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@maximoffwitch
lottie౨ৎ she/her | 24 | writer and certified simp
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── .✦ i'm lottie, and welcome to my blog of fics .ᐟ i reblog lots of stories i enjoy and also write some myself. i do not give anyone permission to repost or take credit for my work. if you like my fics, reblogs, comments, and asks are always appreciated :)
nav post inspo: @emilys-bangs <33
New Boss (SMAU) — Part 1
baran al-hashimi x f!reader
summary: with robby taking a sabbatical, a new attending comes in to cover for him. a beautiful, hot, smart milf attending.
taglist: @somemetallyillbitch @killah28 @bigstupids @lovvrr @mil1an @noprophet @escapereality4music @angryoilslick516 @mxtokko @abbotitts @wewerewildandflourescent @likesomethingidk @longfulforlee @winstonhelp @sadoutlaw @theworldscalamity @bsttwice @randomstuff02sblog @beingniceisntahobby @geekyandgay98 @cmckaysdollpuppy @banginglikeahurricane @hehehehahahohohuhu @eatmykittycatt — i attach my taglist to any series of mine. send your username to my inbox or comment to be added/removed.
piranhas in the water⠀✚⠀trinity santos x f!reader
“𝙾𝚑, 𝙸’𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐.”
⋆ ⋆ ─ tags: mdni ⋆ no use of y/n ⋆ reader nondescript ⋆ sapphic ⋆ implied post robby sabbatical ⋆ medical field inaccuracies ⋆ reader works in the ptmc billing department ⋆ bitch off ⋆ but really they’re flirting ⋆ baby’s first pitt fic pls be gentle ⋆ word count: 2.4k
⚰︎ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ▹ exactly what i like - g flip
2:00 PM
You had been practically drowning in paperwork for weeks. Days filled with the endless streams of words and numbers on a screen, phone calls and minor mental breakdowns. Just when thought you were ready to start on this set of files you had been putting off. You noticed something about the charts. Or lack there off.
With all your extra work, you had completely forgotten about your earlier memos, which had clearly gone unnoticed. It’s not like you fully expected them to be received, the Emergency Department is always busy with something new. And with all your work piling up, you were really not as on to of things as you should have been.
The filing deadline was fast approaching and it was already after lunch. Your only reasonable option now was that you had to make a personal visit downstairs and search for the assigned physician yourself. You had not been lucky enough to meet her face to face yet, but you have heard of the reputation of Doctor Santos. Tricky and abrasive, with a confident personality of the biggest dick in the locker room. Despite the rumors her overall patient satisfaction has all been mostly positive from what you had seen.
When you finally slipped through the doors of the Emergency Department, and made a beelline for the most trusted face in the room.
“Knew I heard those fearsome finance footsteps, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Dana greeted you as she continued to read the tablet in front of her.
“C’mon Dana, if she swam all the way downstream…What we really should be asking is who is the next victim?” Doctor Langdon added.
“Well unfortunately it’s not you.” You flashed him a sickening customer service smile. He gave you a playful middle finger, inconspicuously hidden close to the top of the desk.
“And actually, I’m looking for Doctor Santos.” You turned to Dana and offered her a real smile, knowing she would help you out.
Doctor Langdon didn’t bother to hold in his cheerful laughter.
“This day keeps getting better.” He smiled brightly to Dana before pushing off the desk. “I hope you have a field day with Doctor Santos.”
Your eyebrows crunched in confusion, staying silent and allowing Doctor Langdon to go return to his patients.
“Good Lord,” she sighed as she watched him walk away. “Santos is in with a peds burn in North 2.” Dana answered.
Your eyes floated around the stream of curtains and empty medical beds before returning to her with a puzzled look.
“That one.” She pointed with a laugh.
“Thank you.”
You waited idly by the curtains Dana pointed to, shifting your weight on your feet to ease your idle jitters. Each minute wasted down here had you only visualizing your work upstairs backing up higher and higher your plate. After seven agonizing minutes Doctor Santos had finished talking with the family inside about care instructions for the wound and exited the bay.
“Doctor Santos,” you grabbed her attention. She turned to you with a puzzled look, eyes turning to read your hospital badge. You introduced yourself regardless before you began to explain your visit.
“I’ve sent a few reminders about charts all addressed to you this past week and I don’t want to believe that all five were unseen or accidentally lost, but I know it could be possible-”
She cut you off with a snort. “So you’re the Piranha?” She asked completely disregarding what you had just stated.
“I have a name.”
“Piranha.” She stated like you were hadn’t just shared your actual name with her.
You blinked twice, lips slightly parted in surprise.
“I need your charts submitted by 4PM.” You snipped.
Someone from across the room shouted for Doctor Santos’ help. She began walking in that direction, leaving you to frustratingly follow her steps.
“I’ll be sure to put it at the very top of my to-do list.”
You sighed quietly, not wanting to give too much attitude with your next statement. Your words came out softer, less bite to the words. They came out scripted and bored.
“If I do not receive them today, I will be reaching out to the attendings to see how we can fix this issue going forward.”
Her steps halted.
“Wow…” She said slowly, expression sour. “tough crowd.”
“By 4PM, please, Doctor Santos.” You give her a customer service smile.
“Yes, Miss Piranha, ma’am.” She gave you a salute with a playful smile.
“Thank you.” You quickly shuffled your way out of the Emergency Department, not exactly privy to witnessing some gruesome scene on accident.
4:00 PM
Nothing.
4:30 PM
Still no updated forms have been submitted by Doctor Santos.
As if you didn’t have an enough work to finish up, you spared the time to go back down to the Emergency Department. This time your steps were fast and pointed, irritation clearly oozing from you like a gloomy toxic cloud.
“Uh oh.” Dana’s voice echoed as you bypassed the desk completely.
“Watch out.” Another voice echoed.
“Doctor Santos!” You caught up to her.
“Little Miss Piranha.” She greeted, not slowing down her pace. You ignored the name and kept up with her steps.
“It’s past 4PM.”
“Sorry, I’ve been kind of busy.” She floated her hands around the bustling room.
You waited only a moment to steep in your irritation before continuing to speak.
“I understand that you’re kind of busy, and I kind of have deadlines to maintain in order to not compromise patient’s care based on an easily avoidable financial hiccup with an insurance claim. All because their physician was too busy to give them the time.” You sighed dramatically. “Or maybe somewhere in your eight years of higher education you never learned how to time manage as well as you thought.”
“Wow. Ouch,” She stopped to turn and face you now that she was at her station. “Has anyone told you that you’re kind of a bitch.”
“All the time.” You nodded, peachy expressions still in tact.
You were constantly being berated by unhappy patients and families and working with patient advocacy. You had grown very thick skin.
“And for your information, I do know how to manage my time.” Doctor Santos informed.
“I just wanted an excuse to get you back down here.” She admitted with a small smile.
“You wasted more of my time on purpose?”
“Only a waste of time if you choose to see it that way.” She shrugged.
“Is that not what I just said?” Your eyes darted down to your watch. “It’s taken me six minutes to get down here- six minutes back up, that’s almost a quarter of an hour alone on travel time.”
“Okay well, your line of thinking is kind of a nightmare.” She pointed out with a look of surprised disbelief.
“Noted. Why are you holding me hostage Doctor Santos? Have you updated the forms?”
“Oh yeah!” She pulled them up on her screen.
“So, submit them?”
“First.”
Your eyebrows raised.
“You have to agree to have drinks with me after work.”
Your entire system seemed to malfunction. Thoughts shut off as you read her expression for any evidence of a jest or mockery. She looked like she hesitated for just a moment, but didn’t back down.
“… Unless you don’t drink.”
You cleared your throat.
“That is very forward of you, Doctor Santos.”
“Trinity; and is that a no?”
“No...” You hummed in thought, trying to regain control of the situation. “but if you submit your charts you can ask me again later. When my brain stops feeling like it’s going to start melting out of from my eyes.”
Trinity clicked the submission button where her mouse had been hovering without another thought.
“Deal.”
7:00 PM
You could even feel your own anger bouncing off the walls of the elevator as it traveled back down to the ground floor. You were out of the doors before they had even fully opened and began your very direct walk to the Emergency Department for the third time today. Ahmad just so happened to be at the doors, immediately clocking the energy and opening the door for you.
“Everybody look out!” Robby chuckled lowly as he watched your speedy steps travel into the Pitt.
“Piranhas in the water!” Doctor Langdon announced.
Boo! It’s the evil billing department again! You didn’t mind the pointed attitude you received, Someone has to do the job. Surgeons did the real cutting, but nothing really cut quite as deep as the final bill.
Only today the stupid nickname irked you even more. By now, you were well into overtime for the umpteenth day in a row and your eyes felt like cotton balls from staring at your screen for so long, blue light glasses be damned. The look on your face could only be described as something resembling homicidal.
You took the direct path you remembered that lead to Doctor Santos’ station, hoping to see her colleague and roommate hovering somewhere nearby.
“Look who it is,” doctor Santos greeted as you approached. “I really hope that unhappy face isn’t for me.”
“No, I’m not here for you, Doctor Santos.” You gave her a small strained smile with what grace you could find.
“Trinity.” She corrected again. You sighed lightly.
“I’m here looking for Doctor Whittaker.”
Her face pulled into a grin. “Fuckleberry?”
Hearing the explicite version of the rumored nickname out loud almost made you laugh.
Like she was a saint performing a miracle, Doctor Whittaker appeared from behind you. Your unsuspecting victim politely greeted you as he approached.
“Santos, still not up to date on your charts?” He asked while laughing.
“Honey, no.” Santos gave him a very sarcastic pout, sadistic glint in her eyes.
“Doctor Whittaker, I’m here for you.” You turned back to Doctor Whittaker. His face paled, like he was next up on the execution stage.
“Me?” He looked panicked. “I’m all up to date.”
You gave him a sad smile, handing him a thin folder of charts.
“Entirely illegible.”
Doctor Santos continued to wear a smug grin, chucking behind her closed lips.
“I can’t file shit if I can’t read shit.” You explained, voice fatigued. “Punctuation is not suggested. It is mandatory.”
Trinity began to laugh.
“Nice job Fuckleberry! How bad is it?”
“Could be a NASA equation for all I know- I’m not the doctor. I need your revised version in my inbox by yesterday.”
“Yes, sorry, sorry! I-I’m on it!”
“On it, in it, over it. I’ll be here late.” You informed him. “I do expect a call when you update everything.”
“Absolutely, yes sir- ma’am- miss.” He coughed and sputtered over the words.
“Thank you.” You sighed in relief, like feeling a large weight fall off your shoulders.
“I’ll see you later, Trinity.” You offered her a softer smile before turning on your heel and heading back upstairs.
Only when you had turned the corner to exit the Emergency Department did Dennis release the tension from his body.
“What the hell was that?” He asked his roommate.
“What was what?” She kept her eyes glued onto her computer.
“That?”
“Wow,” she extended the vowel, “I can see how your notes were so illegible.” She dodged the question.
“She was totally being flirty with you.”
Trinity pretended she didn’t notice.
“Was she?” Trinity was up and out of her seat before he could say anything else about it.
Dennis might have been right, but for all she knows, he’d do something to jinx it. She just needed to finish out her shift and hope that you’ve completed enough of your own work to agree to go out.
Timothy couldn’t help the grin that spread onto her lips as she smiled at the floor. Already feeling the massive ego boost that she’d gain if she somehow managed to bag the most evil bitch in the building.
10:00 PM
The sun had long set and your paperwork seemed under control for the most part. After a sudden firing and an already planned paternity leave of your colleagues had left you and what remained of the department scrambling to keep up. A knock on your office door had you pulling your head away from your digital work calendar.
You had expected to see Doctor Whittaker, but instead Trinity stood at the door. She had her bag slung over her shoulder, clearly on her way out.
“You’re still here.” She pointed out.
“That I am.” You rubbed at your eyes tiredly.
“Huckleberry fixed his charts.” She raised her right hand. “I even double checked it myself before he submitted, 100% legible- scouts honor.”
You breathed a small sigh of relief, posture relaxing.
“Thank you, so much.”
You quickly busied yourself with double checking the submissions from Doctor Whittaker, ensuring that it gets filed out tomorrow after all the effort you went through to get it today.
“Do Piranhas sleep or?”
“I don’t want to still be here.” You groaned. “I’m salaried anyways, the overtime means nothing.”
“I’m sorry.” Her words surprised you.
“Hm?”
“Dana told me how much work you’ve been putting in this quarter.” She explained. “Almost a one woman show up here.”
There were more empty offices than those occupied on your floor.
“Nina’s been a big help.” You shrugged. You couldn’t take all the credit. “And I don’t mean to be a bitch, I swear.” You laughed.
“This job takes a backbone- I can’t bend rules and deadlines for everyone. And tripling the work doesn’t exactly help.” You sighed. “You get it- Doctoring is hard.”
“I do.” She nodded with a chuckle. “If it’s worth anything I find the bitchiness endearing.”
“That’s sweet.” You giggled, the foreign sound was infectious spreading to Trinity.
“I do believe you still owe me an answer to my question. That is if your eyeballs are still in tact.”
Your head finally dropped, shoulders shaking as you fully laughed and began shutting down your computer. Trinity watched you pack up your bag that was tucked under your desk and pull out your set of matching food storage from the mini fridge to the side. She made a mental note of it because she fully expected to take advantage of it during your work days if this date went well.
“If I’m saying yes, you have to find me a better nickname than a fish.”
“I don’t know, I think it’s kinda cute.” she plucked your lunch bag off the table, leaving you to worry about your purse and work bag.
HAPPY PRIDE 🏳️🌈 my goal is to post as much gay shit as i cam this month. first pitt fic,,, i have a few drafted trinity fics that might see the light of day if i’m confident enough ♡ bones
⋆ ⋆ ─ thank you so much for reading!!! if you enjoyed my work, likes comments & reblogs are very greatly appreciated and super motivational! ♡♡♡
IM NOT GOOD ENOUGH AT TUMBLR TO KNOW HOW TO DIRECTLY REPLY TO YOUR REBLOG BUT ITS SO SWEET THANK YOU AHHGG
AHHHHHH MWAH MWAH 🫶🏼
all of your writing is absolutely amazing and something about that fic just had me super in my feels 🥹🥹 so so cute
Everyone asks for mean Garcia, but what about Garcia who's only soft for her gf? One of my favorite tropes, obviously, but I'm thinking Garcia who is super sweet and loving to her gf ☹️ Calls her "sweet girl" and such, is especially soft in bed. Maybe a little ooc, but it's okay
im a sucker for anything soft so honestly i love the thought of soft garica...i think she could definitely be sweet and so caring for her girl :( maybeee still a bit avoidant, but she tries her best to suck up her pride to text you to make sure you're doing alright! she'll ask you if you need anything, and she gets you whatever you ask for. you tell her that you could use some pads because you're on your period? she shows up at your door after her shift to bring them to you herself :) you tell her you're hungry? she sends you some money so you can order something. you tell her you miss her and that you want her to come over? she'll tell you she's busy but she always ends up coming over to yours.
garica calling you in the elevator after coming down to the ED, greeting you with, "how's my sweet girl doing?" >___<
garcia, who'll grumble and make a fuss about you taking sooo long with your shopping but secretly loves it when you ask her if this or that shirt looks good on you...she loves being dragged around a bit...gets all fuzzy inside when you apologize and make it up to her with lots of kisses because you're taking so long.
is anyone thinking of angst? fluff? about garcia shutting down santos because she's with you and loves you....garcia letting santos down gently each time she asks to hang out after work, telling her that she's with someone so she shouldn't get her hopes up. garcia, who highkey loves showing you off to santos and everyone else when you visit her at work....
being roommates with emery and having to deal with yolanda and her bickering every time yolanda picks you up <3 sneaking garcia in at night and making love to her, waking up to her staring at you and rubbing your back :(
something about clingy garcia who convinces you to ditch your friends or whatever to stay in with her all day...she's just so needy that day. she doesn't want you hanging with friends. you need to be in her arms.
garcia, who lets you call her the corniest nicknames ever because she loves you so much <3
persuadable ⪩⪨
baran al hashimi x fem!reader - 2k words - age gap (r is late 20s, baran is 40) - you and baran have been hooking up for a few months, never really going beyond that. one satruday you run into her at your favorite museum, and she has a guest | from this poll |
note: happy pride month gays. love y'all. unhh. (the sound is included in the message.)
Every other week, Kaveh stayed at Baran's house, which meant that every other Saturday, they ended up at the Carnegie Museum of Art.
It was one of Baran's favorite traiditons. The museum itself was stunning on its own, but it was made lovier when a tiny little body was pattering next to her, pointing out this-and-that, talking his little head off with questions, darting around the exhibits while Baran tried to mindfully enjoy it.
Baran had loved this museum since she was roughly fourteen years old and miserable on her middle school trip to D.C. She had gone to a nice enough school that they could afford to do an afternoon stop in Pittsburgh on the way home, and Baran had wandered into the museum half-asleep and walked back out feeling rearranged. There were many things about Pittsburgh that, now 40, she tolerated rather than loved. But this place had stayed in her bones.
Kaveh, unfortunately, was seven. He was usually a fantastic sport, but there were only so many oil paintings a child could stare at before he felt he'd seen them all.
Still, every Saturday Baran asked, “Do you want to come with me today, joonam?”
And every Saturday her sweet boy said yes.
She always let Kaveh lead when they visited the museum because there wan’t a single exhibit she didn’t enjoy and she had learned really quickly that if he felt he had control over what they were seeing, the longer he was able to last.
Usually, this meant they ended up in the sculpture hall. Kaveh adored the tall, skinny statues there with his entire little heart.
“They look silly,” he would whisper loudly, staring up at the long bronze limbs and dramatic poses with complete delight.
And every single visit, without fail, he would eventually turn to Baran with barely-contained excitement and say, “Māmān, take a picture.”
Then he’d plant himself beside the statues and imitate them as seriously as possible, long face, arms thrown awkwardly into the air, knees bent at impossible angles.
Kaveh was bounding back to her side and standing up on his tip-toes to see. She was showing him the latest one, his nose wrinkling with pleasure at his own performance, when his head snapped to the side with the speed of a small animal catching a scent.
Baran had about half a second of confusion before he pulled in a breath and used every bit of it:
“DOCTOR Y/N!!!”
Baran jolted so hard she nearly dropped her phone.
“Kaveh—”
Too late.
Across the gallery, you turned around and Baran’s heart sunk through every floor of the museum. It seemed like an awful collision of her two worlds that she very carefully kept separate.
She knew you in fragments that didn’t belong in a place like this, your scrubs and tired eyes after a long shift that always softened when you saw her, you padding through her kitchen at night, stealing water from the fridge like you lived there too, you half-asleep against her shoulder, breath warm.
She also knew how your voice sounded when it went all high-pitched and breathy, whimpering pleas of her name in her ear as your hands scraped down her back, her kissing your neck—
And now there you were. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a tote bag from a college Baran had never heard you mention, rings stacked on your fingers that caught the gallery light. Your hair was different than she'd ever seen it. You looked soft.
She watched your expression move through confusion and arrive at something warm and surprised and delighted.
"Hi, Kaveh," you called across the gallery.
Kaveh was already moving. He crossed the room at a pace that was technically not running because his feet were not fully leaving the floor at the same time, but was in every other sense running. You crouched down to meet him and he wrapped his arms around your neck without preamble, without hesitation, the way children do when they've decided about a person.
"You're here!” he beamed.
"I am here," you laughed, settling back on your heels with your arms resting on your knees, completely unbothered by the contact with the museum floor. "What are you doing here, little dude? Are you an art guy?"
Kaveh pulled back and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Māmān likes it a lot more than me though. But she says it's good for my brain."
"Smart woman, your mama."
Baran had crossed the gallery at a more appropriate pace and arrived to find you already looking up at her, easy and warm, not making anything of it.
"Dr. Al-Hashimi."
"Dr. Y/L/N." She heard how formal it sounded and internally winced. She cleared her throat and softened her tone. "Small world. I'm sorry about the ambush."
"Please don't be," you beamed, standing. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all morning."
You had met Kaveh twice before, much to Baran’s extreme panic every time (you knew good and well she didn’t really want you two interacting, didn’t want to blend whatever fuck-buddy situation you had going on with the version of her life she was presenting to her son) but both interactions had been really, really lovely. You’re not sure what you did to earn Kaveh’s adoration, but you were glad you had it as the adorable little boy beamed up at you, staring at you like you hung the stars.
Baran, standing slightly to the side, was also looking at your face. For completely different reasons. She took in the different style of your hair, the jewelry she hadn’t seen because it was kind of a pain to wear rings at work, the tote bag with your college insignia — a school Baran had not known you attended, had never heard you talk about, another piece of the woman she hadn’t had yet.
There were so many pieces.
“Are you here alone?” Baran heard herself ask.
You smiled. “I am, embarrassingly enough. I just like it here.” You paused. “Mom-son date?”
“We come most Saturdays,” Baran said. “When Kaveh is persuadable.”
“It’s an awesome hangout spot,” you nodded warmly. “Well, it’s lovely to see you b—”
Kaveh latched onto your arm, eyes going big with sudden sadness. “Are you’re going?”
You froze, mouth falling open a bit, and your eyes shot to Baran. Sure, you liked her company and loved her son, but you knew this woman had boundaries and you never took that personally.
“Um, well, Kaveh—” you began…
"Don’t go because we are looking at statues and you can join us," Kaveh said excitedly. "Do you want to see?"
You blinked. Your eyes came up to Baran's face first.
She allowed her head to tilt, a warm smile to come across her face. You were sweet.
"Yes," she said warmly. "Join us. We could use the company."
"I'd love to," you replied, a warm smile slowly pulling at your lips. "Show me."
—
You fell into step beside her at an easy distance, and Baran noticed that too — the careful inch of space you maintained, not crowding her nor presuming that the invite meant she, all of the sudden, wanted you on top of her.
You talked to Kaveh mostly, crouching when he pointed at things, asking him questions that took his opinions seriously, which made him stand a little taller each time.
"That one is super sad," Kaveh pointed at a bronze figure with its head bowed.
"Hm," you studied it. "What do you think he's sad about?"
Kaveh thought about this. "Maybe he lost something."
“Lost something?” Baran prompted.
“‘Cause his head is down, Māmān,” Kaveh replied. “He’s lookin’ for it.”
It surprised a laugh out of you — real and unguarded, bubbling up from your chest and floating out into the high-ceilinged room — and Baran's eyes went straight to your face.
She'd heard you laugh before. But not like that. Not with nothing behind it but the simple fact that something delighted you.
She looked away before you could catch her looking.
She was noticing things she had no particular right to notice. The way you paused longest in front of the landscapes. The small private smile when something caught you, unannounced and unperformed. The fact that you knew which paintings were which without looking at the placards.
Initially she had been bracing herself for some level of awkwardness bred from the reminder that you existed in a different compartment of her life, one that didn't belong here under the high windows with her son. But you hadn't made it awkward. You just looked very content not to be alone on a Saturday, and it made her heart twist.
She felt herself begin to unknot.
"You come here often?" she nudged you with her hip as you walked again, and didn’t miss the way your eyes twinkled at the contact.
"Most weekends I'm not working," you tilted your head at the room around you. "There's a painting in the next gallery I've been coming back to for about a year."
"Which one?"
You smiled a little. "I'll show you when we get there."
In the decorative arts wing Kaveh grabbed your hand to drag you toward a suit of armor, and you let him, and Baran watched your face when he pressed his small nose against the visor to peer inside. The expression you wore was so soft, so unself-conscious, that it caught her off guard.
She had long wondered what you were like when you weren't managing anything at all, be it your poise at work or your manners in her apartment or your ecstasy in her bed. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was exactly what you looked like laid bare.
—
They reached the end of the last gallery with the slow inevitability of a good afternoon running out. Kaveh had gone boneless against Baran's side around the second hour mark, dragging his feet and clinging to her arm, suddenly non-verbal.
You crouched down to him. "It was very good to see you, Kaveh. Thank you for the statue tour."
"You can come next Saturday," Kaveh offered, hand reaching out to fiddle with the neckline of your shirt.
Baran watched your face. She saw you almost smile and then she watched you catch it and smooth it over.
"That's a very kind invitation," you said carefully, to Kaveh, but you were still looking at her.
The restraint of it was so practiced and so deliberate that it nearly hurt. She had put you here in this careful, curtailed space and you had stayed in it without a word of complaint, because she'd asked you to a few months ago. Please don’t ask about my ex-husband, please don’t ask about my son. You had nodded and respected it ever since, because that was the kind of person you were.
She had an empty afternoon ahead of her, but you were full of so many little pieces that had started to crack away from your skin and fall into her palm just over the course of an hour. She wanted more. She wanted every shard until she could build your full mosaic.
"We were going to get lunch," Baran said. "There's a place around the corner Kaveh likes."
She paused, small and deliberate.
"I would like it if you came."
Baran watched the surprise dance across your eyes even though you tried to remain nonchalant. You were a very smart girl and she knew you understood exactly what she was actually saying. This was very different from when you would brush shoulders in the hospital, or when your phone would buzz with a "Are you free tonight?"
"Are you sure?" you asked softly.
"Very sure," she said, then raised her brow with a smirk. “Do I have to say please?”
You looked at her for a beat longer, something soft and open moving through your expression, and then you smiled so large it changed your whole face.
"Okay," you said. "I'd like that."
Kaveh grabbed both your hands at once, one each, and lurched forward without ceremony.
Baran let him pull her out into the light.
—
masterlist <3
She had long wondered what you were like when you weren't managing anything at all, be it your poise at work or your manners in her apartment or your ecstasy in her bed. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was exactly what you looked like laid bare.
AHHH OMFG SCREAMING INTO MY PILLOW. actually obsessed with this
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 — ☆.ᐟ
⠀( 𝐬 ) ══ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 . ⠀⠀what starts as a surprise grocery trip turns into a day neither of you want to end. between crowded market aisles, hand-holding disguised as practicality, a disastrous painting class, and singing far too loudly in the car, the line between friendship and something more finally becomes impossible to ignore. 5.9k
⠀( 𝐰 ) ══ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 . ⠀⠀fluff . friends to lovers . mutual pining . idiots in love . farmers market date . hand holding . painting each other . light flirting . singing in the car . kissing . soft romance . happy ending . yolanda being down horrendous . reader being equally down horrendous . 18+ characters . no use of y/n.
navigation :: ko-fi - for @maximoffwitch
The knock at your apartment door is loud enough to drag you out of one of the deepest sleeps you've had all week, the sound cutting through the quiet apartment with enough force that you immediately think something must be wrong.
For several long seconds you remain buried beneath your blankets, staring up at the pale morning light filtering through the gap in your curtains while your brain struggles to catch up with reality, trying to figure out who on earth would be knocking on your door this early.
Your phone is somewhere in the tangled mess of sheets beside you, hidden beneath a pillow and probably buried underneath several unanswered notifications that you don't currently have the energy to deal with. The apartment around you is silent except for the distant hum of traffic outside and the steady ticking of the clock hanging above your kitchen counter.
It isn't dirty by any means, but it definitely looks lived in, with books stacked on tables instead of shelves, a half-finished crossword resting on the coffee table, and a sweatshirt draped carelessly over the arm of the couch. Another knock rattles the door a moment later, sharper and more impatient than the first, making it painfully obvious that whoever is standing outside has absolutely no intention of leaving.
With a groan, you force yourself upright and immediately regret it as your hair falls into your face and every muscle in your body reminds you how little rest you've actually gotten lately. The oversized Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital hoodie you're wearing hangs halfway off one shoulder, wrinkled from sleep and far too comfortable to ever throw away despite its age.
You shuffle through your apartment with all the grace of someone who has been awake for less than thirty seconds, passing the kitchen where a mug still sits in the drying rack and the living room where a blanket remains abandoned from the movie you'd fallen asleep watching the night before.
The closer you get to the door, the more your confusion grows because nobody had mentioned visiting and none of your friends were reckless enough to show up unannounced.
At least, that's what you think until you finally unlock the door and pull it open. The sight waiting on the other side instantly wakes you up more effectively than any coffee ever could.
Yolanda Garcia stands in the hallway looking as though she's stepped straight out of a magazine, perfectly put together despite the fact that it's barely nine in the morning. Her dark coat is neatly buttoned, her hair sits exactly where it's supposed to, and a pair of sunglasses rest on top of her head even though the cloudy Pittsburgh sky outside offers absolutely no reason for them.
She takes one look at your sleep-swollen eyes, your tangled hair, and your complete lack of dignity before the corner of her mouth twitches upward in amusement.
For a moment she doesn't say anything, simply looking you over as though confirming that you're still alive and functioning. Then she gives a small nod, entirely satisfied with whatever assessment she's just made. "Good," she says. "You're alive."
Before you can even begin asking why she's standing outside your apartment on her day off, Yolanda casually steps around you and walks straight inside as though your home belongs to her.
She kicks the door shut behind her with the heel of her boot, sets a takeaway coffee on the kitchen counter, and slowly surveys the apartment while you stand frozen near the entrance trying to process what's happening.
Her gaze moves across the books piled neatly beside the couch, the throw blanket draped over the cushions, the collection of plants occupying nearly every available windowsill, and the stack of unopened mail sitting beside your fruit bowl.
"You need to clean this place," she announces after several seconds, despite the fact that everything is actually fairly tidy. "Excuse me?" you ask, offended immediately because the woman currently criticizing your apartment invited herself inside less than ten seconds ago. Yolanda simply shrugs and reaches for a decorative candle on one of your shelves. "I'm just being honest."
"Yolanda," you say slowly, dragging a hand through your hair while trying to understand why any of this is happening, "what are you doing here?" She glances over her shoulder, completely unbothered by your confusion, before placing the candle back exactly where she found it.
"I need company," she replies, as though that explains everything. You stare at her for several seconds before blinking. "For what?" you finally ask. Yolanda looks genuinely surprised that you're still struggling to keep up. "Grocery shopping," she says, and the absolute seriousness in her voice somehow makes the answer even more ridiculous.
The silence that follows stretches long enough for both of you to fully appreciate how absurd the situation is. You stare at Yolanda while she calmly reaches for the coffee she'd brought with her, and Yolanda stares right back as though she's the reasonable one in this conversation.
"You came all the way here because you didn't want to buy groceries alone?" you ask eventually.
"Yes."
"You couldn't have texted me?"
Yolanda's smile grows slightly wider. "No."
"Why?"
She folds her arms across her chest and looks entirely pleased with herself. "Because if I'd texted you, you would've said no." The worst part is that she's completely right.
The grin on her face widens the moment she notices you realizing that fact, and suddenly she looks far too pleased for someone who has just admitted to ambushing you in your own apartment.
"Get dressed," she says.
"Yolanda."
"Put shoes on too."
"I haven't even had breakfast."
Without missing a beat, she grabs the coffee from the counter and presses it into your hands, her fingers briefly brushing yours before she steps back again. "We'll get breakfast while we're out," she says simply, and despite your best efforts to remain annoyed, something warm settles in your chest.
You stare down at the coffee warming your hands while Yolanda makes herself comfortable against your kitchen counter, looking entirely too satisfied with the outcome of her little surprise visit.
The thing is, this isn't unusual for the two of you. Not the showing up unannounced part, because even for Yolanda that's pushing it, but the way she always somehow finds herself woven into your days without asking permission first. Somewhere over the years the friendship had become something neither of you could properly define.
It was easy enough to call each other friends when people asked, but friends usually didn't get irritated when someone else flirted with you at hospital fundraisers, and friends definitely didn't spend entire evenings sulking after seeing the other leave with a date. Neither of you ever acknowledged it out loud. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to.
"Okay," you finally sigh, taking a sip of the coffee she'd brought. "I'll come."
Yolanda's smile appears immediately, bright and victorious. "Good."
You narrow your eyes at her. "Don't look so pleased with yourself."
"I'm not."
"You're literally smiling."
"Maybe I'm happy you said yes." The response is innocent enough, but something about the way she says it makes your stomach perform an annoying little flip.
You point toward the hallway. "I need to shower first." Yolanda groans dramatically, throwing her head back toward the ceiling. "You're already clean."
"I absolutely am not."
"You look fine."
"I look like I got dragged out of a grave."
"A slightly cute grave." The words leave her mouth before she can stop them. For one brief second both of you freeze.
The silence that follows is immediate and awkward in the way only the two of you can manage. Yolanda clears her throat and suddenly becomes very interested in straightening a stack of mail sitting on your counter.
You pretend not to notice the faint colour creeping into her cheeks because acknowledging it would only make things worse. Moments like this happen more often than either of you care to admit. A compliment that lasts slightly too long.
A look held a second too late. A flash of jealousy quickly disguised as concern. Every time it happens, both of you quietly step around it and continue pretending the line between friendship and something else isn't becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.
"Twenty minutes," you announce, already backing toward the hallway.
Yolanda immediately shakes her head. "Ten."
"Twenty."
"Fifteen."
"You're negotiating my shower?"
"I'm negotiating how long I have to sit here waiting for you." You laugh despite yourself. Yolanda watches the smile spread across your face, and something in her expression softens instantly. "Fifteen," you agree.
"Good," she says. This time her voice is quieter. Gentler. The kind of tone she reserves only for you. As you disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom, you glance back over your shoulder and find Yolanda already settling onto your couch like she belongs there, reaching for the book you'd left on the coffee table without even asking.
The sight makes something warm bloom in your chest. Because for all the confusion between you, for all the moments neither of you knew what to call this thing that existed between friendship and something more, one thing had always remained painfully simple. No matter where you were, no matter how bad your week had been, life always seemed a little better whenever Yolanda Garcia was in your apartment.
The shower helps more than you'd expected. By the time you step beneath the steady stream of hot water, the lingering exhaustion from the week has begun to loosen its grip on your shoulders, slowly disappearing alongside the steam that fills the small bathroom.
You spend longer in there than necessary, letting the heat soak into tired muscles while your mind drifts toward the woman currently occupying your living room without permission. The thought makes a smile tug at your lips. It happens before you can stop it.
Even now, after years of friendship and countless mornings spent together over coffee, Yolanda still has an irritating ability to improve your mood simply by existing nearby.
By the time you finally turn off the water, wrap a towel around yourself, and wipe the fog from the mirror, you already feel lighter than you had when the day started.
The apartment feels different when Yolanda is inside it. Even from the bedroom, you can hear the faint rustle of pages turning from the book she'd stolen off your coffee table, followed by the occasional quiet clink of ceramic against wood whenever she sets down her coffee mug.
Those tiny sounds settle comfortably into the silence. They make the place feel lived in. Your apartment has always reflected you perfectly, cozy rather than polished, clean without being pristine, filled with books stacked in uneven piles, blankets thrown over furniture, and small decorative touches collected over years of impulsive purchases. Nothing matches particularly well.
Somehow it all works anyway. And right now, with Yolanda occupying your couch and acting like she pays rent, it feels more like home than ever.
You finish getting dressed and move toward your closet, reaching automatically for a jacket before your attention catches on something hanging over the back of a chair tucked into the corner of the room.
Yolanda's jacket has been there for nearly three weeks. It had been abandoned after a movie night that stretched well past midnight, when she'd left your apartment half-asleep and somehow forgotten one of her favourite jackets despite checking three separate times that she had everything.
Since then, neither of you had made much effort to return it. Every time one of you remembered, the conversation somehow got side-tracked into something else. Looking at it now, you find yourself smiling as you lift it from the chair. The familiar weight settles across your shoulders the moment you slip your arms through the sleeves.
The jacket smells faintly like her. The scent is subtle now after weeks spent hanging in your apartment, but it's still there beneath the detergent, warm and familiar enough that you recognize it instantly.
The sleeves extend slightly beyond your wrists, while the shoulders sit just loose enough to make it feel comfortably oversized without drowning you completely. You catch yourself smoothing your hands down the front of it.
The gesture feels strangely affectionate. Standing in front of the mirror, you tilt your head slightly as you study your reflection, noticing how naturally the jacket seems to belong there. You already know Yolanda is going to say something the second she sees it.
When you finally leave the bedroom, Yolanda looks up immediately. The book resting in her lap is forgotten within seconds. Her eyes move over you slowly, taking in the fresh shower, the clean clothes, the damp hair still slightly messy from drying it in a hurry, before eventually landing on the jacket.
The change in her expression is immediate. Something soft and warm replaces the amused impatience she'd been wearing all morning. For several seconds she simply looks at you without speaking. The smile that gradually appears is one you've always secretly liked most.
"There it is," she says.
Her voice is quieter than before. Softer than before.
You glance down at yourself before looking back at her. "What?" you ask, even though you already know exactly what she's talking about. Yolanda gestures vaguely toward your chest. Her smile widens slightly. "My jacket."
You roll your eyes immediately. "You left it here."
"I know."
"You could've taken it home at any point."
"I know."
The exchange only seems to amuse her further. Setting the book aside, Yolanda pushes herself off the couch and takes a few slow steps closer until she's standing directly in front of you.
The distance between you shrinks noticeably. It always seems to. Her eyes drop briefly to the jacket again before returning to your face. The smile never leaves. If anything, it becomes more genuine.
"You know," she says after a moment, folding her arms loosely across her chest, "I think you actually look better in it than I do."
You stare at her.
For a second you're genuinely convinced she's joking. The compliment catches you completely off guard. Yolanda rarely hands them out so openly, which somehow makes them hit harder whenever she does. "You're lying," you tell her immediately. She laughs softly. The sound fills the room.
"I'm not."
"Yolanda."
"I'm serious."
Her gaze flicks over you one more time before settling back on your face. There's something almost fond in her expression now, something that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.
The morning sunlight pouring through your apartment windows catches against the warm brown of her eyes, and suddenly it becomes very difficult to look away. Yolanda shakes her head with another quiet laugh.
"I hate how good you look in that jacket," she admits. The words are casual. The way she looks at you isn't. And for one brief moment, standing in the middle of your apartment wearing something that belongs to her while she smiles at you like that, the line between friendship and something else feels thinner than it's ever been.
The drive to the farmers market passes far too quickly. One moment you're teasing Yolanda about the fact that she practically kidnapped you for groceries, and the next you're stepping out into a crowded parking lot filled with cars, food trucks, and far more people than you had expected to encounter before noon on a Saturday.
The moment your feet hit the pavement, you're greeted by a mixture of conversation, laughter, live music, and the scent of fresh bread drifting through the cool Pittsburgh air.
Colourful tents stretch across the market in long rows, packed with flowers, vegetables, handmade crafts, baked goods, candles, and local artists displaying their work beneath fluttering banners. The entire place feels alive. It buzzes with the kind of energy that makes even ordinary errands feel like something worth remembering.
"See?" Yolanda says as she falls into step beside you. "Worth leaving the apartment."
You glance around at the crowds moving between stalls. Families weave through the aisles carrying baskets overflowing with produce, couples stand shoulder-to-shoulder examining bouquets of flowers, and children dart between adults while clutching pastries nearly as large as their heads.
Somewhere nearby, a musician plays an acoustic guitar while a small crowd gathers around to listen, the music drifting through the market like background noise in a movie scene. The market is beautiful. It is also unbelievably busy.
"You didn't mention there'd be this many people."
Yolanda looks entirely unapologetic. "I didn't think you'd come if I did."
"You're impossible."
"Yet here you are."
The smile she gives you is infuriatingly smug. It makes you roll your eyes. It also makes you smile back.
For a while the two of you wander through the market without much direction, stopping whenever something catches your attention. Yolanda examines produce with the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty, carefully inspecting tomatoes, peaches, herbs, and fresh bread while vendors immediately seem drawn to her easy confidence and warm personality.
You spend most of the time watching her rather than the stalls. The way she listens when people speak. The way she laughs. The way she always thanks every vendor before walking away. None of it should be particularly distracting. Somehow it always is.
As the morning progresses, the crowd seems to grow even thicker. The narrow walkways between stalls become increasingly congested until you're constantly brushing shoulders with strangers trying to move in every direction at once, squeezed between families, shoppers, and people carrying bags filled with purchases.
At one point a group carrying oversized bouquets cuts directly between you and Yolanda, temporarily separating you before you manage to work your way back beside her again. Another wave of people follows immediately afterward. The crowd shifts around you like a river. Without realizing it, you find yourself moving closer.
Then, entirely without thinking, you reach for her hand.
The gesture happens automatically. Naturally. Like something you've done a hundred times before.
Your fingers slide between hers just as another cluster of people squeezes through the walkway, and for several seconds your attention remains focused entirely on navigating the crowd. It isn't until moments later that you actually register what you've done. Warmth immediately floods your face. Your stomach flips. You start to pull away.
"Don't." The word leaves Yolanda's mouth before you can let go. You look at her immediately. Her hand tightens around yours. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you from slipping away.
"Yolanda..."
"It's crowded."
The excuse is weak. Both of you know it.
Before you can respond, she gently tugs on your joined hands and pulls you slightly closer to her side, closing the space between you until your shoulders occasionally brush whenever you walk. Neither of you says anything afterward.
Neither of you acknowledges what just happened. Yet the silence that settles between you feels comfortable rather than awkward, filled with unspoken things that neither of you seem brave enough to address. The proximity feels natural. Maybe a little too natural.
Eventually you stop in front of a small handmade goods stall tucked between a flower vendor and a bakery. Wooden shelves display hand-painted pottery, knitted items, carved decorations, and dozens of unique pieces clearly made with care.
While Yolanda examines something on the opposite side of the display, your attention lands on a small handcrafted piece sitting near the register. The moment you see it, you think of her. Not because it looks particularly expensive or impressive. Simply because it feels like something she'd love.
You pick it up immediately. Yolanda notices almost at once. "No."
You glance at her. "What do you mean, no?"
"Put it back." Her answer arrives far too quickly.
You laugh. "I'm buying it."
"No, you're not."
"Yolanda."
She folds her arms. "You don't need to buy me anything."
The vendor watches the exchange with obvious amusement while the two of you continue arguing quietly in front of the display. Eventually you ignore every protest Yolanda offers and purchase it anyway. She shakes her head throughout the entire transaction. The smile threatening the corners of her mouth completely ruins her argument.
The second you're handed the small paper bag, Yolanda takes it from you.
"You don't listen."
"I learned from you."
That finally earns a laugh. A real one. Warm and bright and completely worth the purchase.
For a moment she simply looks at you, holding the bag against her chest while the crowd continues moving around you. Something soft settles across her expression. Something fond. Then, before you can fully process what's happening, Yolanda leans forward and presses a quick kiss against your cheek.
The gesture lasts barely a second. It still completely freezes your brain.
When she pulls back, her smile has returned. "Thank you," she says quietly. The warmth lingering on your cheek feels impossible to ignore. So does the way she's still holding your hand.
Neither of you mentions either thing as you continue through the market together, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined, both pretending everything is perfectly normal while secretly enjoying every second of it.
The painting class is entirely your fault, and Yolanda makes sure you know it from the second you spot the sign. It sits near the edge of the market beneath a striped canopy, surrounded by colourful canvases painted by previous participants and handwritten chalkboards advertising beginner-friendly lessons for anyone willing to embarrass themselves publicly.
The moment your eyes land on it, your entire face brightens with excitement, and unfortunately for Yolanda, she's standing close enough to recognize exactly what that expression means. Her hand immediately tightens around yours before she even follows your gaze toward the sign.
"Absolutely not," she says, already shaking her head despite the fact that you haven't spoken a single word yet. The immediate refusal only makes you grin wider.
Within minutes you're practically dragging her toward the registration table while she complains the entire way, although the smile threatening the corners of her mouth makes it very clear she never intended to say no for long.
The class takes place beneath a large open tent positioned near the center of the market, where sunlight filters through the white fabric overhead and paints everything in a warm golden glow. Long wooden tables are covered with paint palettes, brushes, jars of water, and blank canvases waiting for participants to create something that vaguely resembles art.
The atmosphere is relaxed and cheerful, filled with laughter from strangers who seem just as inexperienced as you are, while a local musician performs somewhere nearby and the scent of fresh pastries drifts through the air.
Yolanda settles into the chair across from you with the same serious expression she usually reserves for hospital meetings, which immediately makes you laugh. She looks entirely too focused for a woman attending a beginner painting class at a farmers market.
When the instructor cheerfully announces that today's exercise involves painting portraits of the person sitting opposite you, Yolanda closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. You think you've never loved an activity more in your life.
Several minutes later the two of you are sitting across from one another with blank canvases resting on easels between jars of paint and scattered brushes. You try to focus on painting, but it quickly becomes obvious that Yolanda herself is a far greater distraction than anything happening on your canvas.
Every time you look up for reference, you find yourself noticing something new about her, from the way sunlight catches in her dark hair to the small crease that appears between her brows whenever she's concentrating.
She notices you staring almost immediately. "What?" she asks, lifting one eyebrow while holding her paintbrush midair. "Nothing," you answer far too quickly.
Yolanda narrows her eyes at you before smiling slowly, the kind of smile that always makes your stomach perform an irritating little flip. "You've been looking at me for thirty seconds," she says, and judging by the amusement in her voice, she's enjoying your suffering far more than she should.
"I need a reference," you argue, trying to sound innocent while dipping your brush into paint that definitely isn't the right colour. Yolanda's smile only widens. "You know what I look like." The response should be simple. Somehow it isn't.
"Not well enough," you reply before your brain can stop your mouth from speaking. The words hang between you immediately, and for the first time neither of you rushes to pretend they mean something else. Yolanda's brush pauses against her canvas while something softer settles into her expression.
"You flirt way more than people realize," she says quietly, and instead of denying it like you usually would, you simply lean back in your chair and smile. "Maybe you're just easier to flirt with," you answer, causing a warmth to appear in her eyes that neither of you bothers hiding.
The rest of the class becomes significantly more difficult after that conversation. Every glance across the table seems to linger slightly longer than it should, and every smile feels more intentional than the ones you've exchanged countless times before.
At one point you become so distracted watching her laugh that you accidentally drag a streak of blue paint directly across the middle of your canvas. Yolanda immediately notices. "That's unfortunate," she says, struggling and failing to hide her amusement.
You groan while looking at the accidental disaster you've just created. "Don't." Her laughter fills the tent, warm and bright and completely impossible not to love, while nearby participants glance over with curious smiles as though they're watching a romantic comedy unfold in real time.
When the instructor eventually announces that everyone should reveal their finished portraits, your stomach immediately drops. You turn your canvas around first and discover that, despite your best efforts, you've produced something that looks only vaguely human.
The proportions are questionable, the colours make no sense, and yet somehow the painting still looks unmistakably like Yolanda. She studies it carefully. Then she looks up at you. Then back down at the painting. "You made my eyes bigger," she says softly, noticing the detail immediately.
You shrug while trying very hard not to feel embarrassed. "They're my favourite part," you admit, and this time neither of you laughs afterward. When Yolanda finally turns her own canvas around, however, every coherent thought immediately abandons you.
Her painting is still beginner-level and imperfect in all the ways you'd expect from someone attending their first class, but the details she chose to include make your chest tighten unexpectedly.
She painted your smile exactly the way it appears when you're genuinely happy, the slight tilt of your head whenever you're teasing her, and most noticeably, the oversized jacket she'd left behind in your apartment weeks ago.
Even in paint, the jacket is unmistakably hers. "You painted the jacket," you say quietly, unable to stop staring at the canvas. Yolanda looks from the painting back to you. Her expression is soft now. Almost unbearably so. "Of course I did," she says.
"Why?" The smile she gives you in response is warm enough to make the entire busy market disappear. "Because I liked how happy you looked wearing it," she admits, and for the first time all day, neither of you pretends that what exists between you is only friendship.
By the time the two of you finally leave the farmers market, the afternoon sun has begun its slow descent across the Pittsburgh skyline, bathing the streets in warm golden light that reflects off shop windows and passing cars.
The backseat of Yolanda's car is crowded with grocery bags, fresh flowers, homemade goods, and several purchases that neither of you had technically planned on making when the day started. Your painting rests carefully between two bags to prevent it from getting damaged during the drive home.
Neither of you has mentioned the portraits since leaving the class. The memory of Yolanda's words still lingers too heavily between you. Every now and then you catch her glancing toward the backseat in the mirror, and every single time you know she's thinking about that painting too.
For the first few minutes, the drive is quiet in the comfortable way it always is with Yolanda. Traffic moves steadily around you while bridges stretch across the rivers in the distance, and familiar city streets carry you both back toward your apartment. The windows are cracked slightly, allowing cool air to drift through the vehicle and carry away the lingering warmth of the afternoon.
Yolanda drives with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel while the other taps absentmindedly against her thigh in time with whatever song happens to be playing. You watch the city pass by outside your window. Then you watch Yolanda instead. Somehow, despite spending nearly an entire day together, you still aren't tired of looking at her.
The song currently playing ends just as the car stops at a red light, and a moment later the unmistakable opening chords of Livin' on a Prayer begin pouring through the speakers. Your head immediately snaps toward the radio.
Yolanda's does too. For one brief second, both of you simply stare at each other. Then the grin spreading across her face mirrors your own perfectly. Neither of you says a word. Neither of you needs to.
The volume knob turns upward almost immediately. The music floods the car, filling every available space with guitar riffs and familiar lyrics that both of you somehow know by heart. By the time the first verse begins, you're already singing along from the passenger seat.
Yolanda joins in seconds later, pointing dramatically toward the windshield as though she's performing for a sold-out stadium rather than driving through downtown Pittsburgh. The sight is ridiculous. It is also one of your favourite things you've seen all day. Her laughter keeps interrupting the lyrics whenever she forgets the next line.
By the time the chorus arrives, neither of you is making any real attempt to sing properly anymore. The volume rises even higher while the two of you practically shout the words together, completely abandoning any concern for dignity.
Several people in nearby cars glance over while stopped at another red light. You don't care. Yolanda definitely doesn't care. She drums her fingers against the steering wheel while singing at the top of her lungs,
and the sound of her voice mixing with yours fills the car with the kind of happiness that feels almost impossible to manufacture. For those few minutes, nothing exists outside the music.
When the famous chorus hits again, both of you immediately point at each other. "WHOA-OH!" you yell. "WE'RE HALFWAY THERE!" Yolanda shouts back. Her laugh breaks through the lyrics halfway through the line. Yours does too.
The two of you completely lose whatever rhythm you had and dissolve into laughter before managing to recover enough to finish the song together. Neither performance is particularly impressive. Both of you are having far too much fun to care.
As the song finally begins to fade, the car settles back into a quieter atmosphere, though the lingering energy remains between you like static.
Yolanda is still smiling as she turns onto your street, and judging by the ache in your cheeks, you are too. The groceries shift softly in the backseat as the vehicle slows toward your building. For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then Yolanda glances sideways at you. "You know," she says, her voice warm with amusement, "that was probably the best grocery trip I've ever had." The smile that spreads across your face is immediate, because somehow, despite everything that had happened today, you feel exactly the same way.
The drive ends far sooner than either of you would have liked, and before long Yolanda is pulling into the parking lot outside your apartment building while the last traces of daylight settle across the city. Together, you carry grocery bags upstairs, laughing quietly whenever one of you nearly drops something because you'd both insisted on making the trip in a single journey.
By the time you reach your door, your arms ache slightly from the weight of the bags, and the hallway is filled with the soft rustle of paper and plastic shifting with every movement.
Once everything has been set down inside your apartment, you turn toward Yolanda with a smile already forming on your face. "You know you didn't have to walk me all the way up," you tell her gently. For a moment, she simply stands there looking at you.
The apartment feels strangely quiet after the noise of the market and the music from the drive home, the familiar space illuminated by the warm glow of the lamps you'd forgotten to turn off that morning. Yolanda's gaze moves across your face as though she's trying to decide something, her expression softer than you've seen it all day.
You wait for her usual sarcastic response or some teasing remark about your inability to carry groceries without supervision. Instead, she takes a slow step forward. Then another. The distance between you disappears almost completely before you fully realize what's happening. Still, she says nothing.
"Yolanda?" you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flick briefly toward the oversized jacket hanging from your shoulders before returning to your face again. Something warm flickers across her expression.
Then her hand lifts and closes gently around the front of the jacket, fingers curling into the fabric near your collar. The gesture sends a rush of nervous anticipation through your chest. "You look too good in my jacket," she murmurs, and before you can come up with a response, she leans in. The kiss lands softly against your lips.
For a second the entire world seems to stop moving. Every thought disappears. Every sound fades into the background. The only thing that remains is Yolanda standing impossibly close, her hand still holding onto the front of her jacket while she kisses you with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.
You respond almost immediately, stepping forward until there's no space left between the two of you. Your hands find her shoulders first. Then they slide upward.
Your arms settle comfortably around her neck as you kiss her back, instinctively pulling her closer. Yolanda lets out the smallest breath against your lips, and her free hand moves to rest at your waist as though she's been wanting to do it for far longer than either of you has been willing to admit.
The kiss remains gentle, lingering and unhurried, filled with all the things neither of you had managed to say during years of carefully dancing around whatever this was.
The farmers market. The hand-holding. The painting class. The jacket. Every moment from the day seems to fold together into this one.
When you finally pull apart, neither of you moves very far, and the smile that appears on Yolanda's face is unlike anything you've seen before. It is warm, happy, and completely impossible to hide.
stop. i'm actually gonna cry. this is actually perfection. a masterpiece. and written for me??? i literally feel blessed 😭🥹
"Nothing matches particularly well. Somehow it all works anyway. And right now, with Yolanda occupying your couch and acting like she pays rent, it feels more like home than ever." when home isn't a place>>>
"you know what i look like." "not well enough." literally screaming.
the way this is just one day but you can FEEL the built up tension and yearning and pining!! i love the way you write yolanda and ugh it all just coming together in the end with the jacket and the kiss.
"the smile that appears on Yolanda's face is unlike anything you've seen before. It is warm, happy, and completely impossible to hide." LET MY GIRL SMILE MORE AND BE HAPPY AND SOFT 🥹
𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫-𝐜𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 | 𝐞.𝐰
Tags: established relationship, fluff, fem!reader, reader is drunk, emery is a softie, tiny bit of grumpy x sunshine, reader wears emery’s jacket, no use of yn
Summary: Emery especially likes you when you’re drunk. (You especially like her when she’s soft.)
Word count: 1.1k
Emery toys with the car keys in her pocket as she strolls into the bar, her eyes sharp, instinctively scanning the space in search of you. It's dimly lit and thick with people, louder than she can stomach these days. You like to tease her for it, how she's gotten older, more weary, but she's well past the days of hangover-less morning-afters and music that pounds its way through her skull.
You're decidedly not. Which is why she very carefully makes her way through drunken parties, sidestepping trays and drinks, until she finds you.
You don't notice her at first, the bright glare of your phone screen washing over your face, your knee bouncing with a restless rhythm as you scroll through something. Emery glances at her own phone. It's been a little over fifteen minutes since you'd called her, telling her to come over. She knows you get anxious about it, so she'd stayed in her clothes instead of changing into something for bed, picked up her keys the minute her phone rang.
Fifteen minutes in this traffic is a miracle, and yet Emery's stomach is still heavy at the look on your face. She's too far away for her voice to carry, but you finally set your phone down, hands wringing together as you scan the bar.
Your eyes find hers almost immediately. You perk up, your face brightening as you wave an excited hand. "Em! Hey, over here!"
Her smile drops when she gets close enough to see a damp blotch down the front of your shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin. "What'd you spill, hon?" She frowns, shrugging out of her jacket. You give a shrug of your own as she wraps it around your shoulders.
"Wasn't me, some dude wasn't looking." Your lips press together into a small—much to your dismay—pout. You get your arms through the sleeves and adjust the cuffs around your wrists, eyes a little glazed as you look up at her. "Spilled half his bottle on me."
Emery fits the zipper and tugs it up your chest. "Fucker. Where is he, I'll gut him." She murmurs, relieved when your lips pull into a smile.
"You would?"
"Sure I would. You cold?"
"Just sticky."
She keeps an arm around you as you slip out of your stool. You exchange goodbyes with your friends and gather your things, promising them another hangout, soon, soon, teetering a little into Emery's side. She holds out a hand in an idle wave and nudges you around, starts guiding you through the crowd. You're not entirely wasted, but she still keeps her arm firm around you, planting you to her side.
Your fingers hook into the waistband of her sweatpants. Emery hides a smile, steering you away from a waiter with a full tray. She could never say it, but she loves the way you cling—especially when you get like this, all soft and uninhibited. Perfectly hers.
Out on the street, she hears your voice clearer, a little thickened with a slur.
"Will you shower with me?"
She adjusts her grip on you, complying when you loop your arm through hers and hug it to your chest. "Can't exactly trust your hand-eye coordination, now, can I?"
Your smile peeks out from behind her arm. It seeps into your voice, ringing like a bell. "You can just admit you want to, Emsie."
Emery pauses, her brows knitting. "Who the hell is that?"
You laugh, eyes bright, and she kisses you. Emery hates it when people kiss on the street, in the middle of a sidewalk, but you make her do it without thinking. She can't help it, never can. She's long ago stopped trying.
You taste like the drinks you've had—sweeter, messier than you usually are. Emery feels the slow rush of your pulse under her thumbs.
"Thanks for comin' to pick me up." You say happily. She hums, wipes a bit of loose makeup under your eye.
"Did you have fun?"
"Mhmm." You take her hand and wrap her arm around your side again, tangling your fingers with hers instead of letting go. "Missed me?"
Emery's lips twitch. "I don't know if I've ever told you, but you're a little self absorbed."
"That," you laugh, poking her side, "is Em code for yes. I missed you too, baby."
She hates how her stomach flips, how she melts when you say it, so saccharine. Emery shakes her head as she pulls out her keys from your—her—pocket and unlocks the car.
"I don't think that's healthy for either of us."
You blow a raspberry. "Who cares about healthy?"
She stopped caring about a lot of things since she'd met you.
Your cheeks are visibly hot as Emery opens the car door for you, her hand on the small of your back to nudge you in. You frown down at the high step and reach for her arm, clutching her bicep as you get on. It doesn't usually give you much trouble, but your balance is a little off, and your shoes are less than practical.
"Got you," Emery murmurs, looping her arm around your waist, sweeping the other one under your legs and lifting you the half inch distance into the high seat of her jeep. She leans back and reaches for the seatbelt before you can, pulling it snug across your body and buckling you in.
Your smile is lopsided when she looks back up at you. "I could've done it, Emery." You say softly, tangling your fingers in her hair.
"I know." She cups her hand over yours, leans in to kiss you. You wrap both your arms around her neck like it's a hug, making her laugh, tilt her head back to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "But I missed my girl."
She feels the heat radiating from you. Truth is, she can't always get herself to say stuff like this, sickeningly gentle, but sometimes it slips out and she lets it. It's all the better for watching you melt, the smile splitting your cheeks even as you bite your lip, try to hold it.
Emery thumbs it out, feels the heat along your jaw as she steals one more kiss. It breaks with your laughter, low, airy giggles she'd never hear in the light of day.
"Softie." You mumble.
Unfortunately so.
inject this into my veins i need it so bad
haha i love getting the inspiration and motivation to write at the most inconvenient time 🤓
legally binding| emily prentiss x fem reader
warnings: cat adams case but also not really
summary: instead of calling fiona duncan to represent reid in his case emily calls you, her hot shot lawyer wife. who also just so happens to be her best kept secret based on this request!!
word count: 2.2k
The courthouse bathroom smelled like antiseptic and cheap floral air freshener, the kind that never quite masked the underlying staleness. You adjusted the knot of your tie in the smudged mirror, pressing your lips together to smooth out the faded lipstick. A drop of water from the tap had splashed onto your sleeve—dark silk, unforgiving—and you dabbed at it with a scratchy paper towel, cursing under your breath. First day of the Reid trial, and you were already fighting a losing battle against your own nerves.
Outside, the hallway buzzed with lawyers, reporters, and the occasional FBI agent weaving through the crowd. You spotted her immediately,Emily Prentiss, all sharp angles and coiled energy, leaning against a pillar with a case file tucked under one arm. She was scanning the room with that practiced, detached look, the one that made witnesses squirm and suspects overthink. But when her gaze landed on you, it flickered, just for a heartbeat. A tiny, dangerous crack in the facade.
"Counselor," she said as you approached, voice low and even. Professional. Too professional. The way she said it made your stomach twist.
"Agent Prentiss," you replied, matching her tone, though your fingers twitched at your side. You wanted to reach out, to brush the invisible lint off her blazer, to let your knuckles graze hers in the pretrial huddle just to feel the spark of contact. Instead, you clenched your hand into a fist. "You ready for this?"
Emily’s mouth quirked. "Born ready." The corner of her lip twitched like she was fighting a smirk, and you knew exactly what she was thinking,last night, her knee between yours, her teeth at your collar, muttering the same words against your skin.
The courtroom doors swung open with a weighty groan, and the bailiff's voice cut through the murmuring crowd. "All rise." You didn't miss the way Emily's shoulder brushed yours as you both stood,too close for colleagues, not close enough for what you really were. The judge's bench loomed like a guillotine, and you forced your gaze away from Emily's profile, focusing instead on the empty witness stand. Reid was already seated at the defense table, his fingers drumming a nervous staccato against the wood. Cat Adams, smug in her prison jumpsuit, smirked from the prosecution's side like she'd already won.
Opening statements were a blur. You spoke crisply, methodically dismantling the prosecution's argument point by point, but your pulse roared in your ears every time Emily shifted in her seat behind you. You could feel her eyes on the back of your neck, tracking the way your fingers tightened around your pen when the DA implied Reid had a history of instability. A muscle in your jaw twitched. Emily cleared her throat—just once, deliberately—and you exhaled, loosening your grip.
During recess, JJ cornered you near the vending machines, her smile knowing. "You and Emily seem... in sync," she said, popping the tab on a Diet Coke. The can hissed like an accusation.
You shrugged, buying time by feeding dollar bills into the machine. "We’ve worked together before." The lie tasted stale.
JJ hummed, taking a sip. "Uh-huh. And the way she looks at you when you’re arguing? That’s just professional respect?"
The vending machine spat out a bottle of water with a thud. You caught it mid-air, gripping the plastic tighter than necessary. "Emily’s thorough," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive. "She pays attention to details. That’s her job."
JJ’s smirk deepened. "Right. And the way you two leaned into each other during the recess huddle? That’s just… strategizing?"
A laugh escaped you,nervous, too sharp. You twisted the cap off your water, buying time. The courtroom doors swung open again, and Garcia’s head popped out, her curls bouncing. "Five-minute warning, lovebirds—" She froze, eyes widening behind her glasses. "I mean. Colleagues. Professional associates. Completely platonic coworkers."
Emily appeared behind her, stepping smoothly into the hallway. Her expression was unreadable, but the way her fingers flexed at her sides gave her away. "We should head back in," she said, voice even.
Garcia mouthed ‘oh my god’ at JJ behind Emily’s back.
The afternoon session bled into evening, the fluorescent lights overhead humming like a jury of bees. You’d just torn apart the prosecution’s star witness,some forensic accountant who’d flinched when you leaned into his personal space,when Rossi caught your elbow in the hallway. His grip was firm, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. "You know, I’ve seen Emily bluff her way through interrogations with serial killers," he said, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve, "but I’ve never seen her blush until today."
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Must’ve been the coffee," you lied, nodding toward the courthouse vending machine. "It’s brutal."
Rossi chuckled, low and knowing. "Kid, I’ve been married three times. I know what it looks like when someone’s trying not to stare at their wife’s ass in a courtroom."
Across the hall, Emily was hunched over a case file with Morgan, her brow furrowed in a way that usually meant she was two steps ahead of everyone else. But when Morgan nudged her and nodded toward you, her pen stilled mid-sentence. The look she gave you—half warning, half hunger—sent a shiver down your spine.
The bailiff’s voice cut through the tension. "Court’s reconvening."
The gavel cracked like a gunshot, jolting you back to the present. The judge was speaking,something about inadmissible evidence,but your attention snagged on Emily’s fingers drumming against her thigh. Three taps, then a pause. Three taps again. Your secret rhythm, the one she’d used that morning when she slid your coffee across the kitchen counter, her wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. Three taps: I love you.
Morgan’s elbow nudged Emily’s ribs, and her hand stilled. She didn’t glance at you, but her shoulders tensed, the line of her jaw tightening like she was biting back a smile,or a curse. You focused on the legal pad in front of you, scribbling nonsense to steady yourself. The pen left angry indents in the paper.
"You’re killing them," Reid whispered suddenly from the defense table, his voice low with something like awe.
You blinked. "What?"
"The way you’re dismantling their case. It’s…" He hesitated, eyes darting to where Cat Adams was scowling at her desk. "It’s almost beautiful."
The judge called for a fifteen-minute recess after the prosecution’s forensic accountant stumbled through his testimony, his credibility in tatters. You gathered your files with deliberate slowness, avoiding the weight of Emily’s gaze burning a hole through the back of your suit jacket. The air in the courtroom was thick with tension,legal, personal, the kind that made your pulse thrum just beneath your skin.
You barely made it to the hallway before Morgan materialized at your elbow, his grin all teeth. "Counselor," he drawled, leaning against the wall with practiced casualness. "You ever consider a career in the BAU? We could use someone who eviscerates people that gracefully."
"Stick to recruiting actual FBI agents, Morgan," you muttered, but the corner of your mouth twitched.
Behind him, Garcia appeared like a hurricane in heels, clutching a tablet to her chest. "Oh, please, please tell me you’re as good at cross-examination in your personal life," she stage-whispered. "Because if so, Emily never stood a chance."
You choked on nothing. "I have no idea what you’re—"
"Garcia," Emily's voice cut through the hallway like a blade, smooth but edged with warning. She appeared behind Garcia, her posture impeccable, but her fingers flexed at her sides in that telltale way you knew meant she was two seconds from dragging you both out of here. Garcia squeaked and spun around, nearly dropping her tablet. "Why don’t you go check on Reid? He looked like he needed a caffeine boost."
Garcia saluted, her eyes dancing with mischief. "On it, boss. But just so you know, the betting pool’s already at—"
Emily’s glare could’ve melted steel. Garcia vanished before she could finish the sentence, Morgan following with a laugh and a knowing glance over his shoulder. The moment they were out of earshot, Emily exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off the weight of the day.
"You’re not subtle," she muttered, stepping closer, her voice low enough that only you could hear.
You raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to reach for her. "Me? You’re the one who blushed when Rossi called you out."
The courthouse steps were slick with rain by the time the judge finally adjourned for the day, the neon glow of downtown D.C. reflecting in the puddles like scattered puzzle pieces. You lingered by the defense table, shuffling papers with deliberate slowness, watching from the corner of your eye as Emily exchanged hushed words with Morgan near the bailiff’s station. His laughter carried across the emptying courtroom, rich and knowing, and when he clapped her on the shoulder, Emily’s mouth twitched not quite a smile, but close enough to make your pulse skip.
"You coming?" Reid asked, shrugging into his coat with a tentative glance at Cat Adams being led out in cuffs. Her smirk had long since soured.
You hesitated, fingers drumming against your briefcase. "I should—"
"Save it," JJ interrupted, appearing at your elbow with Garcia in tow. "We’re all going to O’Malley’s. Even Hotch used to crack a smile there after a tough case." She paused, her gaze flicking to Emily, then back to you. "And before you argue, Emily already said yes."
Emily, now standing at the prosecution’s abandoned table, straightened abruptly as if she’d heard her name. Her eyebrows lifted in silent question, and you bit back a smile. So much for discretion.
The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the whiskey glasses left sticky rings on the wood and the jukebox played nothing newer than 1998. You slid into the booth beside Reid, who was already nursing a beer with the focus of a man trying to forget he'd spent the day being accused of murder. Emily sat across from you, her elbows propped on the table, fingers laced together like she was praying for patience. Morgan dropped into the seat next to her with a grin, nudging her shoulder. "Relax, Prentiss. We won."
"Not yet," Emily muttered, but her eyes flicked to yours, warm and private despite the crowded booth.
Garcia clapped her hands together, leaning forward. "Okay, but before we toast to Reid's impending acquittal—" Reid winced at the word acquittal— "we need to address the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the ring on someone's left hand?"
The table went silent. Emily froze, her thumb which had been absently tracing the edge of her wedding band still mid-motion. You exhaled slowly, pressing your knee against hers under the table. Three taps. ‘I love you.’
Rossi took a deliberate sip of his scotch. "I’ll put fifty on Vegas," he said, like he was discussing the weather. "Eloped after that case in ’13, am I right?"
Emily's fingers twitched, her wedding ring catching the dim bar light as she slowly lowered her hands to the table. The silence stretched like a live wire,Morgan grinning into his beer, Garcia practically vibrating with anticipation, JJ's knowing smirk widening,until Emily exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fine," she said, voice dry as parchment. "Vegas. 2014. Two AM after the Mendoza cartel sting."
Garcia shrieked so loudly the bartender dropped a glass.
You hid your smile behind your whiskey as Morgan choked on his drink. "Wait,you proposed?" he wheezed, pounding his chest.
Emily's smirk was all teeth. "She cried during the Elvis impersonator's vows."
The bar erupted in chaos,Morgan nearly upended the table lunging to clap Emily on the back, Garcia was halfway out of her seat squealing something about wedding photos, and Rossi just nodded sagely like he’d known all along (which, given the smug tilt of his eyebrows, he probably had). Reid blinked owlishly between you and Emily, his beer forgotten. "Huh," he said finally, pushing his glasses up his nose. "That explains why you quoted Marriage Story during the Rodriguez deposition."
Emily's cheeks flushed the faintest pink, but she held her ground, fingers tightening around her whiskey glass. "It was relevant to the—"
"Oh my god," Garcia interrupted, slamming her hands on the table. "You have a house together, don’t you? With like, shared towels and a coffee maker that says ‘hers’ and ‘hers’—"
You snorted into your drink. "It says ‘yours’ and ‘also yours’ because Emily broke the first one trying to reprogram it in Spanish."
Emily kicked you under the table—not hard, just enough to make you smirk—but Garcia was already gasping like she’d been personally handed a conspiracy theory. "You live together?!"
“We're married,” Emily said in exasperation.
The table erupted into overlapping questions,Garcia demanding to know why she hadn’t been invited to the wedding, Morgan ribbing Emily about her taste in rings, Rossi already flagging down the bartender for celebratory shots but Emily’s gaze never left yours. Her foot pressed against yours under the table, a silent anchor in the storm of their excitement. "Told you we should’ve gone with separate cars," she muttered, just loud enough for you to hear over Garcia’s dramatics.
You grinned, swirling your whiskey. "And miss this? I live for the theatrics."
taglist: @spideystoe @emilyprentissmylove
say it, say it loud | series
"If you love someone, you tell them. Even if you're scared that it's not the right thing. Even if you're scared that it'll cause problems. Even if you're scared that it will burn your life to the ground, you say it, and you say it loud and you go from there." — Mark Sloan
pairing: baran al-hashimi x plastic surgeon!reader
summary: you're a plastic surgeon. she's the new ED attending. you're a notorious flirt, and she's just trying to run her department. the two of you are seemingly complete opposites, but maybe you have more in common than you think.
tags: mcsteamy!reader; slow burn; lots of flirting; jealousy; pining; hospital typical blood/injuries/etc
status: ongoing
i. impressive first impressions
ii. more than meets the eye
iii. don't hate the player (coming soon)
More Than Casual (SMAU) — Part 4
cassie mckay x f!reader
18+ minors don’t interact
summary: cassie has a date with someone else.
taglist: @somemetallyillbitch @killah28 @bigstupids @lovvrr @mil1an @noprophet @escapereality4music @angryoilslick516 @mxtokko @abbotitts @wewerewildandflourescent @likesomethingidk @longfulforlee @winstonhelp @sadoutlaw @theworldscalamity @bsttwice @randomstuff02sblog @beingniceisntahobby @geekyandgay98 @cmckaysdollpuppy @banginglikeahurricane @hehehehahahohohuhu @eatmykittycatt @mwah-w4ddingh4m @pxssygxblin @yyyyourmummmm
Part 1 ┊ Part 2 ┊Part 3 ┊Part 4 ┊Part 5
WHO’S CALLING THE SHOTS?
gigi ghorbani x fem!reader, 1.2k words.
an argument before a work event of gigi’s leads you to be more jealous than usual, and gigi doesn’t seem to mind. requested by @ludasgf , ily and your brilliant ideas. suggestive, mdni.
The first thing that sets the night wrong is the argument you have before leaving the house.
Gigi had been running late to her own event, and you had been all too eager to let her know that. You were punctual, at least when it came to doing things with her — when you were a whole fifteen minutes behind schedule and Gigi was still looking for her car keys, you had become a bit of a pill.
“They’re not lost,” Gigi had told you sharply, digging through her purse for the third time. “I’m going to fucking find them, okay?”
“We can just take my car,” you’d insisted.
“No.”
“Why not?”
She had tossed her purse onto the kitchen island. “I want to take my car.”
“Do you have something against my car?”
She had then gone on to say with as much politeness as she could muster that her car was just a little bit better than yours, more expensive and better to show off, and you had made some snide remark about how she ought to just marry the car instead of you.
Your bickering had continued through the car ride to her event, a prestigious gathering the two of you were trying to put on your best acts for. But the closer you got to the venue, the worse your argument seemed to become.
Then she ran a stoplight. It was an accident, but you had accused her anyway of trying to kill the two of you, and Gigi had replied that you should get out and walk the rest of the way if you were so concerned with her driving.
You had almost agreed.
“You’re acting weird,” Gigi says. The two of you stand a couple of paces away from the bar, close enough to be in the mix of her colleagues but far enough away that you don’t have to socialize with too many of them.
“I’m not,” you say. “I’m fine.”
Gigi shakes her head, but she doesn’t say anything — you both agreed to put a pause on your bickering in order to save face at this event.
“I just didn’t like the way she was all over you at the bar,” you say, referring to her secretary, who you only met a few minutes ago and already loathe so much it’s almost incredible.
She had been all over Gigi when you were getting drinks, giggling into her ear and giving her a hug that lasted too long for your liking. It had driven you the rest of the way off the ledge, and now you are done.
“She was drunk,” Gigi shrugs, but somehow it makes you more angry that she already knows who you were referring to. “She’s never like that in the office.”
“If you say so.”
Gigi gives you a hard look. “You need to pull yourself together. We agreed-”
“We agreed to stop antagonizing each other,” you snap. “We didn’t agree that you could get all fucking cozy with your secretary in front of everyone.”
“That’s what you think it was?” she asks. “You need to grow the fuck up.”
You thought you had already reached the breaking point, but apparently not — because now you feel like you have truly lost it, whatever it was that had been holding you together through your anger, and you can’t help but flee.
“Shit,” you hear her curse behind you. Gigi follows you out of the event room and into the hall, down into the single stall bathroom around the corner.
She locks the door behind the two of you.
You can’t look at her. You step up to the sink and look at yourself in the mirror and try to steady your breathing, the rhythm of which has grown unsteady with anger and panic and something else, something that curls itself deep into your abdomen and anchors there.
“Hey,” she says softly, stepping up behind you. She runs a hand down your back soothingly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, it was too harsh.”
You shake your head. You turn to face her, leaning back against the sink. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Gigi frowns. She brings a hand up to your face, trailing it from your temple down around the curve of your jaw. “Anything. Talk to me.”
You are finally able to draw in a deep breath. “She was all over you,” you say again.
“Yeah, but is that what you’re really mad about?”
You swallow hard. “I don’t know. I don’t like it when we argue, and I don’t like having to pretend like everything is fine. I thought you were trying to make a point over there with her.”
“And what point is that?”
You’re not entirely sure. That you are replaceable, maybe. That there are other women she could have. The realization strikes you now, the coil tightening in your stomach — you’re jealous.
Gigi seems to realize it, too. Her expression softens and her hands find your hips, and she presses closer to you. “I didn’t realize that all it takes to make you jealous is sparing one glance at another woman.”
Embarrassment creeps up your chest, hot and heady.
“I wasn’t trying to make you jealous,” she continues. “I would have done worse if that was the goal.”
“Like what?”
Gigi dips her head down to press kisses to your neck, peppered with small nips at your skin that make your breath catch. “You couldn’t handle picturing it.”
A small smile pulls at your lips. You arch into her touch when her hands slide under your shirt, cool and soft and breaking you out of the haze of anger and alcohol.
“Look at me,” Gigi orders, and doesn’t speak again until you meet her eyes. “I only want you. No one else compares.”
You kiss her then, leaning up and capturing her lips. You feel her hands growing more adventurous under your shirt and dipping into your bra, greedy palms pressing into your skin.
“Do you want to go home?” Gigi asks breathlessly, parting from your lips.
“Already?”
She nods, lips meeting yours again briefly.
“Only if you get on your knees there,” you say only half-jokingly, “and beg for forgiveness.”
She blinks, something different coming into her expression, as if she’s taken aback by your words. Maybe she is — she is usually the one in control, you are usually the one on your knees. That is the power balance, but now it has shifted.
“I’ll do anything you want,” she promises. Her hands run down your back, nails raking against your skin.
It takes all of your strength not to give in. But this event is important for Gigi and her presence at work, and you think the two of you should spend a little more time out in the public eye before leaving.
“Talk to me,” she says again. “What will it be?”
You somehow manage to find your voice. “We should stay for a little while longer,” you tell her. She seems disappointed in that, but your resolve is firm. “You still need to show me off to all of your coworkers.”
“I can do that,” she smiles. “And then?”
“And then we can go home.”
Gigi grabs you by the hand and pulls you away from the sink, towards the door. “Let’s not waste any time, then.”
You decide to be a little self-indulgent. “We’re getting takeout later, too.”
“Of course.”
“And you’re paying.”
She looks back at you, brows raised. “Are you calling all the shots tonight?”
“I am when it comes to the takeout.”
Fair enough, she thinks, and leads you back out into the crowd.
i fear i have fallen down the gigi ghorbani rabbit hole 😩😵💫
⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚
i have an emery x abbot ! reader fic in the works and i lowkey wanna be petty when i post it and tag it with jack abbot x reader tags 👹
what’s in a name | c. mckay
summary: as a doctor, people are always referring to cassie by her last name. when she gets tired of hearing it, you propose a solution.
word count: 676
tags: established relationship; nurse reader; fluff
a/n: this is a little shorter than my usual stuff but i hope you guys still enjoy :))
Holiday shifts were always tough, and you knew the Fourth of July wouldn’t be any different. Though, what you hadn’t expected was ICE agents dragging away a patient and a nurse; a cyberattack forcing the department to go completely analog; a patient choking out the new nurse; a new attending; and your current attending taking out his mid-life crisis on any person who stepped even an inch out of line.
Flipping through the clipboard Dana had passed off to you, her own version of the handwritten board, you swore could feel your brain turning to mush. You wanted nothing more than to go home and get into bed, dragging your girlfriend along with you.
As if her ears had been ringing, Cassie entered the central station with a sigh.
“Hey.” She leaned back against the desk and looked down at you.
“What’s up?” You asked, your eyes still trained on your chart as you scribbled something down really quick.
“I just need a second,” Cassie sighed. She unfolded her arms and dropped her hands to the edge of the desk. “I feel like I’m being pulled in a million directions.”
Looking up, you offered her a sympathetic smile. “Only three more hours to go.”
You set the clipboard down and subtly placed your hand atop hers, brushing her knuckles with your thumb. Your relationship was by no means a secret—you and Cassie had been dating for nearly three years—but that didn’t mean you went around flaunting it with public displays of affection.
The feeling of your skin against hers caused Cassie to exhale, her muscles visibly relaxing. In the ED, uninterrupted moments were few and far between. Each second she got with you were ones she would revel in. However, the peace didn’t last very long, as her name was being called.
“Dr. McKay—” Princess approached the station as she tucked a pen into her chest pocket— “little boy with wrist fracture is gowned and ready.”
Cassie nodded, acknowledging the nurse, but before she could even push herself off the desk, another person was trying to grab her attention.
“McKay, I need your hands on an incoming MVC!” Robby shouted from across the department. “Ten minutes out.”
“Heard,” Cassie yelled back, and as if the world was deciding to test her even further, her name rang out again.
“McKay, scans are back on Central 12,” Dana announced, eyeing you both over the bridge of her glasses.
“Thanks, Dana,” Cassie sighed, before flipping through the chart Princess had handed her.
“I’m starting to hate my name,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for you to still catch it.
“You could always change it.” You shrugged as you return to your chart.
“Yeah?” Cassie scoffed with a glint of amusement in her eye. “To what?”
Your own last name slipped from your lips so casually that it took Cassie a minute to comprehend what you were saying, her exhaustion doing her little favors.
“Did you just–” she frowned, narrowing her eyes at you. “Did you just propose to me?”
Clicking your pen, you grabbed your clipboard and stood up, leveling Cassie’s confusion with an innocent smile, as if you hadn’t just suggested in the middle of the ED that your girlfriend take your last name.
“Just think about it.” You winked, squeezing her bicep before sliding past her.
Cassie watched as you walked away from her and approached Dana, chatting with the head nurse like nothing happened.
“McKay!” Robby’s booming voice snapped her out of her stupor.
“I’m here,” she said, rounding the nurses’ station.
As she rushed over to the incoming gurney, Cassie’s eye caught yours, and you gave her a soft smile and a nod, giving her the boost of energy and confidence she needed for this trauma.
The small action made Cassie grin and her chest tight. She knew then that she wouldn’t mind taking your last name. But if the black velvet box sitting at the bottom of her purse had anything to do with it, you would be the one taking hers.
