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Learn about me and what I went through in 2025/2026 here.
If you work in the medical field, please weigh in if you see incorrect terminology in any of my Pitt fics. Message me directly or comment, I welcome it. My best friend is a charge nurse (though not in a hospital), and I try my best to do my research to make my fics as accurate as possible, but the internet can only get me so far.
S = smut; F = fluff; A = angst; H/C = hurt/comfort; H/NC = hurt/no comfort; SG = suggestive but not explicit
The Pitt
Dana Evans
Exactly Where She Wants You [H/C][S]
A new job means a new Charge Nurse, and Dana Evans makes it impossible to tell if sheâs just assessing you or if sheâs keeping you close for her own reasons.
Three Weeks [H/C][F][S]
After Dana comes home with a black eye and bloody nose, you beg her to stay home for her own safety. To your surprise, she agrees.
Just Right [F]
Sequel to Three Weeks. Dana has been trying to find the right time for weeks now, if she could just make everything go perfectly for once. Alternatively: 4 times Dana tries to propose, and the 1 time she finally does.
Mel King
Miniseries
Hold On (Part 1) [A][F] - Tightrope (Part 2) [A][H/C][S]
When Melâs friends from college come to visit, thereâs only one way to keep them off her back, and itâs your job as her best friend to help her. How hard can pretending to be someoneâs girlfriend really be?
Oneshots:
The Game [F]
A pre-shift morning turns into a diagnostic game when Mel notices a scar sheâs never seen before.
Look [S]
All you want is for your girlfriend to see what you see; to feel beautiful under your hands, your gaze, your attention.
Anchor [H/C]
You hold yourself together well, but when you start to spiral, shes there to remind you that you donât have to go through it alone.
Baran Al-Hashimi
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi headcanons [SG]
Black Tie [S][F] (Allie recommends)
Baran has always kept her personal life separate from work, life is easier that way. Unfortunately for her, PTMCâs annual gala requires an exception and youâre all-too eager to participate.
Parker Ellis
Oneshots
Balance [H/C][F]
A missed alarm leads to a medical episode at work, and your private relationship risks exposure.
Baby Mama [S]
Parker didnât think she wanted kids. That is, until she sees you holding one. Now all she can think about is putting a baby in you.
A collection of moments between Trinity Santos and you, the student doctor assigned to her. Where teasing turns into trust, vulnerability surfaces in unexpected places, and Trinity slowly becomes the one person you canât hide from.
Oneshots
Sorry [S] (Allie recommends)
After a petty fight, Trinity is determined to fix her mistake. Ignored apologies turn into whispered pleas and a desperate need to make things right, until sheâs on her knees, proving just how badly she wants your forgiveness.
Visible [H/C]
A minor accident in the ER leaves more than just a burn, and Trinity proves that sometimes the gentlest kind of care is the one that says the least.
Thin Ice [F]
What the world sees as rivalry hides a secret thatâs been years in the making; and when stakes are the highest, thatâs when your secret is the hardest to keep.
Wait For Me [A]
Some things even Trinity Santos canât fix. All she can do is wait.
After a brutal shift in the OR, drinks with your attending and her fellow seem harmless enough. Until the conversation turnsâŚeducational. Turns out some surgeons are very committed to hands-on teaching.
Cassie McKay
Better Kind Of Best Friend [A][F] (Allie recommends)
After her art gallery date with Brian, Cassie McKay comes back to the ER and finds her best friend avoiding her like the plague.
Good Hands [F][S]
Cassie McKay recognizes your voice long before she recognizes your face, and once she does? Itâs all over for her. Youâre just along for the ride.
Samira Mohan
Coming Soon...
Yolanda Garcia
A Practical Lesson (ft. Emery Walsh) [S]
After a brutal shift in the OR, drinks with your attending and her fellow seem harmless enough. Until the conversation turnsâŚeducational. Turns out some surgeons are very committed to hands-on teaching.
Pining!Yolanda Garcia headcanons [SFW]
Terms and Conditions [Series Masterlist]
Nazely Toomarian
What did you Say? [F] (Allie recommends)
When your girlfriend comes home from a long shift at PTMC, you cheer her up with a little secret youâve been keeping.
Request Guidelines
⢠Please make sure requests are open before you submit.
⢠I only write wlw x reader. I personally read everything, but only women inspire me to write.
⢠I'm currently only writing for the women of The Pitt.
⢠Include as much detail as you can when making a request. The absolute minimum requirement is pairing and genre.
⢠It takes me a very long time to write pieces. I donât usually write blurbs or headcanons, I almost always write a full story and often get carried away in heavy description or details that arenât dialogue because itâs the way I grew up writing. If you submit a request, please be prepared for it to take a long time. Sorry, thatâs just the way it is.
On the note of my writing style, I have a crazy weakness for emotional caretaking, acts of service, and couples showering together. If you read a bunch of my works at once and you notice a theme, keep your mouth shut.
⢠If you want me to write smut, it must be included in the ask. I will not write smut without it being asked for, but l am happy to write it for you.
⢠I do my best to make ALL reader-inserts inclusive to everyone. If you come across a described reader without a content warning for it, feel free to point it out.
⢠There is no use of y/n on this blog.
⢠I donât have a beta, itâs just me, myself, and I. I do my best to proofread before I post, but things slip through the cracks.
⢠I also only write content for fandoms Iâm well-versed in. If I donât know the source material inside and out, Iâm not writing for it.
I will not write: real-time đ or SA or SH, incest, or anything smutty involving anyone underage.
I will write: graphic depictions of violence, injury, or death, past references to đ or SA or SH, smut, and a variety of kinks.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Iâve been absent lately because life is super weird right now. My anxiety has blown the roof off my mental health over the last few weeks. Since the surrogacy at the end of last year, my mental health has deteriorated rapidly. What used to just be generalized anxiety disorder has melted into daily anxiety attacks and depression. Iâve started a new SSRI and a benzo for severe breakthrough anxiety attacks, but right now Iâm just trying to get through every day.
Iâve lost enjoyment of things I usually love, reading and writing being the biggest ones, which is why I havenât been very active lately. Iâm pushing myself to still write, especially since I just put out a poll last week, but itâs taking a very long time because motivation comes and goes like the wind.
Also, Iâve done a head count of my deleted posts, and it amounts to 9 fics, 2 polls, and 1 ask. I donât know what happened to them, I havenât gotten an answer from Tumblr support, theyâre just gone. Iâll be editing my Masterlist/pinned post soon, since the ask was linked there and so are the missing fics. I have the original drafts of the fics on my laptop since I write in Word and then edit on tumblr, so theyâre just the unedited versions, but thatâll come after my poll-winner.
Anyway. I love everyone whoâs still here, and I hope to be back to normal soon đ
I'm a lesbian in the medical field and your fic tightrope ripped my heart out and put it back together. You did an absolutely fantastic job on it and I love you 10/10
Oh my god, thank you 𼚠I love you too please stick around, I love the positivity and feedback đ
Screaming with rage because the motivation to write is back, but the ideas are not!
The only thing thatâs calling to me is a âwhat is it like to be with a woman?â âDo you want me to show you?â prompt, but Iâm not sure who to write it for!
Iâve been feeling so unmotivated and just overall down lately.
And then I wake up this morning to find a message from a follower alerting me that multiple of my fics are gone. I go to look, and itâs like theyâve been deleted. No post found when I click the link in my own Masterlist, gone from my profile when I scroll.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Summary: Dana has been trying to find the right time for weeks now, if she could just make everything go perfectly for once. Alternatively: 4 times Dana tries to propose, and the 1 time she finally does.
CW: fluff, 4+1 trope, description of allergic reaction, reader wears makeup and has hair long enough to pin back
WC: 6.3k
Sequel to Three Weeks.
A/N: this request is from @tiredbisexualwithadhd đ Thanks for the request and the idea and for being so patient, I hope it lives up!
The emergency department feels like itâs trying to tear itself apartment.Â
Patients are arguing in the waiting room, one is throwing a fit in triage, and hospital staff are running through the emergency department so frantically that theyâre nearly colliding with each other.
Dana barely notices. âHas anyone seen Dr. Garcia?â she calls openly into the ED.
âSheâs over in radiology.â
âOf course she is.â Dana runs a hand over her face. âOkay, donât let her go back upstairs yet, Mohan needs her for a consult. Whereâs Langdon?â
Dr. Whitaker pauses, having been speed-walking past the nurseâs station when Dana asks. âI think I saw him headed toward the break room a minute ago.â
âTell him I need him to pick up another patient asap, heâs not as fast as he used to be.â
âDana.â
âWhat?â
Robby appears beside her with a coffee in hand and an expression thatâs way too calm for the state of the emergency department around them. âYouâre yelling,â he says.
âIâm aware,â Dana says, smoothing a hand over a few stray strands of hair that have falling out of her claw clip.
âYouâre scaring my med students.â
Dana leans back just far enough to look past him to see one of said med students immediately look away.
âGood, fear builds character.â
Robby chuckles at that, leaning against the workstation counter as he watches Dana sign off on another chart. âYou seem more stressed than usual,â he says before taking a sip of his own coffee.
Dana rolls her eyes. âNot everybody can disappear on a three month sabbatical when they start spiraling.â
He shrugs. âSome of us develop healthier coping mechanisms than others.â
Dana levels him with a look. âName one.â
âI bought a motorcycle.â
âAnd then you never wear a fuckinâ helmet, thatâs not healthy, Robinovich.â
Robby watches her for a moment before saying calmly, âI think work isnât the only reason youâre stressed.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
He shrugs, taking another sip of his coffee before answering. âDonât act like we both donât know whatâs hiding in the bottom of your backpack right now.â
Dana freezes before rounding on him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. âYou going through my stuff now?â
âNo,â he says quickly, âI just know youâve been carrying it around ever since you bought it because you canât figure out how youâre going to do it.â
Her eyes are still narrowed in suspicion when she sags in defeat. âIs it that obvious?â
âTo anyone who knows you? Yeah.â Robby leans in with a smug little smile. âHow long has it been now?â
Lips pursing, she sighs. âA week.â
He looks taken aback. âYouâve been carrying an engagement ring around the hospital for a week?â
âLower your fuckinâ voice,â Dana hisses, looking around to make sure Princess and Perlah arenât listening in. âI just havenât had time.â
âYou havenât had time to figure out how youâre going to propose to your girlfriend?â
âDonât call her that,â she snaps, running a weary hand over her face. âThis is a big deal and I just wanna get it right.â
Robby watches her cautiously for a moment before landing a heavy hand on her shoulder. âYou know sheâs going to say yes, right? Youâre overthinking this.â
âI am not.â
âYou are.â
Before Dana can continue to argue, someone from the nurseâs station calls her name urgently.Â
Robby steps aside so she can move past him, but he catches her arm briefly before she goes. âFor what itâs worth, I donât think sheâs gonna care where you ask.â
Thereâs no humor in the laugh Dana gives him in response, and she doesnât even look at him as she says, âEasy for you to say.â Then she disappears in the direction of the nurseâs station, more stressed than she was before.
Robby is left smirking to himself as he watches her go, and is still in the same spot heâd been standing in when the automatic doors to the ambulance bay slide open, this time with no paramedics rushing in.Â
Dana doesnât even notice. Sheâs halfway across the department, slamming down the red phone to announce the chest pain thatâs coming in via ambulance when she looks up and sees you.
Youâre stepping through the doors balancing at least three pizza boxes in your arms, with plastic bags hanging from both wrists, and two cardboard drink trays balance precariously on top of the boxes.
Suddenly, you have the attention of the entire department at once.
âIs that food?â
âPlease tell me one of those coffees is mine.â
âYouâre my favorite person.â
You laugh breathlessly. âIf somebody could maybe help me before I drop all of this, thatâd be great.â
Langdon appears from nowhere (which brings an immediate scowl to Danaâs face), relieving you of the drink trays, and Mateo is on your left, lifting the pizza boxes from your arms, leaving you with only the bags around your arms.
âOh my god, are those donuts too?â
âYou people work like fifteen-hour shifts, you donât eat unless somebody makes you,â you laugh. âTrust me, I know the drill. Help me get all of this to the break room.â
You follow Langdon and Mateo, laying it all out on the tables in the lounge and quickly snagging Danaâs coffee from the tray before anyone else digs in. You weave your way out of the room just as the rush of doctors and nurses start heading in past you. Some clap you on the shoulder as they pass, murmuring a sincere âthank you.â
You make your way back to the nurseâs station and slide up beside Dana, sliding the coffee toward her. âThis oneâs yours.â Medium roast, two sugars, with a splash of oat milk. You donât have to say it and she doesnât have to ask, you know how she likes it. âYou didnât have breakfast this morning.â
âItâs been a busy day.â
âMmm,â you nod in agreement, more placating her than anything. âWhen is it not?â From your own bag hanging from your shoulder, you pull a small paper bag, folded over on itself. Inside is an everything bagel, toasted, with cream cheese.
Dana suddenly feels disconnected from the rest of the ER. The sounds of footsteps and her coworkers around her fade into the distance, because this - this stupid coffee handoff in the middle of the emergency room feels unbearably intimate and she could kiss you right here if she knew she wouldnât pay for it later with hospital gossip.
You notice Dana staring off into space and your expression twists into concern. âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothing,â she says too quickly. But her eyes travel toward the hallway leading to the lockers. She could go get it, right now. Right now would be good.
You tilt your head, trying to get into her line of sight. âDana?â
The thought arrives to her, sudden and without warning, to ask you. The ring is fifty feet away, she could do it now, in the ER, surrounded by some of the people sheâs closest to -
âShit, I gotta get back.â Youâre looking down at your watch, a grimace on your face.
Danaâs heart plummets. âWhat?â
âIâm already pushing it on my break,â you say apologetically. âI just wanted to make sure you ate something.â
Dana squares her shoulders, irritation blooming in her mind. Not at you, of course, but at her own indecisiveness. âRight now?â she asks.
Youâre surprised by the question. Dana isnât usually one to want you to stick around, she usually does her best to keep you out of her ER. âYeah?â
Robby is watching the entire interaction with thinly-veiled amusement, like this is the best reality show heâs ever seen. He saw all of it happen in real time, the moment that Dana very clearly decided this could be it.
You reach out, your hand landing on Danaâs arm. âDonât look at me like that,â you say with a smile. âIâll see you tonight when you get home, alright?â You lean in and kiss her cheek quickly, acutely aware of how much Dana is not fond of PDA.Â
She opens her mouth and it almost looks like sheâs going to argue with you for a moment, but in the end, nothing comes out. If she asks you to wait, youâll know somethingâs up, and if she runs to her locker for the ring, youâll definitely know something is happening. So instead, she just watches as you back out of the department, waving goodbye to the rest of the staff while several people yell thank-yous after you.
That was it. The moment had been right there, and she let it slip through her hands.
The apartment is low-lit and warm, with music playing from the Bluetooth speaker connected to your phone in the kitchen, where youâre posted up, making dinner. Youâd seen Danaâs location begin to move from the hospital about twenty minutes ago and started food right away, knowing sheâd be both tired and hungry when she got home.
And youâre right.Â
On the other side of your apartment door, standing in the hallway that leads to your apartment, Dana stands on the other side of the door with her key in her hand, heart racing and mind moving a million miles per hour.
Because tonight, sheâs going to ask. No more waiting for a perfect moment, or rehearsing in her head until she talks herself out of it. And no more carrying around this stupid ring, itâs just begging to be stolen. Sheâs just going to do it and get it done.
She unlocks the door and steps into the apartment.Â
âHey,â she calls out into the apartment as she drops her bag on the floor in the entryway.Â
âIn here,â she hears you call from the kitchen.Â
Dana walks further in, rolling her shoulders out of her jacket as she goes, hanging it on the coatrack behind the door. And as she rounds the corner into the kitchen, she sees you.
Youâre wearing only a sports bra and pajama pants that sit dangerously low on your hips, your body is so soft that it should be illegal at the end of a day like the one sheâs had. Barefoot, unbothered and relaxed in a way Dana could only dream of being right now. Youâre stirring whateverâs in that pot on the stove with one hand, scrolling through your phone with the other.Â
Dana stops in the doorway, completely forgetting what she came home with the intention of doing.
You look over your shoulder at the sound of her footsteps shuffling in. âYou look like you got hit by a truck,â you tease.
âI feel like I got hit by a truck,â she says flatly. âWhatcha making?â She cranes her head to get a look at the pot.
âPasta,â you say, the tiniest bit of tension lacing your voice at what you know is to come.
Dana pauses. ââŚyou break the noodles again?â
âThey donât fit in the pot otherwise!â you whine, childlike, waving around the spoon you were using to stir. âBesides, youâll eat it anyways.â
âIâll eat it anyways,â she repeats with a laugh.Â
She saddles up next to you, one hand reaching out and settling on your back against your bare skin, and you unconsciously lean back against the warmth of her palm. Dana doesnât usually dawdle after work, she almost always disappears to shower right away, which is your first clue that something is off.
âBad shift?â you ask, glancing over your shoulder at her.
âLong shift,â she corrects with a sigh.
You nod, understanding the difference without asking for details, because you know she wonât want to give them when sheâs tired like this. âGo. Shower. Food will be almost ready when youâre done.â
Dana nods, even though she doesnât want to go shower. If she leaves this room right now, she might lose her nerve, and then who knows if sheâll find it again? Nevertheless, the ick at the thought of staying in her scrubs for much longer wins out, and she disappears into the master bath for the fastest shower sheâs ever taken.Â
She makes it back in record time, not quite feeling as refreshed as she usually would after a post-shift shower, but better than still smelling like sick people.Â
You donât even have to turn around to know sheâs returned. âI got that sauce you like, the one with the -â
âSun-dried tomatoes,â Dana says, finishing the sentence for you.Â
âYeah, that one, I remembered this time!â
You donât see the fond smile that crosses Danaâs face as she stares at your back. âOf course you did.â You donât even hear the weight in it. Youâre already hustling around the kitchen, plating both her food and your own.
This is it, she thinks. The exact moment, when thereâs no interruption, just the two of you in the kitchen, in soft clothes.
Dana takes a deep breath. âI was thinking -â
You cut her off with a yawn.
Well, you donât cut her off, not in the rude way that interrupting would. But you yawn and it stops her in her tracks as you stretch your limbs and roll your shoulders.Â
âSorry,â you say quickly, blinking it away. âI just canât shake the tired today.â
The words stall in Danaâs throat and she curses internally as the moment fades away.
You move past it like itâs nothing, because you donât know that itâs not nothing for her. âOkay, we need to eat, like, right now, because I need to sit down before I fall asleep standing up.â
ââŚalright.â
You pause, glancing over at her. âAre you okay?â
âIâm fine.â
But youâre looking at her like you always do when you know sheâs not telling the whole truth, a scrutinizing, questioning look on your face. But instead of pushing her for the truth, you kiss her cheek as you pass with both plates full of pasta in your hands and head toward the living room.
âGood,â you say, âbecause I missed you today.â You set the plates down on the coffee table, clearly already having decided that tonight was the night to forego the formality of your dining room table and instead eating on the couch.Â
Dana joins you a second later, settling into the spot next to you as you talk. You talk about your coworker, you talk about the traffic on your way home from work. The mindless topics that couples talk about after theyâve been together for so long that there are no more big topics left.Â
And yet, youâre the one talking.
Now donât get you wrong, that isnât uncommon at all. Most days, Dana comes home too exhausted to keep up conversation, and frankly, sheâs tired of talking at other people. Itâs nice to come home and listen to the pleasant tone of your voice as you tell her about anything and everything that crosses your mind. She usually even asks you to keep talking when you stop, when youâre worried about talking too much.
But you can see that somethingâs on your partnerâs mind. Dana doesnât usually wear her emotions on her face, except for those moments when sheâs too tired to hide them, and thatâs where you find yourself now.Â
You move a little on the cushion, angling yourself towards her. âWhat?â
Dana blinks like sheâs coming back to the conversation, like she had forgotten you could see her. âNothing.â
You laugh, because thatâs the least nothing ânothingâ ever. âDana.â
She sighs, pursing her lips. âYou ever think,â she starts thoughtfully, âthat maybe people make too big a deal out of things?â
You raise an eyebrow. âThatâs vague.â
Dana smiles, looking down at her bowl. âYeah, wellâŚâ The ring is still in her bag, but she could go get it. Or she could ask and then go get it. No, no, she needs it first, she canât ask without presenting you with a ring.Â
You wait patiently for her to continue without pushing.
Dana swallows, trying to find the words. âI just meanâŚsometimes people spend so much time trying to make a moment perfect that they end up missing it entirely.â She laughs shortly, moreso at herself.
Maybe this is it. Maybe she doesnât need the speech she practiced in the car a few days ago, maybe she doesnât need candles or reservations, maybe she just -
You yawn again beside her, sleepily enough that your head tips toward her shoulder afterward. âSorry,â you mumble. âKeep going.â
Danaâs face melts into a smile. âYouâre falling asleep,â she says, nudging you with her elbow.
âIâm listening,â you insist, but itâs weak.
She looks down at the top of your head for a moment before choosing to go on. âIâve been thinking that lately that maybe there are some things I donât say enough.â
âMhm.â
Danaâs thumb brushes against your arm as she reaches to touch your skin. âI think maybeâŚâ she starts again, but the sentence trails off. Not because sheâs lost courage, but because she feels your weight heavier against her side.
When she glances down, even leaning forward to look at you, she finds that your eyes have closed and your breathing has evened out completely.Â
Her expression twists in disbelief. âSeriously?â
You do not respond. You canât, because youâre fast asleep, still with a nearly-full bowl of pasta in your lap.
Multiple people would slap Dana if they even knew she was thinking the q-word, but she canât help it. Thereâs no way it isnât on everybodyâs mind. Chairs is under control for once, nobodyâs bleeding in triage, and nobody in the entire department is actively dying. It feels unnatural.
Dana leans back in her chair in the nurseâs station while rough-drafting next monthâs nurse rotation schedule because for once itâs calm enough in here that she doesnât have to do it at home.Â
Robby slides up beside her, leaning against the desk and glancing around the department suspiciously. âI donât trust this.â
Dana doesnât look up, adjusting her reading glasses. âNeither do I.â
âItâs too calm.â
âWell, because you said that, it wonât be for long.â
âMaybe everybody in the city decided to stop making bad decisions all at once,â he jokes.Â
Dana tsks and the slight shift in her posture causes the weight in her scrub pants pocket to shift. Her hand reaches down to steady it automatically before she can even think about it.
The movement doesnât go unnoticed by Robby. âWhat is that?â he asks slowly.
âDonât,â Dana warns, her eyes never leaving the schedule.
âAre you carrying it with you right now?â
âI always carry it.â
âNo,â Robby corrects, sitting up straighter. âUsually you carry it in your backpack, today youâre carrying it in your pocket.â
Dana finally glances up at him, pulling her reading glasses off her face and lifting an eyebrow.Â
Robbyâs face breaks out into a smile. âOh my god,â he says. âYouâre actually gonna do it.â
Looking back down at the schedule in front of her, Dana canât help the smug smile that begins to make itâs way across her face, giving her away instantly. âTonight,â she confirms. âIâve decided, Iâm done overthinking it. I just need to do it.â
âThatâs very grown up of you,â Robby says, clapping a hand on her shoulder.Â
âDonât ruin this for me.â
The red phone rings and Robby, closest to it, picks it up without hesitation. He listens for a moment before hanging up. âEMS incoming, allergic reaction with epi administered in the field. Three minutes out.â He pushes up off the desk with a stretch. âNothing good ever lasts.â
Despite Robbyâs comments, allergic reactions arenât usually complicated once epiâs been administered, especially if done quickly. While epi-pens are handy, they only delay issues, and most allergic reactions are standard aftermath procedure rather than acute emergency.Â
The paramedics are wheeling a stretcher inside the bay doors quickly, though nobody is running, the lack of urgency confirming that this is most likely aftermath.Â
âShellfish exposure at her workplace,â one of them is saying. âPatient self-administered epi-pen approximately eight minutes prior to arrival. Airway remained open throughout transport but hives have been worsening -â
Dana freezes, recognizing the jacket on the stretcher. Because she hates that jacket, she only ever keeps her mouth shut about it because she knows that specific shade of golden yellow is your favorite -
Everything else in the ER fades into white noise as Dana catches sight of you sitting upright on the stretcher. Your skin is flushed, with blotchy hives climbing up your neck, and you look terrified as your eyes scan the inside of the ER, looking for her.
Dana is at the side of your stretcher in an instant. âWhat happened?âÂ
One of the paramedics starts to answer, telling her your vitals, about your airway, but she waves him off with a hand in his face, looking at you expectantly.
âMandy brought food in,â you rasp. âThere was shrimp in one of the dishes, she forgot I was allergic and I didnât ask.â
âHow much did you eat?â she demands.
âNot a lot.â
Dana is silent for a moment as she assesses you. âGet her into North-3, I want another set of vitals and respiratory on standby.â
The paramedics obediently move you into said room, Dana beside the stretcher the entire way. She helps with the transfer, despite your insistence that you can move yourself from the stretcher to the bed without help.Â
Youâre stable, thatâs the important part. Your oxygen levels are good, your blood pressure is recovering, the swelling never even fully compromised your airway. The second dose of antihistamines is already making the hives fade from the angry red to a just slightly pissed-off shade of dark pink.Â
Logically, Dana knows all of this. But emotionally, sheâs one tight breath away from ripping apart your coworker with her bare hands.
âYou need to stop glaring at her monitor,â Robby says from beside her.
Dana doesnât look away from your room. âIâm not glaring.â
âAre too.â
Through the glass, youâre sitting upright in the hospital bed, blanket pulled over your legs while you scroll absently on your phone. You look exhausted, and youâre still flushed.
âSheâs okay,â Robby adds.
âI know.â
That doesnât stop her from drifting towards North-3 every few minutes, checking on you. Just in case.
Once, while sheâs watching you from her normal spot inside the nurseâs station, you look up and catch her eye through the window and smile brightly at her, like you arenât sitting in a hospital bed after being brought in by ambulance. Like this is normal and fine.
And there it is again: that unbearable warmth in her chest every time you smile at her - no, every time you look at her. The ring box presses against her thigh from inside her pants pocket again. Tonight, that little voice in the back of her mind whispers.
She looks at you again, at the hives scattered across your neck, at the hospital gown and the bracelets around your wrists: the hospital details, the red allergy warning, and the yellow Fall Risk one sitting just above the red.
Absolutely not, you would kill her.
If Dana proposed to you while you were sitting in an ER bed covered in hives, you would never let her live it down.
Of course this would happen today.Â
âIâm starting to think the universe might have it out for you.â Itâs meant to be empathetic, but all Robbyâs really doing right now is pissing her off.Â
âIâm glad my suffering is entertaining for you.â
âNo, no,â Robby says, trying to hold the smile off his face. âIâm just imagining you trying to propose while sheâs hooked up to a pulse ox. You know sheâd still say yes, so why are you making such a big deal of this?â
âThatâs not the point.â
No, it isnât. Dana doesnât want you to say yes out of fear or adrenaline, and certainly not just because youâre relieved you arenât dead. She wants you laughing in your kitchen, or warm in your shared bed, it doesnât matter as long as youâre safe. She wants the moment to just belong to the two of you and apparently the universe keeps taking that personally.
Three weeks of the ring sitting in the bottom of her backpack to make sure that you donât come across it accidentally. And itâs not because sheâs changed her mind, definitely not, but rather because apparently every time she decided to propose, the universe responded by waging war. Either on your life or her psyche.
Dana calls it âpattern recognition.â
Robby calls it âavoidance.â
âYou do know that your girlfriend surviving an allergic reaction is not a sign from the universe, right?â heâd said at one point, when she told him she was taking a break from the pressure sheâd been putting on herself.
âDonât call her that.â
And now somehow, despite all of that, Dana is standing in your shared bedroom buttoning the cuffs of the black blazer sheâs wearing over her dress tonight with hands that are just a little too shaky, while trying very hard not to think too much about the velvet box hidden inside the pocket of this very jacket.
Tonight. Again. For real this time.
You appear in the bedroom doorway halfway through Dana wrestling with the cufflinks. She shouldâve been smart enough to do this without putting the jacket on first.
Dana looks up briefly from her cuffs to you and does a double take, stopping her wrestling with the jacket to stare.Â
You don soft blue satin, with sleeves low enough on your shoulders that the sight of your collarbone almost causes Dana to forget her own name. Your hair is half pinned back, with just the tiniest bit of makeup on.
Beautiful.
âWhy are you looking at me like that?â you ask with narrowed eyes.
Dana recovers quickly. âYou look nice, am I not allowed to look at my own partner?â
Your laughter fills the room as you step further inside the bedroom, reaching out to help Dana finish buttoning her cuffs. âYou look good too.â
Dana looks down at the dress that had been your idea. Black with long sleeves, not overly formal, but short enough that she had to wear opaque tights with it in case she happened to be on one knee at any point this evening. She didnât really feel like flashing the entire restaurant. She lets you fix the collar of the jacket, your fingers smoothing along the base of her throat.
âAre you nervous?â you ask casually.
Dana almost chokes on her own spit. âWhat?â
âYouâre doing that thing with your jaw,â you say, gesturing toward her mouth. âYou grind your teeth when youâre stressed, I can see you clenching.â
She forces herself to unclench immediately, and you grin like you caught her doing something embarrassing.Â
You giggle at the look on her face before leaning in to kiss her. âWeâre just going to dinner,â you mumble against her mouth.
Well, for you itâs just dinner. For Dana, this evening feels balanced on the edge of changing the rest of her life. Luckily for her, you pull back before she can spiral too hard.Â
âReady?â
The restaurant is perfect for the occasion, the one you donât even know about. Itâs got low lighting and real candles on the tables and live piano music from somewhere in the restaurant. Itâs the kind of place where the menus donât list prices because if you have to ask, you probably canât afford it. The kind of place where people get engaged.
You love it. Itâs like a romance movie.
âDana,â you whisper as the hostess leads you to a table, âthis place is insane.â
Dana nods with a smug smile that doesnât at all give away the fact that she spent two weeks trying to get this reservation. When you reach your table, she pulls your chair out for you before you can even reach for it yourself.
You grin up at her after taking your seat. âYouâre being weirdly gentlemanly tonight.â
The waiter appears almost immediately with water, menus, and a bottle of wine that Dana doesnât remember ordering but apparently selected during the online reservation process.
Everything is perfect. The restaurant is beautiful, you look incredible, the ring is in the pocket of the jacket that hangs on the back of her chair. Everything is lined up exactly the way she planned it, but somehow, Dana feels less prepared than ever.
Casual conversation, youâll have dinner, and then the proposal around dessert. Itâs easy.
Except the waiter interrupts twice while Danaâs trying to ask you about your day, and then your order comes out totally wrong, and the couple beside you is having what sounds like the final argument before a divorce.
When your food finally comes out (correctly this time), youâre studying Dana over the rim of your wine glass as you take a sip before finally deciding to say something. âOkay.â
âOkay what?â
âYouâre being really weird tonight, what is up with you?â
Danaâs hands twitch toward her jacket pocket before she can stop herself, like she didnât even mean to. You donât seem to notice, or if you do, you donât say anything about it.
âAre you okay?â
She hates how much she wants to answer that question honestly. Because the truth is that sheâs terrified. Not that youâll say no, she knows youâre going to say yes. But that somehow, sheâll fail to explain what this means to her. That the words she has wonât feel big enough, and that this moment, as planned and rehearsed as it is, still wonât hold the enormity of how much she loves you.Â
âIâm okay.â
You donât look convinced.
But before either of you can continue, the waiter reappears carrying another tray, and everything goes wrong at once.
It happens very fast. Thereâs an apology as someone bumps into the waiter, a metal tray slipping from a flat hand, and the tilt of a wine glass, and suddenly red wine spills directly down your front. Pale blue, now complimented by a deep red.Â
Every table around you freezes. Even the couple at the table next to you pause their argument to watch.
âOh my god,â the waiter breathes, horrified.
Danaâs eyes go wide.
And you burst out laughing. Not polite or embarrassed laughter, but full belly laughter as you stare down the front of your clothes.Â
âWell,â you say as soon as you can get a breath in, wiping your eyes to avoid your mascara running down your face. âAt least nobody can accuse this place of having small pours.â
The waiter looks like heâs literally about to die from embarrassment.
Dana stares at you, taking in the wine dripping down your dress and the candlelight catching your genuine smile and the way youâre trying to reassure the waiter instead of getting upset. And her shoulders slump as she relaxes for the first time all day. The perfection is ruined.
You escape from the restaurant almost immediately. Mostly because the moment the initial shock wears off, your embarrassment catches up to you all at once and you both agree itâs time to get out of there.
So the waitstaff boxes up your food and you decline the free dessert, but you do accept the restaurantâs horrified offer of a discount, getting 40% off the food youâre definitely going to go eat at home on your couch.
You make it home in record time, Dana driving like a bat out of hell so that you donât have to sit in wet clothes longer than necessary. But even as you pull into the apartment parking lot, youâre both laughing, and Dana realizes something important: that this, you rambling beside her in ruined clothes while takeout cools in the back seat of the car, feels way better to her than the version of the night she worked so hard to plan.
As soon as youâre back in the comfort of your own apartment, you disappear into the bedroom, and you strip out of your ruined clothes while bundling them in your arms. Dana slips into the kitchen to get your food out of the boxes and onto plates, and she lays her jacket across the island to hang up later. The ring box is still tucked safely inside the pocket, waiting.
âBabe? Is this shirt yours or mine?â
Dana looks toward the hallway, but you donât appear. âDepends, are you gonna give it back if you put it on?â
ââŚno.â
âThen itâs yours.â
âGreat, thanks!â
Dana smiles to herself as she plates both your food and her own, and it still looks just as good as it did in the restaurant.
You emerge a minute later wearing one of Danaâs oversized t-shirts and a pair of pajama shorts so short that wearing them in public would be a hazard. Your hair is messy where youâd slipped your old clothes off without worrying about fixing it.
Dana looks up and catches sight of you, and there it is again, that feeling, and suddenly she isnât listening to you anymore, she has no idea if youâre even talking. Everything has gone very quiet inside her.
You notice. You notice everything about her. âHey, are you okay?â
She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. âI was going to wait for something else.â
The fork is halfway to your mouth when you pause. âWait for what?â you prompt.
âI thoughtâŚI kept thinking if I didnât do it perfectlyâŚthen it wouldnât mean enough.â She sighs again, opening her eyes to look at you. âBut thatâs not how you and I work.â
You put your fork down. âYouâre not making any sense right now -â
âYou take care of me.â
You blink at the sudden interruption, so out of left field. âI mean, yeah, you do the same for me.â
âNo,â Dana says, shaking her head. âYou bring me food when I forget to eat, you wait up when Iâm late even though youâre tired. And you donât just do it when itâs easy, you do it when itâs scary. When Iâm notâŚthe easiest to be around. When I shut down or get in my head or pretend Iâm fine when Iâm not.â
You open your mouth to respond, but Dana shakes her head again. âLet me finish.â
She takes another breath, still shaky. âIâve been thinking about this for a long time now, since I took some time off last year,â she admits. âAbout how youâve shown up for me in every part of my life I didnât think anyone would want to stick around for.â
She doesnât have to say it out loud: you know how much it hurt her when Benji told her he couldnât continue to watch her burn herself out at the hospital anymore, that it was him or her career.
âIâve been trying to do this for weeks,â she says. âAnd I realized tonight that thereâs just never gonna be a perfect moment. Thereâs always gonna be something that interrupts us, or messes things up, or ruins the mood.â
Dana lifts her jacket from the island and digs into the pocket, and this time she doesnât hesitate as she places the box on the island between the two of you. There are no candles or fancy restaurant, no onlookers there to witness. Just the two of you in a kitchen that smells like takeout.
âIâm not going to ask you a question.â
That makes you pause, and you eye her cautiously as you wait for her to continue.
âBecause I already know the answer,â she continues. âI want to spend my life with you, and Iâm hoping you want that with me too.â
For a long minute, you just stare at her, and she returns the eye contact expectantly. Your breath catches once, then again almost immediately.Â
âOh my -â you start, but your voice breaks halfway through and you take a frustrated breath to try and steady yourself.Â
Danaâs eyebrows lift. âHey.â Thatâs all she says, like itâs her version of âitâs okay.â
Your eyes flick down to the box on the counter and then back to her, then back to the box again. âYou -â you try again, but this time your voice actually cracks. âOh my god.â
Her expression twists into concern. âHey. Hey, itâs okay, donât cry.â
But youâre already shaking your head, tears stinging at your waterline, laughing at your own absurdity. âNo, I just -â you try to swallow the lump in your throat. âI canât believe you waited until I changed into pajamas.â
That catches Dana off-guard. âWhat?â
You gesture down at yourself, like itâs obvious. âI was in nice clothes. Ones you made me put on, ones that survived wine. And you let me change into this ratty shirt and -â your voice pitches up a little, incredulous even through tears, â-this is when you decide to do it?â
Dana stares at you, her own eyes wide. ââŚthatâs your takeaway from this?â
You laugh again but itâs wet now, and youâre made completely a mess. âYou are unbelievable,â you say as you step toward her, your hands coming up to her face. âI love you so much.â
And this time, when she leans in and kisses you, it doesnât feel like interruption or timing or luck or anything else that tried to get in the way before. Itâs just right.
The venue glows blue and silver beneath hanging white lights, with every table dressed in soft navy linens and glittering tea lights flickering inside glass holders. Out on the dance floor, a resident from cardiology is butchering the Cupid Shuffle while half the emergency department cheers them on.
In all reality, itâs exactly the kind of wedding youâd expect from an ER nurse. Itâs pure pandemonium, perfect for the guests in attendance.
You sit alone at your table, your fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass while you watch the dance floor move with bodies beneath spinning disco lights. The room itself is enormous: vaulted ceilings draped in silver fabric, massive floral arrangements lining the edges of the room in pale blue hydrangeas and white roses. Every few seconds, another burst of laughter erupts from somewhere out in the crowd, blending with the music.
At the center of it all, the bride twirls across the dance floor in a sparkling white mermaid-fit gown, with one of the ER nurses wrapped around his new wife while their friends and families cheer loud enough to shake the room.
You smile, despite knowing almost nobody here.
A long time ago, weddings used to make you uncomfortable. Itâs not because you disliked romance, you loved romance, embarrassingly so. You just never thought that kind of permanence was in the cards for someone like yourself.
That was back when your life felt temporary. Temporary jobs, temporary stability. Even Yolanda, in the beginning, had felt temporary. Especially Yolanda.
The thought causes your eyes to drift towards the far side of the venue. To her.
Across the room near the bar, impossible for you to miss in a crowd despite the fact that sheâs blending in so much she might as well be camouflaged. She wears a deep navy button-down, matching with one of the two wedding colors, with silver jewelry catching the light around her neck. One hand is tucked into the pocket of her slacks while she listens to one of the surgical residents talk animatedly beside her.Â
They stick together, the hospital staff, youâve learned over the years.
Yolandaâs hair is longer now than when you first met her, with her curls falling below her shoulders, and even from here you can see the moment she notices you looking. Sheâs like a compass needle snapping north, the way her attention is on you despite the distance. The resident is still talking but she doesnât seem to hear a word of it, and your stomach flips embarrassingly hard when she smiles at you.
âYou know,â a voice says beside you, and you hear the chair next to you scrape the ground as itâs pulled from the table, âshe used to leave these things after like twenty minutes.â
You glance up to find Emery, Yolandaâs closest coworker, and over time a friend to you, sliding into the chair beside you with a cocktail balanced in her hand. âYeah right,â you laugh.
Emery shrugs. âJust long enough to show her face so she could say she was there.â
Your eyes drift back toward Yolanda as one of the ER doctors tries to drag her toward the dance floor while she resists. Her head turns in your direction and you can vaguely make out her mouthing help me at you. You lift both hands in surrender, sitting back in your chair.
Emery notices. âSheâs softer around you.â
You donât respond, but you do make a sound in agreement as you lift your wine to your mouth again.
A burst of cheers erupts near the center of the dance floor as the bride and groom are encouraged into another spin beneath the lights. The brideâs silver-trimmed veil catches against somebodyâs boutonniere and nearly rips in the process, and all movement on the dance floor stops momentarily as several people rush to help.
You wince sympathetically. âThis wedding has to have cost an actual fortune.â
âER staff are incapable of moderation,â Emery shrugs, sipping her drink. âItâs either a courthouse ceremony or the biggest party youâll ever see.â
âHonestly, it seems like an unnecessary amount of stress,â you say, looking around at the absurdly gorgeous ballroom.
âOh please,â she laughs. âYou think Yolanda will be any better? Sheâs a control freak, sheâs going to be an absolute bridezilla.â
Your wine nearly comes out of your nose, you begin to laugh so hard. âOh my god, youâre right.â You risk a glance at Yolanda, only to find her already looking at you, eyes narrowed in suspicion like she can sense that youâre talking about her.
You smile innocently in her direction.
Emery follows your gaze toward Yolanda, then back out at the dance floor to the bride and groom. âWell,â she says. âGuess thatâll be the two of you soon enough, huh?â
Your eyes drop instinctively to your left hand where it rests on top of the table, the diamond sitting on your ring finger catching the ballroom lights. You smile at it, small and fond. âGuess so.â
A shadow falls across the table before Emery can say anything else, and you donât even have to look up to know who it is.
Emery catches her immediately and smirks into her drink. âSpeak of the devil.â
Yolanda rests one hand against the back of your chair, leaning on it as you tilt your head up toward her.
The navy shirt had been an intentional decision on her part, matching the same shade as your dress. The way she rolled her sleeves up her forearm should probably qualify as some sort of crime on your sanity, sheâs lucky you havenât dragged her off to find a closet somewhere.
âYouâve had three glasses of wine,â she says instead of greeting you.
You blink innocently up at her. âWow, hello to you too.â
âCome dance with me.â
Your eyes narrow. âThat sounded suspiciously like an order.â
âItâs not an order.â
âSure seemed like one.â
A crease appears between her eyebrows as they furrow, but itâs not in irritation. More like sheâs trying not to smile at you and is losing the battle, if the purse of her lips is any indication.Â
Behind her, near the edge of the dance floor closest to you, you spot Dr. Abbot attempting to line dance while Dr. Langdon tries desperately to convince unwilling bystanders to join him.
âFrank has made it his goal of the evening to see me dance,â Yolanda says flatly. âHeâs been shimmying at me for the last ten minutes, he says he wonât stop until I participate.â
As if summoned by name alone, Dr. Langdon points dramatically at Yolanda, calling out her name to get her attention and resuming what you assume is said horrific shoulder-shimmying.
You burst out laughing. âOh my god, has he been drinking?â
Yolandaâs head drops as she shakes it. âI donât know, but Iâm about to start,â she mutters darkly. âGet up and dance with me before it gets worse.â
You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest as you say as sweetly as possible, âDonât tell me what to do.â
Emery has to purse her lips together to stop herself from laughing beside you.
Yolanda just stares at you.
And thereâs a split second where you can see it on her face: the memory, the old imbalance, the weight those words wouldâve had just a few years ago. Except now thereâs warmth beneath it. Teasing, even. As she looks down at you, smirking back up at her, thereâs playfulness in your eyes.
She closes her eyes, letting out a dramatically deep sigh. ââŚplease?â
Your smirk fades into a real grin, and you throw back the remainder of your wine in a very unladylike fashion before setting the now-empty glass down on the table in front of you.Â
âOkay,â you say, wobbling just a little as you stand. âBut if Langdon tries to shimmy at me too, weâre leaving.â
âFor once,â Yolanda says, offering you her hand, which you take, âweâre in complete agreement.â
I really didnât think this was something anyone would be interested in, but recently I was requested to tag someone in all of my pieces. So I figured I would open up that offer to anyone, and to have it in one place.
If you want to be tagged in all of my Pitt women x f!reader works, feel free to comment below đ
CW: intense emotional confrontation/arguments, relationship conflict and reconciliation, guilt, crying, references to past financial distress, smut (explicit sexual content), scissoring/tribbing, soft dom!Yolanda, partially-resolved ending
WC: 4.2k
Part V
Terms and Conditions Masterlist
A/N: My tags are doing weird things so Iâm sorry to anyone I missed out whose tag didnât work!
ââââââââ Null and Void ââââââââ
By the time the bus crosses the Birmingham Bridge, your hands are shaking so badly that you nearly rip the stack of papers just to stop them from slipping out of your grasp.
PAID IN FULL
ZERO BALANCE
The words have been burned into the back of your eyelids for the last forty minutes.
Every pothole that the bus hits causes another wave of fury to wash over you.
Outside the window, Pittsburgh is wet underneath an overcast sky. Rows of brick buildings are streaked with rainwater, pedestrians with umbrellas hurrying along sidewalks trying to get out of what looks to be the start of a nasty storm. Normally you like the city, you like this specific bus ride across town, but today it feels like itâs taking too long.
Your knee bounces violently the entire ride.
Once, the older woman sitting across from you gives you a wary look before shuffling her purse closer to her side.
You donât even blame her, you know how you look from the outside. Youâre pissed and you look it. Youâre not hurt, not emotional, furious. The kind of anger that causes steam to come out of ears in cartoons.
Because how fucking dare she?
You spent ages trying to stitch yourself back together after she ended things, after she broke them. Weeks of dragging yourself through the mud of shifts with aching ribs and an empty bank account and the humiliation of almost reaching your goals, almost having everything you ever wanted, just for her to throw you away like you were trash. Lying trash. And now this? Now you find out sheâs been quietly dropping hundreds of thousands of dollars into your life like some guilty millionaire playing god from a distance?
The mortgage paperwork crinkles in your fist, the paper giving way to your angry fingers.
She doesnât get to do this, she doesnât get to walk away from you and still control things in your life. She doesnât get to decide what happens to you after making it clear she didnât want to be involved with you anymore.
The bus finally lurches to your stop and you shoulder-check someone in your effort to get off as quickly as possible.Â
Cold air and rain slaps you in the face immediately. You hope itâll cool you down enough to stop you from committing a felony in the lobby of Yolandaâs building (it doesnât).
Eight months. Eight months of Yolanda insisting on rules and boundaries and professionalism and emotional distance, only to - only to pull some shit like this the second she loses control of the situation.
You shove through the revolving doors hard enough that one of them swings too fast behind you and hits you right on the butt. And for one awful moment, looking at the inside of the lobby feels so familiar that it actually hurts you. You used to come here at least three nights a week, sometimes more.
Richard is inside tonight instead of standing outside the doorway. Not a huge surprise with the rain. âThere she is,â he says as he pushes his glasses up his nose. âHavenât seen you in a while.â
You stare at him for a second, still breathing hard from anger and the slight uphill walk from the bus stop.
His forehead crinkles in confusion. âEverything okay?â
âNo.â Your hands tighten instinctively, nearly crushing the paperwork. âIs she home?â
Richard hesitates just long enough to catch the look on your face. Because apparently you currently look like someone about to either start crying or kill a person, and even you arenât sure which is more likely.
ââŚlong day?â he offers cautiously.
You laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to your own ears. âSomething like that.â
His hand reaches for the security desk phone. âWant me to call upstairs for you?â
âNo,â you say quickly. âNo, Iâm not giving her the chance to avoid me.â
Understanding dawns across Richardâs face. Not understanding-understanding, obviously, he has no idea what actually happened between you and Ms. Garcia. But thereâs enough pieces of the puzzle to understand that this is relationship business. Ugly relationship business.
ââŚright,â he says.Â
You can pretty much see him debating in his head whether or not itâs a terrible idea to let you upstairs without calling the police. But then he sighs, his shoulders slumping just a little as he makes a decision he knows could get him in trouble. âShe got home maybe an hour ago.â
âThanks,â you mutter tightly.Â
Richard gives you one last look of uncertainty as you stalk off toward the elevators.
The ride up feels endless, and catching yourself in the reflection in the mirrored walls looks strikingly different from the last time you took this elevator. Your hair is wet from the rain, sticking to your forehead and your face and your neck. Your jaw is clenched so tight that you can practically see the vein in your forehead about to burst from stress. You barely recognize yourself.
When you step off the elevator on Yolandaâs floor, for just a moment, another memory flashes before your eyes uninvited: Yolanda half-asleep and barefoot, opening the same door youâre staring at right now, late at night in soft gray sweatpants and that stupid white loose button-down that doesnât even count as leisurewear. And she smiles at you, soft and unguarded in a way you were rarely ever allowed to see her.
Your heart pounds uncomfortably in your chest and you crush the feelings that memory brings with it immediately.
No, absolutely not.
You did not ride a Pittsburgh city bus across town in the rain to get sentimental. You came here furious, to demand answers. You came here because Yolanda Garcia does not get to buy her way out of guilt and call it kindness.
Your hand tightens into a fist and then you pound on her door hard enough to rattle the frame.
The door opens almost immediately, and standing there is Yolanda in lounge pants and a black long-sleeve shirt, hair damp like sheâs just gotten out of the shower, and for a split second, her whole face seems to soften at the sight of you. Like sheâs relieved.
But then she sees your expression and the relaxed expression disappears immediately. âWhat happened?â
You shove past her before she can say another word. âAre you fucking kidding me right now?â
Yolanda stumbles sideways in surprise as you storm into her home. The familiar smell of her coffee hits you immediately, rushing your senses like an old memory, and it only makes you angrier.
Behind you, the door clicks shut.
You whirl around to face her. âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â you demand.
Yolanda inches back in surprise, caught off guard by the sheer force of your anger. âExcuse me?â
âOh, donât do that,â you snap. âDo not stand there acting confused.â You hurl the stack of papers onto her kitchen island hard enough that one of them slides across the marble and off the countertop, coming to rest at her feet.
Her eyes follow the falling paper, catching on the PAID stamp across the bottom. And in her face, you see it: the tiniest hint of guilt. She bends down to retrieve it, and as she straightens, her expression smooths out in a way youâve seen a thousand times before. âYou took a bus across the city to scream at me?â
âYou paid off my fucking mortgage!â
Yolanda folds her arms across her chest defensively. âYou were drowning.â
âThatâs none of your business anymore!â Your volume increases, loud enough that if you donât stop, you know sheâll have angry neighbors.
âYou were going to lose the house.â
âAnd?â
âAnd?â she repeats incredulously.
âYes, âand,ââ your voice continues to rise. âYou made it very clear you wanted out, Yolanda! You donât get to walk away from me and then still try to insert yourself when you feel guilty about it!â
âI do not feel guilty.â The lie is both instant and obvious.
You stare at her, then laugh once, mockingly. âWow, thatâs bullshit.â
Yolandaâs lips purse. âYou think I did that because I pity you?â
âWhat else am I supposed to think?â you shoot back at her. âYou ended things because my life was - because I was too messy for you, remember?â
âThat is not why I ended things.â
âReally? Because from where Iâm standing, it looked like you took one look at my situation and ran for your life.â
Yolandaâs eyes flash with anger that rivals your own now. âThat is untrue and unfair.â
âUnfair?â You point violently toward the paperwork spread out across the island. âYou paid off my fucking hospital bills.â
âYou couldnât afford them!â
âThat doesnât mean you get to swoop in and fix everything!â
âSomebody fucking had to!â
The apartment goes dead silent, even your own breathing stops. Yolanda freezes too, like she didnât mean for that to come out.
Your stomach twists, and you laugh harshly, bitter and without humor. âThere it is.â
Yolanda shakes her head, exasperated. âThat isnât what I meant.â
âNo, I think it is.â Your voice thins, your anger fraying around the edges, though the knot doesnât unwind. âYou think I canât handle myself, is that it?â
âYou are twisting my words to make me seem like the villain.â
âAnd youâre acting like you can buy your way out of your feelings!â Both hands fly to either side of your head, holding your temples. âYou hurt me, Yolanda!  And the worst part is that I still donât even hate you for it now.â
âYou donât?â You miss the uncharacteristically soft tone of her voice, too busy word-vomiting to hear her.
âI tried so hard to hate you,â you rant, beginning to pace her kitchen. âBut I had to keep all of my anger to myself because of that stupid contract, I couldnât talk to anyone about it! Do you know how alone Iâve felt? I blocked your number twice, and then unblocked it again just in case, I even paid some Etsy witch forty dollars to put bad energy into your life -â
âYou what?âÂ
â- and somehow youâre still in my head all of the time!â
Yolandaâs mind seems to blank at the silly revelation. âIs that why I keep losing patients..?â
Your brain doesnât skip over that one. âI killed people?!â
âYou paid someone to curse me.â
âThatâs not the point,â you argue, pointing at her before she can say another word. âDo not derail me right now.â
But Yolanda is still staring at you in disbelief. âOh my god.â
âStop focusing on the witch!â
âIâm trying, but youâre making it hard!â
âYou donât get to swoop in and save me anymore.â Your voice drops to a whisper, the flame that was your anger fizzling out. âYou canât reject me and then still treat me like I belong to you.â
âYou do not belong to me.â
âYouâre acting like I do!â you insist, your tone almost pleading. âI didnât as you for this.â You gesture toward the papers.
âI know you didnât!â Yolanda suddenly yells, the force startling both of you. âJesus Christ, I know you didnât ask!â
The kitchen falls silent again.
Yolanda drags a hand over her hair, her control over even herself wavering in a way youâve never seen from her before. âThatâs the problem,â she says. âYou never ask for anything.â
You stare at her. âAre you serious? The problem is that Iâm not greedy enough for you?â
She begins to pace now, too, as if your roles have swapped. âDo you know what it was like when I found out?â she demands. âLearning that you werenât spending any of what I gave you on yourself? Realizing that you were probably rationing groceries while sleeping in my bed?â
Shame courses through you, hot like fire. âDonât.â
âNo, because apparently nobody in your life loves you enough to say it to you!â she snaps. âYou act like needing help is some kind of failure.â
You scoff. âThatâs rich, coming from you.â
âI ended things because I thought I was taking advantage of someone who was desperate.â
âYou werenât taking advantage of me!â
âWell how the hell was I supposed to know that? You never told me!â Yolanda laughs bitterly. âDo you know what Iâve been doing over the last couple of months?â
âApparently committing white-collar financial crimes, how did you even get the information to pay these bills?â
âObsessing over you,â she shoots back, ignoring your question. The dam cracks, and despite her visible annoyance over her own confession, she keeps going. âI try to sleep and I wonder if youâre cold because your heatâs been shut off. Iâm at work wondering if youâre ignoring your ribs hurting because you canât afford another hospital bill.â Her voice roughens. âI pick up a stranger in a bar,â she hisses, âand say your fucking name with her mouth between my legs.â
Your breath catches in your throat and you try not to look hurt at the humiliation.
Yolandaâs eyes are sharp as they lock onto yours. âDo you understand how humiliating that is?â She circles the island toward you slowly. âThis isnât guilt,â she spits. âIf it were just guilt, it wouldâve gone away already.â
Your heartbeat is hammering in your neck as she approaches. âYolanda -â
âAnd the worst part is, you still wonât ask me for anything,â she cuts you off. âYou would rather drown than need someone else, and you say Iâm emotionally stunted.â
âThat is not true.â You glare at her as she reaches you.
âThen ask me for something.â
You blink rapidly. âWhat?â
âAsk me for something,â Yolanda repeats. The intensity of her stare nearly has you withering. A few months ago, it would have. âAnything you want, anything at all. Just ask.â
Your throat is suddenly tight and dry with the weight of her demand, because the implication of what sheâs saying is impossible to misunderstand.
Ask for me.
âI canât,â you whisper as your eyes begin to burn. âYou canât ask that of me.â
Sheâs so close that youâre almost nose-to-nose, and you donât miss the confusion that flickers across her face. âWhy not?â
You huff and look away, like a wounded animal. âBecause you donât get to put me through all of this and then make demands.â
Yolandaâs breath is not on your face as she sighs through her nose. âIâm standing here, telling you that I will give you anything you ask of me.â
âAfter you left.â
You can see on her face how deeply your words register with her in the way that her expression hardens: the softness of her mouth pulls down into a frown, the way that her eyebrows draw together.Â
âWhat am I supposed to do, Yolanda?â Your voice shakes so badly with the thread of unshed tears that youâre forced to whisper. âBeg you to stay this time? How would I even know you mean it?â
Yolanda stands there unresponsive for a moment, her eyes trained on you as she considers her words carefully before deciding to say them: âLet me prove it to you.â
Silence follows because you donât know what to say, and she uses that to continue.
âI know I canât undo what I did,â she says. âI canât take it back. But I am telling you right now that I havenât been able to stop thinking about you since.â Her eyes search your own. âBut I need youâŚI need you to ask.â
You take a shaky breath, searching her face for any insincerity, anything that she could use against you, any trace of the woman you spent eight months with.
When you donât find it, you let the breath out.
âYolanda,â you start, completely unsure of how to even ask. âPlease -â
Thatâs it. Surrender. The trust you offer her blindly, without being sure she wonât hurt you again.
Yolanda doesnât let you finish whatever you were going to say next. Both of her hands fly to your jaw, tilting your head at the exact right angle to kiss you. You make a sound against her mouth and it tastes like relief, disappearing into her like sheâs been waiting too long to hear it.
Her lips are warm against your own, and insistent as they guide your mouth open so she can slip her tongue inside your mouth. You clutch at her shirt where it bunches around her waist, refusing to let go even as she pulls you blindly toward the hallway that leads to her bedroom.
You canât open your eyes once you reach the bedroom, worried that once you do, the spell will be broken and youâll feel the hurt once more.
Her hands slide down your body, mapping your skin like sheâs memorizing you anew until she reaches the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off your body. Cool air hits your skin for only a second before her hands replace it, still hot from her shower, sliding up your ribs to cup your breasts.
You gasp into her mouth. She groans in response, her thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden under her touch.
âSo fucking perfect,â she mumbles, breaking away from your mouth so she can trail her lips down your throat and over your collarbones. âMissed this so much, missed you.â
Clothes come off in a stumbling haze, both yours and hers. Her shirt hits the floor, then your pants, and by the time you actually reach the bed, youâre both naked. The sight of her body stops you in your tracks, her skin glowing in the low light thatâs barely tricking in from the nearly-set sun, her curls still slightly damp but not dripping but a stray droplet here and there, which trails between her breasts without a thought of what it does to you. Sheâs beautiful. She always has been, but your memory of her these last few months pales in comparison.
Yolanda doesnât give you time to overthink this. She guides you down onto your back on the mattress, crawling over you until her hair tickles your cheek. The heat of her body sinks into yours as she lays flush against you, your breasts brushing and her hips settling between your thighs.Â
You whine at the contact. Reaching blindly toward the nightstand next to her bed, youâre surprised when her hand catches your wrist, stopping you.
âNot tonight,â she mumbles against the skin at the valley of your breasts. âNeed to feel you against me.âÂ
She sits up and hooks one of your legs over her hip, rolling you slightly to align your bodies until your slick heat meets her own. The first glide of her folds against your own pulls a moan from your throat, head tilting back against her pillow. Sheâs soaked, burning hot, and the feeling of her wet skin against your clit makes your back arch.
Yolanda sets a slow, grinding rhythm, one hand braced beside your head while the other grips your thigh, holding your legs open for her. Each roll of her hips into your own sends sparks up your spine and you lift your hips to meet her, to match her rhythm. You can feel everything: her wetness coating you, the way her clit rubs against your own when she gets the angle just right.
âLook at me,â she demands, softly and without malice.
You do, your eyes opening as you lift up onto your elbows. Her dark eyes are locked on your own, curls falling against her face like a halo, her lips parted as she visibly pants.Â
Thereâs no emotional wall this time, and how could there be? Not once in the entire time you spent together was she ever skin-to-skin with you like this, like it was a vulnerability she couldnât afford.Â
You rock up to meet her, desperately chasing the friction that stokes the fire in your belly. Your hands roam her back, pulling her down against you, forcing her back to bow to keep up the slide of her slick against yours. Your nails lightly scratch against her skin and she growls - like, actually growls - at the feeling, and it only fuels her to grind down harder against you.
âFuck - Yolanda -â You bury your face in her neck, mouth latching onto the pulse point in her neck so hard you know itâll leave a mark. And you revel in the way she doesnât pull you away, the way she wouldâve in the past, with a stern warning to ânot leave marks where anyone could see.â Just the thought that sheâs allowing you to mark her has the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
âIâve got you,â she rasps, shifting her angle so her clit drags over yours just right with every thrust. âLet go, baby, Iâm not going anywhere.â
The newness of his feeling, of her truly here, skin to skin, open and vulnerable and heart cracked open, is the final straw that sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, your thighs shaking around her as you cry out against her neck.Â
Yolanda follows seconds later, her own hips stuttering and a low and guttural moan vibrating through her chest as she grinds through her own release. Her slick heat pulses against you, and you have no idea if itâs your own slick or hers that coats both of your thighs.
You stay locked together afterwards, trembling and breathing hard. Yolanda collapses on top of you, tucking her face into the crook of your neck, legs tangled between yours. Your fingertips stroke over her back in slow passes, soothing the rapid thud of her heart against your own.
After a long minute, she moves, sliding just enough off you to grab at the water bottle on the nightstand, offering it to you first. Knowing how thirsty you always are right after sex. When she catches your eyebrow quirking up, she shrugs. âOld habits die hard.â
You take it, sipping the water while coherent thoughts come racing back in. But it isnât until youâve handed the water back to Yolanda and sheâs getting her fill that you actually speak.
âYolanda,â you say quietly.
The tone of your voice has her pausing, capping the bottle so she can look at you.
You swallow hard. âI donât know what this is now.â
She finishes screwing the lid on. âWhat do you want it to be?â
Youâre surprised at the question, which feels more like an offer. âI - I canât -â You canât finish the thought, but you donât have to. She knows.
I canât ask for this.
Yolanda takes a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling while she does so, like sheâs centering herself. âI canât promise that Iâm going to do this perfectly,â she says softly. âOr that Iâm going to be exactly what you need right away.â
Right away.
Your eyes lift at the same time she looks down at you. She holds your gaze like sheâs forcing herself not to look away. And she probably is.
âBut I am here,â she goes on. âAnd Iâm trying. And IâŚIâm not leaving you again just because I donât know how to do it right yet.â
Yet.
You sit up to meet her, to be at the same level. To avoid her looking down at you, both metaphorically and literally. âI donât know if I can do this again,â you admit. âI donât know if I could survive it.â
Yolanda sets the water bottle on the bedside table again, and then settles back next to you on the bed. âI meant what I said,â she says. âI want to prove it. I justâŚdonât know exactly how to do that yet.â
A long silence settles after that, one you donât break with continuing a discussion that wonât be solved tonight.Â
The only surefire thing you know right now is that this is not how you expected this to go, but youâd be lying if you said the weight on your chest thatâs been following you since that day in the hospital, the dark cloud thatâs been following you ever since, isnât lifting just a little.
Because Yolanda is here, accepting you for you, and not what you can offer her, or what she can offer you. And you know that there will be a bigger conversation, about privacy, and about what this means for you two and what the future holds. But right now, as you both lay back down in her massive mattress, pressed up against each other in a way that the available space doesnât require, it feels like everything is going to be okay.
For once, itâll be okay.Â
ââââââââ Null and Void ââââââââ
Part VII
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ââââââââ Null and Void ââââââââ
Guys, let me tell you something: I am a fast typer, like really fast. Always have been. My elementary school had mandatory typing classes and I play the piano for a music conservatory. I have fast fingers. But about 1500 words into Part VI of Terms and Conditions, I got fake nails for the first time since I got married. With my job, the public is constantly looking at my hands, and I have a particularly unique wedding ring set that people comment on a lot. So I got a little insecure about my short nails making my hands look stubby and put fake ones on the other day. As a short-nailed girly my entire life, these things are impossible to deal with. Typing this chapter sucked so bad that Iâm genuinely considering soaking them off solely to be able to type my fics at my normal speed.
Also, this is my favorite chapter so far and Iâm so excited to release it đ Iâve fully fleshed out the finale of the fic, there WILL be another part instead of this being the last. So it will end with Part VII.
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Summary: When your girlfriend comes home from a long shift at PTMC, you cheer her up with a little secret youâve been keeping.
CW: domestic fluff, kissing, âsecretly learning your partners languageâ trope
WC: 1.2k (the shortest thing Iâve ever written!)
A/N: Iâm doing it and you canât stop me. I love her, I need more of her, there are no other fics about her, so Iâm doing it myself. I donât care if nobody else likes it, this is for me and there will be more. Big thank you to @decafblackberrymora for the Armenian translations so I could make this feel more real instead of using Google. My real MVP tonight đ
Your apartment doesnât really see sunlight anymore.
Somewhere between Nazely starting her internship at the hospital and the two of you realizing that you were only seeing each other in passing unless you changed to fit her sleep schedule, you started adjusting things little by little. You replaced the thin white curtains in the bedroom with thick blackout ones, then the ones in the living room one day after Nazely admitted that the afternoon glares gives her headaches after her night shifts. Amber lamps replace overhead lights and sunlight. Dinner stops meaning evening, and breakfast doesnât mean morning anymore, it means youâve just woken up.
Now, at seven in the morning, your apartment glows warm and dim like itâs dusk.Â
The lights above the stove cast low lights across the kitchen while dinner simmers on the stove, filling the apartment with the smell of the spices youâve used for the meat. Rain taps gently against the windows even though you canât see it, and itâs muted by the sound of the ventilation above the stovetop.
Glancing at the time on the stove, it reads 7:42am, meaning sheâll be home any minute. With any luck, that is. You never really know if sheâs getting off on time any given morning.
So you lower the heat beneath the pan and keep cooking.
Your instinct is right, as the lock clicks just a few short minutes later.
Nazely doesnât even call out to you when she steps into the apartment. Usually she does, some sort of version of âbaby?â or âIâm homeâ, but not today. Today, thereâs only the sound of the door shutting behind her and the shuffle of her shoes being kicked off near the rack. You hear the tired sigh before you see her.Â
Not even a minute later, warm arms wrap around your waist from behind and you feel her melting against your back as she buries her face between your shoulderblades.Â
You smile, one hand leaving the pan to rest over her arm. âHey.â
Nazely groans in response, the sound muffled in your shirt. Exhaustion clings to her so heavily you can almost taste it. âFood smells good,â she mumbles as she shakes her head, nuzzling her nose into your collar.
Then she peels away from you and you hear the tired drag of her feet across the kitchen floor away from you. You glance over your shoulder and find her leaning against the counter with her water bottle in hand, her hair messy from what you assume was running her hands through it repeatedly during her work day. Her hoodie is half-unzipped over wrinkled black scrubs and her eye bags are particularly prominent tonight, eyes unfocused and heavy-lidded in a way they always are after really brutal shifts.
It's cute. Really cute, actually.
You bite back a smile because sheâs looking at you, and turn back toward the stove, doing your best to calm your racing heart so you can sound as casual as possible when you open your mouth next:
â ԝ՜՚պէŐս էÖÂ Ö ÖŐ¤:â (âhow was your day?â)
Nazely sighs from somewhere behind you. âLong,â she mutters automatically, like sheâs not even thinking about it. âWay too long.â
Your heart jumps into your throat because sheâs answered without looking up at you, without any sort of confusion, like itâs normal. Like sheâs heard those words a million times from you before. But she hasnât, and it hasnât even registered, like sheâs so overly tired that it hasnât even occurred to her that you arenât speaking English.
You have to force yourself to hold back giggles, not to react too early, and you grip the wooden spoon a little tighter even as your shoulders shake, praying she wonât notice.
But behind you, Nazely takes another sip of her water, still totally oblivious.
You try to keep your voice steady as you try again. âÔťŐśŐšŐşŐ§Őս կը Ռգես:â (âhow are you feeling?â)
Nazely sighs again, head tilting to rest on her own shoulder, and setting her water bottle down against the counter with a soft sound. âÔźŐĄÖ:â (âgoodâ) She cuts herself off, and you can practically hear the look of confusion on her face even though you donât turn around to see it. ââŚwait, what did you just say?â
You finally turn away from the stove, unable to stop the smile on your face now as you repeat yourself. âÔťŐśŐšŐşŐ§Őս կըՌգես:â (âhow are you feeling?â)
Her eyes widen in real time and you get to see the exact moment it clicks inside her head that you arenât speaking in English. ââŚno,â she says in disbelief. âNo no, hold on.â
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
She straightens away from the counter entirely now, more awake than she was ten seconds ago. Then, slowly because sheâs testing the reality of it, she directs your own question back at you: âÔťŐśŐšŐşŐ§Őս կը Ռգես:â (âhow are you feeling?â)
Your stomach flips in delight because youâve practiced this answer in your head at least fifty times while sheâs been at work, and you manage to respond without fumbling.
For a second, Nazely just stares at you. Then she practically explodes. Her expression breaks into a mix of disbelief and pure delight and she lets out an almost breathless-sounding laugh, crossing the kitchen in two steps.
âWait, no - no, come here.â
You donât even have time to put the spoon down before sheâs on you. She wraps both arms around your middle so tightly it squeezes the air out of your lungs, her face burying into your shoulder again but in a different way. Like sheâs awake, electric even.
âYouâre speaking Armenian,â she says into your shoulder. âWhere did you learn to speak Armenian?â
âI mean, technically - I may have been practicing for a little whileâŚâ
She pulls back enough to look you in the eye, her own eyes wide and shining with joy that overpowers the exhaustion of the night. Then without waiting for you to elaborate further, she kisses you. Just a quick little peck, once, almost disbelieving, but itâs quickly followed by another. Slower this time as she holds your face in her hands, lips moving against yours.
You laugh into it, one hand coming up to her shoulder to steady her because sheâs clearly running on fumes and you expect this will probably be the last of her energy tonight.Â
âNazely,â you manage between kisses, turning your head just a little so her lips reach your cheek instead of your mouth. âThe food is still -â
âI donât care,â she mumbles, reaching for your mouth again. âI donât care, I donât care, I donât care -â
Another kiss.
But then she sniffs through her nose, pulling back just enough to squint over your shoulder toward the stove. ââŚis it supposed to be smoking like that?â
CW: angst, so much sadness, the dark times are here, panic attack described, unhealthy eating habits, extreme financial distress, brief mentions of sex work, debt avoidance, smut (explicit sexual content)(what?), fingering and cunnilingus (y!receiving)
WC: 6k
Part IV
A/N: itâs the middle of the night but I donât care. Hope yâall like it đ
The aftermath of Yolanda Garcia is both immediate and devastating.
âI am terminating our agreement effective immediately.â She doesnât stick around after the words leave her mouth, the door shutting behind her with a sound thatâs far too soft for the destruction it causes.
It doesnât feel real, this isnât happening.
Youâre still frozen in the hospital bed, your fingers twitching nervously against the blanket. The monitor that signifies your heart rate is still in a steady rhythm, like your heart hasnât caught up to reality yet. Everything is exactly the same as before.Â
ExceptâŚexcept that sheâs gone.
Your eyes stay fixed on the door that sheâs disappeared through like sheâll walk back through it, like this is all some kind of fucked-up joke. Youâre just waiting, because thatâs what you do. You wait for her to come back and clarify, youâve clearly missed something here. Yolanda doesnât just leave things unfinished like that. Thereâs always some sort of structure or follow-through, always -
But thereâs nothing.
Silence stretches in the room for five minutes, which becomes ten, and ten becomes twenty.
Thatâs when reality sinks in and your chest begins to tighten.
No. No, she - she wouldnât just leave you like that -
She said she was terminating the agreement.
You might actually throw up.
2.3 Termination Without Cause
Either party may terminate this Agreement at any time, with or without explanation -
Your breath catches in your throat.
No, no, no -
2.4 Immediate Termination for Cause
Party A may immediately terminate the Agreement for any breach of contract -
The blanket bunches in your fist as your fingers flex against the bed.
You broke it, you broke it, you fucked up -
Your heart catches up to the severity of your situation, the beeping behind you picking up speed and betraying you. Itâs loud in your ears, echoing, matching the way you can feel your pulse throbbing in your fingertips.
This isnât happening, this cannot be real.
âSheâll come back,â you whisper to yourself, the words barely able to make it past the lump in your throat. âShe - she just needs a minute, thatâs all. Sheâll come back and fix it.â
Yolanda always fixes things, thatâs what she does, sheâs a surgeon, for fucksâ sake, this wonât be an exception. Thatâs what sheâs been doing for the entire eight months or your relation - your agreement, solving problems before they can touch either of you, smoothing everything out and making everything manageable.Â
But even you canât convince yourself. Your breathing starts to pick up as you begin to hyperventilate.
âSheâll come back,â you say again, louder. âSheâs just - sheâs just thinking, itâll be okay.â
Oh god, you donât know what to do.
Not just the money, even though thatâs there, the thought closing in around you, the fact that youâre now alone in a room you canât afford. But the absence of her, the absence of direction, of certainty. Nobody to tell you what comes next.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, stinging as you blink them back.Â
Think, you need to think.
You tilt your head back to avoid them falling, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes.
Okay, okay.
She said she was terminating the agreement. That means - that means no more support. Youâll be okay, youâll survive, you survived before her, you can survive after her. No more support, no more transfers, no more -
Your stomach lurches violently.
No more Yolanda.
Your body jolts with a sob that threatens to escape you.
No, no, no -
You push yourself up a little higher on the bed, thinking sitting up might help you calm down, but the change in position pulls at the bruising on your belly and you gasp in pain.
It doesnât matter, none of it matters to you. You were so close, eight months of doing everything right â you followed the rules, you stayed quiet, you behaved, being exactly what she needed, what she wanted you to -
7.2 Honesty
Party B shall not materially misrepresent -
You lied. Not directly, at least not after that one little lie in the beginning about being taken care of, but you â you didnât tell her. You didnât tell her where the money was going, what you were doing with it, how close you were to -
You lied. Of course she terminated it, why wouldnât she?
You donât lie, youâre a good girl, what were you thinking?
Your hands fly to your face, pushing the heels into your eyes to stop the stinging as tears begin to fall freely. Panic is filling your lungs like water and youâre drowning. You canât breathe. Your eyes dart to your phone, still lying face-down on the bed next to you.
Right, you can - maybe you can fix this.
You grab it with shaky hands, almost dropping it with your fumbling in your haste. The screen lights up at full brightness, making you squint as you open your messages. You can explain yourself, you can fix this, but what do you even say?
Iâm sorry is too small.
Please donât do this is pathetic.
I didnât mean to isnât true, you did mean to, you just didnât think -Â
Hurry, before she decides this is final, before this becomes real.
can we please talk
Thatâs what you settle on, not hesitating to hit send. But just as it sends, your heart plummets as the nightmare somehow manages to get worse.
Green. The text bubble is green.
Blocked.
You might actually be having a heart attack, this cannot be real.
The door handle twists and you jerk your head up, hope surging in your chest so fast it gives your heart whiplash. But itâs not her, and you crash right back down to rock bottom.
A nurse pokes her head in, looking at your monitor with a frown. âHey, your heart rateâs climbing a lot,â she says gently as she steps inside. âAre you okay?â
You try to take a deep breath to calm down but your lungs wonât cooperate with you, your breaths coming in short bursts that arenât enough for you to fill your lungs with air.
âI - Iâm fine,â you lie.
Youâre not fine, youâve never been less fine. The one person who makes you sure youâre fine is gone, and she isnât coming back.Â
âItâs okay,â she says, turning back toward the door. âIâm gonna grab the doctor, okay? Just stay with me, keep trying to breathe.â
Donât leave.
You donât say it out loud, thatâs ridiculous, you donât even know this lady. You just donât want to be alone.
The nurse slips out the door and youâre alone again.
Your chest hurts.
âHey,â Dr. Santos says, moving quickly through the doorway and shutting it behind her. Her sleeves are pushed up messily, like she did it in a hurry. Her eyes are on you, then the monitor, then back on you again. âWhatâs happening, whatâs going on?â
You shake your head quickly, unable to respond to her in words. What little air you can manage to get into your lungs isnât enough, not enough for you to speak, not enough for you to think.
You canât say it, you canât tell her.
Your fingers twitch toward your phone where it sits, the screen still lit, that awful and singular green message visible if she looks close enough. And she notices, of course she does, how could she not? Her eyes hover there for a moment before they flick back to your face as she files away your phone without a word.
âOkay,â she says. âthatâs fine, you donât have to tell me. Just stay with me, okay?â
Youâre gasping for air at this point, it feels like a very real possibility that youâre having a heart attack. âI canât -â you start again. âI canât breathe -â
âYou can and you are, it just doesnât feel like it right now,â she says calmly as she approaches you. She reaches out, her hand finding your arm and holding it loosely. âLook at me. In through your nose, nice and slow.â
You try to follow her instructions, you really really do. But your body wonât listen, your breathing is still uneven and quick and your heart is hammering inside your chest so violently that it makes your hands shake.Â
âOkay,â Dr. Santos pivots without missing a beat. âThatâs okay, weâll meet you where you are.â Her fingers begin to dig into your arm as she holds it tighter in her grip. âCan you feel this? This right here.â
You nod, the pressure on your arm nearly painful.
âGood, thatâs good,â she nods. âYouâre here, youâre okay. Nothing is happening to you right now, youâre okay.â
Nothing, except everything.
Your vision blurs again as tears you didnât even notice building slip over your waterline before you can stop them. âI - I messed up,â you choke out.
Thereâs a moment where your doctor pauses, her hand still on your arm, grounding you as best she can. A stillness while she takes in your words.
âOkay,â she says. âWe can talk about that later, but right now I need you to breathe.â
You shake your head, tilting up toward the ceiling, willing the tears to go away. âI canât,â you insist. âI donât know what to do -â
Thatâs the part that sticks. You see it in her face, the moment that she understands that this isnât something she can talk you down from. Recognition that this is about more than just your injuries, that whatever it is, itâs not about the hospital, itâs something else.
âAlright,â she says, nodding. âI can give you something to take the edge off, help you calm down a little. Would that be okay?â
You hesitate, your eyes drifting down to the red medical allergy alert bracelet donning your right wrist. Because accepting medication - because earlier - because Yolanda -
Your stomach lurches as sheâs shoved to the forefront of your mind.
âSheâs not -â words slip out of you like water running through your fingertips. âSheâs not here -â
The doctors expression almost flickers, you see it in the way her eyebrows pull together just the tiniest bit. Nearly imperceptible, except that youâve learned to read microexpressions over the last eight months, to be able to tell what someone is thinking before they even fully form the thought.Â
âNo,â she says calmly, as she makes direct eye contact with you. âSheâs not.â
Not Dr. Garcia, not right now.
You swallow hard. ââŚokay,â you finally whisper, mostly because you donât have anything else. No Yolanda to fall back on.
âOkay,â she echoes as she rises from your bedside. âIâll be right back.â
The aftermath of terminating the agreement is quieter than Yolanda expects.
And thatâs her fault, really. Blocking you the second she left your hospital room meant silence. There was no screaming, no pleading, and certainly no dramatic fallout beyond the one she had already walked away from in the emergency department, and youâd clearly been in some sort of shock when she left. You didnât even say anything, for fucksâ sake.
There was justâŚsilence.Â
At first, thatâs a good thing. It means she handled it correctly, things ended professionally and cleanly, the way that it was supposed to. The way all of these kinds of arrangements ended.
But then thereâs the unexpected fallout. Not just of this kind of arrangement ending, the sex isnât that big of a deal. Yolanda owns a vibrator, after all, and she could go out to a bar and get pussy if she really wanted to.
No, the rhythm disruptions are where she truly begins to feel it.
Like the first time that she wakes up in the middle of the night, reaching towards the other side of the bed - your side of her bed - before remembering that it isnât actually your side anymore. Or when she stops ordering takeout from the places you liked because the first time she does it, the portions she orders are too large for one person and she realizes sheâs subconsciously ordered for you too.Â
Or thereâs the time she buys groceries that she doesnât end up eating because sheâd grown accustomed to keeping things you like stocked in her kitchen. Or when she checks her phone multiple times after rough shifts before remembering that thereâs nobody to text anymore.
But the worst is when she comes home expecting light. Because you were almost always there first, before she got home from the hospital. With the candles lit, or even when youâd just turn on the lamp in the living room and bedroom. You almost always had some sort of music playing, usually a shitty soft violin cover of whatever pop song was popular at the time, because god forbid you listen to something that wasnât Sabrina Carpenter.Â
Without you, her home is cold. Itâs quiet, leaving her to sit in her own feelings, too clean because the bed is still perfectly made, just the way she left it in the morning before going to work, no imprint of your body on top of the sheet where you were waiting for her.
In the first few days, her brain pretends youâre still there. And itâs messed up, really.Â
She sits up in bed suddenly, hearing your keys drop into the little ceramic bowl by her front door, before she realizes that the door never actually opened in the first place. Or when she gets off shift and goes to get her clothes from the dryer, only to realize they were never in the dryer because she never switched them from the wash.
Thatâs where the pain really lives, in the tiny but intimate absences.
The sweater turns up a few weeks later.
Itâs dark gray, and way too big for you. The sleeves are stretched at the cuffs because you always shove your hands into them when youâre tired, creating one big tube of sleeves so you can hold your own elbows beneath the fabric.
Yolanda finds it wedged between the side of her bed and the nightstand while sheâs looking for her phone charger.
She yanks it from itâs hiding place, irritation rising in her chest. You leave your shit everywhere: hair ties on the bathroom counter, lip gloss in the center console of her car. One of your earrings is even still sitting in the dish beside her sink.Â
Itâs evidence of you, and it stirs feelings inside her that she shoves down with an angry hand.Â
The sweater is soft in her hands, from overuse and from the countless times it was washed with the terrible laundry detergent you used before you started washing your things at her place. She should throw it away.
But instead, she lifts it to her face.
It smells like you underneath the detergent. Your shampoo and your skin, she inhales your scent and for a moment, it feels like things are back to normal. It feels like youâre home.
Yolanda freezes at the thought.
This isnât your home, this is her home. You were a temporary fixture, something she could rid herself of whenever you lost your usefulness. And she did, the moment you broke the rules.
And then sheâs angry. Not at you, but at herself.Â
She throws the sweater to the floor at the foot of her bed in disgust, scowling at it like itâs offended her.
She doesnât need you. What she needs is to replace the habit, replace the body. That, she can do.
The condo is dim, lit only by the hazy glow of a streetlamp that bleeds through the drawn blinds. Shadows stretch across the living room, across the couch where Yolanda is sprawled open, one leg hooked over the back cushion while a stranger kneels between her thighs.
The woman has dark hair and sharp cheekbones, pretty enough to have caught Yolandaâs attention at the bar but forgettable enough that she already canât remember her name exactly.
Maybe itâs Alice? Yeah, that sounds right.
Aliceâs tongue drags slow through slick folds while her fingers push deep inside Yolanda, curling expertly inside wet heat.
It should work, god, it should be working.
Yolanda lets her head fall back against the couch and forces herself to focus solely on the physical sensation instead of the hollow feeling thatâs been hovering at the back of her mind for too long now. The woman is good with her mouth, good with her hands, and attentive in the exact way people are when theyâre trying to impress someone that they desperately want to call tomorrow.
In the past, thatâs been enough for Yolanda. But not tonight.
Every touch becomes you.
The brush of dark hair against her thighs turns into the feeling of your hair falling out of your ponytail as your head lies in her lap. The too-heavy perfume fades into phantom smells of your body wash on your skin, the smell that still lingers on the sweater she hasnât been able to throw away, the one thatâs currently hiding underneath her pillow -
Her stomach twists in repulsion.
Theyâre the wrong hands, itâs the wrong mouth, the wrong woman -
Alice moans against her pussy, clearly encouraged by the way Yolandaâs hips jerk upward into her mouth, and guilt flashes ugly through the haze of arousal because this woman has no idea that sheâs competing with someone who isnât even here.
Yolanda grips a fistful of dark hair anyway, grounding herself in the moment through sheer force of will. She chases the sensation instead of thought - the slide of this womanâs fingers curling up against her g-spot, the heat of her tongue against her clit, the coil thatâs winding itself inside her middle.
It almost works: pleasure builds, Yolandaâs thighs tremble, her breathing turning ragged and uneven.Â
And then Alice adjusts her angle, her fingers crooking upward against the textured wall inside Yolanda, a devastating blow to finish her off at the exact second her tongue pushes flat against her clit.
Thatâs your move.
Itâs not on purpose, Alice couldnât possibly know that, but suddenly Yolanda is picturing you with a clarity thatâs painful: your eyes flicking up to watch her cum against your mouth, the smug little curve of your mouth when youâd realize she couldnât help herself, the way youâd whine, drunk on the taste of her.Â
The fantasy crashes over her so hard it steals the breath from her lungs and her back bows, doubling over the womanâs head, still held in Yolandaâs grip.
âFuck â yeah, right there -â Her voice breaks, hips jerking, and before she can stop herself: â- fuck!â And then your name tears out of her.
Silence slams into the room.
Alice pulls away immediately, fingers sliding free with a slick sound that makes humiliation burn hot beneath Yolandaâs skin. The loss leaves her twitching and painfully unfinished, arousal still coursing uselessly in her veins.
Alice stares at her for a moment in disbelief before wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. âYou have got to be fucking kidding me.â
Yolandaâs stomach drops. âHey, Iâm sorry, I didnât mean -â
âYou just moaned another womanâs name while I was fucking you.â Alice pushes to her feet, grabbing her shirt from the floor. âSeriously?â
Yolandaâs teeth clench together as shame mixes with leftover want. She sits up too fast, almost dizzy from it. âWait, Alice, itâs not -â
âWhat?â Alice interrupts her flatly. âMy name is fucking Amber. You know what? Iâm not doing this.â She snatches her jacket off the back of the couch, shaking her head with open disgust now. âLose my number.â
And then sheâs gone, the apartment door slamming hard enough to rattle the walls behind her.
Yolanda stays frozen on the couch, elbows braced against her knees, trying to steady her breathing. Her body still aches with the interrupted pleasure, still swollen and unsatisfied as she shift uncomfortably in her seat.Â
She can still feel the ghost of that last touch, but even the memory betrays her now. It isnât the stranger she feels, itâs you, your mouth, your hands. Your voice, low and filthy against her skin while you whine and groan your way through her pleasure.
She should get up and take a shower. Drink some water to offset the drinks, go to sleep.
Instead, her hand slips between her legs as she leans back against the couch again, chasing the memory sheâs been trying to outrun. Itâs pathetic, she knows that, but it doesnât stop her.
Her fingers move faster as the fantasy returns. Your mouth on her thighs, your wide eyes on her face as you both chase her pleasure, the way you used to touch her in the ways you knew sheâd want before she even said a word.
The orgasm hits hard and ugly less than a minute later, your name muffled against her wrist while the tears sheâs been refusing to cry burn hot behind her eyes.
The first thing you notice after Yolanda is how loud your old life is.
Itâs not actually new, of course. The house has always sounded like this: the groan of old plumbing, the television that murmurs from your parentsâ bedroom, and the rattle of the window AC unit that only works if you hit it twice. But after eight months of practically living in Yolandaâs silent and spotless condo, the noise feels unbearable.
You forgot what it was like to hear every issue.
The uneven wheeze in the ceiling vent. Your dad coughing in the kitchen after sixteen-hour workdays, or your mother standing above the kitchen table with a calculator, whispering numbers under her breath like prayers.
You wake up before sunrise most mornings because your father is already leaving for his first job by then. The floorboards creak beneath his boots, and you can hear the front door open and then close from your bedroom. In the distance, you can hear the car cough twice before finally turning over.
You lie awake, staring at water stains on the ceiling and think about how different Yolandaâs bedroom sounded in the mornings. It was quiet, and you woke to soft sheets, and the sound of her central air humming low in the vents.Â
You used to wake up warm when you were there. Now you wake up cold.
You roll over and check your phone without even thinking about it. Thereâs nothing there. No texts, no missed calls, not even the transactional messages that used to come every Friday morning.
You drag yourself out of bed for work ten minutes later.
The bruising along your abdomen from the accident has faded to yellow now, but it still hurts when you move too quickly. Your shoulder pops unpleasantly every time you lift something heavy. Dr. Santos had recommended physical therapy during your discharge, after they never managed to get you a room upstairs before discharging you.
Youâd laughed out loud when she said it. Physical therapy, what a joke. You could barely afford ibuprofen.
You slide back into your old routine so quickly itâs almost scary.
Work, home, sleep, repeat.
You take every shift your shitty retail job offers, and even that still keeps you just under full-time. Twenty-nine hours one week, thirty-four the next if someone calls out sick.Â
âCan you stay late tonight?â Your manager doesnât even look up from the clipboard in his hands as he asks.
âUh,â you stall weakly, nearly swaying on your feet. âI actually opened this morning.â
âAnd?â
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to nod. âYeah, okay.â
Still not enough for benefits, even as the first bill from the hospital appears in your mailbox.
The first one sits unopened on the kitchen table for almost three weeks before you gather the courage to open it, and the number at the bottom of the charges actually makes you sick.
Every day, more envelopes pile around the one from the hospital. Red stamps with FINAL NOTICE or PAST DUE on them.
Nobody opens them anymore, not even your mother.
Your parents pretend not to see them when they eat dinner. You pretend not to notice your mother quietly moving them into stacks every few days based on who the return envelopes are addressed to, like the organization makes the debt less real. In reality, itâs just less chaotic when theyâre not all sprawled out.
The money from Yolanda disappears immediately. It was all allocated already, you never wasted a penny because every dollar belonged to someone else the moment it was in your hands. The mortgage, the loan for the roof, the HVAC payments, utilities, gas, groceries, minimum payments stretched across too many accounts.
Youâd spent eight months holding the house above water with your bare hands and now the tide is coming rushing back in all at once.
You begin to check your bank account obsessively again.
Five dollars before payday. Then three. Then negative twelve.
You start skipping breakfast - an unhealthy habit you had long before Yolanda, one that she had to force you to unlearn when you started spending the night at her place. You stop turning on the heat when the house gets cold. You even tell your mom youâre not hungry some nights because there isnât enough left for everyone to eat.
And underneath all of it, beneath the fear and the humiliation, is the ache of missing Yolanda so badly that it makes you feel sick. You miss the way her coffee tasted better than yours even though you bought the same brand afterwards, trying to recreate it. You miss the sound of her voice, saying your name when she was half asleep.
You do your best not to think about the breakup, if you could even call it that. No, you canât, because it wasnât a real relationship. The termination is what you should call it.
You feel cheap. Dirty.
The way she threw you away like you were nothing. Your heart twists painfully in your chest when you think about it. As if you were an inconvenience, lying there in that hospital bed. That hurts worse than the financial panic, and you hate yourself for that. Because losing Yolanda shouldnât matter more to you than losing your safety net. Except that she wasnât just your safety net by the end.
Thatâs the problem.
You miss her in ways that are humiliating.Â
The way sheâd hold your thigh possessively anytime the two of you went anywhere, whether she was driving or not. How sheâd order your coffee or food without asking what you wanted, because she didnât need to ask, she knows you.In the same way you know her, understand her, she understands you. You miss the shape of her life wrapping around you. You miss being expected somewhere, wanted somewhere.
The worst part is that you still catch yourself mentally saving things to tell her. Customers at work saying bizarre shit, or memes Charlie sends you, or about how the stray cat behind the dumpster that finally let you pet it after months of trying. Every time you think Yolanda needs to know this, reality hits you a moment later.
Gone. Sheâs gone. Because you lied to her.
No. You didnât lie. You survived. But apparently thereâs no difference to Yolanda.
Charlie corners you during your lunch break a few weeks after the breakup.Â
âYou look awful,â she says bluntly, though her tone has a teasing edge to it.
You blink up from your paper coffee cup. âThanks.â
âIâm serious.â Charlie slides into the seat across from you in the dingy mall food court, frowning hard. Sheâs still wearing her bookstore lanyard from the store across the plaza. âYouâve been weird for weeks.â
âI got hit by a car.â
âYou know thatâs not what I mean.â
You stare down into your watery coffee, trying your best to hold off the tears that always come with thinking about Yolanda.
Charlie softens as she reaches across the table to touch your hand. âWas it that woman?â
Your stomach ties itself into a knot instantly.
Charlie doesnât know the details. She never has, that was against the rules. You never told her about the arrangement, only that youâd been seeing someone older. But Charlie had met Yolanda once by accident when she picked you up from work.
That had, apparently, been enough.
âThe hot doctor woman,â Charlie continues. âDid you guys break up?â
The term break up feels wrong, even though thatâs what youâve been calling it in your head. Break up implies it was mutual. You and Yolanda never even addressed what was happening outside of the contract while it was happening.
âYeah,â you say quietly.
Charlieâs mouth twists to one side as she weighs her next words carefully. âDid she hurt you?â
The question catches you off guard because the answer is complicated. Not intentionally. Yolanda ended things like a surgeon making a clean incision: precise and controlled, and you know intimately how much she values control.
âShe found out some stuff,â you mumble eventually.
Charlie waits for you to continue.
âShe thought I lied to her.â
âDid you?â
You stare at the table. âI donât know anymore.â
Reaching across the table to you, Charlie squeezes your arm gently. âYou donât have to tell me everything,â she says gently. âBut something is really wrong with you, and I need you to know that I can tell.â
Your throat burns as you hold off the tears, and you look away fast before she notices. Youâve spent so long being the stable one in your family that basic concern feels unbearable now.
After that day, Charlie starts checking up on your constantly, like the good best friend she is. She texts you, sends you memes, and more than once she shows up during your shift with extra fries because âthey made too many.â
Sometimes you answer her, and sometimes you stare at the messages for ages without replying because even typing feels too exhausting lately. Like maintaining your one friendship is too much, and youâd rather lay in bed and rot.
Depression settles over you so gradually that you donât recognize it.
Laundry piles up in your room. You stop listening to music on the bus on your way to work. Food starts tasting like cardboard. Your days blur together into one endless loop of work and worry and exhaustion. And underneath it all sits the certainty that nothing good is coming anymore. That the eight months with Yolanda were some sort of weird interruption of your real life, a brief detour where you accidentally got to feel safe and taken care of. And loved.
But now youâre back where you belong.
The thought makes you feel sick every time it surfaces, because you know Yolanda would hate hearing that you think that way about yourself. Which is almost funny, because you still know her opinions instinctively. You wonder if she still thinks about yours.
One night, your father falls asleep at the kitchen table still wearing the uniform from his second job.
You stand there staring at him for a long time.
His hands look older lately. Theyâre covered with cracked skin and grease trapped beneath his nails that he can never seem to get out anymore.
Your mother drapes a blanket over his shoulders without waking him.
Neither of you say anything, because what even is there to say?
The kitchen table becomes buried in unopened envelopes.Â
PAST DUE.
URGENT.
FINAL NOTICE.
You recognize the return address from the hospital every time another bill arrives, and you start hiding them underneath the others without opening them. If you donât know the final number, if you never see the interest pile up, maybe it canât kill you yet.
The drain under the kitchen sink begins to leak, and your mother puts a pot underneath the drip with a look of both exhaustion and exasperation on her face. You stand there in silence, listening to water tap against metal.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
âI can pick up more hours,â you blurt suddenly.
Your mother looks up at you sharply. âNo.â
âI can.â
âYou already work too much.â
âItâs not enough.â
Her face crumples for a moment before she smooths her expression back out. âHoney.â
You hate that helpless look, and turn away before she can see your eyes watering.
Later that night, lying awake in bed, you finally break and open your bank app again. The number that stares back at you makes your heart sink.
You start crying before you even recognize that itâs happening, silent tears sliding sideways into your pillow while you press your fist against your mouth to keep quiet.Â
You miss Yolanda so bad that it hurts. Not the money, not the relief that comes with existing around her, but her. The way she looked at you when she thought you werenât paying attention, and the rare sound of her laughing unguarded, usually when you said something she wasnât expecting. You start to wonder if she misses you too, before immediately stopping yourself because it doesnât matter. Missing Yolanda isnât going to fix anything.
Pulling your phone back up to your face, you open the browser on your phone and log back into the website where you first met Yolanda.
âWe canât keep doing this,â your mother mutters as she stares down the pile of unopened envelopes.
Your father sighs heavily from across the table, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion after another double shift. âOpen the worst ones first.â
Which ones even are the worst ones? You donât know anymore. Still, nobody argues.
You stand at the counter, twisting the cap off a bottle of generic painkillers. Your ribs hurt from being on your feet all day, the last remnants of your time with Yolanda.
Your mother reaches for the mortgage statement. The envelope is wrinkled from being shoved around the table for weeks without being opened.
She breaks the seal carefully, and silence stretches as she scans the contents of the letter. But then, she frowns.
Your fatherâs brow furrows as he looks up at her. âWhat?â
She doesnât answer.
You glance over at her, distracted at first, expecting another overdue notice, or another conversation about âfiguring it out.â
Instead, your mother just keeps staring at the paper.
âMom?â
Her eyes eventually start to lift from the paper, confusion etched into the lines of her face, and she looks almostâŚalarmed. âIt says itâs paid.â
Your father tilts his head, confused. âWhat?â
âThe mortgage,â she laughs, the sound disbelieving. âIt says the balance is paid.â
You straighten. âPaid this month?â
âNo,â her voice sounds strange now. âPaid off, in full.â She reaches back into the envelope, digging around until her fingers pluck additional papers out of it. She unfolds them with shaky hands, and you can vaguely make out the words LOAN PAYOFF and DEED on them.
Your father stands upright from the chair, reaching for the papers. âLet me see that.â
Your mother hands him the statement with trembling fingers while you step closer, heart pounding in your chest.Â
Your dad scans the pages once, then again. âWhat the hell?â
You snatch the statement from his hands. The words blur in front of your eyes before they settle at the bottom.
CURRENT BALANCE: $0.00
Thatâs not possible, there has to be a mistake. A printing error, the wrong account number, something.
Feeling suddenly unsteady, you grab the nearest envelope off the pile and tear it open to find the electric bill. PAID IN FULL.
You rip open another to find the HVAC loan. ZERO BALANCE.
Another.
Roof financing. ACCOUNT CLOSED.
âNo,â you say quietly to yourself. âNo, no, no -â
Your pulse is pounding in your ears. Thereâs only one envelope left in the pile. Your hospital bill.
You freeze, staring at it.
âHoney -â your mother says, noticing your unnerving stillness.
But youâre already grabbing it, the envelope tearing badly in your rush. Your eyes skim the page frantically until they catch on the number near the bottom.
Summary: Baran has always kept her personal life separate from work, life is easier that way. Unfortunately for her, PTMCâs annual gala requires an exception and youâre all-too eager to participate.
CW: fluff, established relationship, traditionally fem reader (reader wears makeup and a dress), possessive!Baran, insecure!Baran, kinda pervy!Baran, obsessed wives, coworkers meet the wife, reader is loved by all, smut (explicit sexual content), top!Baran, semi-public sex, fingering (r!receiving), little bit of a praise kink
WC: 4.3k
A/N: celebrating hitting 1k followers last night with this! My first real Baran piece that isnât just headcanons đ Hope you enjoy!
âYouâre going to make us late if you donât stop.â
The scold lacks heat, and you canât even stop yourself from laughing when Baranâs lips find the side of your neck again, your hand pausing hallway through sliding the last pin into your hair.
âMaybe I donât want to go anymore,â she murmurs against your skin as her hands settle on your waist.Â
âYou canât skip,â you snort. âYouâre an attending, it looks bad.â
âIâll call in sick.â
âYouâre a doctor.â
âAnd yet I suddenly feel very unwell.â
That pulls a warm laugh out of you and Baran swears under her breath in Farsi like the sound of it does something to her. Because this right here is why sheâs kept you away from the hospital for so long. Itâs not because sheâs ashamed of you, never that, but rather because she knows what happens to people when they meet you.Â
You finally finish with your hair, setting your products down before turning in her arms to face her. âYouâre being so weird tonight, what gives?â
Baran sighs through her nose, just a hint of annoyance settling on her face as she looks at you. âI do not want to share you with them tonight, azizam.â
âYour coworkers?â
She nods in confirmation.Â
âYou donât want them to meet me?â
Her eyes narrow as her grip on your waist tightens possessively. âI do not want my coworkers looking at my wife.â
The way she says my wife sends heat blooming into your face, and though you try to hide it, you fail miserably. Baran notices immediately and her lips curve up into a smirk, obviously pleased with herself as the tips of your ears tinge.
âYouâre blushing.â
âShut up.â
The drive over is quiet in a comfortable way. The city glows outside the windows of the uber, streaks of gold and white sliding across the glass while music plays through the speakers. Your heels rest against the floorboard, one ankle crossed over the other, and Baranâs hand hasnât left your thigh since the moment the two of you climbed into the backseat together. Not that youâre complaining, of course.
Downtown is alive tonight. Restaurants are crowded and the sidewalks are busy. And somewhere ahead, towering above the traffic, the convention center comes into view.
You canât believe hospitals even have galas.
âYou know,â you say, âwhen you first told me about this, I thought it was going to be in, like, a hotel ballroom or something.â
âIt usually is,â Baran replies casually.
âWait, really?â
âThe hospital is celebrating some anniversary this year.â Her fingers squish the skin of your thigh beneath your dress. âApparently they decided to go all out because of it.â
âThat explains why the invitation looked like a wedding invite.â
The uber eases to a stop beneath the overhang of the convention center, and the driver bids you both a polite goodnight while Baran helps you out onto the curb with a hand at your waist. The night air is cool on your skin, and youâre suddenly jealous of the long sleeves on Baranâs pantsuit keeping her warm.
People crowd the entrance to the building in clusters of black-tie gowns and tailored suits, and you can hear laughter echoing off marble and glass as the hospital staff filter inside. You recognize a few faces from pictures on Baranâs phone or stories over dinner, but most are strangers in a sea of faces.
Baran stays close to you, her hand on the small of your back as the two of you navigate through the lobby together toward a bank of elevators down a small hallway.
âYou okay?â she asks quietly as you wait for an available one.
You turn toward her, your face scrunching in confusion. âWhy are you asking me that?â
âBecause this is a lot of people in one place and I know how you feel about crowds.â
You purse your lips, but in thoughtfulness rather than upset. âIâm okay. Itâll be better once weâre upstairs, Iâm sure.â
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, the doors sliding open. Several other attendees step inside with you, conversations between coworkers overlapping. The fifth floor lights up as you reach it and the doors open to spill the gala out before you in gold.
Chandelier light glitters across floral arrangements and linin-draped cocktail tables. Warm jazz music drift through the massive ballroom beneath towering ceilings, and full-length windows overlook the Pittsburgh skyline. Itâs elegant and expensive in a way that only a for-profit hospital could be.
Youâre busy taking it all in when a voice catches your attention, even though it isnât aimed directly at you.
âDr. Al-Hashimi.â
You can feel Baran sigh next to you.
A woman in an ivory suit approaches with a comfortability that most people donât have when approaching your wife. Sheâs older and polished, with nails manicured and decorated in a way that tells you this is not an emergency room doctor, but likely some sort of administrator.
âGloria,â Baran says politely.
Gloria Underwood, you know that name. Some sort of big wig for the hospital, she interviewed Baran before your wife took the attending position, and youâve heard Baran complain about her at least once a week ever since.
âItâs good to finally see you outside the emergency department,â Gloria says, smiling before her attention turns on you. âAnd you must be the elusive wife.â
Baranâs hand is on your back again, but she isnât urging you forward and you canât tell if itâs to ground you or herself. âMy wife,â she repeats, and you can hear the undertone of pride in her voice.
You offer your hand with a smile, introducing yourself while Gloria shakes it warmly.
âItâs lovely to meet you,â she says. âI was beginning to think Baran had made you up.â
âProbably because she never lets me come to work with her,â you laugh.
âSmart woman,â Gloria says with a knowing look at your wife. âThe ER would probably stop functioning.â
You donât have time to ask what that means before Gloria turns her attention back toward Baran and the conversation drifts into hospital territory. You let yourself fade beside them, listening without really listening as your attention begins to wander.
Thereâs gold ribbon curled around centerpieces and champagne glasses in everyoneâs hands. People are laughing too loudly near the bar already even though itâs barely dark outside, and thereâs a string quartet setting up in a corner of the ballroom.
Eventually, during your trip to outer space, Baran gives Gloria one of those polite smiles youâve only ever seen her use at work during her time at the VA.
âWell,â she says smoothly, âbefore you trap me into discussing staffing ratios for the rest of the evening, I should probably make the rounds.â
Gloria laughs at that. âGo socialize, Doctor. Youâve earned at least one night off.â
Baran nods in farewell before guiding you deeper into the ballroom with a slide of her hand into your own.
âStaffing ratios?â you giggle.
âThis job is as much politics as it is medicine, azizam,â Baran sighs, scanning the room. She snags two flutes of champagne off the tray of a passing waitstaff, handing one to you.
You smile into the glass just another voice cuts through the crowd.
âBaran!â
A group standing around one of the cocktail tables waves her over and you can feel the change in her posture immediately. Itâs not tense, exactly, but you feel the way she straightens up next to you.
These must be the coworkers.
âThis,â she says quietly to you, âis the part I was worried about.â
Still, she leads you over to the table.
The group is an interesting mix, thatâs for sure.
One man stands slightly apart from the others, older than the rest with tired but intelligent eyes and an air of authority about him thatâs hard to deny. Beside him is another man with easier posture and a warm smile, with a drink balanced loosely in one hand. A younger man than the other two lounges against the edge of the table with the restless energy of someone whoâs incapable of standing still, and the redheaded woman standing beside him looks far more composed than he does. And then thereâs another woman watching the room over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip, the look in her eye almost seeming like sheâs above this entire get-together.
Baran stops at the table, her eyes scanning over each of them as she greets everyone. âDr. Robinovich,â she says first, inclining her head towards the older man. âDr. Abbot. And Dr.âs Langdon, McKay, and Garcia.â
You know she isnât greeting them by name because she needs to, but rather for your sake.
The older man immediately tilts his head toward the ceiling and waves a dismissive hand. âAbsolutely not, Baran. If you introduce me like that, I sound old.â
Baran deadpans, âMaybe that was my intention.âÂ
He smiles tightly at that before turning toward you and offering his hand. âMichael Robinovich. You can call me Robby.â
You shake his hand politely, but immediately dislike him. Not because heâs rude, he actually seems very nice. But because this is the man who made your wife cry after her first shift at the hospital.Â
You remember it vividly, Baranâs tear-streaked makeup and exhausted fury as she returned home to you hours later than she was supposed to be off, insisting she was fine while also admitting that sheâd not only had her first seizure in over a year, but two. Youâd held her all night, staying up long after sheâd fallen asleep, both for her comfort and out of fear of a third focal seizure.
So really, you think your dislike of him is justified.
âWow,â the one your wife called Langdon says suddenly as he blinks at you. âYou werenât kidding.â
Langdon ignores her completely, looking at you with intrigue. âHi, Frank Langdon. I was beginning to think she made you up.â
âFrank,â three different people say at once.Â
âWhat? Iâm being respectful!â
You laugh warmly, and the small group seems to relax around you as conversations break into groups. You smile at McKay when she compliments your dress, ask Abbot about the drink heâs holding, you even laugh at one of Langdonâs dumb jokes despite Baran muttering at you to quit encouraging him. And every time you laugh, every time someoneâs attention lingers on you a little too long for her liking, Baranâs hand settles lower against your back. You canât tell if sheâs grounding herself or if sheâs trying to stake claim.
Whichever it is, Robby takes notice right away. The smile he hides behind his glass is downright evil.
âSo, he says to her as your attention is taken by a story McKay is telling. âThis is why youâve kept her hidden for so long.â
âI donât know what you mean,â Baran says dismissively.Â
âSure you donât.â He gestures between her and you. âAfter refusing to introduce her to us, you brought your stunning and charming wife to a party, dressed up to the nines and looking like a walking sin. Pretty irresponsible, donât you think?â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â Langdon blurts from Robbyâs other side.
âYou werenât invited into this conversation,â Baran says flatly.Â
You laugh at something Garcia says, attracting your wifeâs attention once more as you lean into her side. Her chin rests on your shoulder as she turns toward you, her eyes scanning around the ballroom.
âWhere are the baby ducks?â
McKay laughs.Â
âAt the bar,â Abbot says.
âAll four of them?â Baran asks.
âUnfortunately,â Garcia says. âSomeone spilled the beans to Trinity that they have tequila. We havenât seen them since.â
Baran closes her eyes like sheâs in physical pain. âAnd you left her unattended?â But before she can continue mourning the fate of her unsupervised residents, a burst of loud laughter sounds out from somewhere nearby.
You turn in time to see four younger people approaching the table carrying drinks, all of them mid-conversation as they reach the group.
The woman in front stops as she reaches the table, squeezing between Garcia and McKay and setting down the second drink in her hand in front of the surgeon before turning her eyes on you.
âWhat the hell?â
Baran sighs like this is exactly the reaction she expected. âBehave, Dr. Santos.â
âWhat?â Santos says, looking mildly offended. âYour wife is hot, you didnât say she was hot.â
Dr. Abbot coughs into his drink to hide a laugh, and the only man in this group of baby ducks (as your wife had so eloquently called them) loses the battle and snorts.Â
Your cheeks heat as you laugh, and you arenât sure if itâs from blood rushing or the alcohol. Or both. âThank you.â
âTrinity,â Santos introduces herself with a hand extended to you over the table, which you take. She then turns to Baran. âI get it now.âÂ
âStop that,â Baran scolds her.
âOkay, mom.â
Baran turns to Garcia then, her tone accusatory. âJust how many has she had?â
âThis would be her third,â Garcia replies with a roll of her eyes.Â
Questions fly from the group collectively known as ducklings. How did you meet? How long have you been married? Is Dr. Al this intense at home too? And with each question, your wife looks increasingly perturbed.Â
She knows you donât do this on purpose, and itâs almost never bothered her before, butâŚyou fit too well. Donât get her wrong, she loves your charm. Itâs one of the things that drew her to you first, your ability to get along with everyone, the way you naturally convince people into loving you. And at the VA, it didnât bother her. Maybe thatâs because her coworkers there were older, older than her even, and they werenât -
They werenât a threat.
Does Baran feel threatened by her ER coworkers? She wants to say no, of course not, but as she watches you talk to Trinity, watches you smile at Javadi, laugh at something that Langdon does, or Abbot, or Whitaker -
With every word, your wife looks one compliment away from spontaneously combusting, and you canât help but laugh. And unfortunately for her, youâve become the most interesting person in the ballroom. And through it all, you notice something. Every single time someone else has your attention for too long, Baran touches you. Her hand on your waist, or your elbow. Her lips on your bare shoulder. Itâs not enough for anyone to comment on, but it is constant enough that you take notice.
Especially when Langdon talks to you. Itâs harmless; heâs charming in a sort of cocky way that probably works very well on patients, and he clearly finds you attractive. And at one point you laugh at something he says and Frank grins, a sparkle in his eye at the sound of your laugh.
You can feel Baran tense up next to you and it cuts your laugh short as you turn to her. âAre you okay?â
The concern in your voice makes guilt flicker through her. Because she knows you havenât done anything wrong, youâre just being yourself. Which is, unfortunately for her, the entire problem.
She lets out a heavy sigh and then presses a quick kiss to your temple. âIâm going to get us another drink,â she murmurs in your ear.
You smile at that, tapping your empty champagne flute. âOkay.â
Baranâs hand leaves your back as she makes her way toward the bar at the far side of the room, loosening the tension in her shoulders only once the crowd thins out around her.
âAnother champagne?â the bartender asks, nodding toward the flute still in her hand.
âAnd a whiskey,â Baran says.
She leans one forearm against the edge of the bar while he works, her eyesight drifting back toward your table.
Bad idea.
McKay is talking to you now while Santos is gesturing animatedly beside her, and somehow the entire group has subtly turned towards you like flowers turning towards sunlight. Even from across the room, Baran can tell youâre glowing, beautiful and open, charming in a way sheâs never been immune to herself.
âRough night?â
She recognizes Jackâs voice without even having to turn to look at him. Nevertheless, she does as he settles against the bar at her side.
âYou followed me,â she says.
Jack shrugs as he flags the bartender down with two raised fingers, nodding toward his empty glass in wordless communication.
Neither of them speak for a moment, but as Jack glances back toward the table, following Baranâs line of sight, he smiles a little. âYouâve got a beautiful wife, Baran.â His tone stays easy and casual even as she tenses at his words. âYou had to know this was going to happen eventually.â
Her tongue presses against the inside of her cheek. âI did know.â
âShe seems nice.â
âShe is.â
âAnd everyone likes her.â
She turns to look at him then, but only halfway, like she canât really afford to lose sight of you. âAnd thatâs a problem?â
âYouâre sure acting like it is.â
Baran turns fully back toward the table just in time to catch you throwing your head back laughing at something Santos says, and her expression tightens.Â
Jack notices. âYou know,â he says, âmost people would kill for a marriage where their biggest problem is their wife is too perfect.â
Baran tsks as she glances at him out of her peripheral. âYouâre being very annoying right now.â
He shrugs noncommittally. âHey, Iâm just saying, it seems like the obsession goes both ways.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âShe keeps looking for you.â Jack nods subtly toward the table, and heâs right.
Even while smiling at everyone else, even as you carry on conversation with her coworkers, your eyes are drawn to the crowd in the direction toward the bar. Looking for her.Â
By the time Baran and Jack make their way back across the room to the table, crowds have thickened around tables, conversation louder now beneath the swell of music and alcohol.
Your face softens when your eyes land on your wife again. âThere you are,â you say, reaching for her as she sets the drinks down in front of the two of you.
Baranâs arm wraps around your waist as she reaches you. âMiss me, eshgham?â
Your own arms settle over her shoulders, fingers tangling together behind her head. âOf course I did.â
The group falls back into casual conversation around you as you sip your drink, half-listening and half paying attention to the knowing looks Dr. Abbot seems to be sending your wife, which sheâs pointedly ignoring.
After a while, the ballroom lights dim and the sound of microphone feedback echoes from the speakers overhead, drawing attention towards the stage at the front of the room where a podium now waits beneath a spotlight.
âOh no,â someone mutters from the opposite side of the table. âPolitics.â
âToo late to fake an emergency?â Langdon asks.
âWe work in an emergency department,â Robby says. âThat excuse wonât hold much weight.â
Gloria steps out onto the stage a second later to polite applause from the crowd. The room settles as she begins speaking, her voice echoing through the ballroom as she talks about the hospitalâs anniversary, community outreach, budget expansions, new wings, and a variety of other hospital-speak that sounds like a language you donât know.
Thatâs when you feel Baranâs hand close around your wrist.
Around the room, people nod along politely to Gloriaâs speech while waitstaff weave between tables collecting empty glasses and plates.
âAnd finally,â Gloria says after about twenty minutes, âIâd like to take a moment to acknowledge one department in particular.â She gestures vaguely in the direction of the table that houses most of your wifeâs department. âThe emergency department has seen one of the most significant increases in patient satisfaction scores in the hospital over the last year. The Press Ganey scores alone have risen dramatically, and while every member of the department deserves recognition for their hard work, thereâs one whose compassion, leadership, and dedication to patient care has had remarkable impact.â
Robby groans quietly under his breath. Individual callouts are always a nightmare.
âDr. Baran Al-Hashimi.â
Applause starts up, people turning toward your table, searching for Baran among the cluster of emergency department staff.
âShh,â Baran whispers hotly against your ear. âNot a sound, azizam, you donât want anyone to hear you, do you?â
Her hands are up your dress, which is bunched up against your hips by her impatient hands, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your lace panties. She yanks them down your thighs in one swift motion and you step out of them obediently, the cool air hitting your soaked core and making you shiver. She brings them to her nose for a brief second, inhaling deeply before stuffing the damp lace into the pocket of her pantsuit with a satisfied smirk.
Her fingers immediately return between your legs, sliding through your slick folds with firm pressure that has you whimpering enough for her to press her lips against yours to keep you quiet.
âSo wet already,â she murmurs against your lips.
She slips a finger inside you without warning, her middle finger sliding in to the knuckle easily. A whine catches in your throat, muffled by Baranâs mouth. Her free hand roams, squeezing your ass, pulling you harder onto her hand as a second finger pushes inside you, stretching and curling deep while her thumb finds your clit with delicious pressure.Â
The web, lewd sounds of her fingers pumping into your soaked pussy are the only sounds in the empty coatroom, loud to your heightened senses, and your hips rut to meet her hand.
Baran grinds her thigh between your legs for leverage, her own arousal evident in the way she rocks against you. Her breath comes in hot and shaky pants against your lips, more breathing into each otherâs mouths than actually kissing.
Her hand trails up your back to your hair, gripping at the base of your head to try and not mess up the pins in your hair (lest she feel your wrath) as she tilts your head back. You break from her mouth and she immediately begins kissing down your neck, stopping to suck a mark just below your ear. You feel the faint sting of her teeth and the heat of her mouth almost makes your knees buckle.
âB-ah!-Baran, you couldnât wait?â
âNeed to feel you cum on my fingers,â she pants against your neck. âNeed to know this pretty cunt is only for me.â
The pace of her fingers turns frantic. Her fingers fuck into you faster, deeper, her thumb abandoning your clit in favor of her palm grinding against you with every stroke. You clutch at her shoulders, nails digging into the fabric as the fire in your belly builds, pressure coiling tightly inside of you. The risk, the possessiveness, the whines youâre doing your best to muffle - itâs all overwhelming.
Baran leans in closer, her forehead pressing against yours as her eyes lock onto your own. âCum for me,â she demands. âCum on my fingers, show me who you belong to.â
The orgasm rolls over you like a wave, crashing through your body and Baran has to shove a hand over your mouth in an effort to contain the loud moan you let out. Your walls clench around her thrusting fingers, slick coating her hand as pleasure floods you. You shake against her, whining into her hand while she keeps fucking you through it, drawing out the feeling until youâre boneless and gasping for air against her palm.
Slowly, she withdraws her fingers and brings them to her lips, licking them clean with a low and satisfied moan, her eyes locked on yours the entire time. Then she kisses you deeply, her tongue sliding inside your mouth and over your own, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
You whimper at the taste, fingers bunched in the top of her pantsuit.
âGood girl,â she whispers against your mouth as she smooths your dress back down with hands that are too tender for what theyâve just done to you.Â
With one final possessive kiss, she straightens, offering you a hand. You take it, allowing her to pull you off the coatroom wall, leading you back toward the gala like nothing happened, though your slick thighs are evidence of your escapades, as are your panties tucked safely in her pocket.
You barely have a second to breathe as you step back into the ballroom, because one of the younger doctors -Â Javadi,you think you heard someone call her - is the first to spot you.
âThere you are,â she says immediately, both relief and confusion mixing together as she looks between you and Baran. âYou missed it, Gloria just called you out during her speech. Like, publicly. In front of everyone.â
Baranâs expression sharpens. âShe did what?â
âYeah,â Javadi says with a roll of her eyes. âIt wasâŚvery flattering. Awkward timing, though, because you werenât here.â
Thereâs a pause then, enough for the group to really take the two of you in.
âNo fucking way,â Trinity says with a smirk, arms crossing in front of her chest as she appraises you. The slightly disheveled state of Baranâs hair, the smudge of your lipstick, the trace of redness at your throat. âOh my god.â
âTrinity,â Garcia warns, but the warning goes ignored.
âWe - we were getting drinks,â you stammer, even as your cheeks heat with the lie.
Trinity looks unconvinced, and your head swivels to your wife, desperately looking for backup.Â
You catch Langdon leaning toward Robby in your peripheral, whispering, âThey werenât getting drinks.â Â
Baran, on the other hand, looks totally unbothered, a stark contrast to the tense woman she was before the two of you disappeared. In fact, youâd dare to say she looks pleased with herself as her fingers wrap around the untouched whiskey glass and she takes a small sip.
âAnyways,â she says calmly, as if the last ten minutes havenât fundamentally changed the light her coworkers see her in. âWhat did I miss?â
Okay so Terms and Conditions has been popping off in my asks so I figured Iâd reply to them all instead of clogging my profile.
The only question asked that I can actually answer is that there are going to be a total of 6 or 7 parts, I havenât fully decided if Iâm going to write a 7th yet. Weâll see where the wind blows us.
I love that you guys seem to love this series as much as I do đ Itâs confirmed for me that taking time to pause my requests and focus on writing what I want to write was the right move đ For a while, when taking requests, I became unmotivated and a little resentful because I felt obligated to write everything everyone asked because I was grateful that people were reading at all. But in my opinion, itâs fairly obvious in my pieces which ones I wanted to write versus the ones I wrote out of obligation.
So hereâs the list of order over the next few fics:
1. The Baran Al-Hashimi 1000 follower poll-winner is coming today. I crossed the 1k follower line last night, so this gets priority, and itâs almost ready.
2. Terms and Conditions Part V is coming either tonight or tomorrow, depending on if I have enough time to finish editing and proofreading after posting the Al-Hashimi piece. Iâve been writing them in tandem for over a week.
3. A cutesy little Nazely Toomarian piece, because I couldnât find a single x reader fic for her and the Nazely Toomarian x reader tag doesnât even exist. I get that sheâs new and unexplored since she came in at the end of the season, but I already love her.
4. What I believe will be the last piece of Terms and Conditions (Part VI).
I mightâve overlooked it but I was wondering if youâre still adding to your tag list? I couldnât find it anywhere and i absolutely loved Terms and Conditions and donât wanna miss the next part â¤ď¸
Of course you can! Itâs in the series Masterlist, but donât worry about it there because people have asked to be added in the comments of the chapters too, so I always just go through all the posts about Terms and Conditions to make sure I donât miss anyone đ
Also, new chapter coming either tonight or tomorrow!
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âŚ.how dare you? But thank you too, I have manners.
Never given much food for thought into the topic of separating the work from the artist discourse cuz I simply do not support what does not have space in my beliefs yada yada, I do not dream of mental labor⌠I block out the haters so to speakâŚbut..Ahm ya you got me scratching my head here⌠much joy..much grief, many sighs. Many giggles and kicked feet. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer but at the end of the day they are both just..closeâŚI will be watching youđ§đ§ huge fan yesâŚside eye at what you put me through next is there tooâŚđ§đ§đ§ eager and distressed anticipation all in one đ§đ§đ§
Iâve been giggling and kicking my feet all evening over the reactions to Part IV, and even now Iâm rubbing my hands together like a fly over the absolute novel of a reblog you shared đ
^ actual footage of me right now
I love you and I love your reactions and please donât ever stop đ