soapie 🦦

“No, no! Not happening, Lexi. I’m not going.” You huff, eyebrows furrowing. She’s begging you to go to some stupid, illegal party. You both know how college parties end. Campus security pulls up, shuts the whole place down, they chase stupid young-adults through the hallways until actual police show up. 

“You’re such a priss. God, actually let go for once!” She whines, grabbing the book from your hands and tossing it elsewhere in your shared room. “I even bought you a pretty dress.” A sigh, pulling out the skankiest piece of fabric you’ve ever laid eyes on. 

It’d barely cover your nips. There’s slits that go all the way up to your upper-thigh, it’s tight. Something you’d have to wear commando because you’d see the line of your thong. You have to admit… It's skimpy, but it’s gorgeous. The fabric? Soft. Comfortable. In a way it’d keep you warm. It’s black, and it’d probably go with any cardigan you have tucked in your wardrobe. Plus… when are you ever going to have the chance to wear something like this ever again?

A fat sigh sounds from your throat, eyes rolling to the back of your skull in annoyance. 

“Fine, but don’t be upset if I dip earlier than you like.” You get up from your bed, snatching the dress from her hands. She squeals in pure excitement, like you don’t have next-door neighbors. 

—

Lexi is flirting with some frat boy in the far end of the room, and you’ve made yourself very comfortable tucked away in a corner. Too many guys have tried to flirt with you, ask you if you wanted to get a drink or if they were incredibly bold—they’d ask if you wanted to go upstairs and ‘hang’ in a free room.

You brushed off every attempt, told them you had someone accompanying you and they walked off with a scoff and sometimes even an insult. 

You sip at your shitty beer, relishing in the sting. You’re getting tipsy, humming softly to yourself while your eyes wander the crowded area. There are too many people making out on the sides. 

“M’gonna go.” You hobble over to your friend, nudging her shoulder—watching her lips pull off some hunks. 

“You need me to call an uber?” She slurs, obviously drunk. You shake your head and kiss her cheek goodbye. 

You get behind the wheel, slightly—just slightly inebriated and you drive back to your apartment. The air is chilly, your windows are down, and the roads are completely empty… Well, save for you and your shitty Toyota.  

The peacefulness doesn’t last long, there are blue and red lights flashing behind you. You genuinely groan. Y’fucking joking me? 

Pulling over and whining about how this night couldn’t get any fucking worse, the police officer strolls up casually like he isn’t ruining your clean record.

Looking up, oh. Oh, that’s not a he. That’s a beautiful woman. A beautiful police woman with slight bags underneath her beautiful flushed blue eyes with silvery-blonde hair. “Y’have any idea what I pulled you over for, ma’am?” Her accent is thick, very Pittsburgh—if you were from anywhere else it’d sound like a soft Jersey one.

You want to respond—really, but your words are jammed in your throat and all you do is fucking babble. The officer’s lip quirks up slightly, her head cocking to the side. “Have you been drinking, ma’am?” That’s when your response is immediate.

“No!” It’s loud, sudden—you wince at it. “No, I haven’t. I haven't been drinking. Promise, Ms. Officer.” Your words fall out in a whiny little drawl. Oh, where did that come from?

“You haven’t?” She cooes, it’s barely audible. Her hands resting on your car door—and your eyes shoot to her ringless left finger. Shaking your head at her response. “M’kay, baby, then that’ll make it easier for you to step out of the vehicle?”

“Baby?” A hiccup. “Mmh, can I stay here?” You slur, grinning. Her lips quirk even higher, amused. Fuck, this is incredibly inappropriate—the officer is staring at you like she’s about to devour you whole. You watch as she clicks her body-cam off. You read her patch. DANA EVANS.

“Ma’am… I really need you to step out of the vehicle.” 

And so you do, with wobbly steps. “Can you walk in a straight line for me, baby?” Her hand smooths over your hip, just lightly.

You almost tip over, but you walk the line—and the woman is looking at you hungrily, at your ass when you walk further and your tits that are basically spilling out when you walk back towards her. “Count to ten, backwards.”

You recite it perfectly. “Okay, baby. Good girl.” And she’s pressing your chest against her cop car. She’s groping at every body part she can. “Is this okay?” Dana murmurs against your neck, and you nod eagerly. 

“S’okay.” It comes out needy and wanting. You don’t even know her and she’s gripping at your tits. You mumble out pleas, looking back at her.

“Look at this. Y’know how many laws I’m violating?” She kisses your neck, sucking a soft mark. “Not enough to go to jail, though, baby.” 

You’re panting, like genuinely panting from a little teasing—thighs pressing together, slick dripping down them. You hear her mumbling behind her before her palm slaps against your ass, squeezing hard. “Look at that.” Dana groans, softly. 

Her mouth pressing to your jaw, humming. Slim fingers moving to bunch the dress around your hips, to find bare ass and a slick pussy. She tuts behind you, and a finger glides through your folds—prodding at your hole to tease before dragging it back up to your clit with your new found slick. It makes this nasty squelching sound and the officer can’t help but groan.

The two fingers circling your bud make your fuzzy brain go even fuzzier. You’re mewling out against the frame when she finds the perfect tempo and pressure. “Yeah, that feels good, hm?” And then it’s gone, replaced with small smacks to your already needy, drooly pussy. 

“Please…” 

“Please, what?”

“Please, what, sweetheart?” She coos, condescendingly. “Use y’words, like a big girl, yeah?” 

“Touch me… on my pussy.” You squirm, and her thumb slips into your mouth—pressing down on your tongue.

You hear Dana’s little “m’kay”, feel her little pat to your clit before she slams her two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt. Not nearly enough, she stills her fingers inside and you grind. 

“What, baby? M’touching you. S’not enough?” She coos, mockingly. “Not enough?”

You groan, whining–tilting your head back, lips puckering for a kiss and she delivers. “Move them… please.” 

A grunt sounds from her lips, and she starts moving her fingers–rubbing against your slick gummy wall, tapping it gently, but when she hears your whine? It encourages her, and she fucks her fingers harder into you. 

There’s a wet squelching sound from below where her digits stretch you out, she’s panting in your ear like this is getting her off too, just fingering your greedy pussy. Mumbling soft “fuck”s and “getting close, baby?”, she knows the answer–you’re clenching around her fingers, and there’s slick dripping down into her palm. 

Your eyes screw shut, hand moving behind you to grab her wrist but her free hand slams them back onto the car door frame. A whine sounds from your throat, guttural and it only makes her go faster. Pumping so fucking deep, you trap her in your cunt when you finally reach that high. “Mm–mmn, please…” you beg, lips pressed to the frame–saliva dripping down the glass. 

“I know, s’so much, hm baby?” She cooes into your temple. “Good girl… did so good.” Working you through your orgasm, just pumping in and out until you grumble in overstimulation. 

She tilts your head to the side so she can kiss you properly, her tongue slipping into your mouth–soothing over your own. You start to giggle, and she raises an amused eyebrow. “Somethin’ funny?”

“Uh-huh.” She nudges her nose into yours in question, a quick peck to your full lips. “I literally just fucked the police. Y’know… the–mmh…” 

Cut off with Dana’s mouth smushed against your own, pulling away to mumble a teasing–  “Mmh-mmn, the police fucked you.”

Soft music plays in the dim of your apartment, your pasta sits beautifully in the pot and you’re stirring at the orangey-tinted sauce that you spent hours perfecting. Humming along to the song playing. One that you and Baranam sway to in the morning while you make breakfast for her and your son. 

The door clicks open, and then clicks shut. You look over your shoulder and look at the entry way mirror to see Baran toeing off her shoes. She’s awfully quiet. You set the stove heat to a warm simmer and leave your station.

Making your way over, your mouth opens to spew sweetness and instead you croak—left in shock at her bruised nose and cheek.

 “Baran, what the fuck?” You curse, hands trembling as they hover over her face—not wanting to touch her. “What happened, baby?” 

You watch her face tighten, watch her flinch back in pain—she was assaulted at work, doing a diagnosis on a particularly aggravated patient. The purple bruise coating the caramel skin of her cheek. 

Your chest tightens in worry. “Baran, what hap—“ Apparently the worrying was enough for her to snap.

“Azizam, enough! Just stop for a second.” She’s staring at you, breathing deeply—her sharp jaw is clenched. “Just… I need a second without feeling like I’m being bombarded by you.” The way she says it sounds like she’s been thinking about it for a while, and god if it doesn’t hurt.

You stare back, eyes glossier than before—your chest tightening with something other than worry. Hurt, confusion even because where did this all come from?

Sure, you’ve been a teensy bit more protective of her since her first day as an attending at the PTMC. You didn’t think you’d been bombarding her though. Not really.

You take a deep, shaky breath in—nodding. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.” And you back away from her slowly, swallowing. 

Baran looks at you with the smallest hint of regret. She doesn’t snap at anybody, not usually—and especially not you. Her sweet girl, her sweet perfect wife who does nothing but the most for her. 

She also didn’t mean to imply you were burdening and bombarding her. Baran knows you just trying to look out for her, see what you could do like you always do, her perfect baby. 

For the rest of the night, you’re quiet. Working on dinner, holding back tears of quiet frustration (at Baran, and yourself) while staring down at over-cooked pasta. Straining it and mixing in Baran’s family sauce—one that you’d made for her prior because you know how hard she’s been working these past couple of weeks.

You eat quietly at the table, you clean up quietly, you don’t speak one word to Baran and her heart shatters. She tries to talk to you, tries to coax your sweet laughter out of your throat—but you’re stiff, and you’re silent. Not once does she apologize though.

You wrap an icepack in a rag, and drop it in her lap. That’s when she realizes your sadness has shifted into anger, not that you’d blow up in her face and throw things at her. Baran notices your anger in the quiet, little things… like dropping something so roughly in her lap rather than handing it to her gently.

“Thank you, darling.” And she watches your eyes roll. Her heart clenches, painfully. 

—

You’re both getting ready for bed, Baran getting into her lilac silk night dress—something sexy, like she’s attempting to appease you. Win you over again. Everything she does gets ignored. 

“I could be masturbating and you wouldn’t even care, hm?” Her lips pressing to your bare shoulder, sucking a soft mark—her version of an apology. A really shitty apology and usually Baran is incredibly good at them. “Aziz…” She sighs into your skin.

“Don’t.” Baran freezes, it’s the first word you’ve spoken to her since the argument. “Stop acting like everything is okay, Baran. Enough acting like you did nothing wrong.” You choke out, eyes watering—and you hate yourself for crying over something so silly.

“Sweet girl…” She spins you around, her hands sliding from your waist to frame your face. “I’m sorry.”

You groan, loudly—wiping your tears with balled up fists. “No, you aren’t.” Your sniffle is wet, loud. “You’re not fucking sorry, Baran. If you were sorry we wouldn’t be doing this in the first place.” 

“I am sorry,” She grabs your wrists, pulling them down. “I’ve had a rough day, baby. Am I not allowed to be upset?” 

Another groan, another eye roll, another huff at how cruel she’s being. “Of course you’re allowed to be upset. You got assaulted, dude!” You see her jaw clench at the ‘dude’, you know she hates when you call her that. “It doesn’t mean you have the right to treat me like I’m less than, when all I’m trying to do is make everything a little bit easier for you. Okay?” 

Baran sighs, “okay.” it’s all she says. You see the regret in her eyes, the genuine apology—but she doesn’t outright say it to you, doesn’t coddle you or beg for forgiveness.

“I’m tired.” You see her eyes widen at that, and you are quick to calm her nerves. “I’m not divorcing you, Baranam. But I am telling you that if you want to continue loving me and receiving the same affection—you have to fix your bullshit. I’m done being the silly doormat, because I’m everything but that. I am your wife.” Voice still shaky, unsteady. Your fists still balled up, not to punch or attack, but to ground.

“You’re right,” She’s sitting upright now, standing in front of you—bruised face to one sad, tired face. “You’re right. My darling,” her lips pressing to yours, not to appease but apologize. “I’m sorry. Truly, aziz. I’ve… taken advantage of you. You’re not a doormat, you are my wife and I’m sorry I haven’t been treating you as such, my darling girl.” 

“It’s not an excuse, but the pressure of the Pitt… it’s weighing on my shoulders and I’m struggling to keep my head above the thick water, hm?” She pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, wiping away a sliding tear. “I never meant to make you feel like a burden, like you bombarded me. You didn’t, darling. I know your intentions.” 

“I’ll back off next time—“ She immediately cuts you off.

“I’m not asking for that. Look, my darling, I’ve worked in the medical field for… quite some time, I’ve been through shit your precious eyes should never see.” She brushes her nose against yours. “I’m asking you to… understand where I’m coming from. That I’m a big girl, and I can handle myself. Punched or not.” Another sweet kiss to your lips.

“Okay, big girl.” You kiss back, and she has to forcefully pull her lips off of yours. You just stare at each other for a while, breathing each other in because you haven’t all day. Lingering guilt remains in Baran’s eyes and yours too. 

“You’re my princess. I will take care of you, not the other way around.”

“But sometimes even the frog needs help.” And Baran barks out a loud and especially hearty laugh—eyebrows shot up in a ‘oh yeah?’ gesture. Tugging you onto the bed with her till you’re on her lap. 

She mumbles a soft insult in her Persian-tongue that makes you laugh in confusion. “So… we… are okay? We are better, I mean.”

“Hey, hey, baby—m’right here. Look at me, can y’look at me?” But your chest is going up and down rapidly and it feels like it’s going to explode—shaky eyes move to Cassie’s wide ones. 

Your lower lip is shaking and tears are spilling down red cheeks. You don’t know what happened, not really—at one point, Robinavitch was scolding you, the next you were running into an empty medical supply closet hunched into yourself and hyperventilating like an overworked dog. 

“Breathe with me, jus’ till you feel better, okay?” The words are pressed to your temple, she’s probably shaken up just as much as you are. She saw Robby unprofessionally reprimanding you in the middle of the nursing station, she saw you rush away from prying eyes with shaken steps.

She presses your palm to her chest, right over her heart—then brings the other hand to her lips, kissing each knuckle until your breathing starts to slow down. Then her lips move to your forehead. “Good girl… good job. Feel better? Just one, two, three, baby.” Your eyes shut as you continued to breathe with her.

You sniffle, trying to clear your airways and you catch Cassie’s scent—that lavender dollar tree body-wash shit, mixed with your shampoo and conditioner. And then the smell of the Emergency Department, sterile and honestly, faintly metallic. 

She waits a minute before cracking a joke. “Y’know what m’gonna do right now?” 

“We are not doing the three things you can feel, touch, or smell, Dr. Mckay.” 

Breathless gasps and moans fall from full lips as Yolanda pounds into you from behind with the thick nude-colored strap that she bought while thinking of you. Your wrists behind your back as she uses them as makeshift handles, her free hand on your throat—sometimes squeezing to see your eyelashes flutter shut. “Fuck, you look so good, baby. You wanna see yourself?” She mumbles into your ear, tongue flicking out to tap your earlobe, her voice hoarse from the groans that she spills when she watches your greedy hole suck her in.

You could only muster out a soft whimper in response, which made her hand around your throat subtly squeeze tighter. You know Yolanda likes verbal agreement, you’re being bratty on purpose—she, herself, knows that too. 

She stops in punishment, squeezing your throat—tutting when you whine like a bitch. “Use your words. Be a big girl.” 

You groan, your orgasm is quickly receding so you quit the bratty act. “Mmh.. wanna see myself, Mommy.” Tilting your head back for a kiss, she delivers—devouring your mouth with practiced ease. 

Her fingers rub your puffy clit while turning you towards the full-body mirror. Your hair sticking to your forehead, body slick with a sheet of sweat. Neck littered in dark hickeys and Yolanda’s teeth indents, God, that’ll be such a pain to cover up. Your nurse scrubs don’t cover all that much.

Eyes trailing up from yourself to Yolanda and her trademark smirk. Still looking perfect, not even breaking a sweat. Yet the pinch between her brows tells you she’s a little breathless. Her fingers are still deftly working on your needy pussy. 

They, the fingers, stop when she picks you up to slam you on her lap—needy pussy swallowing her thick cock whole. She lets you adjust for a minute, murmuring soft praise into your ear… soft cooes like oh wow, look at how you take mommy’s dick  and  mommy loves this greedy pussy   and because she’s feeling so nice and soft for her baby right now  mommy loves you, baby girl. 

When she sees you’re adjusted almost fully, she continues to thrust, from soft and experimental to sloppy pounding. Your body moving back and forth from the force of her thrusts, eyes rolling to the back of your skull before switching back to the mirror to see yourself. “Thank you, Mommy.” Your responses are delayed and whiney. 

“My beautiful girl…” She croons, loosening her grip. Placing a soft kiss on your damp temple–yanking your head back by your hair. Your back arched, the silicone dick reaching parts you didn’t even know could hit.

 She watches you in the mirror, watches the way you don’t shut up because of the new perfect position—your hardened nipples are perfectly out for Yolanda to tweak. Cooing pathetically at your needy blabbering. Mumbling does that feel good, slut?  who knew baby could take mommy’s cock so fucking good?   are you fucking crying right now, baby?  mommy’s here to take care of you, don’t cry.

Tossing you back onto the bed, the silicone dildo slipping out of your slick cunt with a squelch. Whining at the loss, before Yolo adjusts you to her liking (Pussy up, face in the comforter). 

Going to town on your sloppy pussy, two fingers rubbing on your pretty clit. Her tongue dipping in your fucked-out hole, groaning when you whine—and you flinch at the stimulation. 

You’re stretched out enough, so Yolanda decides to slam three slender (but thick enough to fill) fingers into your sore pussy. Cooing when you scream “I know, baby.” She kisses your ass, biting—laughing when you cry. She knows you’re fine, if you weren’t you’d say the safeword. Yolanda knows consent, lives for it—if her baby says no, it means no. She’ll never do anything you’re not comfortable with. “You gonna shut the fuck up so Mommy can fuck you properly, hermosa?” Another bite.

“Uh-huh.. m’sorry, Mommy. Please..” You whine, thrusting back onto her fingers—Yolo lets it slide, this time. Usually she’d stop, fully. Make you whine and beg, but she’s genuinely feeling kind today—you both had a rough shift. Yolanda lost more patients than she had liked, so she was… ‘vulnerable’ to say the least. You got yelled at by your superiors in surgery, it was so bad you literally had to leave and resort to smoking outside (which you hadn’t done since you and Yolo got together).

“Thank you, baby.”

—

By the end of the night, Yolanda’s kissing the back of your slick thighs. Wiping dried spit and come off. “Did a good job.” She’s dragging the rag through your inner thighs to clean them off too. She moves up to kiss your cheek. “Such a good girl.” Watching the way your eyes flutter all the way shut in the mirror.

Yolanda could cry, really—she loves you so much. In the ER, or during sex she’s a rough prickly cactus… but at home? When you’re alone and intimate and soft? She’s a big ball of mush, kissing all over you—and she’d truly never admit it but her favorite part about sex is the aftercare. The way you trust her enough to clean you up, the way you slowly drift to sleep while she drags the warm, wet cloth over your thighs and tummy and chin. 

“Sleepy? Go to bed, baby. Gonna be here when you wake up, sweetheart.” You shake your head, turning over to face her fully—drowsy eyes roaming her face. 

“Notebook.” You mumble, pressing full lips to her own. Shit, she almost forgot—she grabs the small diary that she bought in the beginning of your relationship from the bedside table.

It was supposed to be something kinky, at first—rating each other’s styles teasingly and punishing each other for what the other said. But now it’s routine, and it’s totally intimate. 

She writes your name at the top, the date, and time—and draws five stars underneath it. perfect, my perfect girl. sat there and took everything i gave you. She scribbles it down in her shitty doctor writing. It makes you smile. You write your signature lazily underneath, and she writes her own—like you’re signing off charts at the hospital.

“Okay… now I can sleep.” You say against her mouth, stealing one more chaste kiss. “I love you.” 

“I love you three-thousand, baby doll.” 

You’re exactly where you are most days after work, sitting on Cassie’s lap—lips pressed against her own in soft desperation.

You feel her hands grazing the soft skin on the back of your thighs while your own hands are thrown over her shoulders. 

It’s nice. Peaceful, to say the least. After a long shift this is what the both of you desperately need. Each other and needy kisses.

Cassie’s lips move to the underside of your jaw, smiling when she hears the little groan punched out of your throat.

“That good, baby?” Her lips quirk in that gentle way, you huff and let her continue. You’re not very talkative today, not really—usually you’re a nonstop chatterbox, it worries Cassie.

You’re kissing her the same, she guesses, but your eyes are blank and your body freezes some times. She kind of just assumes you’re tired today, she doesn’t blame you—with the loss of too many patients this shift and Robby’s constant chastisement.

Cassie’s fingers shift to the top of your thighs—and that’s where she feels it—slowly. The bandage, a bandaid. Her eyes flit up, and she sees your face cringe.

“Baby,” is all Cassie says before she’s tugging your sleep shorts up even slower and trying not to cry (for the first time in years) when she sees the deep kitten scratches littering your thighs. Sloppily covered by hospital bandaids. “oh, baby.”

You don’t say anything, god—what is there to say? I’m sorry, Cass   I’m sorry I couldn’t take it today   I’m sorry I’m a fucking screw up and can’t control my emotions. Cassie sees the thoughts running behind those beautiful eyes and your eyes glossing over, and she stops—stops moving to take off the bandaids and truly see the damage.

Cassie doesn’t bombard with questions, just looks at the cuts. They’re deep, inflamed and it takes everything in Cass not to choke up at the sight. Her thumb soothes over them. “Fuck.” She shakes her head. “Anywhere else, baby? Jus’ need you to be honest.” She says so gently, never harsh.

“No,” it’s soft and laced with pure pain. “nowhere else. M’sorry. M’sorry, Cass-Cass.” You sob. Cassie tucks your face underneath her chin, rubs your back and mumbles that she’s going to try to make it all better for you, but if she does that—you need to try to talk to her. Communicate when you’re feeling all shitty like this. You nod and agreement and that’s really about the end of the conversation.

—

The next morning, Cassie’s already up. You move your arm, expecting to feel that warm heat—face already drooping when you find her side to be empty. Your thigh is sore, buzzing from Cassie’s soothing kisses last night. 

You grab your charging phone and check the time. 8:34. Okay, not too early, Cassie’s probably running errands. Still, it’d be nice if she were here with you. Especially after last night’s fiasco, just to know she didn’t ditch you.

There’s shuffling coming from the living room-kitchen area—you get up to see what the ruckus is about.

And you are delighted to see Cass in a silly panda apron, whipping something up.

“Oh?” Your arms wrap gently around her from behind. “Morning.” The word is mumbled from between her shoulder bones.

“G’morning, sweet girl.” 

“Is this what took my morning cuddles away on m’day off?” You say with a kiss to her shoulder—on your tip toes, even though you really aren’t that short.

“Surprise?” She turns her head to kiss your temple. “Mmh, sweet baby. Food’s gonna be done in a bit. Sit pretty on the couch, watch your silly show.” Her hand comes behind the two of you to pat your ass.

“M’kay, McKay” it’s dragged out and so obviously reluctant—you drag your feet all the way to the couch before you plop down. 

Half an hour later, Cassie’s shuffling towards you—plates and cups balanced in her arms. 

“Breakfast is ready, my love.” She passes you your cup, full of your favorite morning drink and then your loaded up plate. She plops down beside you with a groan, what a needy forty-four year old.

You both watch your show, Cassie’s slightly more invested than you are. You’re taking small bites out of your breakfast. “You don’t want to talk about… last night?” Your eyes, filled with shame, flit to hers and then back to the TV.

“Mm, talk about… what?” She kisses your temple, not trying to downplay—just showing that she’ll talk when you can fully verbalize it. “We will talk about everything when you are ready, munchkin. Don’t worry about me, yeah?” 

You nod again. Your eyes fill with tears, lips quirking in relief. “Okay.”