emily prentiss masterlist | jennifer jareau masterlist | jemily x reader masterlist| melissa schemmenti masterlist | other works
girl next door series masterlist | other series coming soon
───୨ৎ──୨ৎ────
disclaimer: i like to make fun of fictional men and thirst over fictional women. i’m painfully unserious but in a fun way. i’m easily impressed and easily amused. also an avid sapphic romance novel reader.
after 200, jj physically can’t stop seeing askari’s face whenever she closes her eyes. so she doesn’t sleep. she doesn’t want to wake will and really struggles to communicate how she’s feeling with him…but she knows emily starts her day no later than 5 am over in london. and turns out she’s a much better alarm clock than the one emily already had.
jj’s the first voice emily hears in the morning and emily’s the last voice jj hears when she finally dozes off mid-conversation.
had a dream i was kissing jennifer jareau in a cabin in the woods while emily prentiss tried and failed to work the hot tub and projector on the lanai…maybe i should go back to writing for jemily
By the time she’s actually in the bed, wrist propped awkwardly on a folded towel, the whole thing feels like an overreaction.
“It’s just sore,” she says again, more to the blonde no-nonsense nurse looking at her over her glasses. “I caught myself weird.”
The nurse hums, noncommittal, already typing something into the computer. “That’s what they all say.”
She exhales through her nose and leans back against the thin pillow. The room smells faintly like antiseptic and something plastic, the low hum of monitors and voices bleeding in from the hallway. Her wrist throbs in a steady, irritating pulse—more noticeable now that she’s not moving.
It hadn’t even been that bad.
A short ladder. Six feet, maybe a little more. She’d been reaching—too far, in hindsight—trying to adjust a light angle over one of the installations. Her foot slipped, balance gone in a second, and instinct did the rest. Palm out. Catch yourself. The impact had shot straight up her ar, sharp and immediate. She’d hissed, more out of surprise than anything, and pushed herself upright before anyone could make a bigger deal out of it.
“I’m fine,” she’d said then, too. Flexing her fingers, rolling her wrist once before the stiffness had already started to creep in. “Really.”
No one had believed her. She’d only been there for a week and they were already reading through her lies. But she couldn’t really blame them, it’d be a nightmare if the new lead Culture curator got a serious injury on the job. Now she sits in an ER in Pittsburgh, wrist swelling just enough to prove a point.
A tech takes her for imaging, and it’s all quick from there. X-ray. A few clipped instructions. Back in the room with a preliminary verdict that sounds exactly like she expected.
“No fracture,” the nurse says, returning with a wrap and a rigid splint. “Looks like a moderate sprain.”
“I told you-“ Y/n starts but the nurse levels her with a glare.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t need to take care of it,” she cuts in easily. “Hold still.”
She obeys, mostly because arguing would take more energy than she’s willing to give. The older woman secures the splint snug around her wrist, limiting movement immediately. It’s bulky and inconvenient.
The nurse steps back with a nod, “There. Doctor will be in with discharge instructions.” And she heads back out into the hustle and bustle of the emergency department. She nods, already reaching for the clipboard with her good hand and pulling her reading glasses from her hair. She didn’t get far in the paperwork before the curtain was pulled back again.
The young woman slides into the room, straight to business. But Y/n barely registered her or her words when she caught sight of the familiar eyes in the doorway. Her hand stills for a moment, adjusting to seeing her again.
Yolanda Garcia stands half-turned in the doorway, but just as still— if not more so.
“Hi Landa…”
The nickname slips unconsciously. She hadn’t allowed herself to say her name in years. And now 11 years later, it was like no time had passed.
There’s a flicker. Quick. Contained. Easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for.
“You’re here…” It’s all she could push out at the moment. The words quieter than she’d intended, revealing more of herself than she’d done in a long time.
“And so are you.” A lame response but a safe one. Neutral.
The young woman who entered the room first clears her throat, breaking the silence and the staring contest happening over her shoulder. Y/n looks away first, turning her attention back to the clipboard in her lap.
As if the silence in the room personally offended her, Dr. Trinity Santos reintroduces herself and makes her way further into the exam room. She plants herself at the end of the bed and extends her hand to examine the splint. “Rest, ice, and over the counter pain meds. If pain and swelling persists— come back and we’ll see what’s going on.”
Y/n nods along as she speaks and pointedly tries to ignore the woman lingering in the doorway. Trinity seems to feel her there as well and keeps turning her eyes to the door. Each time she cut her eyes over to the surgeon, it looked less and less professional. Until she finally speaks, “Anything you wanna add Dr. Garcia?”
Garcia starts quickly under Trinity’s questioning eyes and straightens uncomfortably. “Nope. And I’m gonna head back upstairs.”
Y/n watched Garcia hurry through the door. A much colder version of the woman she’d once spent all her time with. The women don’t sit in the awkward silence for long before Trinity breaks it with the obvious question.
“So I take it you guys know each other?” She’d stressed the ‘so’ in an effort to sound casual but only briefly met Y/n’s eyes while she asked.
Y/n sighed— lips curving unconsciously as she eyed the empty doorway, “Long time ago…”
---
Garcia plants her hands on her hips and rolls her shoulders back. She hadn’t waited for either woman to acknowledge her words before she all but sprinting out of the room and back toward the elevators. She’d had tunnel vision as she weaved through the chaos, the elevator the only thing in sight. But then someone said her name at the nurses station and somehow she found herself leaning against the counter listening to the nurse chatter.
“First day on the job and she ends up in the ER? That sucks…” Someone mumbles.
“Add in the fact she’s barely had time to settle in, let alone change any of her information over. She’s still got a California ID.”
Garcia tried to look busy as she took in the information. She looked across the computers, the monitor of patients— anywhere but the nurses currently discussing the woman from her past. In her effort to look busy, she missed Dana’s eyes tracking her over her glasses. The charge nurse had eyes everywhere and they hardly missed things. “Did you need something Dr. Garcia? I don’t think we’ve got anymore consults right now…”
Yolanda’s eyes widen at being caught and she fumbles her way through a believable response, “Oh I just figured I’d make sure before getting a call in 5 minutes asking me to back down.”
Dana’s brows rise with a less than impressed look, a look Yolanda has seen the older woman throw at others in the unit. “Right…well I’m sure *Dr. Santos* will be finishing up with our sprained wrist patient soon enough.” The older woman had a knowing smirk settled on her face, thinking she’d figure her out. But the very mention of both Trinity and Y/n in the same sentence had her brain short circuiting.
She tried to mask any physical signs of her emotional warfare with a grimace. Dana obviously had no clue what she’d just done. Everyone around the ED seemed to think they had her number when it came to Trinity Santos, but little did they know a much greater emotional connection had walked in right under their noses.
CW: intense emotional confrontation/arguments, relationship conflict and reconciliation, guilt, crying, references to past financial distress, smut (explicit sexual content), scissoring/tribbing, soft dom!Yolanda, partially-resolved ending
WC: 4.2k
Part V
Terms and Conditions Masterlist
A/N: My tags are doing weird things so I’m sorry to anyone I missed out whose tag didn’t work!
──────── Null and Void ────────
By the time the bus crosses the Birmingham Bridge, your hands are shaking so badly that you nearly rip the stack of papers just to stop them from slipping out of your grasp.
PAID IN FULL
ZERO BALANCE
The words have been burned into the back of your eyelids for the last forty minutes.
Every pothole that the bus hits causes another wave of fury to wash over you.
Outside the window, Pittsburgh is wet underneath an overcast sky. Rows of brick buildings are streaked with rainwater, pedestrians with umbrellas hurrying along sidewalks trying to get out of what looks to be the start of a nasty storm. Normally you like the city, you like this specific bus ride across town, but today it feels like it’s taking too long.
Your knee bounces violently the entire ride.
Once, the older woman sitting across from you gives you a wary look before shuffling her purse closer to her side.
You don’t even blame her, you know how you look from the outside. You’re pissed and you look it. You’re not hurt, not emotional, furious. The kind of anger that causes steam to come out of ears in cartoons.
Because how fucking dare she?
You spent ages trying to stitch yourself back together after she ended things, after she broke them. Weeks of dragging yourself through the mud of shifts with aching ribs and an empty bank account and the humiliation of almost reaching your goals, almost having everything you ever wanted, just for her to throw you away like you were trash. Lying trash. And now this? Now you find out she’s been quietly dropping hundreds of thousands of dollars into your life like some guilty millionaire playing god from a distance?
The mortgage paperwork crinkles in your fist, the paper giving way to your angry fingers.
She doesn’t get to do this, she doesn’t get to walk away from you and still control things in your life. She doesn’t get to decide what happens to you after making it clear she didn’t want to be involved with you anymore.
The bus finally lurches to your stop and you shoulder-check someone in your effort to get off as quickly as possible.
Cold air and rain slaps you in the face immediately. You hope it’ll cool you down enough to stop you from committing a felony in the lobby of Yolanda’s building (it doesn’t).
Eight months. Eight months of Yolanda insisting on rules and boundaries and professionalism and emotional distance, only to - only to pull some shit like this the second she loses control of the situation.
You shove through the revolving doors hard enough that one of them swings too fast behind you and hits you right on the butt. And for one awful moment, looking at the inside of the lobby feels so familiar that it actually hurts you. You used to come here at least three nights a week, sometimes more.
Richard is inside tonight instead of standing outside the doorway. Not a huge surprise with the rain. “There she is,” he says as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
You stare at him for a second, still breathing hard from anger and the slight uphill walk from the bus stop.
His forehead crinkles in confusion. “Everything okay?”
“No.” Your hands tighten instinctively, nearly crushing the paperwork. “Is she home?”
Richard hesitates just long enough to catch the look on your face. Because apparently you currently look like someone about to either start crying or kill a person, and even you aren’t sure which is more likely.
“…long day?” he offers cautiously.
You laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to your own ears. “Something like that.”
His hand reaches for the security desk phone. “Want me to call upstairs for you?”
“No,” you say quickly. “No, I’m not giving her the chance to avoid me.”
Understanding dawns across Richard’s face. Not understanding-understanding, obviously, he has no idea what actually happened between you and Ms. Garcia. But there’s enough pieces of the puzzle to understand that this is relationship business. Ugly relationship business.
“…right,” he says.
You can pretty much see him debating in his head whether or not it’s a terrible idea to let you upstairs without calling the police. But then he sighs, his shoulders slumping just a little as he makes a decision he knows could get him in trouble. “She got home maybe an hour ago.”
“Thanks,” you mutter tightly.
Richard gives you one last look of uncertainty as you stalk off toward the elevators.
The ride up feels endless, and catching yourself in the reflection in the mirrored walls looks strikingly different from the last time you took this elevator. Your hair is wet from the rain, sticking to your forehead and your face and your neck. Your jaw is clenched so tight that you can practically see the vein in your forehead about to burst from stress. You barely recognize yourself.
When you step off the elevator on Yolanda’s floor, for just a moment, another memory flashes before your eyes uninvited: Yolanda half-asleep and barefoot, opening the same door you’re staring at right now, late at night in soft gray sweatpants and that stupid white loose button-down that doesn’t even count as leisurewear. And she smiles at you, soft and unguarded in a way you were rarely ever allowed to see her.
Your heart pounds uncomfortably in your chest and you crush the feelings that memory brings with it immediately.
No, absolutely not.
You did not ride a Pittsburgh city bus across town in the rain to get sentimental. You came here furious, to demand answers. You came here because Yolanda Garcia does not get to buy her way out of guilt and call it kindness.
Your hand tightens into a fist and then you pound on her door hard enough to rattle the frame.
The door opens almost immediately, and standing there is Yolanda in lounge pants and a black long-sleeve shirt, hair damp like she’s just gotten out of the shower, and for a split second, her whole face seems to soften at the sight of you. Like she’s relieved.
But then she sees your expression and the relaxed expression disappears immediately. “What happened?”
You shove past her before she can say another word. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
Yolanda stumbles sideways in surprise as you storm into her home. The familiar smell of her coffee hits you immediately, rushing your senses like an old memory, and it only makes you angrier.
Behind you, the door clicks shut.
You whirl around to face her. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you demand.
Yolanda inches back in surprise, caught off guard by the sheer force of your anger. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t do that,” you snap. “Do not stand there acting confused.” You hurl the stack of papers onto her kitchen island hard enough that one of them slides across the marble and off the countertop, coming to rest at her feet.
Her eyes follow the falling paper, catching on the PAID stamp across the bottom. And in her face, you see it: the tiniest hint of guilt. She bends down to retrieve it, and as she straightens, her expression smooths out in a way you’ve seen a thousand times before. “You took a bus across the city to scream at me?”
“You paid off my fucking mortgage!”
Yolanda folds her arms across her chest defensively. “You were drowning.”
“That’s none of your business anymore!” Your volume increases, loud enough that if you don’t stop, you know she’ll have angry neighbors.
“You were going to lose the house.”
“And?”
“And?” she repeats incredulously.
“Yes, ‘and,’” your voice continues to rise. “You made it very clear you wanted out, Yolanda! You don’t get to walk away from me and then still try to insert yourself when you feel guilty about it!”
“I do not feel guilty.” The lie is both instant and obvious.
You stare at her, then laugh once, mockingly. “Wow, that’s bullshit.”
Yolanda’s lips purse. “You think I did that because I pity you?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” you shoot back at her. “You ended things because my life was - because I was too messy for you, remember?”
“That is not why I ended things.”
“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looked like you took one look at my situation and ran for your life.”
Yolanda’s eyes flash with anger that rivals your own now. “That is untrue and unfair.”
“Unfair?” You point violently toward the paperwork spread out across the island. “You paid off my fucking hospital bills.”
“You couldn’t afford them!”
“That doesn’t mean you get to swoop in and fix everything!”
“Somebody fucking had to!”
The apartment goes dead silent, even your own breathing stops. Yolanda freezes too, like she didn’t mean for that to come out.
Your stomach twists, and you laugh harshly, bitter and without humor. “There it is.”
Yolanda shakes her head, exasperated. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“No, I think it is.” Your voice thins, your anger fraying around the edges, though the knot doesn’t unwind. “You think I can’t handle myself, is that it?”
“You are twisting my words to make me seem like the villain.”
“And you’re acting like you can buy your way out of your feelings!” Both hands fly to either side of your head, holding your temples. “You hurt me, Yolanda! And the worst part is that I still don’t even hate you for it now.”
“You don’t?” You miss the uncharacteristically soft tone of her voice, too busy word-vomiting to hear her.
“I tried so hard to hate you,” you rant, beginning to pace her kitchen. “But I had to keep all of my anger to myself because of that stupid contract, I couldn’t talk to anyone about it! Do you know how alone I’ve felt? I blocked your number twice, and then unblocked it again just in case, I even paid some Etsy witch forty dollars to put bad energy into your life -”
“You what?”
“- and somehow you’re still in my head all of the time!”
Yolanda’s mind seems to blank at the silly revelation. “Is that why I keep losing patients..?”
Your brain doesn’t skip over that one. “I killed people?!”
“You paid someone to curse me.”
“That’s not the point,” you argue, pointing at her before she can say another word. “Do not derail me right now.”
But Yolanda is still staring at you in disbelief. “Oh my god.”
“Stop focusing on the witch!”
“I’m trying, but you’re making it hard!”
“You don’t get to swoop in and save me anymore.” Your voice drops to a whisper, the flame that was your anger fizzling out. “You can’t reject me and then still treat me like I belong to you.”
“You do not belong to me.”
“You’re acting like I do!” you insist, your tone almost pleading. “I didn’t as you for this.” You gesture toward the papers.
“I know you didn’t!” Yolanda suddenly yells, the force startling both of you. “Jesus Christ, I know you didn’t ask!”
The kitchen falls silent again.
Yolanda drags a hand over her hair, her control over even herself wavering in a way you’ve never seen from her before. “That’s the problem,” she says. “You never ask for anything.”
You stare at her. “Are you serious? The problem is that I’m not greedy enough for you?”
She begins to pace now, too, as if your roles have swapped. “Do you know what it was like when I found out?” she demands. “Learning that you weren’t spending any of what I gave you on yourself? Realizing that you were probably rationing groceries while sleeping in my bed?”
Shame courses through you, hot like fire. “Don’t.”
“No, because apparently nobody in your life loves you enough to say it to you!” she snaps. “You act like needing help is some kind of failure.”
You scoff. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I ended things because I thought I was taking advantage of someone who was desperate.”
“You weren’t taking advantage of me!”
“Well how the hell was I supposed to know that? You never told me!” Yolanda laughs bitterly. “Do you know what I’ve been doing over the last couple of months?”
“Apparently committing white-collar financial crimes, how did you even get the information to pay these bills?”
“Obsessing over you,” she shoots back, ignoring your question. The dam cracks, and despite her visible annoyance over her own confession, she keeps going. “I try to sleep and I wonder if you’re cold because your heat’s been shut off. I’m at work wondering if you’re ignoring your ribs hurting because you can’t afford another hospital bill.” Her voice roughens. “I pick up a stranger in a bar,” she hisses, “and say your fucking name with her mouth between my legs.”
Your breath catches in your throat and you try not to look hurt at the humiliation.
Yolanda’s eyes are sharp as they lock onto yours. “Do you understand how humiliating that is?” She circles the island toward you slowly. “This isn’t guilt,” she spits. “If it were just guilt, it would’ve gone away already.”
Your heartbeat is hammering in your neck as she approaches. “Yolanda -”
“And the worst part is, you still won’t ask me for anything,” she cuts you off. “You would rather drown than need someone else, and you say I’m emotionally stunted.”
“That is not true.” You glare at her as she reaches you.
“Then ask me for something.”
You blink rapidly. “What?”
“Ask me for something,” Yolanda repeats. The intensity of her stare nearly has you withering. A few months ago, it would have. “Anything you want, anything at all. Just ask.”
Your throat is suddenly tight and dry with the weight of her demand, because the implication of what she’s saying is impossible to misunderstand.
Ask for me.
“I can’t,” you whisper as your eyes begin to burn. “You can’t ask that of me.”
She’s so close that you’re almost nose-to-nose, and you don’t miss the confusion that flickers across her face. “Why not?”
You huff and look away, like a wounded animal. “Because you don’t get to put me through all of this and then make demands.”
Yolanda’s breath is not on your face as she sighs through her nose. “I’m standing here, telling you that I will give you anything you ask of me.”
“After you left.”
You can see on her face how deeply your words register with her in the way that her expression hardens: the softness of her mouth pulls down into a frown, the way that her eyebrows draw together.
“What am I supposed to do, Yolanda?” Your voice shakes so badly with the thread of unshed tears that you’re forced to whisper. “Beg you to stay this time? How would I even know you mean it?”
Yolanda stands there unresponsive for a moment, her eyes trained on you as she considers her words carefully before deciding to say them: “Let me prove it to you.”
Silence follows because you don’t know what to say, and she uses that to continue.
“I know I can’t undo what I did,” she says. “I can’t take it back. But I am telling you right now that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since.” Her eyes search your own. “But I need you…I need you to ask.”
You take a shaky breath, searching her face for any insincerity, anything that she could use against you, any trace of the woman you spent eight months with.
When you don’t find it, you let the breath out.
“Yolanda,” you start, completely unsure of how to even ask. “Please -”
That’s it. Surrender. The trust you offer her blindly, without being sure she won’t hurt you again.
Yolanda doesn’t let you finish whatever you were going to say next. Both of her hands fly to your jaw, tilting your head at the exact right angle to kiss you. You make a sound against her mouth and it tastes like relief, disappearing into her like she’s been waiting too long to hear it.
Her lips are warm against your own, and insistent as they guide your mouth open so she can slip her tongue inside your mouth. You clutch at her shirt where it bunches around her waist, refusing to let go even as she pulls you blindly toward the hallway that leads to her bedroom.
You can’t open your eyes once you reach the bedroom, worried that once you do, the spell will be broken and you’ll feel the hurt once more.
Her hands slide down your body, mapping your skin like she’s memorizing you anew until she reaches the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off your body. Cool air hits your skin for only a second before her hands replace it, still hot from her shower, sliding up your ribs to cup your breasts.
You gasp into her mouth. She groans in response, her thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden under her touch.
“So fucking perfect,” she mumbles, breaking away from your mouth so she can trail her lips down your throat and over your collarbones. “Missed this so much, missed you.”
Clothes come off in a stumbling haze, both yours and hers. Her shirt hits the floor, then your pants, and by the time you actually reach the bed, you’re both naked. The sight of her body stops you in your tracks, her skin glowing in the low light that’s barely tricking in from the nearly-set sun, her curls still slightly damp but not dripping but a stray droplet here and there, which trails between her breasts without a thought of what it does to you. She’s beautiful. She always has been, but your memory of her these last few months pales in comparison.
Yolanda doesn’t give you time to overthink this. She guides you down onto your back on the mattress, crawling over you until her hair tickles your cheek. The heat of her body sinks into yours as she lays flush against you, your breasts brushing and her hips settling between your thighs.
You whine at the contact. Reaching blindly toward the nightstand next to her bed, you’re surprised when her hand catches your wrist, stopping you.
“Not tonight,” she mumbles against the skin at the valley of your breasts. “Need to feel you against me.”
She sits up and hooks one of your legs over her hip, rolling you slightly to align your bodies until your slick heat meets her own. The first glide of her folds against your own pulls a moan from your throat, head tilting back against her pillow. She’s soaked, burning hot, and the feeling of her wet skin against your clit makes your back arch.
Yolanda sets a slow, grinding rhythm, one hand braced beside your head while the other grips your thigh, holding your legs open for her. Each roll of her hips into your own sends sparks up your spine and you lift your hips to meet her, to match her rhythm. You can feel everything: her wetness coating you, the way her clit rubs against your own when she gets the angle just right.
“Look at me,” she demands, softly and without malice.
You do, your eyes opening as you lift up onto your elbows. Her dark eyes are locked on your own, curls falling against her face like a halo, her lips parted as she visibly pants.
There’s no emotional wall this time, and how could there be? Not once in the entire time you spent together was she ever skin-to-skin with you like this, like it was a vulnerability she couldn’t afford.
You rock up to meet her, desperately chasing the friction that stokes the fire in your belly. Your hands roam her back, pulling her down against you, forcing her back to bow to keep up the slide of her slick against yours. Your nails lightly scratch against her skin and she growls - like, actually growls - at the feeling, and it only fuels her to grind down harder against you.
“Fuck - Yolanda -” You bury your face in her neck, mouth latching onto the pulse point in her neck so hard you know it’ll leave a mark. And you revel in the way she doesn’t pull you away, the way she would’ve in the past, with a stern warning to “not leave marks where anyone could see.” Just the thought that she’s allowing you to mark her has the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
“I’ve got you,” she rasps, shifting her angle so her clit drags over yours just right with every thrust. “Let go, baby, I’m not going anywhere.”
The newness of his feeling, of her truly here, skin to skin, open and vulnerable and heart cracked open, is the final straw that sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, your thighs shaking around her as you cry out against her neck.
Yolanda follows seconds later, her own hips stuttering and a low and guttural moan vibrating through her chest as she grinds through her own release. Her slick heat pulses against you, and you have no idea if it’s your own slick or hers that coats both of your thighs.
You stay locked together afterwards, trembling and breathing hard. Yolanda collapses on top of you, tucking her face into the crook of your neck, legs tangled between yours. Your fingertips stroke over her back in slow passes, soothing the rapid thud of her heart against your own.
After a long minute, she moves, sliding just enough off you to grab at the water bottle on the nightstand, offering it to you first. Knowing how thirsty you always are right after sex. When she catches your eyebrow quirking up, she shrugs. “Old habits die hard.”
You take it, sipping the water while coherent thoughts come racing back in. But it isn’t until you’ve handed the water back to Yolanda and she’s getting her fill that you actually speak.
“Yolanda,” you say quietly.
The tone of your voice has her pausing, capping the bottle so she can look at you.
You swallow hard. “I don’t know what this is now.”
She finishes screwing the lid on. “What do you want it to be?”
You’re surprised at the question, which feels more like an offer. “I - I can’t -” You can’t finish the thought, but you don’t have to. She knows.
I can’t ask for this.
Yolanda takes a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling while she does so, like she’s centering herself. “I can’t promise that I’m going to do this perfectly,” she says softly. “Or that I’m going to be exactly what you need right away.”
Right away.
Your eyes lift at the same time she looks down at you. She holds your gaze like she’s forcing herself not to look away. And she probably is.
“But I am here,” she goes on. “And I’m trying. And I…I’m not leaving you again just because I don’t know how to do it right yet.”
Yet.
You sit up to meet her, to be at the same level. To avoid her looking down at you, both metaphorically and literally. “I don’t know if I can do this again,” you admit. “I don’t know if I could survive it.”
Yolanda sets the water bottle on the bedside table again, and then settles back next to you on the bed. “I meant what I said,” she says. “I want to prove it. I just…don’t know exactly how to do that yet.”
A long silence settles after that, one you don’t break with continuing a discussion that won’t be solved tonight.
The only surefire thing you know right now is that this is not how you expected this to go, but you’d be lying if you said the weight on your chest that’s been following you since that day in the hospital, the dark cloud that’s been following you ever since, isn’t lifting just a little.
Because Yolanda is here, accepting you for you, and not what you can offer her, or what she can offer you. And you know that there will be a bigger conversation, about privacy, and about what this means for you two and what the future holds. But right now, as you both lay back down in her massive mattress, pressed up against each other in a way that the available space doesn’t require, it feels like everything is going to be okay.
CW: angst, so much sadness, the dark times are here, panic attack described, unhealthy eating habits, extreme financial distress, brief mentions of sex work, debt avoidance, smut (explicit sexual content)(what?), fingering and cunnilingus (y!receiving)
WC: 6k
Part IV
A/N: it’s the middle of the night but I don’t care. Hope y’all like it 💛
──────── Damages ────────
The aftermath of Yolanda Garcia is both immediate and devastating.
“I am terminating our agreement effective immediately.” She doesn’t stick around after the words leave her mouth, the door shutting behind her with a sound that’s far too soft for the destruction it causes.
It doesn’t feel real, this isn’t happening.
You’re still frozen in the hospital bed, your fingers twitching nervously against the blanket. The monitor that signifies your heart rate is still in a steady rhythm, like your heart hasn’t caught up to reality yet. Everything is exactly the same as before.
Except…except that she’s gone.
Your eyes stay fixed on the door that she’s disappeared through like she’ll walk back through it, like this is all some kind of fucked-up joke. You’re just waiting, because that’s what you do. You wait for her to come back and clarify, you’ve clearly missed something here. Yolanda doesn’t just leave things unfinished like that. There’s always some sort of structure or follow-through, always -
But there’s nothing.
Silence stretches in the room for five minutes, which becomes ten, and ten becomes twenty.
That’s when reality sinks in and your chest begins to tighten.
No. No, she - she wouldn’t just leave you like that -
She said she was terminating the agreement.
You might actually throw up.
2.3 Termination Without Cause
Either party may terminate this Agreement at any time, with or without explanation -
Your breath catches in your throat.
No, no, no -
2.4 Immediate Termination for Cause
Party A may immediately terminate the Agreement for any breach of contract -
The blanket bunches in your fist as your fingers flex against the bed.
You broke it, you broke it, you fucked up -
Your heart catches up to the severity of your situation, the beeping behind you picking up speed and betraying you. It’s loud in your ears, echoing, matching the way you can feel your pulse throbbing in your fingertips.
This isn’t happening, this cannot be real.
“She’ll come back,” you whisper to yourself, the words barely able to make it past the lump in your throat. “She - she just needs a minute, that’s all. She’ll come back and fix it.”
Yolanda always fixes things, that’s what she does, she’s a surgeon, for fucks’ sake, this won’t be an exception. That’s what she’s been doing for the entire eight months or your relation - your agreement, solving problems before they can touch either of you, smoothing everything out and making everything manageable.
But even you can’t convince yourself. Your breathing starts to pick up as you begin to hyperventilate.
“She’ll come back,” you say again, louder. “She’s just - she’s just thinking, it’ll be okay.”
Oh god, you don’t know what to do.
Not just the money, even though that’s there, the thought closing in around you, the fact that you’re now alone in a room you can’t afford. But the absence of her, the absence of direction, of certainty. Nobody to tell you what comes next.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, stinging as you blink them back.
Think, you need to think.
You tilt your head back to avoid them falling, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes.
Okay, okay.
She said she was terminating the agreement. That means - that means no more support. You’ll be okay, you’ll survive, you survived before her, you can survive after her. No more support, no more transfers, no more -
Your stomach lurches violently.
No more Yolanda.
Your body jolts with a sob that threatens to escape you.
No, no, no -
You push yourself up a little higher on the bed, thinking sitting up might help you calm down, but the change in position pulls at the bruising on your belly and you gasp in pain.
It doesn’t matter, none of it matters to you. You were so close, eight months of doing everything right – you followed the rules, you stayed quiet, you behaved, being exactly what she needed, what she wanted you to -
7.2 Honesty
Party B shall not materially misrepresent -
You lied. Not directly, at least not after that one little lie in the beginning about being taken care of, but you – you didn’t tell her. You didn’t tell her where the money was going, what you were doing with it, how close you were to -
You lied. Of course she terminated it, why wouldn’t she?
You don’t lie, you’re a good girl, what were you thinking?
Your hands fly to your face, pushing the heels into your eyes to stop the stinging as tears begin to fall freely. Panic is filling your lungs like water and you’re drowning. You can’t breathe. Your eyes dart to your phone, still lying face-down on the bed next to you.
Right, you can - maybe you can fix this.
You grab it with shaky hands, almost dropping it with your fumbling in your haste. The screen lights up at full brightness, making you squint as you open your messages. You can explain yourself, you can fix this, but what do you even say?
I’m sorry is too small.
Please don’t do this is pathetic.
I didn’t mean to isn’t true, you did mean to, you just didn’t think -
Hurry, before she decides this is final, before this becomes real.
can we please talk
That’s what you settle on, not hesitating to hit send. But just as it sends, your heart plummets as the nightmare somehow manages to get worse.
Green. The text bubble is green.
Blocked.
You might actually be having a heart attack, this cannot be real.
The door handle twists and you jerk your head up, hope surging in your chest so fast it gives your heart whiplash. But it’s not her, and you crash right back down to rock bottom.
A nurse pokes her head in, looking at your monitor with a frown. “Hey, your heart rate’s climbing a lot,” she says gently as she steps inside. “Are you okay?”
You try to take a deep breath to calm down but your lungs won’t cooperate with you, your breaths coming in short bursts that aren’t enough for you to fill your lungs with air.
“I - I’m fine,” you lie.
You’re not fine, you’ve never been less fine. The one person who makes you sure you’re fine is gone, and she isn’t coming back.
“It’s okay,” she says, turning back toward the door. “I’m gonna grab the doctor, okay? Just stay with me, keep trying to breathe.”
Don’t leave.
You don’t say it out loud, that’s ridiculous, you don’t even know this lady. You just don’t want to be alone.
The nurse slips out the door and you’re alone again.
Your chest hurts.
“Hey,” Dr. Santos says, moving quickly through the doorway and shutting it behind her. Her sleeves are pushed up messily, like she did it in a hurry. Her eyes are on you, then the monitor, then back on you again. “What’s happening, what’s going on?”
You shake your head quickly, unable to respond to her in words. What little air you can manage to get into your lungs isn’t enough, not enough for you to speak, not enough for you to think.
You can’t say it, you can’t tell her.
Your fingers twitch toward your phone where it sits, the screen still lit, that awful and singular green message visible if she looks close enough. And she notices, of course she does, how could she not? Her eyes hover there for a moment before they flick back to your face as she files away your phone without a word.
“Okay,” she says. “that’s fine, you don’t have to tell me. Just stay with me, okay?”
You’re gasping for air at this point, it feels like a very real possibility that you’re having a heart attack. “I can’t -” you start again. “I can’t breathe -”
“You can and you are, it just doesn’t feel like it right now,” she says calmly as she approaches you. She reaches out, her hand finding your arm and holding it loosely. “Look at me. In through your nose, nice and slow.”
You try to follow her instructions, you really really do. But your body won’t listen, your breathing is still uneven and quick and your heart is hammering inside your chest so violently that it makes your hands shake.
“Okay,” Dr. Santos pivots without missing a beat. “That’s okay, we’ll meet you where you are.” Her fingers begin to dig into your arm as she holds it tighter in her grip. “Can you feel this? This right here.”
You nod, the pressure on your arm nearly painful.
“Good, that’s good,” she nods. “You’re here, you’re okay. Nothing is happening to you right now, you’re okay.”
Nothing, except everything.
Your vision blurs again as tears you didn’t even notice building slip over your waterline before you can stop them. “I - I messed up,” you choke out.
There’s a moment where your doctor pauses, her hand still on your arm, grounding you as best she can. A stillness while she takes in your words.
“Okay,” she says. “We can talk about that later, but right now I need you to breathe.”
You shake your head, tilting up toward the ceiling, willing the tears to go away. “I can’t,” you insist. “I don’t know what to do -”
That’s the part that sticks. You see it in her face, the moment that she understands that this isn’t something she can talk you down from. Recognition that this is about more than just your injuries, that whatever it is, it’s not about the hospital, it’s something else.
“Alright,” she says, nodding. “I can give you something to take the edge off, help you calm down a little. Would that be okay?”
You hesitate, your eyes drifting down to the red medical allergy alert bracelet donning your right wrist. Because accepting medication - because earlier - because Yolanda -
Your stomach lurches as she’s shoved to the forefront of your mind.
“She’s not -” words slip out of you like water running through your fingertips. “She’s not here -”
The doctors expression almost flickers, you see it in the way her eyebrows pull together just the tiniest bit. Nearly imperceptible, except that you’ve learned to read microexpressions over the last eight months, to be able to tell what someone is thinking before they even fully form the thought.
“No,” she says calmly, as she makes direct eye contact with you. “She’s not.”
Not Dr. Garcia, not right now.
You swallow hard. “…okay,” you finally whisper, mostly because you don’t have anything else. No Yolanda to fall back on.
“Okay,” she echoes as she rises from your bedside. “I’ll be right back.”
──────── Damages ────────
The aftermath of terminating the agreement is quieter than Yolanda expects.
And that’s her fault, really. Blocking you the second she left your hospital room meant silence. There was no screaming, no pleading, and certainly no dramatic fallout beyond the one she had already walked away from in the emergency department, and you’d clearly been in some sort of shock when she left. You didn’t even say anything, for fucks’ sake.
There was just…silence.
At first, that’s a good thing. It means she handled it correctly, things ended professionally and cleanly, the way that it was supposed to. The way all of these kinds of arrangements ended.
But then there’s the unexpected fallout. Not just of this kind of arrangement ending, the sex isn’t that big of a deal. Yolanda owns a vibrator, after all, and she could go out to a bar and get pussy if she really wanted to.
No, the rhythm disruptions are where she truly begins to feel it.
Like the first time that she wakes up in the middle of the night, reaching towards the other side of the bed - your side of her bed - before remembering that it isn’t actually your side anymore. Or when she stops ordering takeout from the places you liked because the first time she does it, the portions she orders are too large for one person and she realizes she’s subconsciously ordered for you too.
Or there’s the time she buys groceries that she doesn’t end up eating because she’d grown accustomed to keeping things you like stocked in her kitchen. Or when she checks her phone multiple times after rough shifts before remembering that there’s nobody to text anymore.
But the worst is when she comes home expecting light. Because you were almost always there first, before she got home from the hospital. With the candles lit, or even when you’d just turn on the lamp in the living room and bedroom. You almost always had some sort of music playing, usually a shitty soft violin cover of whatever pop song was popular at the time, because god forbid you listen to something that wasn’t Sabrina Carpenter.
Without you, her home is cold. It’s quiet, leaving her to sit in her own feelings, too clean because the bed is still perfectly made, just the way she left it in the morning before going to work, no imprint of your body on top of the sheet where you were waiting for her.
In the first few days, her brain pretends you’re still there. And it’s messed up, really.
She sits up in bed suddenly, hearing your keys drop into the little ceramic bowl by her front door, before she realizes that the door never actually opened in the first place. Or when she gets off shift and goes to get her clothes from the dryer, only to realize they were never in the dryer because she never switched them from the wash.
That’s where the pain really lives, in the tiny but intimate absences.
The sweater turns up a few weeks later.
It’s dark gray, and way too big for you. The sleeves are stretched at the cuffs because you always shove your hands into them when you’re tired, creating one big tube of sleeves so you can hold your own elbows beneath the fabric.
Yolanda finds it wedged between the side of her bed and the nightstand while she’s looking for her phone charger.
She yanks it from it’s hiding place, irritation rising in her chest. You leave your shit everywhere: hair ties on the bathroom counter, lip gloss in the center console of her car. One of your earrings is even still sitting in the dish beside her sink.
It’s evidence of you, and it stirs feelings inside her that she shoves down with an angry hand.
The sweater is soft in her hands, from overuse and from the countless times it was washed with the terrible laundry detergent you used before you started washing your things at her place. She should throw it away.
But instead, she lifts it to her face.
It smells like you underneath the detergent. Your shampoo and your skin, she inhales your scent and for a moment, it feels like things are back to normal. It feels like you’re home.
Yolanda freezes at the thought.
This isn’t your home, this is her home. You were a temporary fixture, something she could rid herself of whenever you lost your usefulness. And she did, the moment you broke the rules.
And then she’s angry. Not at you, but at herself.
She throws the sweater to the floor at the foot of her bed in disgust, scowling at it like it’s offended her.
She doesn’t need you. What she needs is to replace the habit, replace the body. That, she can do.
──────── Damages ────────
The condo is dim, lit only by the hazy glow of a streetlamp that bleeds through the drawn blinds. Shadows stretch across the living room, across the couch where Yolanda is sprawled open, one leg hooked over the back cushion while a stranger kneels between her thighs.
The woman has dark hair and sharp cheekbones, pretty enough to have caught Yolanda’s attention at the bar but forgettable enough that she already can’t remember her name exactly.
Maybe it’s Alice? Yeah, that sounds right.
Alice’s tongue drags slow through slick folds while her fingers push deep inside Yolanda, curling expertly inside wet heat.
It should work, god, it should be working.
Yolanda lets her head fall back against the couch and forces herself to focus solely on the physical sensation instead of the hollow feeling that’s been hovering at the back of her mind for too long now. The woman is good with her mouth, good with her hands, and attentive in the exact way people are when they’re trying to impress someone that they desperately want to call tomorrow.
In the past, that’s been enough for Yolanda. But not tonight.
Every touch becomes you.
The brush of dark hair against her thighs turns into the feeling of your hair falling out of your ponytail as your head lies in her lap. The too-heavy perfume fades into phantom smells of your body wash on your skin, the smell that still lingers on the sweater she hasn’t been able to throw away, the one that’s currently hiding underneath her pillow -
Her stomach twists in repulsion.
They’re the wrong hands, it’s the wrong mouth, the wrong woman -
Alice moans against her pussy, clearly encouraged by the way Yolanda’s hips jerk upward into her mouth, and guilt flashes ugly through the haze of arousal because this woman has no idea that she’s competing with someone who isn’t even here.
Yolanda grips a fistful of dark hair anyway, grounding herself in the moment through sheer force of will. She chases the sensation instead of thought - the slide of this woman’s fingers curling up against her g-spot, the heat of her tongue against her clit, the coil that’s winding itself inside her middle.
It almost works: pleasure builds, Yolanda’s thighs tremble, her breathing turning ragged and uneven.
And then Alice adjusts her angle, her fingers crooking upward against the textured wall inside Yolanda, a devastating blow to finish her off at the exact second her tongue pushes flat against her clit.
That’s your move.
It’s not on purpose, Alice couldn’t possibly know that, but suddenly Yolanda is picturing you with a clarity that’s painful: your eyes flicking up to watch her cum against your mouth, the smug little curve of your mouth when you’d realize she couldn’t help herself, the way you’d whine, drunk on the taste of her.
The fantasy crashes over her so hard it steals the breath from her lungs and her back bows, doubling over the woman’s head, still held in Yolanda’s grip.
“Fuck – yeah, right there -” Her voice breaks, hips jerking, and before she can stop herself: “- fuck!” And then your name tears out of her.
Silence slams into the room.
Alice pulls away immediately, fingers sliding free with a slick sound that makes humiliation burn hot beneath Yolanda’s skin. The loss leaves her twitching and painfully unfinished, arousal still coursing uselessly in her veins.
Alice stares at her for a moment in disbelief before wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Yolanda’s stomach drops. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”
“You just moaned another woman’s name while I was fucking you.” Alice pushes to her feet, grabbing her shirt from the floor. “Seriously?”
Yolanda’s teeth clench together as shame mixes with leftover want. She sits up too fast, almost dizzy from it. “Wait, Alice, it’s not -”
“What?” Alice interrupts her flatly. “My name is fucking Amber. You know what? I’m not doing this.” She snatches her jacket off the back of the couch, shaking her head with open disgust now. “Lose my number.”
And then she’s gone, the apartment door slamming hard enough to rattle the walls behind her.
Yolanda stays frozen on the couch, elbows braced against her knees, trying to steady her breathing. Her body still aches with the interrupted pleasure, still swollen and unsatisfied as she shift uncomfortably in her seat.
She can still feel the ghost of that last touch, but even the memory betrays her now. It isn’t the stranger she feels, it’s you, your mouth, your hands. Your voice, low and filthy against her skin while you whine and groan your way through her pleasure.
She should get up and take a shower. Drink some water to offset the drinks, go to sleep.
Instead, her hand slips between her legs as she leans back against the couch again, chasing the memory she’s been trying to outrun. It’s pathetic, she knows that, but it doesn’t stop her.
Her fingers move faster as the fantasy returns. Your mouth on her thighs, your wide eyes on her face as you both chase her pleasure, the way you used to touch her in the ways you knew she’d want before she even said a word.
The orgasm hits hard and ugly less than a minute later, your name muffled against her wrist while the tears she’s been refusing to cry burn hot behind her eyes.
──────── Damages ────────
The first thing you notice after Yolanda is how loud your old life is.
It’s not actually new, of course. The house has always sounded like this: the groan of old plumbing, the television that murmurs from your parents’ bedroom, and the rattle of the window AC unit that only works if you hit it twice. But after eight months of practically living in Yolanda’s silent and spotless condo, the noise feels unbearable.
You forgot what it was like to hear every issue.
The uneven wheeze in the ceiling vent. Your dad coughing in the kitchen after sixteen-hour workdays, or your mother standing above the kitchen table with a calculator, whispering numbers under her breath like prayers.
You wake up before sunrise most mornings because your father is already leaving for his first job by then. The floorboards creak beneath his boots, and you can hear the front door open and then close from your bedroom. In the distance, you can hear the car cough twice before finally turning over.
You lie awake, staring at water stains on the ceiling and think about how different Yolanda’s bedroom sounded in the mornings. It was quiet, and you woke to soft sheets, and the sound of her central air humming low in the vents.
You used to wake up warm when you were there. Now you wake up cold.
You roll over and check your phone without even thinking about it. There’s nothing there. No texts, no missed calls, not even the transactional messages that used to come every Friday morning.
You drag yourself out of bed for work ten minutes later.
The bruising along your abdomen from the accident has faded to yellow now, but it still hurts when you move too quickly. Your shoulder pops unpleasantly every time you lift something heavy. Dr. Santos had recommended physical therapy during your discharge, after they never managed to get you a room upstairs before discharging you.
You’d laughed out loud when she said it. Physical therapy, what a joke. You could barely afford ibuprofen.
You slide back into your old routine so quickly it’s almost scary.
Work, home, sleep, repeat.
You take every shift your shitty retail job offers, and even that still keeps you just under full-time. Twenty-nine hours one week, thirty-four the next if someone calls out sick.
“Can you stay late tonight?” Your manager doesn’t even look up from the clipboard in his hands as he asks.
“Uh,” you stall weakly, nearly swaying on your feet. “I actually opened this morning.”
“And?”
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to nod. “Yeah, okay.”
Still not enough for benefits, even as the first bill from the hospital appears in your mailbox.
The first one sits unopened on the kitchen table for almost three weeks before you gather the courage to open it, and the number at the bottom of the charges actually makes you sick.
Every day, more envelopes pile around the one from the hospital. Red stamps with FINAL NOTICE or PAST DUE on them.
Nobody opens them anymore, not even your mother.
Your parents pretend not to see them when they eat dinner. You pretend not to notice your mother quietly moving them into stacks every few days based on who the return envelopes are addressed to, like the organization makes the debt less real. In reality, it’s just less chaotic when they’re not all sprawled out.
The money from Yolanda disappears immediately. It was all allocated already, you never wasted a penny because every dollar belonged to someone else the moment it was in your hands. The mortgage, the loan for the roof, the HVAC payments, utilities, gas, groceries, minimum payments stretched across too many accounts.
You’d spent eight months holding the house above water with your bare hands and now the tide is coming rushing back in all at once.
You begin to check your bank account obsessively again.
Five dollars before payday. Then three. Then negative twelve.
You start skipping breakfast - an unhealthy habit you had long before Yolanda, one that she had to force you to unlearn when you started spending the night at her place. You stop turning on the heat when the house gets cold. You even tell your mom you’re not hungry some nights because there isn’t enough left for everyone to eat.
And underneath all of it, beneath the fear and the humiliation, is the ache of missing Yolanda so badly that it makes you feel sick. You miss the way her coffee tasted better than yours even though you bought the same brand afterwards, trying to recreate it. You miss the sound of her voice, saying your name when she was half asleep.
You do your best not to think about the breakup, if you could even call it that. No, you can’t, because it wasn’t a real relationship. The termination is what you should call it.
You feel cheap. Dirty.
The way she threw you away like you were nothing. Your heart twists painfully in your chest when you think about it. As if you were an inconvenience, lying there in that hospital bed. That hurts worse than the financial panic, and you hate yourself for that. Because losing Yolanda shouldn’t matter more to you than losing your safety net. Except that she wasn’t just your safety net by the end.
That’s the problem.
You miss her in ways that are humiliating.
The way she’d hold your thigh possessively anytime the two of you went anywhere, whether she was driving or not. How she’d order your coffee or food without asking what you wanted, because she didn’t need to ask, she knows you.In the same way you know her, understand her, she understands you. You miss the shape of her life wrapping around you. You miss being expected somewhere, wanted somewhere.
The worst part is that you still catch yourself mentally saving things to tell her. Customers at work saying bizarre shit, or memes Charlie sends you, or about how the stray cat behind the dumpster that finally let you pet it after months of trying. Every time you think Yolanda needs to know this, reality hits you a moment later.
Gone. She’s gone. Because you lied to her.
No. You didn’t lie. You survived. But apparently there’s no difference to Yolanda.
Charlie corners you during your lunch break a few weeks after the breakup.
“You look awful,” she says bluntly, though her tone has a teasing edge to it.
You blink up from your paper coffee cup. “Thanks.”
“I’m serious.” Charlie slides into the seat across from you in the dingy mall food court, frowning hard. She’s still wearing her bookstore lanyard from the store across the plaza. “You’ve been weird for weeks.”
“I got hit by a car.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
You stare down into your watery coffee, trying your best to hold off the tears that always come with thinking about Yolanda.
Charlie softens as she reaches across the table to touch your hand. “Was it that woman?”
Your stomach ties itself into a knot instantly.
Charlie doesn’t know the details. She never has, that was against the rules. You never told her about the arrangement, only that you’d been seeing someone older. But Charlie had met Yolanda once by accident when she picked you up from work.
That had, apparently, been enough.
“The hot doctor woman,” Charlie continues. “Did you guys break up?”
The term break up feels wrong, even though that’s what you’ve been calling it in your head. Break up implies it was mutual. You and Yolanda never even addressed what was happening outside of the contract while it was happening.
“Yeah,” you say quietly.
Charlie’s mouth twists to one side as she weighs her next words carefully. “Did she hurt you?”
The question catches you off guard because the answer is complicated. Not intentionally. Yolanda ended things like a surgeon making a clean incision: precise and controlled, and you know intimately how much she values control.
“She found out some stuff,” you mumble eventually.
Charlie waits for you to continue.
“She thought I lied to her.”
“Did you?”
You stare at the table. “I don’t know anymore.”
Reaching across the table to you, Charlie squeezes your arm gently. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” she says gently. “But something is really wrong with you, and I need you to know that I can tell.”
Your throat burns as you hold off the tears, and you look away fast before she notices. You’ve spent so long being the stable one in your family that basic concern feels unbearable now.
After that day, Charlie starts checking up on your constantly, like the good best friend she is. She texts you, sends you memes, and more than once she shows up during your shift with extra fries because “they made too many.”
Sometimes you answer her, and sometimes you stare at the messages for ages without replying because even typing feels too exhausting lately. Like maintaining your one friendship is too much, and you’d rather lay in bed and rot.
Depression settles over you so gradually that you don’t recognize it.
Laundry piles up in your room. You stop listening to music on the bus on your way to work. Food starts tasting like cardboard. Your days blur together into one endless loop of work and worry and exhaustion. And underneath it all sits the certainty that nothing good is coming anymore. That the eight months with Yolanda were some sort of weird interruption of your real life, a brief detour where you accidentally got to feel safe and taken care of. And loved.
But now you’re back where you belong.
The thought makes you feel sick every time it surfaces, because you know Yolanda would hate hearing that you think that way about yourself. Which is almost funny, because you still know her opinions instinctively. You wonder if she still thinks about yours.
One night, your father falls asleep at the kitchen table still wearing the uniform from his second job.
You stand there staring at him for a long time.
His hands look older lately. They’re covered with cracked skin and grease trapped beneath his nails that he can never seem to get out anymore.
Your mother drapes a blanket over his shoulders without waking him.
Neither of you say anything, because what even is there to say?
The kitchen table becomes buried in unopened envelopes.
PAST DUE.
URGENT.
FINAL NOTICE.
You recognize the return address from the hospital every time another bill arrives, and you start hiding them underneath the others without opening them. If you don’t know the final number, if you never see the interest pile up, maybe it can’t kill you yet.
The drain under the kitchen sink begins to leak, and your mother puts a pot underneath the drip with a look of both exhaustion and exasperation on her face. You stand there in silence, listening to water tap against metal.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“I can pick up more hours,” you blurt suddenly.
Your mother looks up at you sharply. “No.”
“I can.”
“You already work too much.”
“It’s not enough.”
Her face crumples for a moment before she smooths her expression back out. “Honey.”
You hate that helpless look, and turn away before she can see your eyes watering.
Later that night, lying awake in bed, you finally break and open your bank app again. The number that stares back at you makes your heart sink.
You start crying before you even recognize that it’s happening, silent tears sliding sideways into your pillow while you press your fist against your mouth to keep quiet.
You miss Yolanda so bad that it hurts. Not the money, not the relief that comes with existing around her, but her. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t paying attention, and the rare sound of her laughing unguarded, usually when you said something she wasn’t expecting. You start to wonder if she misses you too, before immediately stopping yourself because it doesn’t matter. Missing Yolanda isn’t going to fix anything.
Pulling your phone back up to your face, you open the browser on your phone and log back into the website where you first met Yolanda.
──────── Damages ────────
“We can’t keep doing this,” your mother mutters as she stares down the pile of unopened envelopes.
Your father sighs heavily from across the table, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion after another double shift. “Open the worst ones first.”
Which ones even are the worst ones? You don’t know anymore. Still, nobody argues.
You stand at the counter, twisting the cap off a bottle of generic painkillers. Your ribs hurt from being on your feet all day, the last remnants of your time with Yolanda.
Your mother reaches for the mortgage statement. The envelope is wrinkled from being shoved around the table for weeks without being opened.
She breaks the seal carefully, and silence stretches as she scans the contents of the letter. But then, she frowns.
Your father’s brow furrows as he looks up at her. “What?”
She doesn’t answer.
You glance over at her, distracted at first, expecting another overdue notice, or another conversation about “figuring it out.”
Instead, your mother just keeps staring at the paper.
“Mom?”
Her eyes eventually start to lift from the paper, confusion etched into the lines of her face, and she looks almost…alarmed. “It says it’s paid.”
Your father tilts his head, confused. “What?”
“The mortgage,” she laughs, the sound disbelieving. “It says the balance is paid.”
You straighten. “Paid this month?”
“No,” her voice sounds strange now. “Paid off, in full.” She reaches back into the envelope, digging around until her fingers pluck additional papers out of it. She unfolds them with shaky hands, and you can vaguely make out the words LOAN PAYOFF and DEED on them.
Your father stands upright from the chair, reaching for the papers. “Let me see that.”
Your mother hands him the statement with trembling fingers while you step closer, heart pounding in your chest.
Your dad scans the pages once, then again. “What the hell?”
You snatch the statement from his hands. The words blur in front of your eyes before they settle at the bottom.
CURRENT BALANCE: $0.00
That’s not possible, there has to be a mistake. A printing error, the wrong account number, something.
Feeling suddenly unsteady, you grab the nearest envelope off the pile and tear it open to find the electric bill. PAID IN FULL.
You rip open another to find the HVAC loan. ZERO BALANCE.
Another.
Roof financing. ACCOUNT CLOSED.
“No,” you say quietly to yourself. “No, no, no -”
Your pulse is pounding in your ears. There’s only one envelope left in the pile. Your hospital bill.
You freeze, staring at it.
“Honey -” your mother says, noticing your unnerving stillness.
But you’re already grabbing it, the envelope tearing badly in your rush. Your eyes skim the page frantically until they catch on the number near the bottom.
CW: depictions of sex work (sex in exchange for money), sugar baby relationship, reader feels shame over SW, transactional intimacy, wealth disparity and class imbalance, child supporting parents financially, financial stress and instability, reader has a backstory, reader wears a dress and makeup, emotionally confusing!Yolanda, financially desperate!reader, smut (explicit sexual content), cunnilingus (y!receiving), fingering (y!receiving) strap sex (r!receiving), praise kink, reader has enough hair to pull.
WC: 9.7k
Part II
A/N: this has been shadow banned for some reason, but I’m glad you found it anyway. I am back at home after visiting my home country! Anyway, I hope you enjoy Part III 💛 I took notes from my surrogacy contract on the layout for the contract in this chapter. I have never seen any other contract in real life, so that will have to do. Also I dropped so many brand names that it feels like this chapter was sponsored.
──────── The Fine Print ────────
PRIVATE COMPANIONSHIP AND SUPPORT AGREEMENT - CONFIDENTIAL
This Private Companionship and Support Agreement (the “Agreement”) is entered into voluntarily by and between Party A and Party B as of the Effective Date set forth upon execution.
The parties acknowledge that this Agreement governs a private, consensual, personal arrangement involving companionship, discretionary financial support, scheduling expectations, and mutual standards of conduct. This Agreement does not create an employment relationship, partnership, marriage, agency relationship, or any other legal association beyond the terms expressly stated herein.
ARTICLE I - DEFINITIONS
1.1 Party A
Refers to the individual providing discretionary financial support and privileges under this Agreement.
1.2 Party B
Refers to the individual receiving discretionary financial support in exchange for companionship, availability, discretion, and adherence to the standards contained herein.
1.3 Arrangement
The private relationship governed by this Agreement, including companionship, social attendance, private time, communication expectations, and mutually agreed personal conduct.
1.4 Support
Any monetary transfer, gift, purchase, transportation arrangement, lodging, wardrobe provision, medical assistance, or other benefit extended at Party A’s sole discretion unless otherwise expressly guaranteed.
ARTICLE II - TERM AND TERMINATION
2.1 Initial Term
This Agreement shall commence upon signature by both parties and remain in effect for an initial term of ninety (90) days.
2.2 Renewal
Following the initial term, the Agreement may continue on a month-to-month basis unless terminated by either party.
2.3 Termination Without Cause
Either party may terminate this Agreement at any time, with or without explanation, via written notice.
2.4 Immediate Termination for Cause
Party A may immediately terminate the Agreement for any breach of contract, including but not limited to dishonesty, public indiscretion, repeated unavailability, violation of confidentiality, unsafe conduct, or refusal to comply with mutually agreed standards.
ARTICLE III - CONFIDENTIALITY AND DISCRETION
3.1 Confidential Information
Party B shall maintain strict confidentiality regarding Party A’s identity, profession, residence, schedule, finances, associates, habits, and private affairs.
3.2 Non-Disclosure
Party B shall not disclose the existence or terms of this Arrangement to third parties except licensed counsel or medical professionals where necessary.
3.2.1 Addendum
Additionally, Party A shall be notified immediately upon any such disclosure or circumstance reasonably likely to require disclosure.
3.3 Digital Conduct
Party B shall not photograph, record, livestream, post, imply, hint at, or otherwise reference Party A or this Arrangement on any public platform.
3.4 Public Conduct
When in shared public settings, Party B shall conduct themselves with discretion and composure appropriate to Party A’s reputation and professional standing.
ARTICLE IV - COMPANIONSHIP EXPECTATIONS
4.1 Availability
Party B shall make reasonable efforts to remain available for invitations, dinners, overnight stays, travel, or companionship requests communicated by Party A.
4.2 Scheduling Priority
Party A acknowledges Party B may maintain employment and personal obligations; however, Party B shall provide timely notice of scheduling conflicts.
4.3 Presence
When attending Party A, Party B shall arrive punctual, prepared, well-groomed, and appropriately dressed.
4.4 Conduct
Party B shall conduct themselves with courtesy, emotional steadiness, and maturity in Party A’s presence.
ARTICLE V - FINANCIAL SUPPORT
5.1 Discretionary Transfers
Party A may provide financial transfers at intervals and amounts determined in Party A’s sole discretion, except where specific sums are otherwise agreed in writing.
5.2 Extraordinary Need
Party B may disclose urgent financial hardship; Party A is under no obligation to intervene.
5.3 Gifts and Purchases
Wardrobe, travel, meals, transportation, personal items, or household assistance provided by Party A remain discretionary.
5.4 Debt Relief
Party A may, at sole election, contribute toward Party B’s debts, obligations, or arrears without assuming legal responsibility for them.
ARTICLE VI - HEALTH, WELLNESS, AND PERSONAL MAINTENANCE
6.1 General Standard
Party B shall make reasonable efforts to maintain their health, safety, hygiene, and appearance.
6.2 Medical Disclosure
Party B shall promptly disclose any illness, injury, hospitalization, any newly discovered allergy or adverse reaction, or material health concern reasonably affecting availability or wellbeing.
6.3 Substance Use
Party B shall not engage in reckless misuse of alcohol, narcotics, or substances that may compromise judgment or safety.
6.4 Nutrition
Party B agrees to maintain reasonable nutritional habits. Where Party A provides meals, groceries, supplements, or recommendations, such guidance shall be taken seriously and not disregarded.
6.5 Rest
Party B shall make reasonable efforts toward adequate sleep and general self-maintenance.
ARTICLE VII - COMMUNICATION
7.1 Responsiveness
Party B shall respond to direct communications from Party A within a reasonable timeframe when awake, available, and able.
7.2 Honesty
Party B shall not materially misrepresent whereabouts, wellbeing, finances, relationships, or circumstances relevant to the Arrangement.
7.3 Tone
Both parties agree to communicate directly and without manipulative conduct.
ARTICLE VIII - EXCLUSIVITY AND OUTSIDE RELATIONSHIPS
8.1 Disclosure of Conflicts
Party B shall disclose any outside relationship likely to interfere with availability, discretion, or safety.
8.2 No Presumption of Exclusivity
Unless otherwise expressly agreed in writing, this Arrangement does not guarantee exclusivity.
ARTICLE IX - RESPECTIVE AUTONOMY
9.1 Voluntary Participation
Both parties affirm participation is voluntary and may cease at any time.
9.2 Personal Autonomy
Nothing herein shall be construed to transfer legal control over either party’s personhood, bodily autonomy, voting rights, finances, or independent life decisions.
9.3 Boundaries
Either party may state boundaries at any time, which shall be respected.
ARTICLE X - BREACH OF CONTRACT
The following may constitute material breach:
Repeated dishonesty
Public embarrassment or indiscretion
Dangerous conduct
Persistent unreliability
Harassment
Violation of confidentiality
Intentional disrespect
Exploitation of generosity in bad faith
Remedies may include suspension of support, termination, revocation of access, or other lawful action.
ARTICLE XI - MISCELLANEOUS
11.1 Entire Agreement
This document constitutes the entire understanding between the parties.
11.2 Amendments
No amendment shall be valid unless reduced to writing or clearly acknowledged by both parties.
11.3 Governing Law
This Agreement shall be interpreted under the laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
11.4 Private Nature
The parties acknowledge that not all meaningful relationships conform to conventional structures.
Party A: 𝒴𝑜𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹𝒶 𝒢𝒶𝓇𝒸𝒾𝒶 Date:
Party B: Date:
──────── The Fine Print ────────
Getting used to Yolanda is less about the sex and more about everything that happened afterwards.
Anyone can imagine what it might be like to be taken home by a woman like that, sharp-edged in personality and expensive in all aspects, but you never thought to account for the weird disorientation that follows.
The first night ends sometime after midnight with a mixture of painfully sore muscles and seven kinds of disbelief.
At one in the morning, you’re standing in the lobby of her building with your dress back on and your hair fixed hastily, your thighs still trembling beneath while a black car waits outside the doors for you. Yolanda holds your chin with two fingers underneath, angling your face up towards hers to force you to look her in the eye.
“Text me when you get home.”
Then she lets go, turns on her heel, and disappears back toward the elevators without a glance back at you.
The driver opens the rear door for you as you slide in.
You spend the ride home staring at your reflection in the dark window. Your lipstick is smudged and your neck is marked by Yolanda’s mouth in multiple places.
When the car turns onto a street you recognize, you panic. “Actually, could you stop up there at the corner please?”
The driver doesn’t ask questions. Men like him probably know better than to ask women like you anything. He lets you out three blocks away from your house.
You walk the rest of the way with your heels dangling from one hand, your bare feet aching against the uneven pavement, just praying that none of the neighbors are awake enough to look out their windows. The porch light of your house is off when you slip inside quietly. Everyone is asleep, and you’re grateful.
You climb onto your bed in the dark and pull out your phone, just staring at the transfer notification.
$3000. You can’t even remember the last time you saw this kind of money, let alone had it. This has to be a dream, a fever dream, there’s no way any of this is real. In no reality is a woman like Yolanda paying you this kind of money for companionship.
Text me when you get home.
You do.
By nine the next morning, every penny of it has somewhere to go.
You pay the gas bill before they can shut it off. You bring the electric current. You clear the minimum due on two credit cards who’s bills your mother stopped opening months ago. You send money to the mechanic holding your parents’ car hostage behind a chain-link fence lot.
You leave yourself less than a hundred dollars and by lunchtime, the rest of it is gone. No proof of it remains except confirmation emails and the dizzy knowledge that a single night with Yolanda accomplished more than six months of honest work ever had.
Shame is the expectation, but instead, what you feel is relief that’s bone deep.
The first two weeks with Yolanda feel less like entering an arrangement and more like you’re being thrown into the deep end of a pool. There’s no awkward phase where the two of you figure one another out slowly like there is in a real relationship, at least from her side. Yolanda doesn’t seem to move slowly through anything in her life, and you’re not an exception. Once she’s made up her mind and you’ve both signed the contract, you find yourself folded into her schedule like you’re an appointment on her calendar. You wonder if you’re color-coded.
On day three, a black car pulls up at a curb where you’re waiting, after sending Yolanda your location. By day five, you’ve got a spare toothbrush in the guest bathroom of her place. By day seven, you start to recognize which nights she prefers silence when she gets home versus when she wants conversation, and you understand what to look for on the nights she reaches for you the moment you walk through her door.
It's dangerously easy to mistake for a real relationship, you learn over time. That’s the trap. You have to remind yourself of it constantly.
Because this is not a relationship. It only looks like one from a distance. Relationships involve mutual vulnerability, with long talks in the dark and meeting the other person’s family and friends. This is not that. This is a business arrangement where the product you’re selling is yourself. It’s paid in scheduled installments every Friday like clockwork.
Every Friday morning at nine, without fail, your phone lights up.
$5000.
The exact number you’d once laughed at on Charlie’s couch while watching TV, insisting nobody in real life would ever hand over that kind of money for companionship. Now it arrives weekly.
Sometimes there’s a note attached with a demand.
Buy something fancy to wear tonight.
You need new shoes.
Once it came with a simple Good girl attached and you’d flushed so badly you had to run to the bathroom to avoid your mother’s questions.
Yolanda pays for everything. Meals appear in front of you before you’ve even looked at the menu, cars are ordered before you even think about how you’re going to get home. A very expensive coat was once hanging in her hall one rainy night because the one you wear is far too thin. She hands over a keycard to her building about two weeks in, with the reasoning that she wants you to let yourself in so you can be waiting for her on nights she wants you after work.
And all the while, she remains very difficult to read. She can be generous to the point of absurdity, then distant before you’ve even finished dessert. She’ll drag you into her lap the second the door closes, but then spend breakfast reading emails like you aren’t even there. She remembers your coffee order after the first time, but she never asks you about your childhood.
She touches you constantly in private, but almost never in public.
Yolanda’s version of care is logistical. If you are hungry, food appears. If you are cold, there is cashmere. If you are tired, the car arrives early to take you home. If something in your life can be solved with money, it’s no problem. But feelings? Those are left unaddressed, sitting in the corner with dust on them.
Which is better than fine, really. It’s necessary.
Because your job is to take the money and go, and come back when she calls.
The first real display of her money comes the first time she takes you shopping.
When she first decided the two of you were going shopping, you expected her to take you to the mall. Not the shitty suburban one with the dying food court where half the storefronts are empty, but maybe something upper scale downtown. Something with department stores like Nordstroms, expensive enough to feel extravagant but normal enough that you don’t feel super out of place.
Instead, the driver takes a turn into a part of the city you only know from passing through. A place where trees are professionally trimmed and there’s not a single SALE sign anywhere. There are no crowds or teenagers walking in packs.
You sit up straighter next to Yolanda.
“Are we lost?” you ask without even thinking about it.
Yolanda doesn’t look up from her phone. “No.”
The car rolls to a stop at a curb in front of a building with gold lettering you don’t recognize until the driver opens the door and you can see it properly.
Versace.
You almost laugh because it’s so ridiculous, but it dies in your throat when Yolanda urges you to step out of the car with the pressure of her hand on your lower back.
Inside the store, the air screams expensive. It’s clean and smells floral without being overbearing in the way drugstore perfumes smell. The floor shines like water and clothes hang with absurd amounts of space between each piece because they’re only on display, the ones you can buy are in the back and you have to tell the salesperson your size before they’ll retrieve it for you.
There are more employees than customers and every one of them looks polished enough to be mistaken for management.
You can’t help but look down at yourself: you’re wearing jeans you’ve had for at least three years ago and the soles of your shoes are worn. The blouse you’re wearing is barely passable for a job interview, and that’s the only reason you own it. You honestly consider waiting outside for her because you very obviously don’t belong here.
A woman in black with her hair slicked back into a bun approaches with a smile that’s sharp enough to cut glass, and she greets Yolanda by name. “Ms. Garcia, it’s lovely to see you again.”
Yolanda nods in acknowledgement toward the woman with a smile of her own that isn’t friendly in the slightest, then she nods towards you. “She needs clothes.”
Heat crawls up your neck and you turn to Yolanda with wide eyes. “I have clothes,” you say quietly.
She turns her head just enough to pin you in place with a look. “These,” she says with a tug on a beltloop of your jeans, “are hanging on by a thread.”
The saleswoman’s hand lifts to touch her mouth, clearly trying to disguise what you think is a laugh.
But Yolanda turns back to her, unwilling to entertain your indignancy. “She needs daywear, evening options, outerwear, and new shoes.”
The woman has hit the commission jackpot, you can see it in the way her eyes light up at the suggestion of an entire wardrobe for you. She gestures toward a private sitting area with cream chairs and sparkling water already waiting on a tray. “Why don’t we get started in one of our fitting suites?”
Fitting suite. Not a fitting room. Fancy.
You hesitate, and Yolanda takes notice. Her hand brushes against the small of your back, steering you forward. It should feel possessive, but instead you find it steadying.
“Relax,” she says quietly enough that only you can hear it. “No one here is more important than you.”
You’re pretty sure your heart literally skips a beat, you can feel it pounding in your chest at her words and her breath on your ear.
The saleswoman is grabbing pieces off displays as she leads you both into the suite. “Let’s start with a few different silhouettes,” she says smoothly, lifting a hanger to hold in front of your body. “We can try something more structured, or something softer -”
“She’ll try both,” Yolanda cuts in as she steps past you like you’re part of the display.
You look back and forth between them. “I - wait -”
Nobody stops moving.
The woman disappears for a bit and returns with an armful of boxes - dresses, blouses, clothes that look like they cost more than the mortgage.
Your stomach drops with the realization of just how much money Yolanda is planning on spending on you in this store alone. When you first agreed to go shopping with her, you thought it was for her. You can’t afford a single thing in this store, at least not without the money Yolanda sends you, and that already has a -
“Get out of your head,” Yolanda says without looking away from the options in the saleswoman’s arms. And just as you open your mouth to speak, she continues, “I can practically hear you from here. Stop it.” She plucks a black dress from the choices. “Try this first.”
“Yolanda -”
“Try it on.”
There’s something in her tone that makes your argument stall out before you’ve even voiced it. She doesn’t sound angry per se, but there’s a finality to the way she speaks that seems to remind you of exactly where your place is.
You take the dress from her and retreat into the fitting suite.
It’s bigger than your bedroom. There’s a couch and a full-length mirror that’s framed in gold. The room is filled with soft warm light that makes everything look better. Alone, you stare at the dress in your hands for a long while before you start taking off your clothes and slip into it.
It’s different than your dresses at home, even the nice ones. It’s smooth on the inside, more comfortable. There are no itchy seams and the tag at the neckline doesn’t irritate your skin. You don’t dare look at it, you’d rather be oblivious than know how much this costs.
When you step out in it, Yolanda is sitting with one ankle resting over her knee, a glass of sparkling water in her hand. Though the moment you appear, she sets it down and stands immediately.
“Turn,” she demands.
You turn.
Heat creeps up your neck as you face away from her, annoyingly aware of the way the dress fits your body and hugs you in places you’re not used to.
“Again.”
You turn back.
Yolanda continues to stare at the dress in silence, her face never betraying what she’s thinking.
“Well?” you prompt.
Her narrowed eyes travel up your body to your face, and she’s silent for so long you think she might not even answer you. But to your surprise, she does. “I want to know what you think.”
That surprises you. You can’t read her opinions on the dress, therefore you can’t tailor your response to hers, which leaves you with no choice but the truth.
You frown. “I don’t like it.”
“Why.”
Hesitating, you look down at it. “It just…feels like a lot. Too much.”
Yolanda studies you for another moment before turning to the saleswoman. “Next.”
The saleswoman hands you something else before you’ve even processed the dismissal of the dress.
You change again and again. Each time, Yolanda watches. Occasionally she makes comments - some about the clothes, sometimes about you.
“Too loose.”
“Better.”
“Turn.”
“Again.”
“Stand up straight.”
She asks your opinions and you answer honestly. All of the pieces feel nice on your body, you can tell that they’re expensive and high quality. But you’re not a fan of the patterns, the cuts, dresses with asymmetry, or certain necklines or sleeves.
The saleswoman barely even looks at you when you speak, her attention is fixed entirely on Yolanda. She responds to her comments, adjusts things on you at her direction, asking her preferences as if you’re a doll instead of a person.
“Maybe something in a darker tone,” the woman suggests, holding up another option. “Ms. Garcia tends to favor -”
“I asked her,” you interrupt sharply.
The air in the room thins out as both Yolanda and the saleswoman look to you in shock.
4.4 Conduct
Party B shall conduct themselves with courtesy, emotional steadiness, and maturity in Party A’s presence.
ARTICLE X – BREACH OF CONTRACT
The following may constitute material breach:
Public embarrassment or indiscretion
Intentional disrespect
Fuck.
You’re quick to backtrack. “I-I’m sorry, that was rude,” you stutter. You look down at the dress you’re wearing, suddenly feeling very out of place again. “It’s - it’s fine, whatever you think is best -”
“No.” Yolanda cuts you off.
Your gaze travels up to her, ready to be scolded like a child.
She sets her glass down with care before stepping closer to you in the middle of the room. Her attention is fully yours now as her sharp eyes settle on you. “She doesn’t wear anything she doesn’t like,” Yolanda says to the saleswoman without looking at her. “I’m not interested in buying clothes for a mannequin.”
The saleswoman straightens immediately. “Of course, I didn’t mean to imply -”
“I know what you meant,” Yolanda replies coolly. “But she’s the one wearing it, so she needs to like it.” Her hand lifts to your waist, smoothing down a wrinkle. “So,” she continues, eyes flicking back to you, “do you like it?”
You swallow hard as the line between professionalism and your feelings blur. “…I don’t know.”
Yolanda nods, her lips pursing. “Then let’s keep looking.”
──────── The Fine Print ────────
Some nights, Yolanda calls you when she’s still in scrubs and tells you she doesn’t want to think about work anymore. Other nights you’ve already let yourself in before she gets home because you know just by the way she texts you on her break that she’s going to want you there.
The line blurs hard, and often.
The contract is still there, it hasn’t changed. But sometimes it feels less like something you signed and starts to feel more normal.
Tonight, you’re in nothing but one of her shirts and a pair of panties, sitting cross-legged on her black leather couch. She mirrors your position, donning a sports bra and pajama pants hung so low on her hips that it’s like she’s barely wearing them at all.
There’s takeout on the coffee table - Panda Express in plastic containers that are still steaming because the delivery driver had the sense to use an insulated bag. For the amount Yolanda tipped him, he’d better have.
She had ordered without asking what you wanted. She rarely asks for your opinions, ever since that first night months ago when you’d asked her to order for you. She likes the control, all the way down to the meal. Sometimes she looks at you when she orders for you, a playful glint in her eye, as if she’s daring you to object. You never do.
Yolanda is leaning back against the cushions, her back curved over her food to avoid dropping fried rice onto the couch. You can see the wear on her face, and you know it’s not just from the horizontal tango you finished mere minutes before your takeout arrived.
“Long day?” you ask.
You know she doesn’t like to talk about work, but on the occasion that she’s in a complaining mood, she’ll go on and on about people you’ve never heard of and their giant fuck-ups. You’re not sure who Langdon and Santos are, but they must be awful based on the way Yolanda can harp on about them for ages.
She glances up from her food to you. “They’re all long,” she says after swallowing the bite in her mouth. “We had a really severe anaphylaxis case come in right as I was leaving.”
That piques your interest. Even on the nights she wants to talk about work, it’s almost always details about her coworkers, nothing about patients or cases. “Like an allergy?” you ask. “Why would you be needed for an allergy?”
“I wasn’t paged for it,” she shrugs, stabbing her fork into her broccoli and beef. “I was already down in the ER when he came in and it escalated faster than it usually does. His airway was already closing before he got to us.”
You hesitate, trying to keep up. “What does that have to do with you?”
“Epinepherine didn’t hold long enough on it’s own, Robby grabbed me to secure the airway directly.”
Robby, you’ve heard that name before too. He’s in charge, if you remember correctly. But you won’t clarify.
“Secure it how?” you ask.
Yolanda covers her mouth as she chews quickly to speak. “Surgically,” she says. “A cricothyrotomy.”
You try to repeat the word under your breath like it’ll make more sense that way. “Cricothy...?”
She looks amused at the attempt and you flush, realizing she could hear you. “It’s more commonly called a crike,” she explains. “I made a small incision in the neck to bypass the swelling and get air into his lungs directly."
"You cut his neck?" you ask, eyes wide.
“It’s not something we do very often, kind of a last-resort when everything else fails,” she says casually. Way too casually for what she’s describing. “Guess Robby wanted me to do it so it wasn’t his ass on the line if it went south.”
She’s way too casual about this. She reaches for another bite of food, as if the moment has already passed and you’re not stuck on the fact that she cut someone’s neck open a few hours ago.
“That reminds me,” she says. “You’re allergic to walnuts, right? But you said that was it, no other tree nuts?”
You’re caught off-guard by the change in direction. “Yeah, just walnuts. You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” she rolls her eyes, looking annoyed at the implication that she’s ever forgotten anything. “You’ve never had issues with almonds, cashews, anything like that?”
You shake your head. “No, I’ve always been fine with that.”
“Mm.” It’s more of a sound of acknowledgement than concern. But then she adds, “Any other allergies I should know about? Food, environmental, medication, anything that’s ever caused a reaction you’ve had to avoid since.”
You wiggle on the couch, picking at your food. “I have some medication allergies,” you confirm, taking another bite.
“Which ones.”
The change in her tone has you looking up, and you find her already looking at you, fork down. She’s gone from casual into what you’d assume is work-mode for her in a matter of seconds, like she’s no longer your…whatever you’d call her, but now she’s your doctor.
You swallow the food in your mouth and wipe the corners with your thumb before answering. “…codeine, demerol, fosaprepitant, and perflutren lipid microspheres.”
“Perflutren lipid microspheres,” she deadpans back at you.
“It’s an ultrasound IV contrast -” you begin to explain, but she cuts you off quickly.
“No, I know what it is, I’m a doctor,” she says with a hand up to stop you. “I’ve just never heard you say something like that.” She ends the sentence with a small chuckle, like the notion of you saying something that fits into her world is silly.
You’re almost offended. “I’ve had to repeat those medications out loud anytime I’ve ever been in a medical setting, I could recite them in my sleep.”
Yolanda nods in understanding. “What kind of reactions did you have?”
“Anaphylaxis,” you say with a shrug.
She stops with the bite of food halfway to her mouth, clearly expecting you to go on. When you don’t, she sets her fork down. “…all of them?”
You nod in confirmation, scooping more of your own food for a bite. “Pretty much. Codeine and demerol are less so, the fosaprepitant and perflutren are severe. But I only risk taking those in a hospital, so at least I don’t have to carry an epi-pen for them, right?” you laugh.
Yolanda is quiet for a while before you look up at her, and you find her staring at nothing in the space between you. You can see the wheels turning as she thinks, not daring to interrupt. When she eventually does speak, what comes out of her mouth is considerably less casual than your earlier conversation.
“You don’t take anything new without telling me first.”
Your eyes widen, shocked. “Yolanda -”
“I work in emergency surgery,” she says, cutting you off. “I’m not interested in finding you in my hospital’s emergency room because you’ve taken something without knowing that one of those were an ingredient.”
6.2 Medical Disclosure
Party B shall promptly disclose any illness, injury, hospitalization, any newly discovered allergy or adverse reaction, or material health concern reasonably affecting availability or wellbeing.
3.4 Public Conduct
When in shared public settings, Party B shall conduct themselves with discretion and composure appropriate to Party A’s reputation and professional standing.
The two clauses blend together in your mind, filling in the blanks of what Yolanda is saying: do this so you don’t make problems for her at work.
“Yeah, okay.”
──────── The Fine Print ────────
Time accumulates. Days turn into weeks, which turn into months, beyond half a year.
There are nights that Yolanda comes home carrying the weight of her job, dragging you into the shower because your head between her legs is the only thing that’ll turn her brain off other than drinking, and she can’t do that every night. There are mornings where you force yourself to leave before she’s fully awake because she’s talking to you without the usual sharpness to her voice and she’s almost delved into softness that confuses you. And then there are Fridays that arrive with the same number in your account without fail. And as the bills diminish, as you chunk them down by throwing every available penny from Yolanda at them, your relief fades with the comfort of knowing your credit is starting to improve and once the mortgage is caught up, life won’t feel so chaotic anymore.
Somewhere along the way, you stop keeping track of how many times the line blurs. Not because it doesn’t matter, but because you know it’s going to keep happening, and your confusion isn’t enough to risk losing out on this money, not when you need it, not when you’re so close and your family is counting on you.
Your family is a hard subject. You’ve been paying these bills in secret, but your mother has been audibly wondering why there are less and less bills coming in the mail, and you don’t have an excuse. You can’t tell them you’ve been making payments without explaining where the money is coming from, and you can’t do that without both violating your contract and exposing what you’ve come to call your “dirty little secret.”
So you’re stuck. Sometimes for hours, in an anxiety-shame spiral that you have to deal with by yourself. Often alone, in the shower so nobody will hear your sobs or the deep, gasping breaths you take to try and calm yourself down.
The house, the bills, your credit, the car, the roof, stability, it all lands on you, on your ability to maintain this, this lifestyle, this job.
You won’t risk it for anything.
You will follow the rules. And the rules say no feelings.
──────── The Fine Print ────────
You know it before she says it tonight. Not because she ever says anything directly anymore, because she doesn’t need to.
Yolanda’s communication has always been direct, but not always verbal. Especially once the two of you had created this pattern, almost a mutual understanding. She doesn’t just follow patterns, you read them. You can read her like the back of your hand these days.
And tonight, it’s in the message she sends you. It doesn’t look any different on the surface, but you’ve learned the difference between a check-in and a summons.
You started to see the signs early in the evening, with a text on her break that doesn’t actually have any words, just a time. The time she gets off work. You don’t reply because you don’t need to, she isn’t expecting one. The little Read underneath the text on her phone will be enough.
You jump out of bed when you get her message, hopping quickly into the shower. There are hours before Yolo gets off work, and you have work to do until then. You wash and condition your hair twice, letting it half air-dry before blowdrying the rest. You shave what needs to be shaved, and even use the L’Occitane body wash that you only use on special occasions because the bottles are over $50 each. And then you pick out lingerie - the lavender lace set that you know is her favorite.
This is routine at this point. Even the act of leaving your house feels like you’re just going to work. Your mother doesn’t ask where you’re going as you slip out the front door.
By the time the car drops you off at her building, you’re not buzzing underneath the skin anymore, and you don’t hesitate at the entrance, even throwing a “Hey, Richard” at the doorman, who greets you in return with your own name.
There was a time when catching your reflection in the mirrored elevator wall would’ve made you turn away. But not anymore. The woman you were a year ago wouldn’t recognize you today. The way you turn to admire the clothes you’d thrown on over the lingerie - Vuori loungewear, over a hundred dollars a piece, and you’re currently wearing three pieces - and the way your eyes rake over your body the same way Yolanda does it.
No. Past you would’ve been intimidated by current you. You now scream luxury the way Yolanda does. And it’s thanks to her - beyond the payments, of course. Yolanda buys your clothes, your products, your makeup, you want her input on your hair, your style, you need her approval the same way you need water.
You let yourself into her condo like it’s second-nature, and it’s empty when you close the door behind you. The lights are off, and you glance at the time on your phone out of habit.
She’s still at work, but just barely. If she isn’t being held up, she’ll just now be finishing up, so you’re early.
You set your things down: house keys in her bowl, toeing off your sandals by the front door so you don’t track the outside inside, your bag hung up on the rack so she won’t trip over it.
You head straight to her bedroom and light candles along the way. Little fake tea light ones for the living room so you don’t have to watch them to make sure they don’t burn down the whole building, but real scented ones in the bedroom where you’ve decided to post up for the evening. Soft and vanilla-scented because it’s your favorite and Yolo doesn’t have a preference. You leave your clothes folded on the chair near the bed, and the bedding immediately catches your attention.
The sheets have changed since the last time you were here, they’re not silk anymore. Egyptian cotton now, both crisper and heavier, don the massive mattress. You pause for a moment at the edge of it, running your hand over the sheet and marveling at the softness.
That’s one thing you haven’t managed to shake. The luxury of you exists on the outside, not the inside. Maybe it’s because you go home to your regular life and the space that Yolanda exists in is like being an actress - it’s not real, it’s not who you are or your real life. But you don’t think you’ll ever actually be used to this life that Yolanda lives. No, you put on your expensive work clothes and do your hair so you’re presentable at work, and you come here and do your job. The thing you get paid for. And then you go home.
You pad back to your bag and pull out the Louboutin heels, the one Yolo insists never touch the ground, and carry them back to the bedroom in the true good girl manner that you always carry in her presence. Then you climb onto the center of her bed and slip them on, rolling onto your stomach so you can cross your ankles and show off the red.
And you wait. Posed like a little doll for her pleasure.
You hear the lock click about fifteen minutes later, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet home. The seal of the front door makes a soft noise, and you hear her sigh heavily as she enters. You envision her taking note of the tea lights and wonder what her face looks like right now. Is she smiling fondly? Is she annoyed? Maybe she wanted quick and dirty tonight, not softness. You never really know with Yolanda.
But when the bedroom door opens and she finds you in the center of the bed, you watch the tension melt out of her shoulders and you know you made the right call.
Soft and slow it is.
Yolanda doesn’t make a show of taking off her scrubs, not like she usually does. But her eyes don’t leave you as she pulls the string to release the tie on her pants, or even as she pulls the shirt over her head.
You never know which Yolanda you’ll get, a sports bra or a structured one, panties or boxers. Usually, what you’ll find underneath is an indication of how she’s feeling on any given day. Boxers? She’s fucking you with the strap until you cry from the overstimulation. Panties? You’re eating her out until your jaw locks.
Tonight, you’re surprised to find yourself proven wrong. She’s worn boyshorts and a sports bra, and she doesn’t bother to take them off before crawling onto the bed to join you.
Her hand finds its way under your chin like it always does, tilting your head up to look at her before using that hand on your head to guide you to turn over. You’re pliant, moldable under her touch, and she relishes in your perfect submission.
Once on your back, she climbs over you, straddling your middle as she bends down and -
Holy shit.
Yolanda doesn’t kiss you. Or, at least, not like this. Yolanda kisses you during sex all the time, domineering and fiery and full of passion. But this is not that.
Her lips are soft and slow in a way she rarely is with you. Her hand travels the mere inches from your jaw to the center of your neck, but she doesn’t squeeze the way she normally does when she wraps a hand around your throat, instead opting to gently hold you. Her lips move against yours in a way that feels all-consuming, and your lips part easily as she guides your mouth open with her tongue. The taste of her is subtle at first, and you can taste the hint of mint from gum that you’re certain she had earlier.
The hand that had placed itself on your throat drifts lower on your body, skimming over the lace of your bra that covers the swell of your breast, and a single tug on the fabric has you lifting just high enough to undo the clasps on the back yourself. As she tosses it to the side, you wonder momentarily if the money spent on the set was worth it’s thirty seconds of real use.
Yolanda sits up just a little as her eyes trail down your body, and you use her momentary distraction to slip your fingers up under the edge of her bra, pushing it up over her breasts to get your hands on them. And much to your surprise, she follows the lead and yanks it off over her head.
You read her easily. The way she shimmies out of her underwear next means she’s not in the mood to draw things out, and you’re nearly scampering to discard your own in return.
What you can’t read is the little laugh she lets out at your eagerness to bare yourself to her in return. It stops you in your tracks, so very un-Yolanda-like in nature, you actually wonder if you hallucinated it. But the smile on her face is small and almost disappears when she catches you staring, and you convince yourself it must be exhaustion relaxing her in a way you’re not used to. Even so, you tread carefully: Yolanda isn’t one to let her guard down at all, and if that’s what this is, you need to do things right if you want it to keep up. Soft sex is a luxury you haven’t had in a long time.
But a part of you wonders how far you can push it.
Just as she leans down again, your fingertips at her sternum stop her.
9.1 Voluntary Participation
Both parties affirm participation is voluntary and may cease at any time.
Yolanda stops. Her eyes search your face for refusal, something she’s never faced from you before. But she doesn’t find it. Instead, what she finds is a firm look of determination as you nudge her backward, more guiding than actual pushing, until she’s off you. And her eyes stay locked with yours as you guide her backward onto the bed, effectively reversing your roles.
You pray you haven’t read her mood wrong as you hover over her.
9.3 Boundaries
Either party may state boundaries at any time, which shall be respected.
She doesn’t stop you as your hand finds her breast. You circle a nipple with your thumb, feeling the delicate texture of her skin pebbling, and then pinch it gently, rolling it between your fingers. She lets out a content sigh, her eyes closing. Leaning over further, you press your lips to her throat, licking the salt from her skin and then sucking lightly at the base of her neck where it meets her shoulder.
Your hand slides down her stomach, feeling the subtle shiver of her skin as goosebumps erupt as your touch passes over the crease of her hip and then lower. Your fingers find her folds already slick, a warm wetness coating your fingertips as you slide them over her slit. You circle her clit with a finger, keeping it feather-light and feeling it throb under your touch.
How far can you push it?
“You’re wet, Yolo,” you tease in a whisper, and she opens her eyes to see the small smirk on your face. “Were you at work like this?”
Her eyes narrow and she opens her mouth to rise to the playful challenge. “Maybe I just knew what was waiting for me at home.”
Your fingers tease, two gliding up and down her slit, spreading her arousal, dipping just barely inside her entrance before retreating to stroke her clit again. She’s getting wetter, the obscene little sound of your fingers moving through her slickness filling the room, and you wonder if it’s your fingers or the words that do it for her.
“Quit teasing me,” she finally grits out through clenched teeth.
You comply, sliding a finger inside her slowly. She clenches hot and tight around you, shifting on the bed as you curl your finger up, searching for that spongey spot that always make her thighs shake. You’re quick to add a second finger, stretching her and thrusting in a languid rhythm while you adjust your stance to climb between her legs so you can mouth at her thighs.
The promise of more has her hips rolling toward your face, rocking to meet your hand and practically begging you to put your mouth on her without actually having to say anything out loud. You know what she wants, you’re her -
“Good girl,” she sighs as your mouth seals over her clit. “Fuck, knew you’d be good for me today, couldn’t wait to get home to this after the day I’ve had.”
You hum in appreciation as the praise goes straight to your pussy, throbbing and ignored between your own legs as your hips move absentmindedly against the bed. The vibration on her clit has her hands flying to the back of your hair, holding you still as her hips grind against your face.
Guess you couldn’t expect her to give you total control, could you?
Your tongue alternates between flicking over her clit as you suction it into your mouth and releasing to lap at her with a flat tongue, savoring every twitch, every gush of wetness against your hand as it drips down your fingers and into your palm.
When her thighs start to tremble around your head in a way you’re certain she doesn’t want you to notice and her pussy begins to flutter around your fingers, you don’t speed up. You keep the same torturously slow pace you’ve been fucking her with until she cums with a long, low moan as she floods your mouth with her release.
You lick at her through the high before crawling back up her body, kissing her so she can taste herself on your tongue. She returns it hungrily, both hands gripping your head to hold you as her tongue slides over yours until you’re whimpering into the kiss.
It’s like her energy renews as she reaches blindly into the nightstand drawer, fishing out the strap you’ve become all-too familiar with. Already attached is the dark blue dildo, the one that’s bigger than the rest she owns, the one she usually uses when she’s feeling particularly cocky or when you’ve teased her in public long enough to earn her wrath.
Yolanda doesn’t even bother to stand, opting to just lift her hips to slide on the harness instead, and you know exactly where this is going.
“Climb up, babygirl,” she breathes into your mouth. “Mama’s had a long day, you don’t mind putting in the work tonight, do you?”
Oh, it’s like that.
Wide-eyed, you manage to look up at her even though she’s below you, the picture of innocence and submission just the way she likes.
She settles back against the pillows with a smug smile, the strap standing proud. You swing a leg over and straddle her hips, your thighs spreading wide over hers. The head of the toy nudges against your slick entrance as you hover there, teasing yourself. She grips your hips tight in her hands, fingers digging into your skin with barely-contained eagerness, her eyes trained on where the tip just barely dips inside you.
You sink slowly at first, the blunt head stretching you uncomfortably without foreplay, inch by inch. The fit is tight, the slight curve pressing snugly against your front wall even before you’re flush against her.
Yolanda lets out a groan as she feels the resistance and then the slick slide as you take her deeper. And when your ass finally meets her thighs and the base of the strap presses against her own clit, still swollen and sensitive, she gasps and bucks up instinctively, driving the toy just a little deeper until it nudges your cervix.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” she breathes, her hands sliding to your waist and then up to your breasts, kneading them roughly. “Move for me.”
Still not fully acclimated, you start by rolling your hips in deep circles, savoring the stretch as the sting starts to fade. The movement grinds the base of the strap against her and you can see the way her teeth clench and you’re certain she’s restraining herself for your sake.
For now.
She lets you fuck yourself on the toy, the wet sounds of it moving in and out of your soaked cunt fill the room, mingling with skin slapping against skin as her resolve to not fuck you into oblivion crumbles. She grows more animated beneath you, blunt nails leaving little pink marks as she grips you tighter and her hips begin to snap up to meet you. A hand drops between your bodies, her thumb finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles in time with your riding.
You almost double over at the pleasure, your rhythm faltering, but Yolanda’s does not. She fucks up into you at the same pace, watching your breasts bounce with every thrust.
“Faster - god, just like that,” she urges, her voice rasping as the pressure on her own clit builds every time she moves her hips. “Fuck, fuck!”
You lean forward, bracing your hands on her chest, and ride her with more purpose. You lift and drop onto the thick length, taking her deep with every downward stroke. The curve of the toy is hitting your g-spot relentlessly now, the little “uh uh uh!” you let out fueling her fire. She meets every drop with a thrust, fucking into you with increasing intensity, her breath ragged and delving into desperation. Sweat slicks both your bodies, making your skin glide hotly together.
So hot, too hot -
Yolanda suddenly pushes on your sternum, interrupting the delirious pleasure as she urges you up off the strap and off her body.
Confusion muddles your ecstacy, but your brain is too shut off to think, too far gone. You trust Yolanda explicitly with your body, she’s never led you astray, so you allow her to guide you off her and onto all fours.
Then she’s back inside you, like she never left, her hips meeting your ass as she fills you again and again. Her hands grip at your hips as she bends over you, her breasts falling over your back.
“A-ah, fuck! Yol-”
“Shut up,” she growls against your neck, her warm breath against it heightening the sensations below.
You feel the cool sweat for her forehead as it presses into your back. Her pace is harsh and unforgiving as you cry out loudly underneath her, fingers gripping into the bedsheets. You don’t shut up, you know she doesn’t really want you to shut up, she’s told you before that the sounds you make in bed fuel her. She just loves the control, and you’re just so willing to give it to her.
You feel her shift, her feet finding the bed as she pushes her body up over you, angling the strap higher so that it tilts down toward your belly button and directly back into your g-spot.
“Ngh, Yolanda, pl-please -”
Her pace is ruthless as she fucks you from behind, she doesn’t even respond to your pleas, not that you’d have a response of your own if she did.
A jolt of electricity shocks you as you feel her bite hard into your back, near the top of your shoulderblade. You gasp, your back arching away from her, but you don’t shrink away. It’s a feeling you’ve felt often enough, the first time she did it, Yolanda at least had enough composure to warn you beforehand. Now, she doesn’t bother. Hell, you expect it most of the time.
Her tongue laves over the bite mark that you’re sure will bruise, but the pain has only added to the pleasure as the internal pressure threatens to consume you.
“Fuck, fuck!”
A sharp sting of pain follows the slap of skin on skin, the meaty flesh of your ass rippling as Yolanda’s hand pulls away from it. “Language,” she chides, but you can hear the smile on her face.
The tease is followed with the sound of your pleasured wails.
Yolanda watches the way her cock disappears inside you as she continues to taunt you. “She’s fucking loud, huh?” She accents the words with a hand in your hair, fingers gripping the strands as close to your scalp as she can and pulling.
There’s no room in your brain for words, let alone cleverness. There’s only Yolanda, only the drag of the strap in and out, in and out. You’re reduced to cries of pleasure, so loud that they bounce off the walls and echo through the condo.
“Oh fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, please!”
She reaches around you, feeling her way between your legs until her fingers find your clit and the moment she does, you’re done for. Your face buries in the bed, no doubt smearing your makeup into the perfect sheets as you clench around the strap, milking her dry.
Her fingers still on your clit as she fucks you through it, pulling the air from your lungs with a high-pitched moan as your own hips rut against her fingers. Her hips slow to a stop as you whimper, shying away from her as overstimulation creeps in, and she’s slow to withdraw from you.
Yolanda drops down onto the mattress beside you, breathing heavily as her heart rate slows back to normal. She reaches toward the nightstand, fingers brushing randomly until they find the water bottle she always leaves there for when she’s inevitably thirsty in the middle of the night. She takes a drink, then offers it to you without looking.
You take it. And when you hand it back, Yolanda sets it down and exhales through her nose.
“You can stay,” she says after a moment, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’m up early tomorrow. But I may want you again before that.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Very romantic.”
“I wasn’t trying to be romantic.”
“I know.”
“I should hope so.”
For a while, there’s a comfortable quiet between you two, the kind that comes from basking in the aftermath of sex enough times for silence to stop being uncomfortable.
You scoot closer to her without asking, and Yolanda lifts an arm to make room against her side. You settle beside her, your cheek against the warm line of her shoulder, a leg sliding over hers beneath the sheets.
You think that’s a control thing, too. There had once been a point where she hopped out of bed the moment she was done with you, but that’s rare anymore. Now she embraces the warmth more often than not, maybe holding you being her way of thanking you for your submission. As if Friday mornings weren’t enough.
It doesn’t take long for her breathing to even out, and even without dinner, she’s fast asleep in bed. You stay awake a little while longer, listening to her breathe, before you eventually fall asleep too.
You wake hours later to the sound of Yolanda swearing, and for a moment you have no idea where you are until reality hits you and you jolt up, still in her fancy bed with Egyptian cotton sheets.
Yolanda is already standing, yanking her scrubs on and looking furious.
“What time is it?” you ask, your voice thick with sleep.
“Later than it should be,” she snaps, though it isn’t aimed at you. “I slept through my alarms.” She disappears into the bathroom for a total of fifteen seconds before reemerging. “No time.”
“For what?”
“Anything.” Which Yolanda manages to sound less than pleased about.
You watch from the comfort of her warm sheets as she rushes through the room with speed that seems impossible, gathering her watch, her bag, her badge, her shoes. You watch, your eyes half-lidded, as she skips breakfast, no time for coffee, either.
You feel sorry for whomever meets her first this morning.
She catches sight of you still in bed and pauses just long enough to tap something on her phone. A second later, your own buzzes on the nightstand.
$300.
“Yolanda,” you say, your eyes widening.
“For the car home,” she says as she fastens her watch. “Take a black car, I don’t want you in those Ubers anymore.”
She turns and grabs her bag, and you hear the front door open and then close, the distant rush of her leaving. Silence settles back into the condo, but it feels less warm without Yolanda there with you, as ridiculous as that sounds. It’s cold. Lonely.
You only stay in bed for another minute after she leaves, maybe two. Then you throw the sheets back and force yourself out of the bed.
Your body complains. Your thighs hurt, your back is tender, there’s an ache in your hips that makes itself known once your weight shifts to your feet. You mutter something under your breath about Yolanda that she would probably take as a compliment, and then you start gathering yourself.
Your clothes are where you left them, folded on the chair. You carry them into the bathroom and flick on the light.
The mirror is cruel to you. Mascara is smudged underneath your eyes; your lipstick is worn down to a ghost of itself. Your hair is sticking up in a way that screams freshly fucked.
“Jesus.”
You snag a makeup remover wipe that Yolanda keeps in the drawer now because she noticed once that you’d forgotten yours and solved the problem the next day, because that’s just how Yolanda cares.
When you’re done removing the makeup and fixing your hair, you look both younger and more tired, like the version of yourself that doesn’t belong inside this building. You get dressed, smoothing wrinkles from your Vuori set and slipping into your sandals. At the last second, you swap out the Vuori top for the Versace viscose tank Yolanda bought you.
$300 for the car. You laugh humorlessly. Sometimes it’s funny how out-of-touch with reality Yolanda can be.
You could order the nicest ride available and still have enough left over to cover the electric bill. But you think about the overdue notice tucked into the junk drawer in the kitchen at home, and the credit card minimum that’s due in three days.
You think of what this money means to Yolanda versus what it means to you, and you don’t even bother to open the rideshare app, slipping your phone into your bag. It’s not far, and a walk would do you good anyway. Give you fresh air and time to wake up.
You lock the apartment behind you, keycard sliding back into your wallet, and head for the elevator already mentally dividing the untouched $300 into the places it needs to go.
And then you’re hit by a car in the crosswalk three blocks from Yolanda’s building.
a/n: once again not edited just vibes. i also don’t know how long this will be.
Yolanda was starting to regret choosing Columbia over any of the other schools she’d been entertaining her senior year. Being a surgeon had been her goal for as long as she could remember and taking an undergraduate art history class seemed like the biggest waste of her time ever. When her advisor had mentioned the requirement, she almost laughed in her face. Thinking it had to be a joke of sorts. They couldn’t force her to take some humanities class. She was going to save lives, in some revolutionary way. Why on earth would she need to interpret art in the OR? But her advisor was very serious. So serious that she found herself in an 8 am introductory art history class on the first day of her second semester.
She trekked across campus to the art buildings and bumbled her way through the halls until she found the right room. With only a few minutes left to spare, she sank into the first open seat she found and pulled her laptop out. The professor called the class’ attention and passed around a syllabus that seemed way too thick for an intro class. They flipped through each page, with the woman explaining each unit extensively. By the third page Garcia was fighting not to pull at her hair. This was going to be painful. She pushed her laptop screen down and let her eyes sweep through the room curiously. She couldn’t be the only one suffering through this crap. Maybe she could find another Pre-Med student to form an attendance alliance with to get them through the class with the least amount of torture.
Everyone seemed just as unenthused as she was, those with laptops searching the web while others doodled in their notebooks. And then there was the girl next to her. Scanning the syllabus closely, putting dates into her planner, even highlighting units she found interesting. And Garcia almost scoffed in disbelief.
“Alright! To get us all started and in the mindset necessary for this class, turn to the person next to you and discuss this piece. I’m not going to tell you anything about it. No title, no artist, not even a date. I want to see what each of you can come to organically.”
Garcia inwardly groans as the screen switches to a painting of a bunch of old white guys. She looked to the other side of the lecture table and saw people partnering up and relinquished herself to her fate. She was stuck with the art nerd. But as she turned to the other side and caught sight of the girl intently studying the board another thought crossed her mind. Maybe she’d do all the work for her.
“So,” She drags the o and leans into the woman’s space. “What do you see in this painting?”
The woman pulls her eyes from the board and Yolanda is met with the sweetest eyes she’d seen to date. Shining and engaged, ready for intellectual conversation. And Garcia momentarily felt bad for even thinking about taking advantage of her. But then the woman opened her mouth and shot all that guilt out the window. “Well I’m pretty familiar with this one, so I’d be far more interested in what you see instead.”
The irritation was back and suddenly her eyes weren’t as sweet anymore. And her hair didn’t shine as much. And—
“I see old white men. One of them is even naked.” Yolanda blurted with a shrug.
“Right, so that’s what you literally see. Anything else?” The sweet eyes rolled and Garcia leaned back in shock. The nerd had some bite to her.
“Well no, not all of us are obsessed with arts and crafts.” Yolanda grumbled and looked back at the board to find something else to say. “That man in the middle is holding a cup for the naked one.”
“Uh huh, and what do you think could be in the cup?” The woman disregarded Garcia’s insult easily and instead rested her cheek against her fist and prompted.
“How would I know that? We can’t see that.”
“Yes, but look at the people around. If it had been a simple glass of water, do you think everyone in the room would be so distraught over it being delivered?”
“Well I guess not.” Garcia hummed. “So it’s poison. And all these clothed guys obviously don’t want him to drink it and die.”
“Obviously,” the woman echoed. “But he’s taking it anyways. And he doesn’t seem that put out about dying.”
Garcia squinted at the screen again and frowned, “So he’s just…choosing to die? In a room full of people? That’s dumb.”
The nerd (which Garcia had taken to calling her in her head) chuckled, “Can you think of any reason you’d be willing to die in a room full of your closest confidants?”
“No.” The answer was instant. “And if I did, I surely wouldn’t gather my friends to yell at them before it.”
“Good eye,” the woman grinned as she very softly pushed Yolanda to observe more and more of the work. “He could be yelling, or maybe a better word would be teaching. Which would make the guys around him…”
“Students.” Yolanda supplied almost involuntarily. They continued until the professor called the class back to attention and started discussion. It was only then Yolanda seemed to realize what had happened and how she’d been pulled into a world she couldn’t care less about by a pretty girl. She pulled a sticky note from her laptop screen and scribbled across it before sliding the note over to the woman next to her.
Yolanda (in her chicken scratch) and when it returned loopy, neat script was underneath it. Y/n.
a/n: i fear ive let this idea consume me…not edited…just vibes
The summer months in Pittsburgh seem to trigger a surge in hospital visits. The entire PTMC can feel it, but for some reason Yolanda Garcia was really getting the brunt of it today. She’d drawn the short end of the straw with the guys upstairs and at hour 10— she was losing her patience. Since she’d started her shift, she’d been up and down the floors of the hospital at a minimum of 10 times. Most of the calls had come after Robby’s ragtag band of residents thought they knew better than the rest of the hospital and every elevator ride wore on her patience. The number of patients actually needing to head into the OR had thankfully not been too high but she was probably one minor inconvenience away from hurting someone’s feelings.
She’d just pushed through the doors of the room of her recent consult when Trinity fell in step with her expectantly. “Hey,” the younger woman pushed out, trying to catch Yolanda’s attention.
Yolanda stepped out of the never ending traffic of the ED’s halls and met Trinity’s eyes. “What’s up?”
Falling into Trinity had been easy for Yolanda. Trinity aimed to please and that much was apparent from her first day at the hospital. Her cheeks heated anytime Yolanda eyes fell to her. She was competent, a little eager but nothing too serious. By her second consult she’d already decided, Trinity might be just the after work distraction she needed. Until the intern dropped a scalpel into her foot. An accident, yes. But a deduction in the “should i bed her?” score, nonetheless.
The scalpel didn’t do too much damage to her foot or Trinity’s chances. And shortly after her first day, they’d commenced their little fling. The sex was good and Trinity wasn’t bad company but as the months had progressed things were starting to feel less casual. Ramen in bed, roommates using toothbrushes…and the face Trinity was sporting now. That mix of apprehension and hope that she’d been pining Garcia with a lot recently.
“Do you wanna do something tonight?” Trinity rocked on her heels and watched Garcia’s face for any signs. She wouldn’t get any, but she still looked.
Garcia looked around the hall noncommittally, “We’ll see how the rest of the shift goes.”
Trinity huffed in thinly concealed annoyance, “Right, well if you do want to come over. I figured we could get dinner somewhere before.”
Yolanda could read between the lines of the younger woman’s statement. She was trying to get something concrete, more serious on the books. And just the thought of it made her skin heat. She was far past going on dates and romancing women long term. Been there, done that and it hadn’t landed her any place good. She thought she’d been pretty clear on that, I mean just last week she’d confirmed that this was ‘just casual’ with Trinity. But obviously she hadn’t been clear enough. She shrugged her shoulders and turned to continue walking through the ED, Trinity trailing behind her again. “Let’s just see how the rest of shift goes, huh? No need to pin anything down now. We’ve still got at least two hours left— a lot can happen between now and then.”
Trinity tried to disagree but caught Dana’s eyes from the nurses station. The charge nurse motioned to one of the rooms she’d been in early that shift and mimed a signature in the air pointedly. Trinity nodded dutifully and steered the surgeon along with her, hoping to get a little further in their conversation. “We don’t have to, but it’d be nice. Don’t you think? Sharing a meal— not in my bed?” She tried to sound casual, even threw in a noncommittal chuckle. But Garcia wasn’t buying into it. They stop outside of the room, Trinity pulling at the stethoscope around her neck awkwardly as she waited for any form of agreement from Garcia.
“We shall see.” Yolanda enunciated each word, pushing down the irritation at having to repeat herself again. She really had to remind herself, that Trinity was young and obviously looking for some sort of community. Some sort of romantic arc in her time here at PTMC, but they’d agreed like adults on this. That wouldn’t be her and maybe she’d need to sacrifice having a consistent fuck buddy to help her realize that. Garcia pushed the door open behind Trinity, as a reminder of their location but also an easy end to the conversation. And urged her inside. Trinity obliged under her gaze and turned to pull the curtain back on the patient.
“Okay, so—” Trinity started as soon as the woman came into view. Garcia was ready to turn, already half a step back toward the hallway—anything to put space between herself and another interruption—when she froze.Right there in the middle of the open doorway. Eyes unblinking on the woman sitting across the bed. And for a second, nothing made sense.
Her eyes moved frantically over the scene taking in every detail. Trying to verify that this was real, that she was here. In Pittsburgh, wrist in a splint, clipboard balancing precariously on her kneecap, and red readers hanging low on the bridge of her nose. Eyes looking right back at Garcia.
Neither woman moves. Y/n’s unwavering rooting Yolanda to her spot in the doorway. Yolanda scared if she looks away, she might disappear again.
Oh, and Trinity trying to explain care instructions in a room of deaf ears. She followed the patient’s line of sight to Yolanda still in the door looking like she’d just seen a ghost. “Uh Garcia, you didn’t have to stay …” Trinity frowned at the silence that followed. “Unless you think I can’t handle this either?” It’d been mumbled under her breath but was just pinched enough to somehow break the spell of the other women in the room.
Y/n adjusted her grip on the clipboard, not nervous—just grounding. Her expression stayed composed, but her eyes didn’t waver. “
“…Hi, Landa.”
Her voice was even. Familiar in a way that landed heavier than anything else in the room. Garcia exhaled quietly, the sound almost lost under the hum of the monitors. Her lips twitched at the nickname, one she only heard in her dreams now.
And all she could think to say was, “You’re here…”
casual wasn’t always dr. garcia’s default. there’d been a time when she thought she had it all— top mcat scores, letters of rec from all her professors, acceptance letters from her dream med schools, and the art history major she’d gotten paired up with in her general art class freshman year that never left her side. until she did.
i’m thinking people. very one that got away and made me anti-commitment vibes.
in which you oughta know is reader’s go-to karaoke song and trinity and mel beat her to it. and after one too many lemon drops, she decides to confront the duo. what she hadn’t accounted for was how attractive santos was…
CW: canon-typical medical injuries, brief (but explicit) smut (strap usage r!receiving), secret relationship, reader is mid-twenties, emotionally unavailable Yolanda Garcia
WC: 3.4k
A/N: finally, first chapter is out. It’s late, but it’s still the same day for me. I’m still adjusting to my job, so writing is very slow. Thanks for your patience! This is basically the intro chapter so it's a little shorter than the rest to come. Feel free to comment under the Terms and Conditions Masterlist (linked at the bottom) if you want to be tagged. Hope you enjoy!
──────── BREACH OF CONTRACT ────────
The theme of today is Of Course. By ten o’clock in the morning, the day is already slipping out of Yolanda’s control.
Not in any sort of catastrophic or headlining-making way. It’s not even really dramatic enough to justify the irritation that’s buzzing underneath her skin. More like a series of small-but-compounding failures that throw her off just enough to fuck her day up.
She woke up late, but not late enough to miss her shift, just late enough that everything else after getting out of bed is rushed: no time for breakfast, not even coffee. And now she’s paying for it.
With two pages to the ED in just under three hours, neither of them were worth the interruption. They were consults that could’ve been handled without her if anyone down there had even an ounce of clinical judgment. But no. Apparently today, every questionable abdominal pain, every borderline image read, every nervous resident and intern with a pager gets routed straight to her.
It's Shamsi’s fault, really.
Yolanda slams her fist into the elevator button harder than necessary.
Of course it is. If there’s ever an inconvenient and inefficient way to run a service, Dr. Shamsi finds it and commits. And for whatever reason, that means Yolanda gets to run back and forth between floors like a glorified errand woman instead of actually doing her fucking job.
The doors slide open and Yolanda steps into the elevator without breaking stride. Another page buzzes at her hip before the doors have even finished closing behind her.
Of course.
She doesn’t bother checking it right away, whatever it is can wait the ten seconds it takes to get down there. It can always wait, that’s the whole problem. None of this is urgent. They’re just a series of “better safe than sorry” decisions made by people who are afraid of being wrong.
The elevator begins to move, and for just a minute, Yolanda can relax. She sighs heavily, leaning back against the wall and letting her eyes close.
Warm sheets and quiet. That’s what she’s missing out on right now. That, and the weight of a body beside her that she doesn’t have time to deal with properly before she ran out of her apartment.
That threw her morning off more than the rest of it. Not the pages, not Shamsi, not the Pitt.
You.
You, who was still asleep when her alarm went off late, tangled in both her sheets and her arms. You, blinking up at her with your doe eyes and your soft lips and your naked body underneath her genuine silk sheets. You, who didn’t ask her to stay, or what to do, because you don’t have to. You know what your role here is.
You’re simple in the way that she needs you to be. You’re exactly what you’re supposed to be.
Yolanda pushes herself off the back wall as the elevator slows to a stop on the bottom floor, shaking her head to settle her confidence back into her body.
The doors slide open into the shitshow that is the ED and she steps out, reaching for her pager.
“Let’s see what the problem is this time,” she murmurs to herself.
She’s barely three steps out of the elevator before her name is called.
“Dr. Garcia.”
Fuck.
She doesn’t stop walking. If she keeps moving, there’s a chance that she can make it to the trauma bay without getting pulled into whatever unnecessary confrontation this conversation is about to become.
It doesn’t work. The footsteps fall into stride with her, and Trinity doesn’t bother with pleasantries, though what comes out of her mouth is better than what Yolanda thought she’d say.
“Pedestrian versus vehicle. Female, mid-twenties, hit in a crosswalk about thirty minutes ago.”
Yolanda keeps her gaze forward, still heading toward the trauma room she was paged to. “What are her vitals like?”
“Stable and conscious for now. She was tachycardic on arrival but her BP’s holding. She was complaining about abdominal pain, some mild guarding. We’re worried about possible internal bleeding, the bruising is severe.”
So that’s why they paged surgery. Finally, something that almost justifies the interruption.
“I trust the senor resident’s already gotten imaging?”
“It’s Robby, actually,” Santos shrugs as they turn the corner. “FAST was inconclusive. We're waiting on CT results, but he thought it was a good idea to loop you in early.”
Yolanda doesn’t respond to that, because she knows if she opens her mouth, it won’t be nice. Instead, she runs through variables in her mind. Maybe liver, or spleen, maybe nothing.
“What about pain control?” she eventually asks as they near the doors where the curtain is drawn behind.
There’s an unexpected silence from the R2 who always has something to say. Then: “She’s refusing it.”
Yolanda side-eyes Trinity at that, her mouth almost turning into a sneer. “Refusing,” she repeats flatly. What kind of idiot refuses pain medication when they’ve been hit by a car?
“Yeah, we’ve offered twice, she keeps stalling.”
“Why.”
Trinity shrugs again, but this one comes with a look. “My money’s on a controlling boyfriend, she keeps checking her phone and saying she needs a minute.”
Yolanda looks unimpressed. “If she’s alert enough to negotiate, she’s alert enough to consent,” she says. “I can’t do an evaluation on a screaming patient, get her to agree to the medication.”
“We’ve already tried more than once, she said she’d wait,” Santos says dryly. “She’s handling it like a champ, though, didn’t make a sound when we moved her from the stretcher to the table.”
They reach Trauma-3 and the doors slide open with a hiss. Yolanda maneuvers around the curtain, careful not to move it because they’re only drawn when clothes are being cut off, as an effort to preserve modesty and provide the patient with privacy. Gloves snap from the box mounted to the wall as she passes, latex stretching between her fingers as she tugs them on.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Garcia from surgery -”
She barely manages to look up at the patient before she’s stopped in her tracks.
Everything else seems to fall away in a way that’s so sudden it’s like someone hit the breaks. Because she knows the woman on the table, and intimately so. It’s not a stranger, not just some random consult, and she’s suddenly not so pissed about being paged down for a third time this morning.
There’s blood, more than there should be for how alert you are, deep red and tacky where it’s drying along your hairline. It’s trailed down the side of your face like some sort of bloody tear. Bruising is blooming across your abdomen, deep and spreading beneath the surface in a way that can’t be passed off as superficial.
That explains the page.
Could be internal bleeding, or organ injury. Definitely something that could turn serious if it isn’t handled properly.
But that isn’t what Yolanda is thinking about. She can barely see you on the table, looking back at her, just as shocked as she is, because all she can see is -
You, tangled up in her sheets last night. You, curled warm and asleep beside her when her alarm goes off late this morning. You, exactly where she left you this morning when she didn’t have time to stay.
She can’t reconcile the two images. The version of you that belongs in her bed, and the version of you in front of her right now, too pale from blood loss for your skin tone and breathing just a little too shallow.
Her hands pause halfway through adjusting her glove.
“What are you doing here?”
What a stupid question that spills from her own mouth, it’s obvious what you’re doing here, that isn’t what she meant. What she means is “how did this happen? How did you get hit by a car? Why were you a pedestrian?” You shouldn’t be a pedestrian, you shouldn’t be walking anywhere. You were supposed to take an uber home this morning, that’s what you said you were doing, that’s what you always do.
Control. She needs control.
Yolanda’s face flattens into a neutral expression, years of schooling herself and hiding her emotions coming into play in poker face she’s mastered by now. She looks fine, like nothing just happened at all, like she didn’t just walk into a room and find the one relationship in her life she’s managed to keep uncomplicated bleeding on a trauma table.
Her eyes rake over you, then flick to the monitor, and then down to the bruising on your abdomen. She barely even spares a glance at the Versace viscose top she bought you last week, cut straight up the sides no doubt with the trauma shears (which she imagines you protested heavily) that’s lying on an empty instrument table a few feet away.
“Vitals?” she demands firmly.
“BP 112/70, heart rate is 110,” Dr. Santos answers from behind her.
You’re tachycardic. It’s probably from the stress. Or from the pain.
Yolanda nods in acknowledgment and reaches for the blanket that’s covering your legs to keep you warm, and partially obstructing her view. “I’m going to examine your abdomen,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice even. Play it off like she doesn’t know you, because the moment someone finds out she does, she’s off your case, and that’s the last thing she wants.
She looks up at your face to confirm that you heard her, only to find you’re more than alert. You have the same look on your face she imagines she had about ten seconds ago when she realized who’s on the table. You look shocked, maybe even with a hint of nervousness. Why would you be nervous?
“Tell me if anything hurts.”
Her hand settles on your side first, with a barely-there pressure. She’s watching your face more than your body.
You flinch a little, definitely trying to conceal it. But she still sees it.
“Here?” she asks.
You hesitate with your answer. “It’s fine.”
It’s not, she can see it’s not. Why are you lying? You’re not allowed to lie to her.
Don’t lie to me conflicts with don’t cause problems for me.
Yolanda presses a little more firmly along your abdomen, moving quadrant to quadrant. There’s tension in the muscle there, guarding, whether you mean to or not. When she reaches the worst of your bruising, you’re full-blown holding your breath, clearly ready for it to hurt.
That’s enough.
Internal bleeding is still on the table. It might be minor, maybe not, she’s already confirmed it’s enough to justify the page. Even if it hadn’t been, this wouldn’t have been a page she’d be pissed about. You shouldn’t have to be sitting here pretending you’re fine.
Pretending you’re fine.
You’ve refused pain management.
Yolanda instinctively reaches for her phone in the pocket of her scrub pants. The screen lights up with a stack of unread messages from you.
im at the hospital
i was hit by a car
am I allowed to have pain meds?
yolanda?
pls respond im trying to be good
Fuck, you'd been messaging her and she hadn't seen it because she was running herself ragged. Of course you didn't tell anyone first, of course you tried her. And of course it would look exactly like what Santos had just said: a controlling boyfriend.
Yolanda locks the screen and her head snaps up to Robby. “You said she hasn’t had pain medication?”
“She’s refused it,” he says with a single shake of his head.
She looks back to you. “You’re in pain,” she says. You recognize the tone and your shoulders square almost like it’s instinct. “You need it.” She turns just a little, enough to throw the order over her shoulder. “Give her dilaudid. A low dose, we’ll titrate as needed.”
“She’s already said no, twice,” Robby argues. “She didn’t want any -”
“It’s okay.”
Yolanda whips back around at the sound of your voice and your eyes meet. You’re already looking up at her, and the expression on your face is a mixture of that same nervousness and relief at the idea of pain medication.
You’re trying to do this right, Yolanda realizes.
When her attention strays from you, she looks up to find that the air in the room has changed. Robby and Trinity are both looking at you quizzically, clearly stunned by your refusal to them, but acceptance from Dr. Garcia. A second ago, you were refusing, and now you’re not. Your phone sits on the same tray as your destroyed shirt, the screen blank.
Shit.
Yolanda’s brows knit together, her expression flattening further. This is going to be a problem if it continues, and you are a problem she can’t afford right now.
“Go ahead,” she directs at Trinity. “She’s consenting.” She keeps her tone as clinical and detached as she can manage.
She forces her attention back to your chart, trying to distract herself from the way you’re looking at her, like you’re waiting for further direction. And worse, like she’s the one giving it. You know better, that’s what gets to her. You know the rules about behaving in public, she’s told you before that she isn’t interested in her friends or her coworkers knowing about her personal life.
She’s pissed.
“Let’s get leads on,” someone says.
Trinity steps in closer to the bed, reaching for monitor wires. “Hey,” she says to you. “I’m gonna have you lean forward a little, okay? I need access to your back.”
You nod and move forward carefully, with her help, since the pain medication is still being drawn up. You flinch as your abdomen folds, pressing in on the bruising.
“Hold there,” Trinity mumbles.
Then there’s silence where it shouldn’t be. No sound of stickers peeling away from the paper, no sound of rumpling fabric.
Yolanda looks up quickly, irritation primed and aimed at her ex-fling. “What’s taking so long?”
But Trinity doesn’t answer her. She’s almost frozen in place, eyes narrowed at something on your back. And her lack of response sets something off inside Yolanda more than anything.
She steps closer to you, to Trinity, and then she spots it.
High on your back, just below the curve of your neck, at the top of your shoulderblade and partially obscured until now, is a mark. Not fresh enough to be from the accident, and definitely not from the pavement, or a rock, or the car.
Yolanda’s heart sinks.
She’s gripping the sides of your hips, fingertips digging into the meaty flesh there as she curves over your back.
“A-ah, fuck! Yol-”
“Shut up.”
Her head dips, forehead pressing against the skin of your back. Her hips meet your ass at a ruthless pace, her strap fucking into your tight little hole at a brutal pace that nearly has you screaming.
Your face is buried in the bedsheets, your fingers flexing in the fabric beside your head. You know she doesn’t mean shut up, Yolanda thrives on your moans, your whimpers, the wanton noises you make when she’s fucking you this good. She lives for the control, your surrender sweet like saccharine to her ears and straight through to her cunt.
She adjusts her knees on the bed, pushing her body up higher so that the strap angles down toward your belly button, ramming against the textured wall inside you that has you keening underneath her.
And oh, the salt of the sweat on your flesh calls to her tongue. She wants to lap it up, to taste her own handiwork.
Her teeth sink into the flesh of your back, just below your neck. Hard.
You gasp, arching against her, but not pushing her away, you never push her away.
Good girl.
Yolanda bites hard enough to draw blood, her tongue lapping gently over the marks left by her teeth. She knows it hurts, she can hear your little whimpers even as your face remains buried in the mattress. She doesn’t want you to be in real pain, she knows you understand, her sweet girl, she just needed a taste -
The imprint of at least ten teeth, five on top and five on bottom, raw and ugly from the night before. The skin around it has already started turning a deep purple where blood has rushed to the surface. It looks painful. But moreso, it looks familiar.
Yolanda blinks at the marks, recognizing her own handiwork. They ground her back in reality, and drag her to the realization of where she is, and more importantly, who is standing two feet away, looking at the same thing.
Santos doesn’t look at her, but her hands have gone still, the leads still in her hands. “…right,” she mutters under her breath, quiet enough that it could almost pass as nothing. Almost.
Shit, shit, double shit.
Yolanda knows herself. She knows her own habits, her patterns, the things she does without thinking, things that she repeats.
And Santos - Santos knows them too.
Those marks wouldn’t be unfamiliar to Trinity. Not in that shape, in that spot.
Trinity is smart. No doubt one of the smartest people in this room right now, save for herself and Robby.
Yolanda can practically see it happening: the puzzle pieces fitting together behind Santos’ eyes. Yolanda’s weird attitude and words upon entering the trauma bay. Your hesitation with meds until the order came from her. The way you were still looking at her, even to this minute. And now, that mark on your back. One Santos’ has had on her own body more than once.
Yolanda is so fucked.
The control is gone, and Yolanda hates it. She doesn’t have a hold of the narrative, and she can feel the defensiveness ramp up inside of her.
“Finish up,” she says sharply. “I don’t need you compromising patient care when there could be internal bleeding.”
Trinity doesn’t respond out loud, but the look she gives Yolanda would be withering to anyone else. A secret communication between the two that only comes with familiarity beyond coworkers.
Yolanda holds it better than most would, but ultimately, she looks away first. Because despite her hard exterior, she desperately doesn’t want this to become anything else in front of people who are watching. Namely, Dr. Robby, and the rest of the nursing staff who are watching the exchange between herself, Trinity, and you with curious eyes.
“What about the CT results?” Yolanda asks, turning her attention back to your monitor, unwilling to look at either of you directly right now.
There’s an awkward silence before a nurse answers.
“Just came back. No active bleed, but a small hepatic laceration.”
No surgical intervention necessary.
Of course.
Not clean enough to be simple, but not bad enough to justify her personal life exploding in front of her coworkers.
Yolanda sighs heavily through her nose. “I want her admitted for observation,” she says. “Serial abdominal exams, repeat labs every six hours, and repeat imaging if there’s even the smallest change in her vitals or exams.” She strips her hands of the blue gloves. “And clear the room for me for a minute.”
People move, because when a surgeon gives a direct order, it’s rarely challenged, even by the ER attending themselves. Yolanda doesn’t look at Trinity again, but she can feel the R2’s stare at the back of her head until the doors shut behind her and the room is empty of all except you and her.
“Yolanda, I -”
“Don’t.”
She takes a couple steps closer to the bed, but this time it isn’t out of necessity, but rather want. “You’re being admitted overnight,” she explains, her tone much softer than the ones she spoke to her coworker in. “This probably isn’t serious, but you were hit by a car. What were you thinking?”
“Yolo, I didn’t mean to -”
She holds her hand up and you stop immediately, even though you don’t want to. The rules, after all. You follow them down to the letter.
“I’ll follow up with you myself.”
It’s both personal and detached, if that’s even possible. It’s personal because she would never follow up with a non-surgical patient herself, not in a million years. It’s not her job. You don't have to be a doctor to know that. But it’s detached because of her tone of voice, she sounds angry, she is visibly angry and if it isn't directed at you, then you don't understand it.
You're not sure why. You're still trying to piece it together through the haze of dilaudid, which is flooding your veins as you speak, making everything from your thoughts to your vision fuzzy. It makes thinking hard, let alone rationalizing someone else’s behavior.
Yolanda said you're fine. Not in those exact words, but close enough. You're stable, you don't need surgery, you're being admitted for observation only. You're fine. But she doesn't look like you're fine. Her eyes don't match her words. She's mad, and you don't understand it.
It should be okay. She said you could have the medication, she said everything was fine. But the way she looked at you when she said it was like you’ve done something wrong. Like you’ve broken a rule, but you've been listing them off in your head ever since you saw her, and you know you didn't, you swear it.
You swallow hard, watching her out of the corner of your eye. She's busied herself with the computer on the far wall, her back toward you. Everyone else has cleared from the room, but she still isn't speaking to you.
You're in trouble, there's no doubt about it. You just don't understand why.
