, stretching me, breaking me, and putting me back together with each thrust.

The air in the room became unbreathable, charged with the smell of our desire and the electricity of the dominance Billie exerted over every one of my movements. Just when I thought she had taken me to the limit, she took my hips with brutal firmness and forced me to turn around again.

"Enough of being down there," she declared with a predatory smile. "I want to see you. I want to see you facing me, on top of me."

She forced me to sit astride her. The sensation of being stretched by her anatomy while our skins fused was a direct shock to the system. Billie reclined against the pillows, keeping me held by the waist, and began to dictate the rhythm, pushing from below with a precision that made me lose my sense of reality.

"Look at you," she whispered, with darkened eyes, watching me as I bounced on her to the rhythm of her thrusts. Her hands went up to squeeze my breasts, kneading them with a mixture of roughness and adoration. "You look so cute like this, totally surrendered. Have you seen what pretty tits you have? They look so good when you lose yourself, when you can't control even a single sob."

Every time I went down, she pushed me up with a dry, deep thrust that made me arch my back and moan. It was exquisite torture.

"Tell me, sweetheart," she said, stopping barely a second to rub her nose against mine, her voice a hissing murmur. "Do you want me to mark you, baby? Do you want makeup to have to struggle tomorrow on set to cover this? Do you want the world to see, even a trace, of what I did to you tonight?"

A shiver of pure anticipation ran down my spine.

"Yes..." I managed to articulate, my voice broken. "Mark me, Billie. Please."

"You look so desperate for me," she teased, though her voice distilled a possessive satisfaction. "It's pathetic and, at the same time, it's the most exciting thing I've ever seen in my life."

She began to thrust with more force, forcing me to follow a rhythm that made me gasp, moan, and, finally, scream.

Every scream that escaped me seemed to give her more fuel; she hit me with a frantic rhythm, stretching me until I felt my skin couldn't take any more.

"All those pretty sounds..." she murmured, her hands gripping my shoulders, her body vibrating under mine. "God, you look perfect. Really, I wish I had a camera right now, not for the movie, but to have this just for me. To remind you exactly who you are when no one else is looking."

The rhythm became unbearable, a choreography of pleasure and pain where each sway seemed to rewrite my nervous system.

I couldn't help but collapse on her, my nails digging into her chest as my screams filled the suite.

She received me with each lunge, marking the tempo, forcing me to feel every centimeter of her possession, stretching me until the pleasure was so intense that reality blurred completely, leaving me only with the sound of our gasps and the certainty that, after this, nothing would ever be "acting" again.

The intensity reached a breaking point I didn't even know my nervous system could process.

Each lunge was a dissection; I felt open, exposed, completely surrendered to her will.

When my internal muscles began to contract involuntarily, squeezing her with a force that made her let out a dull roar against my back, I knew there was no turning back.

Billie tensed, her hands clutching my hips so hard that her nails dug into my skin, and she lunged with a ferocity that left me breathless.

It was a series of fast, deep blows, stretching me to the absolute limit of my capacity, until we both collapsed in a climax that felt like a devastating electric shock.

The heat poured inside me, a dense and heavy fullness that made me collapse onto the mattress, gasping, my senses still vibrating from the overstimulation.

When Billie finally withdrew, there was no moment of immediate tenderness.

She lay there, watching me with a mixture of dominance and an almost possessive satisfaction. The liquid, a mixture of her excitement and mine, began to trickle down my thighs, a warm and sticky trail that was the clear proof of our session.

She leaned over, taking my chin and forcing me to look down, at the disaster we had caused.

"Look at you," she murmured, her voice a raspy whisper loaded with authority. "You're leaking everywhere. Look at it well. This is what happens when you finally stop pretending."

She forced me to lean over her. Her hands, still warm from the effort, guided me toward her again.

A trace of her essence had remained on her own body, a trace she demanded I clean.

"You really needed this, didn't you?" she asked, as my lips met her skin once more. Each time I passed my tongue, she watched me with an intensity that chilled my blood. "You needed someone to break that perfect actress facade and force you to be human."

I obeyed without a hint of doubt, cleaning her with a submission that felt strangely liberating. The taste was unmistakable, a mixture of our intimacy, and the simple fact of being there, under her gaze, kept me in a state of constant excitement.

"You look so pretty like this," she said, her fingers stroking my hair while I worked. "So small, so dedicated. You have my trace all over you, and tomorrow, when we're in front of the camera, you'll know that's never going to disappear. You'll always know I stretched you, that I filled you, that I made you mine in a way that the script could never have written."

"Yes..." I managed to articulate, my voice barely a whisper choked by the situation. "Thank you."

The word seemed to surprise her for a second. The hardness of her gaze softened, transforming into something much more dangerous: devotion.

Billie leaned down quickly, her hands cradling my face with a delicacy that contrasted brutally with the previous minutes.

She pulled me toward her, and this time, the kiss wasn't a lesson.

It was a claim. It was deep, desperate, filled with a devoted passion that left me dizzy. Her lips sought mine with a need that bordered on desperation, as if she were trying to mark me with every brush.

There was no trace of the cold director now; only the woman who had shattered and rebuilt me in the course of an hour remained.

She pulled away only a few millimeters, keeping her lips glued to mine.

"Tomorrow, on set, when I ask for passion... you'll know exactly what it is that I want. And I assure you that, after this, you won't need me to tell you twice, because I'll be waiting for you in your dressing room."

ꪆৎ ݁ 𝓪uthor 𝓷ote ⦂ hey billie fandom hope ya like ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

chapters [ completed / ongoing ] :

one : 𝓒onfidence issues.

two : ℋow to flirt (wrong).

three : 𝓣otally fine.

four : 𝓓own bad.

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven .

𝓌ℴ𝓇𝒹 𝒸ℴ𝓊𝓃𝓉 ： 1.2k (literally who cheered)

warnings : use of yn sorry .. left on cliffhanger with 0.6% chance of a part two

you pull into a daves hot chicken, just wanting something light. but having not eaten in about 48 hours, you order a sandwich and two fries.

being too lazy to go home, you just pull into the parking lot and nibble on the sandwich there, putting on netflix on your aux you recline your chair and relax. small bites end up turning into you going ham on it

you thought youd be safe, being pulled into the corner of the parking lot and having tinted windows meant no one could see you.

you mouth harassed the sandwich in peace, for like about 3 minutes

until you heard a knock on your window.

usually, youd just drive off or ignore it like your parents say. but looking through the tint you see a group of teenagers, majority girls.

you roll down your window, then being met with a girl with black hair.

you wouldnt be overreacting when you said she was so FINE.

sharp jawline, button nose, and light blue eyes that were tearing into your soul.

which sucked because it was the wrong time, you being in sweatpants and a tank top while downing a spicy chicken sandwich.

“hi..”

“can i get one?” she asks

“...pardon?”

“a fry.”

“the restaurant's right there.” you mutter, yet loud enough for her to hear.

“yea but i want yours.” she replies, then a girl behind her peaks through.

“can i get one too?” the other girl asks, obnoxiously loud.

“quen calm down.” she asks

she turns back to you, giving you a sweet smile then putting out her hands.

you sigh then drop four fries into her hands. then going to roll up your window until she stops it with your fingers, which causes the window to go back down.

“are you watching scott pilgrim?” she says, peaking through the window.

“i gave you your fries.. what more do you want?” you say, slightly annoyed.

“uh we were about to go to the skatepark..” she says.

“okay.. goodbye.” you reply

.“wait no— come with us.” she asks.

“yea come with us!” a girl you later find out her name is odessa says in the back, eating her own food.

“uh no..”

“why..” she says in a whine.

“i don't even know you.. nor do i know how to skate.”

“you can just use my board y/n”

you almost choked on your mild spice sandwich.

“how do you know my name?” you ask, terrified.

“you're going to beverley? im your tour guide for tomorrow.”

“why’d you track me down to a dave's hot chicken.”

“I didn’t, it was fate. plus i saw your school photo on the school system”

“okay..” you mumble, sliding into your seat “what’s your name?”

“find that out tomorrow..” she says with a smirk.

“but I'll literally teach you how to skate– you can use my board.”

you sigh.

“how.. far is it?”

“5 miles”

“five miles? i don’t have enough gas for that”

“i’ll pay for the gas.”

“in this economy?” her friend says from behind.

“bro shut up it’s this or walk, and you're adding money too.” she says.

she turns back to you.

“so?”

“don’t touch anything, if i see dirt or scuffs you're getting dropped on the highway. And you're paying the full tank.”

billie smiles in excitement then goes to the other side of your car to get in the front seat, while her friends get in the back.

“So like how much is it usually..”

“for a corvette 100$...” you mutter.

billie sighs, looking out the window as we pull into the gas station. she pulls out her credit card and gets out the car.

“i’ll fill it for you.” she says, getting out and starting the gas for you.

you roll down the window so she can keep track of the tank, in the meanwhile you looked down at your lap while the two girls behind you spoke.

“thank you for the fries, im odessa and shes quen.” the girl with loose curls spoke.

“No problem..” you replied.

quen then pulls out a spicy chicken tender from her box and hands it to you.

you hesitate, not knowing if you should except food from complete strangers. but technically you knew the other girl because she was gonna be your guide.

f it you guess.

“thanks” you say, taking the chicken tender and biting into it slowly. At least it tasted normal.

billie gets back into the car after paying. She doesn’t buckle her seatbelt but instead turns to you.

“your tank is filled.”

“i can tell.” you replied.

she chuckled then leaned back into the seat. you began to drive and tried to block out the noise from the three girls in your car. yet you couldn’t help but notice billie staring at you.

you tried to drown the heat rising to your face, you couldn’t lie that she was cute. but it wasn’t easy for you to hit on people as it seemed for others, you always felt hesitant.

after a long yet suffocating drive, you three eventually make it to the skate park.

quen didn’t know how to skate either, so you felt more comfortable knowing that when billie pulled you onto hers.

her hands were trying dangerous zones, even if subtle. placing a hand on your waist to stabalize you while you tried to roll on the board.

she kept you on the stable ground before you went on the ramp. she seemed careful in making sure you wouldn’t fall.

“do you have other hobbies besides eating in a fast food restaurants parking lot?” she finally speaks up.

“do you have other hobbies besides stalking the person you’re supposed to give a tour to?” you shot back quickly.

“touche.”

she had helped you learn the basics, you were able to learn a simple shuvit but fell after a flip attempt.

“you’re getting better, very fast learner.” she said it with a certain tone laced in her voice.

“why say it like that?” you say with a nervous chuckle.

“i dunno.. just being honest.” she replies back.

you hum in acknowledgement, then look at odessa and quen talking closer to the ramp.

“don’t you wanna go skate?” you ask

“no i prefer being with you.” she replies.

“why though?” you ask again, not meaning to reply that fast as it comes up like word vomit.

“because you’re cute.”

mind u she doesn’t even know her name yet..

And the topic being brought up was her own doing. Sort of. More of the incident of her focusing too much on a particular case she’d had when you’d requested the recount of her Fourth of July shift. 

You’d probably been searching for information on how her deposition had gone while trying not to stress her out too much, but instead, Mel had supplied you with more information than necessary on the poor usage of Viagra. 

“Mel,” you hum, making her head snap up from the milky chamomile tea you’d made for the pair of you. Her name coming from your mouth always made her heart squeeze in her chest, made her feel like a dog whose ears perked up whenever their owner called. “I love you, but if you keep talking about penises, I am never going to ask about your day again.”

“Right,” she mumbles, feeling the tips of her ears and her cheeks warm. “Sorry.” You shake your head with a small laugh as you settle back into the couch cushions, a moment of silence spreading between the two of you as your eyes flick back and forth on the TV screen. 

It’s not awkward, it’s never awkward between the two of you. Even when sex is brought up. But Mel figures that’s just how close the two of you are: you aren’t put off by her immunity to smooth conversations, even if that opportunity in your presence is few and far between. It’s just comfortable. The way she keeps her eyes on your face as she debates continuing the mess that was her previous work day, when you’re so clearly thinking about something.

Thankfully, you make the decision for her. “I just– Can it be that good?” you ask, voice a little high in the way that people do when they’re curious about something, but don’t want to seem like it.

Mel’s head tilts, brows furrowing as her lips push together. “I thought you didn’t want to keep talking about it.”

“I don’t, it’s just…” Mel doesn’t push. Doesn’t prompt, just waits for you to either finish or back down from the thought. It carries that sense of knowing that was so sacred between the two of you. The thing that she would do anything for. “I don’t know,” you rush out, signaling to her that you’re trying to retract your question. “Sex isn’t worth taking pills for.”

And that little twinge of curiosity that Mel should know better than to indulge in sparks. 

“Why not?”

You give another shake of your head as Mel takes a sip from her mug, trying to ease the sudden drying of her throat as she waits for the answer. Wanting to crack into your head and know the words you’re going to say before you even do. “Because it doesn’t feel that good to potentially compromise your body?” Mel’s eyebrows raise slightly as she copies your earlier action of putting your mug down. “I don’t know.”

For the first time, possibly ever, when you’re involved, Mel feels like she has more experience. It makes something warm inside of her, makes her sit up a little straighter–tea and Sex and the City on the TV forgotten. “Have you…”

“Hm? Oh– Yeah,” you mumble, looking away from her quickly as you begin to twist the soft blanket that always sat on the back of your couch between your fingers. “Just one time with a guy and it was just…” You pause, the muscles in your neck tensing as you presumably try to find the correct wording. “Not good.”

“One bad experience can’t speak for all of them,” Mel points out, brain beginning to work over the new pieces of information you’d provided her. And the questions are asked before she can properly think them through. “What about when you’re by yourself? Do you ever finish then?”

“Um, no–”

“Have you gotten close? What have you tried?”

“I’m not really sure what ‘close’ feels like, but I think it feels good when I like, um… grind on a pillow?”

Mel just hums. “Have you ever used toys?”

“Okay,” you mumble as you simultaneously take a deep breath. The tone of your voice is enough to clue to Mel, plus the fact that you’re probably the person she knows best in the world besides Becca, that you’re getting nervous. “My sex life isn’t interesting,” you ramble quickly, leaning forward to set your designated mug down on the small coffee table. “Samantha’s is, though, so let’s focus on that, hm?”

Mel’s eyes track you as you settle back into the couch, noting how your cheeks look to be a shade darker than usual and how you appear to be refusing to glance in her direction. There’s a beat of silence and, as per usual, that nagging curiosity gets the better of Mel. “I think it’s interesting.”

The dim lighting of your living room makes it difficult to tell, but Mel thinks your flush deepens even more than she thought possible. 

“General anorgasmia is rarely discussed, especially for women,” Mel continues, eyes glued to your face. She’s barely blinking, drinking in every little twitch of your nose or corners of your mouth. “There are a lot of factors that play into it. Stress, discomfort, relationship dissatisfaction, cultural conditioning.” You glance over at her, fingers busy with the edge of the throw blanket. “Lesbian and bisexual women have an orgasm 21% more often than women in a heterosexual relationship–”

“Quit it,” you mumble, finally shifting over enough to lean on her, one of your hands pressing over her mouth as Mel chuckles, her own hands finding your sides. 

And, sure, Mel’s laughing along with you, the awkwardness that comes from whatever build-up, whatever heavy thing was beginning to settle between the two of you before you decided to break it, never quite being on the line of discomfort like Mel would’ve originally assumed. 

At least, not for her. Because now all Mel can think about is how those fingers pressed over her lips have probably been inside of you. 

And how much better hers would feel.

And so she leaves your apartment early the next morning with a new focus of interest.

Maybe because you’re the main topic, the center of all of this, but that sudden surge of motivation is greater than anything she’s felt before. Someone so close to her, rather than something of Mel’s own interest. A chance to help someone she loves, not like that (maybe like that), and to show you that she cares. That she would go above and beyond for you. Expressing her love language, that’s all it is. Nothing more than some research for her to do when she gets home from the PTMC and her brain still hasn’t crashed from adrenaline highs–something to help her ease into bed.

Thinking about everything she knows about you: what makes you comfortable, the things and times you especially get stressed, what touches seem to relax you against her whenever you’re cuddling. Mel makes notes about every single one of them. Then, she relates them to porn. 

Something she used to be nervous about, always checking over her shoulder whenever she would search links, even if she was in the safety of her bedroom. But with you in her mind, it strangely seems less awkward. Maybe it’s because she’s giving herself an excuse. That this isn’t actually for pleasure or for the means of getting herself off in a voyeuristic way, but rather imagining if you would like the things done to the women in those videos. 

Which is arguably more perverse. 

Especially when Mel thinks about sending you the links. Or when she starts picturing you in certain scenarios that are anything but clinical. Or when she’s back at your place that weekend, curled up against you in your bed, and subconsciously trying to ease you into the feeling. Which isn’t hard, considering how touchy the two of you usually are, and given the late hour.

Mel’s hand slides over yours, fingers tracing over the rounds of your knuckles, sending bits of sparks through your nerves with each pass. Each movement of her memorizes the feel of your skin. It makes something curl down your spine that equally renders you speechless and simultaneously has your tongue ready to ask for more. Mel doesn’t seem to be in a rush, though, her eyes on her own fingers as her thumb brushes over the veins atop your hand. Now and then, you can feel her eyes flick to your face. The urge to bury your face in your pillows is only drowned out by the fact that you fear scaring her away if you move too quickly. 

Not that she would be scared away, you don’t think. 

She started it, after all.

Her lips part with each tiny breath she takes, and you count the flutters of her lashes as she guides your hand to flip over, trailing her fingers up, up, up your arm, only pausing briefly to feel that soft spot of your inner elbow where heat is beginning to collect in bits of perspiration. Mel’s face nudges closer to yours. Tilting up away from your neck so her nose presses against your cheek, and you can feel the puffs of air leaving her. That, and the gentle brush of her lips against your jaw–close to your chin. 

A noise escapes you before you can process it building. 

It makes Mel’s breathing, what you’d been focusing on to try and remain calm, hitch, her body pressing harder against yours so you can feel every bit of softness she has to offer. Her other arm remains awkwardly between her side and the mattress, but that hand–the one with her fingers slowly hooking into the strap of your tank top just to nudge it off your shoulder, already has you trembling.

“Can I ask you a question?” she mumbles, and the vibrations of her voice, softer than usual and almost husky, has you closing your eyes and sucking in a deep breath. When you nod your chin just once, her lips bump against your face again, this time your chin. “Will you let me try?”

And you know what she’s referencing. Even if that conversation, those three minutes of that passing Wednesday night, hadn’t been looping in your mind for the past week, hadn't occurred, you would still be able to read her. Mel–your sweet Mel that would lay the world at your feet if you asked, even without a ‘Please’. 

It still comes as a small shock to you, though, that she wants to have you like that. And it doesn’t help with the way she has you practically melting back into your mattress with the way her thumb strokes over where the strap of your tank top had been before passing over your collarbone. Down your sternum, just dipping under the collar of the fabric. She can probably feel how erratically your heart is thumping against your ribcage. 

Your voice sounds weak to your own ears when you finally manage to speak again. “Are you sure?” It’s barely a breath, her face tucked against yours, and you can feel her glasses digging into your skin. You don’t move, though. Not until she shifts up enough to prop herself up on her elbow, nose bumping against yours. “Cause, um, I don’t want you to feel bad if it doesn’t happen–”

Not: “We’re best friends,” or “I don’t want to ruin anything,” or anything logical.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Mel interrupts gently, the softness of her words ghosting over your mouth. You swallow thickly, finally peeking your eyes back open to find her already staring at you. Pupils large enough to make that honey color of her irises almost seem gone in the dim light. 

Her hand continues. Down between your breasts and over your stomach before it wraps around your thigh to drag and hook your leg over her hip, opening you up and pressing that growing heat between your thighs against her sweatpants. 

“We can just feel each other?” she continues, but it comes out more of a question as another sound that is almost whine-like catches in your throat. And you don’t trust yourself to speak in fear of something louder escaping, so you give her a tiny nod. 

You feel the corners of her mouth twitch up before you surge up to close that small distance and press your lips against hers.

Your hands move from her shoulders to her hair, curling at the roots as her own fingers cinch in your pajama bottoms, tugging you as close as possible to her. Making you grind against her with small rocks of your hips as your tongue pushes into her mouth. She barely lets your tongue swipe against hers before she’s pulling back enough to mumble into your lips. 

“Do you want to keep your clothes on?” she whispers, squeezing your ass every few seconds to encourage the gentle motions of your hips. Each press of your clit against the slowly dampening fabric of your panties has sparks of pleasure rendering your brain more and more useless. “I want you to be comfortable–”

“I’m comfortable,” you rush out, hands pulling weakly at her hair to try and kiss her again. Mel lets you give her another small peck. “Can… Keep them mostly on– Don’t care–” You moan shakily, feeling her eyes on your face as her grip loosens on you, letting you hump her thigh at a pace and pressure that makes your clit throb. “This feels good.”

“Yeah?” she mumbles back in that same breathless tone. Her lips are a little wet from your spit, her cheeks pinkened in the warm light. “I haven’t–” Mel pauses, listening to the tiny noises you’re making as you grind against her thigh, keening gently from the stimulation on your clit against something warm and solid. “I’ve been thinking about ways to try and help you,” she finishes as you give her another kiss.

You don’t seem to fully process her words, though, more of your concentration being on sucking at her bottom lip and pulling at her hair as Mel watches the process that you’ve probably repeated on yourself a countless number of times. Trying to work yourself to an orgasm. Mel figures how quickly you’ve dissolved against her is a result of chasing that feeling–the lack of attention and not truly knowing what your body needs, leaving you needy.

“I figured with the–” Mel’s eyes flutter as you cut her off with a long moan, her words hushed and probably falling on deaf ears. Instilling her voice in your mind as she lets you loosen yourself up for her would help later, though. That’s what she hoped, at least–that you would associate her, something already comforting to you, with pleasure. That it would be the thing to help you get over the edge. 

Her hand on your hip squeezes softly as you keep working yourself. 

“Pillow humping,” she finally continues in that hushed tone. “You like more target stimulation. And relaxation is necessary for a good orgasm.” The words spill from her quickly, like she needs something to do other than just watch you grind against her; otherwise, Mel would move into things much more quickly than you needed right now. “So you’re out of fight or flight mode and your brain can fully process sensory pleasure– We want to reduce your stress and make sure you’re comfortable–”

A frustrated whine leaves you, abruptly bringing Mel’s rambling to an end. She takes a deep breath, hands wandering up to your sides and shifting your weight so you’re back on your back. When she sees the glistening evidence of tears gathering at your waterline, her heart squeezes in her chest, her hands rubbing over your thighs in what she hopes is a soothing motion. 

“Okay,” she whispers, settling between your legs and resting her weight over your chest to kiss your cheeks. Your throat. Over both of your nipples and then just below your belly button. “Is everything okay? Need a break?”

The pout on your mouth has her kissing where your tank top has ridden up again, hands still moving over your body like it’s going to ease your worries. “No,” you whine quietly. “M’just– I knew this was gonna happen–”

“We haven’t done anything yet,” Mel reassures you gently, not letting you get the words fully out. Not wanting them to manifest heavily in your brain and have you already settled on a decision before Mel even got to really touch you in the ways she’d been thinking about all week. Even before that conversation. “Nothing’s wrong,” she whispers. “You’re okay.” The nod you give her is just a little jerk of your chin. 

Mel’s hands on your thighs drag up to settle over your lower belly, and she gives you a tiny smile when your fingers fumble to grab onto hers. 

“I don’t need a break,” you finally answer in a mumble, mouth still set in that tiny frown with your bottom lip pushed out just enough to have Mel wanting to lean back up and kiss you all over again. “I’m just frustrated.”

With your hands still intertwined with hers, Mel dips her thumbs just below the waistband of your pajamas, rubbing the strip of skin that sits under the elastic. “I know,” she whispers. “Can you tell me how close you are?”

You nod, one hand briefly leaving hers to wipe at the space under your eyes. 

“Um– I think I’m like, right there,” you admit, voice sheepish mostly from the hushed tone that makes it difficult for Mel to completely decipher your words. She doesn’t make you repeat yourself, though, knowing that you need to be understood in a vulnerable moment like this. “Can never really get past this point feels like,” you continue in a louder babble, taking on almost a whine that has Mel shushing you softly. 

Her hand that you’d released tucks into your pajama bottoms, easing them down to sit just below your panties. 

Her lips press together when she sees how the fabric is clinging to you–outlining your lips and your swollen clit, the cotton wet with your juices. Before she can stop herself, she’s leaning in to press a small kiss to the place you need her the most, making you whimper quietly and squeeze her hand a bit tighter. 

“Take a deep breath,” Mel says between brushes of her lips against your inner thighs, only continuing speaking once she hears the long sigh and sees the slight fall of your ribs. “Is it okay if I, um, use my mouth?” Even if she already kind of did, but that’s not the point. 

Still, Mel waits for that word of confirmation, and as soon as the small squeak of “Yes” resounds in the warming space of your bedroom, she’s leaning back in. 

“Good,” she mumbles as she lets her mouth trail over your clit again, a barely there touch that has your thighs tensing around her head. “You’re doing a good job, just relax.” Her free hand goes to the spot on your mound just above the bundle of nerves, pulling up to expose where you’re aching further against your panties. “Let your mind go somewhere else, it’ll help,” Mel offers before dragging her tongue over where the nub of your clit is peeking out. 

The sound that leaves you is unlike anything she’s heard from you that night.

So Mel starts with just that–long drags of her tongue to let the warmth and wetness soak through your already ruined underwear, flicking your clit up with gentle stimulation that has you squirming. She lets you squirm, though, the idea of you using her mouth to get off being at the forefront of her mind. Anything that will make this the most enjoyable for you. Your taste makes it difficult for her not to rock her own hips against your mattress, opting to press her thighs together as she lets her tongue venture a little lower with each pass. Tasting more of you. Holding herself back from pulling your panties to the side because this seems to be working you up just fine, and direct stimulation could be a bit much, especially for someone sensitive enough to struggle reaching a climax, and–

“Mel,” you whine, your hand gripping at hers and the other her hair, having returned to the strands quickly after she started with her mouth. “Mel– That feels good– Really good, feels different–”

Mel doesn’t say anything, doubling down over your cunt that she can feel throbbing against her mouth. You yelp when her lips seal around your clit over your panties, pain sparking from where you’re pulling at her hair, keeping her against you in a way you like. A way that she likes too–where your taste and the squeeze of your thighs as you rock against her makes her brain go quiet from its rambling so all she can think about is you.

The whining never stops from you. Little sounds that you would describe as pathetic if you were in your usual state of being in your head. Except, you’re not. Not with the sudden warmth and attention that Mel provides. Not with how your bed feels like it’s enveloping you and her into this bubble of time where it’s just her taking care of you. Making your muscles feel like they’re melting as your mouth falls open and your chest heaves. It does feel different. The way she follows each grind of your hips with gentle sucks that has you gushing into your panties, not letting you escape the sensation. Forcing you to lie there and take it as that tingly sensation that would stop growing in your stomach once you got to a certain point, once your patience ran out, finally began to twist into something tighter. 

You’re trembling. Probably crying a little. But you don’t care, not when Mel finally tugs your underwear to the side and swipes her tongue over your throbbing bud, and you feel yourself finally let go. 

A half-formed gasp of her name leaves your mouth again as your back arches, pushing against her as the euphoria spreads through your body in a crescendo that you’ve been curious about your entire life. Your brain blanks apart from the pleasure that warms your spine and inner thighs and stomach, hands clinging for any part of Mel you can reach just to ground yourself as little black dots dance behind your eyelids. She’s murmuring something against your cunt, but you can’t really tell what it is. Not until the waves of pleasure slowly begin to subside, leaving you worn and panting beneath her comforting ministrations. 

Little tremors still wrack through you, but your mind finally returns with a few deep breaths. 

Then, Mel and more of her gentle kisses. Back up your body to your mouth, tiny pecks that seem lighthearted and almost relieved as your eyes flutter. “Was that okay?” she whispers, hands moving to cup either side of your face as her eyes run over your probably flushed cheeks.

“Better than okay,” you sigh, a kind of lucidity settling in your muscles. “I can understand why people take meds for this now.”

Her shifting nudges you out of your deep sleep, the mattress dipping as she moves. You blink your eyes open slowly, vision still blurry with sleep.

“Hey,” she murmurs, her voice rough and husky.

You turn toward her groggily. Through the haze of sleep, you watch her reach toward the nightstand, fingers searching until they find her glasses where she’d dropped them the night before, too tired to put them anywhere properly. She slips them on with a little exhale, your eyes flickering about her face.

"How was work?"

“Good. It was good. Had a pretty bad motor vehicle collision come in. Three patients—two critical, one stable but in rough shape. A lot of orthopedic trauma. One had a femur fracture, which is… not ideal.”

She pauses.

“Blood loss risk."

You hum softly as you listen to her. Reaching out, your hand finds her wrist, fingers tracing lightly along the inside of it. Some quiet part of you just needing the contact.

She still startles a little every time you touch her, just a flicker of surprise, the way her pulse jumps beneath your fingertips. But just as quickly, she melts into it, shoulders easing as she leans closer. Bodies facing one another on the bed, sheets hanging lazily around your bodies.

“And what did you do to help them…?” you ask gently.

She glances down at where your fingers rest against her wrist, like she’s considering something.

“Well—first we had to stabilize the—”

You’re listening.

Technically.

But not really.

Your eyes wander while she talks, tracing slowly over her face. The familiar slope of her nose. The way her glasses sit slightly crooked when she’s still half-awake. Your gaze drifts to her eyes, then to her mouth as it moves while she explains something about fractures and stabilization.

You hum softly in response, though you couldn’t repeat a word she just said.

“—because with femoral trauma the blood loss can be signifi—”

Your hand shifts slightly higher on her wrist, thumb brushing along the inside where her pulse beats.

Your gaze lifts to hers again. Then down, back to her mouth.

You lean in without really announcing it, the motion slow, almost absent-minded. The soft hum still lingering in your throat as you close the distance.

Her words taper off mid-sentence.

“—cant if the artery—”

She stops only because you’ve leaned in and pressed a quick, fleeting peck to her lips. Mel freezes. Her head tilts slightly, then gives a small shake side to side, like she’s trying to restart something in her brain. “Um—”

A small breath leaves her as she blinks behind her glasses. You’re watching her closely.

“How do you assess who needs attention first…?” you ask softly.

Her brows knit together for a moment as the question settles.

“Oh.” She clears her throat quietly. “Right. Triage.”

Her voice takes on that familiar cadence again—measured, thoughtful, like she’s organizing the information as she speaks.

“In trauma situations you prioritize by immediate threat to life,” she explains. “Airway first. Then breathing. Circulation.”

You hum softly, leaning a little closer while she talks.

“If someone can’t maintain an airway,” she continues, “nothing else really matters because oxygen delivery stops and then—”

Another soft peck. Her words cut off again. Mel inhales quietly through her nose, blinking once more like her thoughts have been scattered across the room.

“…Right.” A pause. “Airway.”

She exhales, trying again.

“Then breathing. Making sure the lungs are functioning properly. And circulation, which means checking for severe bleeding or—”

You kiss her again. This one lingers half a second longer. When you pull back, she’s staring at you for a moment like she’s lost the place in a paragraph. Her lips part.

“…Circulation,” she repeats faintly, like she’s rereading the same line in a textbook.

Your thumb brushes lightly over her wrist again, right where her pulse jumps beneath your touch. She notices that. Her gaze flicks down to your hand.

“…Your heart rate is elevated,” she murmurs absently, like the observation just slipped out of her professional reflex.

Then her eyes lift back to yours. And the thought trails off again as you lean in. You pull back with an interested smile, so in love with her, "diagnosing me...?"

Her pupils dilate slightly at the tone, lips parting almost imperceptibly. She blinks, momentarily caught off guard, and yet something in her posture shifts—a subtle surrender to the pull between you.

“…Maybe,” she says, voice soft.

Her thumb brushes along your wrist where your hand lingers, just above the pulse she can feel thumping beneath her fingers. Both of you, words fading, brains fogging, heartbeats conspiring to make the rest of the world disappear.

“What else… doctor…?” you murmur, leaning in and kissing her deeper this time.

When that kiss got deeper—god, it leaves her dizzy, her thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. When you pull back with a soft gasp, she instinctively presses forward again, chasing your lips, only to stop herself with a shaky exhale.

“Tachy-,” she manages, thumb brushing over your wrist where your fingers rest, feeling the rapid thump beneath. “Means fast. Cardia—heart.”

Her fingers tighten gently around your wrist, holding you in place almost possessively. “Fast heart. Racing. Shaky. A little scattered. Pupils dilated… breathing shallow… and—”

Her free hand lifts, brushing your hair back from your face, fingers lingering against your cheek. “…you’re flushed. Trembling. Definitely… reacting.”

Her eyes flick to yours, wide and glimmering, and she hums softly, almost seductively, as if cataloging each response. “…Like yours,” she murmurs. “…Like mine.”

She leans in closer, lips brushing yours again, nose grazing your cheek, hands still mapping your pulse and your subtle movements, reading your state like a chart.

Finally, she pulls back just enough to whisper, breathless, eyes still locked on yours. "What... what are you trying to do...?"

You grin, brushing your forehead lightly against hers.

"With all those symptoms... what's my diagnosis, doctor? Can you help me..?"

Her eyes widen just slightly, lips parting as she studies you like a chart come to life. Fingers still resting over your wrist, feeling your pulse thrum beneath her touch, she hums softly—half gentle amusement, half calculation.

“There is a cure for this,” she says finally, voice soft but certain. Her thumb traces a slow circle over your pulse.

Before you can respond, she leans in, lips brushing yours in a soft, deliberate kiss. You hum into the kiss, arms wrapping around her neck as she rolls on top of you. She's really deepening the kiss now, getting swept away. You're trying to catch up, squirming under her, soft pants, gasps, and groans escaping the two of you and filling the bedroom.

Once your lips are kissed swollen, and your tongue has met hers once again, she's trailing open mouth kisses down your throat. Both of you are dizzy, keening towards one another. Bodies sliding with each other, her hand sliding up under your shirt to feel your skin directly. To feel you shiver against her once her hand makes contact.

One lazy makeout later and she's slid between your thighs. Your sleep shorts pulled down to your thighs as she's slid under them, right to where she wants to be. Doesn't take long before her glasses are foggy, but she doesn't need them. She had just set them on her face earlier, and here she is already removing them so she can push her face in further into you.

She's reduced you to nothing. Keening, tugging her hair or the pillow under your head. Moans of nothing, or her name tumble from your lips. Particularly high pitched when she sucks at your clit. Her hands, strong, hold your hips when you squirm. Smearing your wetness across her face, her nose.

"m-mel... oh! oh.... ah!"

Your breath quickening, hand grip tightening at her hair. Your previous bit of shyness leaving as you now desperately grind yourself against her, against the ministrations. Your pussy clenching around nothing, showings its need for her to stay close, to keep moving.

You're pleading, nothingness. Babbling her name with a breathless tone, hoping she understands. Regardless or not of if she understands, she's never leaving where she is. Your taste on your tongue, how you just keep dripping. The smell right up against her nose. A weird part of her hopes she can still bring you with her to work...

“Mel…” you whisper, and she leans closer, climbing atop you just enough to press a soft kiss to your lips.

“Mm?” she murmurs against your mouth.

“How much longer do we have together?” you ask, voice low, almost reluctant.

“Tomorrow morning I head back… so, nine hours…?” she replies, glancing briefly at the clock, then back at you.

You sigh, letting your head sink into the pillow. “So… we need to go to sleep now…”

Her lips twitch, amused but gentle, as she slides off the bed. “All right,” she says, soft and efficient. She moves toward the nightstand and retrieves a damp cloth, carefully wringing it out. She returns and kneels beside you, holding it out like a professional about to administer care.

“Need to clean you off,” she murmurs, her tone a mix of teasing and tender seriousness, the glimmer of her earlier “doctor” precision still present even in this quiet morning. You watch her, chest rising slightly, pulse quickening, not just from the proximity, but from the way she cares about you.

You were in such a state of sleep, you only woke for a second to hear her turn the bathroom light on as she got ready for work. Not conscious enough to wake up all the way, to say goodbye when she walked out the door.

Her shift started five hours before you even had to get up. You still had no idea how she managed to do everything she did with such precision and energy.

Your day consisted of chores, errands, and the usual quiet solitude, grocery shopping, laundry, tidying the apartment, tasks that felt almost mundane compared to hers.

Hers, on the other hand, was a world of assessing trauma patients, triaging emergencies, making possible split-second decisions that could mean life or death. Orders to give, charts to update, vital signs to monitor, families to reassure. Insanity.

At the grocery store just down the street, car parked, you walk towards the grocery store.

A moment of movement too fast, a cart swinging around the corner, you don’t see it coming. It hits you square in the side, throwing your balance completely off.

You stumble, legs sliding out from under you on the slick concrete. Your body scrapes along the pavement, skin cutting against the rough surface. Pain shoots up your legs, sharp and immediate, and you groan, trying to catch yourself before it gets worse, but there’s nothing to grab onto.

By the time you stop sliding, your jeans are shredded, your legs raw, and hot, stinging blood runs along long gashes—road rash scraped down the entire side of your leg.

A sharp wince escapes you, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your body refuses to cooperate; trying to move only makes the pain flare. Slowly, carefully, you shift onto your back, the world tilting slightly as nausea creeps in.

Passersby pause, concern flashing across their faces. Asking if you're okay, wondering if they should call the ambulance.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths as you press a trembling hand to your leg. Pain, shock, and embarrassment swirl together, each second stretching impossibly long. The crowd around you seems both comforting and overwhelming as you wait, helpless, for help to arrive.

You try to steady your breathing, pressing your hand weakly against your leg, hoping it’s not the Pitt. Not that you’d hide an injury from her, of course… but the thought of her seeing you like this, raw and vulnerable, sends a flutter of nerves through your chest.

The ambulance attendants, or maybe the store’s emergency responders, usher you forward, voices calm but insistent. Your head lolls slightly to one side as they guide the stretcher, body heavy from shock and pain.

The walls blur as you’re wheeled down the hall. The antiseptic smell hits first, then the fluorescent lights, then…the familiar layout.

Your heart drops. The Pitt. And just like that, the nerves twist tighter in your stomach.

The stretcher rounds the corner, moving fast enough that you barely have time to lift your head. And then, your eyes catch hers. She’s walking past, and freezes for just a heartbeat.

The stretcher rounds the corner, moving fast enough that you barely have time to lift your head. And then, your eyes catch hers. She’s walking past—and freezes for just a heartbeat, clipboard still in hand, gaze sharp and startled.

You’re wheeled into a treatment room, the harsh fluorescent lights above making everything feel unreal. Pain pulses through your leg, but your chest tightens for a different reason entirely.

A doctor you recognize from past visits steps forward, eyebrows knitting together as they take in your scraped and bloodied legs. Their name on the tip of your tongue, but still forgotten.

“What happened here?” they ask, voice steady but concerned. “Who are you? You look so familiar."

Before you can answer, another staff member walks in, catching the tail end of the conversation. They glance between you and the first responder, and then, almost casually, drop the words that make your chest hitch:

“That’s Mel’s girlfriend.”

Time seems to compress for a second. Pain, nerves, and a flutter of embarrassment hit all at once. You can feel your pulse racing, not just from the fall, but from the recognition, from knowing she’s here, just steps away.

And then… you see her glance toward you again. That frozen look on her face hasn’t left. Her eyes meet yours, sharp, wide, and suddenly everything outside the room fades away. A nurse stands beside her, chatting with her and it seems like she might not even be listening.

By the time the responders finish cutting away your jeans and rinsing the gravel and blood from your legs, you’re slumped back against the stretcher, skin raw, stinging with every slight movement. Sterile gauze and wraps cover the worst of the abrasions, keeping your legs immobile enough to dull the sharpest pain.

They speak quietly as they work, voices calm and professional, but you barely hear them. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling, then the floor, fingers twisting nervously in your lap. Every time a sting runs through your legs, you clench your hands together, squeezing until your knuckles whiten, humming softly to yourself to push past it.

Finally, the last dressings are secure. The responders step back, exchanging a brief whisper. “I’ll go get her for you,” one murmurs, nodding toward the hallway.

You barely register the words, caught somewhere between pain and the lingering rush of last night. When the door swings open again, you glance up again and your shoulders drop.

"Are you alright..? I mean, I see they helped.. but what happened? Your legs look better...."

You shift slightly on the stretcher, wincing as the wraps pull tight around your raw legs. Your voice is hoarse, quiet, almost hesitant.

“Yeah… I’m… okay,” you manage, glancing up at her. “I slipped… just a stupid accident. Didn’t think it would be this bad.” You run a hand over your leg lightly, grimacing at the sting.

Your eyes flick to hers, and despite the throbbing pain, your cheeks warm a little. “But… I’m glad you’re here. Makes it easier.”

She studies you for a moment, lips pressed together, eyes softening, and you notice her fingers twitching as if she wants to reach out but is holding back.

“I… I didn’t want to worry you,” you admit, voice dropping. “And I probably looked like a mess…”

She shakes her head, eyebrows furrowed like she's offended you've said so. You reach for her hand, grasping it gently.

She squeezes your hand once more, letting go slowly. Her eyes flick toward your wrapped legs, then back to you.

“We’re going to keep you on the monitor for a bit,” she says, voice calm, measured. “Just to make sure everything’s stable. After that… you’ll be able to go home.”

You nod, feeling the lingering sting in your legs and the faint dizziness from the shock.

She hesitates, brows knitting slightly. “If you want… honestly, you could just wait here until my shift ends. Then… we could go home together.”

You raise an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at your lips, and she immediately holds up a hand, half-panicked. “Not… not like that.” she says, voice soft but flustered.

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Relax… I know what you meant,” you murmur, eyes crinkling with amusement.

She smiles faintly, still tense around the edges, and leans down just a little, pressing a quick, careful kiss to your lips. “Rest,” she whispers. Then, with a glance at the monitor, she straightens and steps back.

Your pulse spikes just slightly as the monitor beeps, a small, harmless jump from nerves or the residual adrenaline, and she glances at it quickly. Her brow flicks up, a tiny sigh escaping her lips, and she gives you a last reassuring smile before stepping toward the door.

The light clicks off behind her, leaving you in the quiet hum of the hospital room, the memory of her presence lingering, and the faint warmth of that small, fleeting kiss on your lips.

drabbles & blurbs ::

01. mess

02. jock

03. quiet

04. tease

05. sparks

06. (not) gentle

07. daddy

08. baby mama

09. perfect 

10. lift up

11. need you

12. dare

13. oops

14. mama

15. loser

16. my experimental game

17. m'lady

18. car

19. disobedience 

20. can’t be friends 

21. keep quiet 

22. hurt

23. comfort

24. ms kennedy

25. military!billie & rude

26. sad girl

27. ride or die

28. #ruined

29. surprise

30. military!billie & tattoos

31. risky

32. panties obsessed 

33. non—stop

34. older!sabrina making younger!billie watch

35. praise kink

36. pacify her

37. eating milf!billie in her car

series ::

01. freak show

02. no time to die

03. no time to die :: vol 2

headcanons ::

01. teacher!billie headcanons

02. teacher!billie headcanons :: p 2

03. munch!billie headcanons

04. dating milf!billie

05. fuckboy!billie who’s obsessed w your tits 

others ::

01. texts with teacher!billie

02. military!billie c.ai bot

03. texts w girlfriend!billie

jealous!mel, who on your first day as a fresh R1 transferred in from mercy upstate, felt a weird tug in her chest when trinity claimed you as her mentee. there was no way you could survive trinity and this hospital alive– hell, you bounced on your shoe soles! you were obviously completely unprepared for the kind of work you’d be doing at PTMC. whatever hospital you completed your ER rotation in certainly wasn’t a trauma center, mel could tell. your pristine white jacket would not last the first hour. she almost wished she could see it get ruined, just to know what you would do. if you would cry, get angry, stomp around… there was a reason nobody wore white coats around this particular department, and you would learn soon enough. as you smiled at her, she felt the tug again. her hands clenched tight.

possessive!mel who snatched up the second best option, some dorky kid named adams with glasses who you seemed to be friendly with– maybe a med school friend, or a past rotation cohort– and dragged him right into a trauma. as she looked over her shoulder, she saw you looking curiously at the room, almost wishing you were a part of it. her gut boiled with the urge to drag you in, too, and she didn’t know why.

jealous!mel who heard, shortly after teaching her shaky-handed kid how to do a crike, that trinity looped you in on your first dislocation, and you managed to order her around on how it needed to be done. she saw your spunky smirk as you walked around the nurse’s station, your jacket still white, with a flustered and aggravated trinity santos trailing behind you. mel liked the idea of someone strong enough to stand up to trinity on a first day– either you were insane, or had balls of steel.

possessive!mel was not meshing with her student and struggled to find a solution. he was nice and all, but he got along so much better with dennis. mel’s stutters and momentary lapses of thought seemed to irritate the student. when she gave orders, he overlooked them. yet when dennis told the kid what to do, he took the advice. maybe adams was a misogynist, or maybe he had a low threshold for neurodivergence, but whatever it was, she passed him off gladly. dennis was a better teacher, anyway. 

jealous!mel, now without a student, picked up a head lac in the south wing. the morning rush had yet to pass, so it would keep her busy and hopefully keep robby off her ass for not maintaining a student. but when she turned down the hall, she found you working on an elderly woman with a broken ankle– and trinity over your shoulder. you chewed your lip, seeming stressed, and certainly the micromanagement didn’t help. trinity had a way of repaying debts of embarrassment dealt to her, and you were about to learn the consequences of being a first year. as mel passed, you flashed her a pursed-lip grin, and her heart squeezed. if she was your senior, she would have a much gentler hand. wait, what?

possessive!mel sat quietly and sutured her patient’s forehead, asking only the most basic questions and continuing the repair in silence. in the back of her mind, she saw the swing of your hair. the bubbly way you had greeted the day shift doctors in your blinding coat. you would be hardened by this place, like she had tried to avoid, and the thought left a sour taste in her mouth. trinity certainly wouldn’t help protect you. she was so much like frank, no matter how the girl denied it, and one misstep of yours could easily result in getting screamed at or dismissed for a twenty minute break. on your first day, too. mel felt herself tensing as she watched it play back in her head. she knew what the first day felt like– the trauma, blood, fear, exhaustion. you were so sweet, so pretty, so unscathed, and you needed someone to shelter that, to let you down easy, to teach and guide you, not to yell and throw you headfirst as if choosing to save lives was a joint punishment for everyone involved– 

“ow! you’re pokin’ me, doc!” the forehead lac grumbled. “crap. sorry,” mel mumbled, easing her touch. 

jealous!mel finished up with her patient, and the rest of her day flew by in a blur of cases and charts. she felt oddly sick to her stomach. maybe it was the cheap breakfast she ate on the way in.

possessive!mel had watched you butt heads with trinity for nearly a month after that first day. she had shared her interactions with you, at least a few every day. once in a while she was lucky enough to steal you for a case. but trinity held your leash tight, and your patience was growing thin. everyone could see it. almost every shift now, you got into an argument with your senior. whether it was over the right kind of suture or the standard of care, or even the patient’s wishes in a few specific moments, trinity just did not understand you. the way you wanted to treat patients based on your knowledge and experience seemed to threaten her, and so she exploded on you again and again, demanding compliance and swearing on potential writeups. more than once mel had to step in and come to your aid or get robby involved. every time she saw your cheeks pink up with the humiliation of being berated, her blood burned hot. she would never scream at you like that– nobody should ever scream at you like that.

jealous!mel watched as you, always the bigger person (in times she almost wished you weren't), reconciled the issue. you and trinity holed up in the lounge for a half hour until you emerged with a drained smile and trinity with tear-stained cheeks. you two high-fived and split off in opposite directions. you still wore your white coat, but you had on scrubs underneath. something trinity had suggested– change without abandonment of the self. you already looked heavier with the weight of this place. mel hated it. she found herself following you to the ambulance bay without an ounce of good judgement. 

“are you okay?” “huh? oh, dr. king. yes, i’m fine… um, just a… rough start.” you rocked on your feet. you did that a lot, she noticed. “you can call me mel. you know that.” “right. sorry.”  “don’t be. so, what happened in there? with santos?” mel asked, leaning against the stony pillar of the bay. “i-i told her that i think we work best as colleagues. and that i would talk to robby about a new mentor.” “a new mentor… wow.” “yeah.” “you know, i don’t have a med student,” mel blurted. “right! adams gave you a hard time, didn’t he?” you chuckled. she could see the tips of your teeth. they were adorably round. “he’s a tough one to crack.” “yeah… but, um, if you’re– if you’re looking, y’know, i… i could…” “are you saying you want to mentor me?” you stepped closer, tucking your hands into white pockets.  “well… who wouldn’t?” you flushed a bit and smiled at your shoes. “i think that would be great. i think we would get along much better.” “i do, too,” mel smiled, tugging on her braid, heart pounding. “come on. i’ve got a patient you can help me with.”

possessive!mel, after that fateful day, did not let go of her grip on you. and you were right– you two did get along. really, really, really well. like, never arguing well. a well-oiled machine in every trauma well. charting on time, bedside manner in check, lab retrievals speedy, breaks taken, food eaten, shifts ended in a mannerly fashion well. mel had personally ensured that you were the least overworked individual in the emergency department. your white coat lasted with bleach pens, and by the time your third month of your residency rolled around, you got an upgrade— an embroidered patch with your name on it, not some lousy metal nametag, from mel. it was the first time you ever hugged her. mel could still smell your shampoo. 

jealous!mel hated when other doctors stole you. sometimes robby or abbot would drag you away for an incoming trauma, or langdon might sweep you up in a random teaching case. you got along so well with everyone, even trinity, and with your prodigious talents as a young doctor, it seemed people took you whenever they had the chance. without you by her side, mel felt unmoored. working without you was twice as hard. you made her better, more aware. you smelled like laundry. you ate sour gum and you made old people laugh and young kids smile. mel didn’t have the people skills in her whole being that you housed inside one pinky, let alone possessing your prowess as a caregiver. you were her best thing, and everyone wanted to take that from her, it seemed. she was getting restless. 

possessive!mel started doing unusual things like walking you to your car and bringing you coffee. she fixed your coat when it rode up or slid down. she leaned against walls when you spoke, crossing her arms over her chest, because she liked the way it made you stammer. she pulled your hair back into clips mid-trauma when you didn’t have the hands, even when it drew attention. she even went so far as to buy your lunches and invite you to her and trinity’s karaoke nights. if the other ER doctors were going to whisk you away during shifts, she would steal your every spare moment. and you let her. she could see the blood pumping beneath your skin when she got close, when she gave an order, when she wrapped a hand around your waist to save you from a rushing gurney on the way to take you out. she could tell that you didn’t want to be pulled from her grasp. mel was growing entirely enamored and invested, and she couldn’t hold out much longer like this. she ate, slept, and breathed you in that stupid white coat. she wished it said her name and not yours.

jealous!mel saw you talking to dennis one day months into your residency. he was making you laugh so much that your ears turned rosy, and even though it was mid-shift and she definitely needed to eat instead of flying off the handle, she barged across the department and seized your arm, yanking you away and toward the lockers. crowding you up against the wall as a few nurses passed and averted their smirking gazes, she straightened out your coat. 

“is he funnier than me?” “no, mel,” you panted, eyes soaking up her soft skin and lips so close to your own. “we were just talking.” “good. because you’re my student,” “i’m your student,” you repeated.  “my student to teach, a-and help, and…” “i’m yours, mel, yeah?” you flushed, chewing your cheek. she had your wrists pinned to the wall, and with her so near, your heart threatened to stop. “and you’re my teacher. my senior. i only want to learn from you.” “only from me,” she repeated, pressing her forehead to yours. your eyes fluttered shut. “i only want you.” mel shuddered and dropped your wrists, only to cup your cheeks and drag you into a kiss. in broad daylight where anybody– robby, trinity– could see. her lips carried that medicinal taste of the black-label chapstick, and you whimpered with relief as you dove in, tangling your tongue with hers, feeling her braid in your hand, brushing your fingertips over her neck and her back.  “mm– all mine,” she purred, “only i get you, get to teach you, keep you–” “yes, baby– mel– just you! just you.”

possessive!mel revealed a new side of herself after you got her in trouble for kissing on shift. robby stumbled across you both and demanded an answer, to which you quickly interjected about no improper power dynamics and being willing to tell HR and swearing it wouldn’t impact your job, and mel stood back and grinned, wolfish and infatuated. he seemed to care very little– in fact, he might have even been happy to not deal with mel’s moodiness any longer. from then on, she was happy. peaceful at work, eating better, sleeping more, and kissing you around every corner. thinking about your soft skin beneath those scrubs, and remembering what it looked like when she last shoved that coat away from your thighs to spread them– and other things. she fought harder and she worked with passion. nobody had seen mel with such light since she first came to PTMC, and it was all because of you. 

*picture*

hey ;))

you look at your phone as you wait for a reply from mel, already down to your panties, laying in bed. it’s a picture of your bare chest, just covering the waistline of your panties as you hold an arm over your boobs. you really hope she can finish her shift on time and come home as soon as possible.

oh my god

i’m at work baby

:((

thinking of you...

you lower the phone’s camera and snap a picture of your skimpy panties, your lips glistening with how wet you are.

baby what the fuck

i’m uncomfortably wet rn

sorry :(

no no it’s a good thing

i’m just so red in the face rn trinity asked if i was alright

i’m coming over in a few hours i promise

waiting impatiently

you flop the phone on the bed and huff out a breath.

you know mel is true to her promise when you hear the keys turning in the door and the sound of a bag getting dropped on the floor by the entrance. mel goes to the bathroom as you get up to sit on the edge of the bed.

after a few minutes mel walks into the bedroom in her panties only and your drool almost slips out of your mouth. she doesn’t have any hesitance to her step but the quiet shyness lingers. you watch as mel walks over to where you’re seated at the edge of the bed and cup a hand to your face.

“i wanna see the real thing now.” she whispers, so slow, so shy as her blush increases and she leans in for a kiss. you take her mouth with yours, kissing deeply. her hands, lingering to every part of skin on the way, reaches for the clasp of your bra.

“can i?” she pants, her cheeks are so pink. “of course mel.” you respond, taking her hands and guiding her slowly. her lips turn upwards as you plant a kiss on her bicep as she drops your bra, leaving you bare as her. your kiss turns into a bite on her arm and mel gasps low.

“can i eat you out?” mel asks, holding your face with one hand and drawing slow circles. you giggle at her question. “i love you mel.” you say, just because you can. “and yes, please.”

melissa nods and suddenly grabs at your hips, spreading them open. she pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, your feet touching the floor. mel gets down on her knees and it’s your breaths turn to hitch this time. “such beautiful legs.” she speaks to herself mostly as her fingers hook to the waistline of your panties. mel pulls them down, impossibly slow. you close your legs slightly as mel strokes down them, throwing off the panties. “spread them.” she says, her voice hushed as she grabs your thighs with both hands, placing her thumbs on the inside.

you prop yourself on both hands as you look down at mel seductively, your legs open for her. she watches the glistening heat in between with awe. “so wet,” mel mumbles as she traces the pad of her thumb on your wet lips. “all for me?”

you nod while gasping, eyelids fluttering. “i wanna hear you.” she says before biting a spot so close to where you want her, need her. “yes, yes please mel. all for you just-” you grab at the side of her head, running your fingers into her blonde hair and she just hums deep in her throat. leaning in, mel places a soft kiss on your clit, looking up at you with her dark blue eyes. she has that expression on her face that seems tired for anyone else but you know she wants this as much as you do. her down-turned, pleading eyes, the lines around them prominent when she’s looking at you like that.

just before giving in properly mel lifts a hand to remove her glasses, which causes you to pout. “i like it when they fog up.” you say as she places them by the bedside drawer. “safety reasons baby. i can’t have you get hurt.”

with that mel returns to her spot on her knees, now focused on your pleasure. she gives your opening one long lick and you tremble under her touch. she test the waters a bit, giving tentative licks and a few sucks here and there but once you start whimpering and leaving out impatient grunts she pulls back ever slightly. “patience, sweetheart. patience.” she bites your inner thigh while pushing in two fingers and you throw your head back at the intrusion, finally. and the pace mel sets is brutal, finding that spongy spot inside you in no time matter and keeping her thrusts deep and purposeful.

you moan loudly when she adds another finger and her mouth latches on your clit. she sucks and licks as her fingers never falter for a moment and you are already close with your own teasing earlier. “fuck mel- so, so good.” you whine and mel makes a sound from between your legs that trail delicious vibrations up your spine. “so close.” you say again, “can i come?”

“yes, please.” mel barely detaches her lips from your skin as she says it, doubling her efforts on you as you tumble over the edge, holding onto mel’s braid. she fucks you through it and you see stars behind your eyelids. “just like that.” mel whispers, giving your sensitive lips a few licks throughout.

you pull her up once your can see properly and give her a breathless kiss, tasting yourself on her lips and pulling at her braid slightly. “thank you.” you breath into her mouth. her eyes are closed and you give into the urge to kiss the tops of them. mel giggles softly and you push her lightly onto the bed and off your lap, “now roll over beautiful. i got a favor to return.”

··················

thank you for reading! i was supposed to post this like three days ago but i guess. sometimes i like when these are pink though i try to maintain my blue theme.

@azishimi @bl00df1redeath @saffrontieee @poseidon12345

having a girlfriend who’s spiderman was something you never thought you’d ask for.

her already being famous, her carrying the weight of saving the world, tours, and still being able to rub your back to sleep was light work to her.

𝒷ℯ𝒻ℴ𝓇ℯ 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝓀𝓃ℯ𝓌 ．．

she didn’t want you to find out at first, being famous worked hand in hand with coming up with excuses.

you didn’t catch on for awhile, until you seen her coming home with bruises sometimes.

every lie got too intense until you eventually found out yourself, seeing her spider suit on accident.

the confrontation was a mixture of anger, confusion, and dishonesty, but you two eventually came to terms on it.

𝒶𝒻𝓉ℯ𝓇 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝓀𝓃ℯ𝓌 ！！

she would beg to swing you around town, and you would always say no until she eventually convinced you.

you tried to make sure she was as safe as possible. knowing your way around tech you helped safety proof her suit.

she would always try to kiss you upside down when she wanted to.

to scare you, she would crawl on the wall or hide up there when you entered a room.

she recorded you guys when she was swinging once and it was the background of her song.

sometimes just to ignore you she would swing a web at your waist to spin you towards her.

one time she webbed you in the hair

let’s say you were mad the whole week.

she had to do some weird altering so that the chemicals didn’t stick like gum.

in public when there’s paparazzi, she webs you guys hands together so you guys don’t lose each other.

all in all having billie about gf is amazing, but spiderbillie is even better