summary: you text your partner happy father’s day and call them daddy.
including: cassie mckay, baran al-hashimi, trinity santos, parker ellis, yolanda garcia, dana evans, jack abbot, michael “robby” robinavitch, frank langdon
summary: She keeps saying it’s nothing serious, but she cooks for you, fucks you like she means it, and gets bothered when you mention other people. So what exactly are you?
note: this is nasty stuff :p and yeah sorry had to add about neuro anatomy…
“I’m leaving today, so… I’d really like to have your number,” you muttered while holding out your phone as she finished checking your charts. Yolanda didn’t say much while you lay in that hospital bed, but she let your flirting slide with a small grin and took the phone to type in her number without hesitation. You waited a full week before sending a quick hello because you didn’t want to seem too eager, but she didn’t reply at all, which made your stomach drop. You’re not a quitter, so you sent another text explaining that you were the patient who asked for her number.
She only replied once she realized who you were, because she thought the ‘hello’ was just a random spam message, but she admitted she liked that you sent a follow-up text. You two started talking more after that, and you stayed in this casual relationship without any labels because the sex is far too good to walk away from. You try to tell yourself it’s still just a casual hookup, but you’ve started acting like it’s something way more serious. You even find yourself reading medical ebooks and deep-diving into them during your free time because you want to impress Yolanda.
This habit only began after Yolanda started ranting about her shifts or cases when you two were winding down from sex. You listen to every word she says, and you end up learning the details so you can actually follow along next time. It’s clear you’re getting wrapped up in her life, even if you keep pretending this is all just nothing to you. Nothing makes you more blind to the situation than when you see her in person, and now is one of those moments. You already managed to push Yolanda back against the headboard, and she actually let you take charge because you gave her those pathetic puppy eyes.
She has the harness on her hips, which clearly shows that what you’re doing isn't part of the night's plan. You sprawl out on your stomach between her legs and slide two fingers deep into her soaking cunt before you wrap your lips around the head of the strap-on because you want to see her reaction. Yolanda grunted after your tongue swirled over the tip as if she could feel it, but really, it’s about the sight that makes it so hot for her to witness, and it doesn’t take long before you pull back just enough to start talking. “I read about this thing called myasthenia gravis today,” you mumbled before leaning back in to lick the length of the toy.
“Mmhm,” Yolanda hummed while her head was leaning back against the wall, and her eyes never left your face. You kept your fingers moving inside her while you explained how the muscles for eye movement and chewing just give out because the neuromuscular junction is failing. You mentioned the lack of sensory deficits and the use of anticholinesterase drugs between each lick you do on the toy. Yolanda doesn’t even care about what you read when she already knows it by heart, but she looks incredibly cocky because you spent your time studying just to impress her.
“Keep going,” she muttered while her cunt twitched around your fingers and her fingers tangled in your hair. “The antibodies attack the receptors,” you whispered after taking the toy deep into your throat, and you felt her walls tighten around your knuckles. You explained how it differs from Lambert-Eaton syndrome and mentioned presynaptic calcium channels as you rubbed your thumb against her clit. Yolanda moaned at the sound of your voice while you explained it, and from what you’re saying, because she loves how much of a nerd you are right now.
“Fuck-” she gasped while her thighs spread wider and ground her hips to get your fingers deeper inside her. Yolanda clutched your hair and tilted your head back so she could look at you. “Did you learn anything else, or was that it?” she asked, and she liked the way you looked while you were busy between her legs. You gave a muffled hum and nodded before you went back to licking the toy's head, but she pulled on your hair again to get your attention. “I want to hear it,” she ordered when she felt your fingers thrust deeper inside her cunt.
You swallowed your spit and started explaining a case about a patient with frontal lobe lesions that caused massive confusion and memory loss. “Since the patient had facial signs on the right side, then the lesion was likely on the left,” you managed to say before you leaned down to swirl your tongue around the base of the strap-on. You kept your hand busy inside her, and you mentioned how the imaging studies pointed toward a malignant glioma, like a glioblastoma. “Th-the brain biopsy showed- mmmf!” you choked after Yolanda suddenly shoved her hips forward and forced the toy into your throat.
You gagged against it while your scalp started to burn from the way she gripped your hair, and your eyes watered. “You’re such a good little student,” she grunted when she started to thrust into your mouth. You tried to continue talking about the hemorrhages in the brain stem, but the words died in your throat whenever she never made you finish what you were trying to say just to hear you gag against the toy. Yolanda looked down at you with a smug expression because she knew exactly how much you were struggling to please her while your mouth worked around it.
“Don’t stop now,” she whispered as she picked up the pace and made you take every inch of it. You looked up at her with teary puppy eyes because she was still holding you down. Yolanda let go of your hair so you could finally take a breath, and you immediately pulled your fingers out of her soaking cunt. “You’re mean,” you muttered after wiping your mouth, but she just laughed because she liked seeing you annoyed. She didn’t even seem mad that she hadn’t reached her orgasm. “I’m sorry, baby,” she whispered with a fake sweet tone before she helped you up onto your knees.
“What do you want to do now?” she asked when she guided your wet fingers into your own mouth to clean them off. You sucked on your own digits, and you pretended to think about it for a second because you were busy straddling her lap. “I want this,” you breathed, and then you lowered your cunt against the silicone toy. You started grinding your folds against the toy while looking right at her. “Hngh-” you moaned after the silicone rubbed against your clit, and you felt her hands grip your waist before she guided you so you would rub your cunt harder against the strap-on.
“You don’t have to learn all of that,” she murmured before she leaned in to suck on your nipple. You placed your hands on her chest and started playing with her own tits too, but you pouted at her words. “Haaah, why not?” you whined while the toy rubbed against your clit just right. “I like that things with us don’t revolve around my work, and I want it to keep being that way,” she grunted after she switched to your other breast. You twirled her nipples between your fingers and moved your hips because the feeling made you needy.
“Mmn, okay,” you breathed since you couldn’t really argue when she made you feel so good. Yolanda tightened her grip on your hips and watched you grind yourself into a mess on top of her. Yolanda slid one hand between your legs to rub your clit, but her other hand kept guiding your hips. She stopped sucking your tits and moved up to kiss your neck instead. “Do you want to ride me, baby?” she whispered with a sweet tone.
You bit your lip and couldn't decide because the rubbing against the toy felt so good, but you wanted her inside you, too. “Hah- mmn, I don’t know,” you breathed and leaned your forehead against her shoulder. She let you grind against the strap on before she started telling you exactly what she wanted. “I want you on your stomach,” she murmured against your skin. Yolanda gripped your waist tighter, and her voice got even softer.
“I want to slide this cock into your cunt and watch your ass shake when I pull your hair,” she said, and then she bit your earlobe. “Hngnn-” you moaned because the way she talks made your head spin. “I’m going to shove your face into the pillow, and I want to see you squeeze this cock with every thrust,” she promised while she rubbed your clit faster. Her words made you feel even wetter, and you felt your cunt pulse against the toy. “Do you want that, baby?” she asked, and she waited for your answer. “Mph, yeah…” You whimpered since you were desperate to have her take you that way.
Yolanda slowed down the movement of her fingers against your clit, and you stopped grinding too, so you could just feel her touch. You kept your forehead resting against her shoulder, and your breathing hitched. “Or we could do missionary instead,” she murmured before she kissed your temple. She knew you loved that position since you liked watching her face when she thrust inside you. “I know you want to see me while I’m deep in your cunt,” she said after she pulled her head back slightly to look at you.
You looked at her with needy eyes, but you waited on her lap for her to make the first move. “You don’t have to say it like that…” you whisper embarrassingly but the thought of seeing her face while she fucks you made you even wetter. Yolanda brought her other hand up to cup your jaw, and her thumb traced over your bottom lip. “We can do both,” she promised before she tilted your chin up. You whimpered and nodded since you were ready for her to finally put that strap to use. “Both?” you breathed out and raised an eyebrow at her.
You wondered if she planned to make you cum over and over because she sounded so confident. Yolanda smirked when she slipped her fingers away from your wet slit and tapped your thigh. “Up you go,” she instructed while she waited for you to move. “I don’t want to move yet,” you pouted, but you were only teasing her. You wanted her to take charge and show you exactly how she was going to fuck you. Yolanda hoisted you up from her lap, and she got up onto her knees too. She used her strength to guide you until you were in the middle of the bed.
“On your stomach,” she ordered, and you rolled over eagerly because you wanted to feel her behind you. Yolanda shoved a pillow under your hips, and she knelt behind your ass. She gripped the base of her toy to line it up with your hole. “Please-” you whimpered while the angle of the pillow propped you up and left your cunt completely exposed for her to take. Yolanda stroked her hand up your spine until her fingers reached your cheek, then repeated the motion. “You’re so beautiful for me, sweetheart,” she grunted because she liked how you reacted to her touch.
You raised your ass and ground back against the strap-on to hint that you need her now. “Mmn, oh god, please,” you whimpered after you tried to get her thrust inside you but failed. Yolanda pinned your shoulder with one hand, but her other hand held the base of the toy so she could rub it against your wet folds. “Just wait, baby,” she murmured when she teased your clit with the tip of the cock. You felt annoyed by the constant rubbing without putting it inside, which made you raise your voice at her. “Stop teasing me and just put it in, Yolanda!” you snapped, but she only caressed your cheek and stared down at you.
“Haaah, need you-” you moaned before she continued to glide the toy over your hole without pushing in. Yolanda thrust the tip of the strap-on into your entrance, and she only pushed an inch deep to tease you. She watched the way your cunt clenched around it, and she enjoyed seeing how desperate you are. “Nnngh, please,” you whined while she kept the rest of the cock out of you. Yolanda slid her hand under your stomach to grope your breast, and she squeezed your nipple hard. “Ask nicely, angel,” she grunted before she tugged your hair with her other hand to see your face.
You felt the tip of the toy stretching your walls, but it wasn't enough to satisfy your need. “Please fuck me, b-baby,” you begged, and the shallow thrusting is making your head spin. Yolanda smirked when she recognized your neediness and desperation after she heard you call her by that name. Yolanda thrust the entire length of the strap-on inside your cunt, and the sudden fullness made you gasp. “Does that feel good, angel?” she whispered, and she wanted to hear you admit it. “Mhhn… yes,” you whimpered after you buried your face in the pillow.
Yolanda moved her hand from your hair to your cheek, and she cupped your face so she could turn your head toward her. “You look so pretty when you’re taking it like this,” she murmured before she caressed your skin with her thumb. She thrusted gently inside you, but her other hand squeezed your breast. “Hngh-” you moaned when her fingers rolled your nipple because the sensation of her strap filling your pussy and the pleasure from her fingers were starting to overwhelm your body. She continues to give you praises and keeps doing the same slow movements, yet she makes sure it’s deep enough to reach your sensitive spot.
“Oh god, hahh, mmf,” you whimpered before you hid your face in her palm while your toes curled against the mattress. Your moans got muffled against her hand while she didn't stop pounding into your cunt. “You’re taking this so well for me, angel,” she muttered, and she gripped your waist to keep you pinned. The tip of the toy touches the spot that made you most sensitive, and her eyes never left your back. “Ahhhnn, p-please,” you gasped when the toy bottomed out inside you. Her hand tightened on your hip while she fucked you at the same pace with a little more force to get more moans out of you.
“Faster-” you gasp, and you bite down on her palm to get her attention. Yolanda grunts, and she pulls back until you almost feel it slip out before she sinks the whole length inside. “You’re going to bite me and then ask for more?” she scoffs before she moves her hand from your mouth to your jaw, and she forces you to look at her. Yolanda pounds against your cunt faster, and the pleasure makes it hard to think. “Nnghh- s-sorry…” You whimper when she rams deep inside you. Her hand tightens against your face, and she watches your eyes roll back.
“You like it when I’m mean. mhm? But you can’t even hold it together,” she mutters, and she grinds her hips forward to bury the strap-on as deep as it can go. She finds your sensitive spot with each thrust, and your legs shake from the sensation. You clutch the sheets, and she forces herself deeper into your cunt while she keeps holding your face so you can keep looking into her eyes. “I-I’m- I-” you moan as your cunt grips the silicone. Yolanda saw your cunt, squeezing the toy, which made her move her hips faster.
“You’re coming for me, aren’t you?” she murmurs while she keeps her hand on your face. She watches the strap-on disappear inside you, and she forces it deep just to see how it pulses around the toy. “That’s it, baby, doing so good,” she encourages as she watches the toy get coated by your cum. You can’t stop the way your cunt clenches around it, and you spill over the toy without any warning. “Mfffh- god-” you gasp while your cunt keeps letting out your juices and legs shaking against the bed. Yolanda doesn't slow down and keeps thrusting the length into you through your orgasm.
“Does that feel good?” she asks while she's down at where she’s buried inside you. She sees your cum slicking the toy and dripping between your legs while she keeps the same pace. “You’re doing so well for me,” she praises, and she thrusts her hips forward to find your sweet spot. Your legs almost give out with the way they tremble, and Yolanda continues to move until she sees you finish with it. Yolanda slides the strap-on out while watching your cum drip. “Look at all that,” she whispers as she dips two fingers into the mess on your thighs.
She brushes the fluid across your folds before pushing deep her fingers inside to thrust your own slick back into your cunt. You let out a shaky breath when she pulls her fingers out, and she licks off with a smirk. “Mm, you never cum,” you pant while you lie there as if you’ve died. Yolanda caresses your back and chuckles at your words. “I don’t mind,” she murmurs before leaning down to kiss your shoulder. You look up at her while your body quivers under her touch. “Watching you like this is enough for me,” she promises while she watches your chest heave from the exhaustion.
Yolanda moves her mouth across your skin to kiss your back while her hands roam. She gropes your breasts and caresses your hips with a hum. “Mmm, you feel so good,” she whispers as she presses her face into your neck. You whimper when she strokes your thighs softly, and she worships every inch of you while prioritizing your comfort. “Hah, it’s unfair that you didn't cum,” you mutter as you turn your head to look at her. Yolanda chuckles and rubs her thumb over your bottom lip. “I’m okay being the one to give it to you,” she says and reaches for your hand.
She brushes your hair out of the way, and she gives you a quick peck. “How about I make us some ramen?” she asks, and she watches you nod. She gives your shoulder a bite before she sits up and steps away from the mattress. “Aren’t you going to take that off?” you ask and glance toward her waist. You push up from your stomach and crawl to the edge of the bed with shaking legs. You reach your arms out to her, and she walks back until she’s standing between your knees. Yolanda stands still while you grab her waist, and you lean your head down toward the toy.
“Mmn,” you hum before you wrap your lips around the toy to suck it clean. Yolanda watches you lick your own cum off the length, and she places her hand on the back of your head. You work your tongue over the tip until it’s clean, and you look up at her. “Let me help,” you mutter and reach for the buckles. You undo the straps and slide it off her body. “This is the best thing I’ve seen since my shift ended,” Yolanda murmurs while looking down. You place the toy on the mattress, and you return your attention to her.
You lower your head again, but this time your tongue finds her wet folds. You lick her cunt while looking up to meet her eyes. “Didn’t you say you’d take me on my back too?” you ask, and you swipe your tongue over her clit. “Mmn, maybe after the ramen,” you add before you lick her again. Yolanda grunts, and she grips your hair to hold you in place. “If you don’t stop that right now, we aren’t even going to make it to the kitchen,” she warns while she grinds her hips closer to your mouth. You flick your tongue against her while her thighs twitch.
“I need you…” You said with a pout while your lips were inches away from her cunt. Yolanda shakes her head before she pushes you onto the mattress and squeezes your cheek before walking away. She grabs a shirt and pulls it on. “Mmm, do I have to come to the kitchen with you?” you ask while watching her. Yolanda chuckles and looks back from the doorway. “Only if you want,” she says, and she turns to leave the bedroom. You hurriedly stand up from the sheets, and you grab your shirt from the floor. You slide the fabric on, but you don't bother looking for your underwear or shorts.
“Hngh, my legs still feel weak,” you whine while you follow her down the hallway. Yolanda walks into the kitchen first and looks proud when she hears your complaint. “That’s how they’re supposed to feel,” she says while she reaches for a pot in the cabinet. You lean against the counter as you watch her move, and you don't care that you're both still half-naked. You still feel sensitive from the toy, but you linger near her while she starts the water. “You’re lucky I’m even making you food,” she teases and pulls you in for a kiss.
“Your future girlfriend’s going to have a hard time walking around here with shaky legs,” you tease while you watch her fill the pot with water. Yolanda shrugs and turns to grab the ramen from the pantry. She ignores the comment, but the way she shuts the cupboard door makes your chest feel tight. You lean against the counter while you realize you’re just a casual thing to her, and the silence feels too loud. “How was your shift anyway?” you ask to change the subject. Yolanda rips the plastic open and puts the noodles into the boiling water.
“It was long, but it wasn't too bad,” she murmurs while she stirs the pot with a spoon. You watch the steam rise, and you keep your distance while she works. “I’m glad you’re home now,” you add, and she looks back at you with a small nod. You pull out a chair at the small table, and you rest your elbow on the wood while you prop your head up. Yolanda takes greens and eggs from the fridge. “How was your day anyway?” she asks while she cracks the eggshells over the sink. You tell her about some errands you ran, but then you decide to see if she cares.
“My friend introduced someone new to me today, and she was actually pretty cute,” you say while observing her. “Yeah?” Yolanda asks while dropping the greens and peeled eggs into the broth. You tilt your head, and you mention how the new girl didn't seem straight at all. Yolanda just hums into the steam, and she doesn't turn around to look at you. She stirs the noodles with a little more force, but she doesn't say anything else about it. “She seemed really interested in what I had to say,” you add while you pick at a loose thread on your shirt. Yolanda shuts the stove off and glances over her shoulder.
Yolanda pours the ramen into bowls, and you stand to help. You carry the food to the table and grab a fork for yourself, along with some chopsticks for her. She gets some water from the fridge before sitting across from you. “What’s this girl’s name anyway?” Yolanda asks as she breaks her chopsticks. You make up a name on the spot because the girl isn't even real, but you want to see if she’ll snap. “She’s a friend of a friend and she kept staring at me the whole time,” you say while you twirl the noodles around you and twirl noodles around your fork.
You mention the girl asked for your number as you watch her face for any sign of annoyance. Yolanda stares at her bowl to take a bite, but her jaw tightens. “I told her I might be free later this week,” you add while you try to hide your smirk. Yolanda puts her sticks down, and she looks you right in the eyes without saying a word. “That’s nice, angel,” Yolanda murmurs while she stares at you for a second too long. She brings the chopsticks to her mouth, and she proceeds to eat like she didn't just see through your lie. You scowl while you realize she’s using that pet name to shut you up.
“Is this your first real meal since this morning?” you ask as you watch her swallow a mouthful of noodles. “Yeah, I haven't had time for anything else,” she grunts and wipes broth from her lip. She keeps her eyes on her bowl while she speaks, but she looks tense. “Is she better looking than me?” she asks and glances up to catch your expression. “Why does it matter if she is?” you challenge and lean back. Yolanda sets her sticks down, and she stares you down with a look that says she’s losing her patience. Yolanda knows you're lying through your teeth, but the exhaustion from her shift makes her feel grumpy and short-tempered.
The sight of you wearing only that shirt makes her grip her chopsticks tighter while her blood starts to boil. “Well, she’s not a doctor, so I’m sure she’s got plenty of free time for you,” she snaps while she thinks to herself that if this woman were actually real, she'd better hope she never ends up being her doctor. Yolanda would ensure the bitch never left the operating table alive if she ever touched you. “Did you do this with Trinity too?” you ask and twirl your fork in your bowl. You watch her face for a reaction while you bring up the resident she used to have a thing with.
She hates that you know about her past, but she hates it more that you're bringing it up now. “I mean, did you cook for her too after after- you know,” you add while you hold her gaze before you smugly tilt your head. Yolanda sets her chopsticks down with a click and stares at you. “Is this what we’re doing now?” she grunts and leans across the table to get closer. “You’re really trying to piss me off on purpose tonight,” she mutters, and she reaches out to grab your wrist. “I’m just asking,” you mutter before you stand from your seat.
You pull your wrist from her hand and cross your arms to look down at her. Yolanda looks up at you, and this drama is exactly why she avoids commitment. “You’re making me want to drag you back to bed right now,” she grunts, and she pushes her chair back to stand up. You let out a scoff because you aren't in the mood to be handled. “Then go find Trinity and see if she’s free,” you snap and turn your back. “Maybe I will,” Yolanda claps back, but immediately regrets the words after seeing your face. You march toward the bedroom to get your clothes so you can leave her house for good.
You reach for your pants on the floor, but Yolanda follows you inside before you can grab them. She stands against the door to block your exit and watches you with a softening expression. “I’m just kidding,” she murmurs while she blocks the way because she doesn’t actually want you to go. You glare at her while your heart thumps in your chest, but she reaches out to keep you from moving past her. “You aren't going anywhere like that,” she says while she looks you up and down. You realize you’re still half-naked since you haven’t even managed to put your pants on yet.
You clutch your clothes to your chest, and you feel the heat spread across your neck while she watches you. Yolanda steps closer and takes the fabric out of your hands. “Mmm, I told you I’m sorry,” she whispers and tosses your pants back onto the floor. You stand there in only your shirt while she wraps her arms around your waist to pull you against her. “There isn’t actually another woman,” you admit, and your eyes look toward her with a huff. Yolanda takes a breath, and she puts her hand against your arm. “I know,” she murmurs as she watches your face for a second.
You feel a shiver in your skin, and you rest your head against her shoulder. “I only said it because it hurt when you ignored my joke about having a girlfriend,” you say as you fidget with the hem of your shirt. Yolanda nods her head, and she pulls you closer to her chest. “I know that too,” she repeats before she touches your hair to calm you down. “And that thing about Trinity-” you start to say, but she cuts you off immediately. “Shh… I know,” she whispers just to say the same thing she said moments ago, and she looks into your eyes with a soft expression.
She reaches out to give your cheek a kiss before she places her lips against your lips in a long apology. Yolanda guides you back toward the mattress, and she lowers you down until you’re lying on the sheets. “I’m sorry,” she says while she climbs on top of you. You spread your legs for her while she hovers over your body, and she grips your hips to hold you beneath her. “You better make this up to me,” you pant, but she’s already yanking your shirt over your head to toss it onto the floor. Yolanda strips her own shirt off before she straddles your thighs, and she sits directly over your cunt.
“I’m making it up to you right now,” she grunts while she grinds her wet folds against your clit. You shudder while she braces her hands on the mattress, and she puts more of her weight down against you to make the friction every time she humps against you. “Hah... feels-” you gasp, but her pussy lips rub against yours, and she rolls her pelvis in a circle. Yolanda bites her lip from the pleasure while her own cunt throbs against yours. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” she moans while she increases the speed of her movements.
You raise your hips to meet every thrust she makes by grinding up against her too, and she grips your shoulders to keep herself steady. “Nn- oh god, harder,” you whine when your folds kiss each other, and the way she watches you fall apart beneath her only makes you wetter. “Don’t stop,” you pant while you hook your legs around her waist to make her closer against yours. You could feel her soaking cunt directly against your clit while she desperately grinds and makes sure your clits bump each other. “G-god, you drive me crazy,” she grunts before she shoves her tongue into your mouth to swallow your moans.
You wrap your arms around her neck, and you suck on her tongue while she glides her folds into you with every thrust. “Mmmph…” Yolanda whimpers into the kiss while she grinds her soaking folds against yours. She humps her pelvis down until your clits rub and glide directly against each other. You feel her slick your clit while you get closer to cumming. “Nnngh, oh god, right there,” you whine as she picks up the pace, and she grips your hair to hold your head steady for the kiss. Yolanda moans deep in her throat, but her pussy lips slide against yours, and she rests into your chest until you can barely breathe.
“Hah... oh god, you’re so good for me,” Yolanda whispers, but she breaks the kiss to rest her forehead against your shoulder. Her pussy rubs against yours as her hot breath hitches against your ear. Your hands grip her back while you feel the sweat between your bodies, and you dig your nails into her skin. “You feel so amazing, Yolanda,” you pant as you tilt your head to give her more room. Yolanda moans in her throat while she whispers praises about how wet you are, and she grinds down even harder. She moves her head from your shoulder to bury her face between your tits.
“H-haah-” she grunts while her mouth finds your nipples and she uses her teeth. Her fingers squeeze your tits while her tongue swipes over you, but she doesn’t slow down her movements between your legs. “That feels good…” You whine while you arch your chest for her, and she sucks even harder. “Nn- oh god, I’m so close,” you gasp while your fingers dig into her hair. Yolanda pulls away from your chest, and she looks up at you with a smirk. “Already?” she chuckles while her wet pussy continues to glide against yours.
You toss your head back on the pillow while your body trembles, and you lose your mind from the feeling. “This is the second one- still sensitive…” You whine while you arch your hips to grind harder against her. Yolanda grunts in approval, and she sucks your nipple back into her mouth while she shoves her hand between your bodies. She rubs your clit with her thumb while she grinds against you at the same time. “Hngh, mmm, then come for me,” she moans while her hand blurs, and she humps right against your clit. You hook your legs tighter around her waist while she uses her fingers and her pussy against you at the same time.
“Mffh fuc-” Yolanda whimpers before she bites your nipple, and she pins you deeper into the mattress. “R-right there- keep doing that,” you whine while you buck your hips up against her hand. Yolanda grinds her cunt harder into yours, but she continues to rub her thumb against your clit with more pressure. “So wet for me,” she grunts as she humps her pelvis against you while your legs tremble. You close your eyes, and getting closer to your orgasm made you wrap your legs tighter around her. “Nnngh- p-please… please- shit-” you whine loudly when you finally cum while your pussy pulses against her palm, and the orgasm only just made everything feel sticky between your bodies.
Yolanda pulls her hand out of your pussy only to shove two fingers inside your mouth before you can even catch your breath. “Hngh,” she moans while she grinds her soaking folds into your clit as she watches you suck on her knuckles. You wrap your tongue around her fingers while you tremble, but Yolanda doesn’t slow down. You only lick her fingers for a few minutes before you decide to stop when it’s clean, and you shove her hand away from your mouth. You reach down to place your own hand over her clit. “L-let me,” you pant before you use your fingers.
Yolanda grunts in surprise and tilts her pelvis to give you better access to her soaking folds. “Mmf, fuck, keep doing that,” she moans as she continues to grind against you. You can feel the way your fingers got soaked from both of your slick while you continue to work over her nub. Yolanda grips your shoulders and slides her weight into you. You wince because you feel still sore from your cumming, but you don’t pull away. “Mhmh-” she whimpers while she rolls her hips in a tight circle over your hand. You watch her face while she bites her lip, and you pin your palm harder against her clit.
“Am I doing it right?” you whisper while you press your fingers harder against her clit, and you look up at her with a desperate need to please her. Yolanda starts shaking while she grinds her cunt down into your hand. You reach up to touch her face while you search her eyes for approval. “God- yes- yes,” she grunts while she stares at you and grinds her pelvis hard into your palm. You stroke her cheek while you keep working against the swollen nub between her folds, and you watch her face like she’s the only thing that matters. Yolanda lets out a low moan before she grips your wrist to keep your hand exactly where she needs it.
“Don’t stop,” she whimpers while her pussy pulses against your fingers and she humps faster. You watch her while she leans all her weight into you, but you don’t stop rubbing her clit. “Need- o-oh- mhmhm-” Yolanda gasps out before she finally finishes against your hand. You feel her cunt twitch against your fingers while she cum over your palm. “Mmh? You like that?” you whisper while your hand presses into the mess. Yolanda curses while she rubs her clit against your fingers, yet her movements seem to slow down now. You arch your hips up to grind back into her while you watch her chest heave.
“Hngh, oh god,” she grunts while she buries her face in the crook of your neck. You squeeze your thighs around her waist while you feel how soaked between your body is. “Nngh, hah, you did so good,” Yolanda murmurs into your skin while her pussy lips slide against your fingers and she grinds slowly into you. “Haaah, hngh,” Yolanda pants while her grinding stops and she pushes your hand away from her clit. She slides off you and rolls onto her side to face you on the mattress. You stare into her eyes while her arm loops over your waist.
“Is that better?” she whispers while her arms tighten around you and she kisses your forehead. You don't say anything, but you lower your head down to her breasts. “Mmn, it’s nice,” you murmur while your lips encircle around her nipple and you start sucking it. Yolanda grunts while her hand rests on your head, and she cradles you against her. You tease the sensitive bud with your tongue until she sighs against your ear, and she shudders under your mouth. “Hah, mmm,” she moans while she holds you tight against her and she keeps you tucked under her chin.
You suck her nipple while her fingers slowly pet your hair, which makes you whimper against her skin. You stop after a minute and press soft kisses across the valley of her chest. “Can I stay over tonight?” you whisper while you look up at her. Yolanda scoffs, and her hand tightens at your waist. “Don't be crazy,” she grunts before she pulls you closer and her legs hook over yours. “It’s past midnight, and you’re really asking me that?” she mutters while she nuzzles her face against the top of your head.
You rest your hand on her ribs, and she feels warm under your palm. “I just didn’t know if you wanted me to leave,” you murmur while you trace patterns on her skin. Yolanda lets out a huff, and she hides her face in your neck. “You’re not going anywhere,” she snaps while she closes her eyes and locks her legs around yours. “This is getting way too intimate for a casual hookup,” you tease while Yolanda keeps nuzzling your neck. She bites your skin hard enough to make you gasp, but she doesn’t say anything. “I bet you’re this sweet to every girl you fuck,” you whisper as you shove her shoulder just a little bit.
Yolanda pulls back to look at you, and she stares with an annoyed face while her hand rests on your waist. “You talk too much,” she grunts before she hovers over your lips. “Do I need to shove my tongue down your throat to shut you up?” she mutters while she grips your hip tighter. You look up at her with wide eyes while you feel your heart beat faster from what she said. “Maybe,” you murmur as she pins your legs down with her own. Yolanda mutters a curse before she leans closer without breaking eye contact. Yolanda presses a quick peck to your lips. “You look a little too whipped right now,” you tease while you poke her chest with your finger.
She shuts your mouth with another kiss, but you keep smiling. “I'm not here forever, you know?” you murmur as you trace the line of her jaw. Yolanda lets out a groan, and she rolls her eyes at your persistence. “You're more stressful than doing a surgery,” she grumbles before she presses another kiss against your mouth. You wrap your arms around her neck while you pull her closer to your face. “I'm just saying, Dr. Garcia,” you whisper and flick your tongue over her bottom lip. “You might miss me when I'm gone,” you add as you watch her expression turn serious for a second.
Yolanda grunts under her breath and hides her face in the crook of your neck. “You could try,” Yolanda whispers against your neck while her lips brush against your skin. “What was that?” you ask and tilt your head to pretend like you didn't hear a word she said. You wait a second before deciding to push her buttons even more. “Or maybe I should just start bringing my things over here like my toothbrush,” you tease while you watch her reaction from the corner of your eye. Yolanda groans and buries her face deeper into your shoulder. “So that’s it?” you laugh and shake your head before speaking. “You only like the sex,” you tease and poke her hip to get her attention.
“I can’t even blame you because I know it’s that good,” you mutter as you watch her reaction while her hand stays on your thigh. Yolanda lets out a long groan, and she buries her face deeper into your shoulder. “Ramen between rounds seems like your thing too,” you add while you trace the line of her ribs with your thumb. “And oh yeah, cuddles are definitely on your list,” you whisper as you keep your tone playful and annoying on purpose. Yolanda pulls away from your neck before she gives you a look that says she’s had enough of your mouth for one night. She sits up slightly, but she keeps her hand on your leg as she stares you down with narrowed eyes.
You pout while looking up from the pillow to wait for her response. Yolanda reaches out to caress your cheek and trace your skin with her thumb. “Being my girlfriend doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Yolanda admits while she reaches out to caress your cheek. You blink in shock as you stare at her because you didn't think she'd ever say that. “Yeah?” you whisper and tilt your head to rest your face in her palm. Yolanda sighs and shakes her head, as if she’s struggling with the words. “You know I don't usually do the whole relationship thing because it’s a lot to handle,” she grumbles while she keeps her hand against your skin.
You rub your cheek against her thumb while you look up at her with a soft expression. “I know, we said this was casual,” you remind her while you watch her eyes soften, but she rolls her eyes after a few seconds, and she huffs at herself since the casual arrangement was her idea in the first place. “Forget about the casual part,” she mutters while leaning closer. “How about I take you out next week?” she asks and moves your hair out of the way. “I’ll plan everything so you don't have to worry about a thing,” she adds before she presses a kiss to your forehead.
TW: a lot, suicidal thoughts, sh, panic attack, OCD
Fandom: The Pitt
Trinity Santos x Yolanda Garcia x reader (Platonic!Dana x reader)
Reader really has a shitty day and the hospital’ rooftop is too tempting
You had crossed the gates of the Pitt at exactly seven that morning and you still hadn’t come back home. You pull out your phone from your jacket pocket, glancing at the screen for a brief instant. It’s six in the evening, your shift ended more than two hours ago, but you still haven’t had the courage to go back home. Just below the time, written in bold letters above YOUR photo — set as your wallpaper more than two months before — there are about twelve messages from the group chat “Some3.”
You turn off the screen, letting the phone slide back into its place in your jacket pocket, without bothering with the messages. They’re probably looking for you; you should already be at home with them by now; instead, you’re on the hospital rooftop, staring with melancholy at the asphalt a few dozen meters below you, with a lit cigarette held tight between your trembling lips. You inhale some smoke and then blow it out, mesmerized by the little gray cloud rising toward the ever-darkening sky as night approaches. You cough a couple of times before your lungs finally give you a break, then you inhale the smoke again. Your asthma isn’t very happy right now, and the inhaler abandoned in your jacket pocket — not the one with the phone, the other one — is proof of it.
You hear the phone ring and then the voicemail kick in; you don’t need to pull it out to know who’s calling you. The only real doubt that could arise is which of the two of them has actually worried enough to call you. Well, maybe you know that answer too. You finish the cigarette and stub it out on the cement beneath you; as you do, your fingertip barely scrapes against the cement and that faint pain numbs you completely, along with the cold air and the sound of the traffic below. You glare with resentment at the empty pack of cigarettes in your pocket and a small huff leaves your lips. You settle yourself more comfortably on the ledge, not paying much attention — as if you weren’t literally one step away from death.
A small, melancholic smile curls your lips and a jolt of pain strikes your right cheek; by now a bruise has surely formed, no doubt about it. You don’t need to have studied medicine for ten years to figure that out, and you don’t need a mirror either. You feel it in every facial movement you make; every single crease of the skin reminds you coldly of what happened today and the reason you find yourself on this rooftop.
It’s not the first time a patient has thrown a punch at you, but it is the first time that the father of a child — John, six years old, with a cardiac malformation for which you could do nothing except fifteen desperate minutes of cardiac massage on your part — screams at you that it’s your fault his child is dead, punches you in the face, and then, according to the evening news, throws himself off the nearest bridge to the hospital. Dead on impact. Only Dana had recognized the man on the news, and her gaze had settled on you with a sweetness and a concern that only that woman was capable of. But, as was your habit, you had downplayed it and reassured her and, above all, you had begged her not to tell anyone.
Not that anyone knew about your relationship. A relationship involving three people is never an easy confession, and in a workplace? A nightmare.
Everyone in the ER knew about THEIR relationship, but you stayed in the shadows, with fleeting quickies, stolen kisses, and a shared apartment twelve minutes by car from your workplace.
You had started working at the Pitt alongside Trinity, and gradually she had grown close to a certain surgeon, and then, well, the duo had become a trio. With Yolanda’s hands roaming over your body while your mouth found warm shelter between Trinity’s legs. Before long, your casual relationship had grown more serious until you decided to move in together, and you fit together so well that it seemed a shame not to have met them sooner; a sacrilege, almost. Trinity had opened up about her scars, you about the depression that had consumed you for most of your life, and Yolanda about her battle with — and eventual victory over — the obsessive-compulsive disorder that, over the years, had transformed into the control she so often displayed in the operating room. You were imperfect, but you loved and accepted one another completely in a way you had only ever dreamed of.
You slide your fingertip over the wheel that strikes the lighter’s flame; it takes three tries for the fire to rise and for the empty cigarette box, resting on the cement of the ledge, to catch fire.
You’ve been up here for hours by now; you don’t know what you want to do, you don’t know if you want to take a step forward and end all of this forever or take a step back and return to the arms of your partners, at home. John isn’t the first child you’ve lost, but you had grown attached to him like you never had to anyone else. In one month, you had seen that little human being more than most of your own family; he had made you laugh, cry, have fun; he had drawn you a beautiful picture: three figures holding hands in front of a building with an asterisk drawn on top, at the center of which was a serpent coiled around a staff. One night, while you were checking his vitals, you had told the little one that you loved two people and not just one, like other people. You had told him that everyone says you can only love one person at a time, and that they said it because they had never met two extraordinary people at the same time.
The next day, when you had entered his room for the routine checkup, you had found him sitting on the bed — surrounded by machines that a child shouldn’t even have to see, at his age — clutching triumphantly, in his tiny little hands, that piece of paper. He had handed it to you with the biggest smile you had ever seen him make, and in a proud voice he had said that he too loved many people: his father, his cousin, his teacher… and he understood what it meant to love more than one person. You had cried that day, because a child had explained and understood what many people couldn’t even conceive of.
The world had lost a beautiful person today.
It wasn’t your fault, you know that; rationally, you know that you did — that all of you did — everything you were capable of doing. But grief… grief is never rational.
What remains of the pack is a little pile of ash; you brush it away with the back of your hand, letting the wind carry it off with a gust. The way you too would like to fly away, without the weight of everything you feel on your shoulders right now.
“To jump or not to jump, that is what I wonder”… you chuckle bitterly at the thought; after all, the great Shakespeare would not be very pleased with this butchered quotation.
The phone rings again, three, four, five times. And then, the rooftop door opens with a creak.
You don’t even turn around, you don’t feel the need and even less the desire. Whether it’s one of your colleagues or one of your partners doesn’t matter; you don’t owe explanations to anyone, everyone comes up here, whether for the view or for other reprehensible reasons is beside the point.
“Hey kiddo, I haven’t seen you come down in a while. The night shift has arrived and Lena too, finally. I can’t wait to get home to my boys. Maybe it’s time for you to do the same.”
The unmistakable voice of the head nurse rings through the noisy silence of the roof, drowning out the hum of car horns dozens of meters below. You hear the click of a lighter, and without turning around, you understand she has just lit a cigarette.
You don’t answer. You don’t turn. The sound of her steps approaches slowly, unhurriedly, as if she had all the time in the world — and perhaps, in a way, she does. Dana isn’t the type of person who rushes you; she’s the type of person who sits down next to you, on the cold cement, a meter from the edge, and smokes in silence as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I lied for you today, you know? Santos called me, about an hour ago,” she says, after a long drag. Her voice is flat, free of judgment. “I told her you were still at the hospital, that you were finishing some charts. She pretended to believe me.”
Your stomach drops. Not because of the lie itself, but because Dana had had to construct it, think it through, make it believable. For you. Because you hadn’t had the courage to answer the phone.
“You didn’t have to,” you murmur.
“I didn’t have to, but the alternative was telling her the truth, and I don’t know if I was ready for that conversation.”
You don’t ask what the truth is according to Dana. You don’t need to. You saw her watching you walk out of the family room with the bruise already forming on your cheek and your eyes hollow.
“I’m not going to jump, Dana,” you sigh, but not even you believe your own words because, as a matter of fact, a very large part of you would just like to have the guts to take that last step.
“I didn’t suggest that, kid, but I’m definitely not going down from this roof without seeing you get off that ledge first. You’ve been up here for hours and I doubt it’s just to admire the view.”
You hear a long breath and then a little cloud of smoke rises to your right. The woman has probably moved closer, without you noticing.
You swallow. The metallic taste of smoke scratches your throat and the inhaler in your pocket weighs like an accusation.
“It was a bad day, Dana. Nothing more.”
“A bad day…” Dana chuckles bitterly, weighing every single word and shaking her head a couple of times before tossing the cigarette on the ground and crushing it with the toe of her shoe.
For a few seconds, the only sound surrounding you is your breathing, the wheeze in your bronchi that you are trying with all your might to silence. Your abs ache from how hard you’re straining not to cough, but from the gaze you feel burning against your back, you understand it’s futile.
“How much,” she says. A single word, dry as a slap.
“Dana—”
“How much did you smoke, y/n.”
“A pack.”
Dana drags a hand over her face. From bottom to top, slowly, pressing her fingers against her closed eyes as if she were trying to erase something from her own sight. You’ve seen her make that gesture only after the worst shifts — the ones after which you find yourself in the parking lot staring at the steering wheel for twenty minutes before you can turn the key.
“A whole pack,” she repeats, and her voice trembles now. Not with anger. With something deeper, rawer. “You’re asthmatic. You’re asthmatic, for fuck’s sake, y/n, and you’re a doctor, you know what it does to your lungs, and the wheeze I can hear in your breathing is proof of it. Where’s your inhaler? Christ…”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see her turn toward the city for a second, toward the lights flickering on one after another in the growing darkness. You see her hesitate, open her mouth and then close it again as if she were afraid of what she’s about to say might cause. You’ve never seen her doubt anything.
“Santos and Garcia won’t be happy about this, you know that, right?”
An icy chill runs down your spine, and it’s not from the cold.
“W-what?”
“I’ve worked in the ER for twenty years and I notice everything that happens inside it. You’re the only person Santos doesn’t vent to during a shitty shift, and the other day I saw Garcia adjusting the stethoscope around your neck with a smile I’d only ever seen her direct at Santos. It didn’t take me long to figure it out… and it’s fine, I’m not judging you, kid. I’m not judging any of you three, and actually, I’m glad you’ve found someone to talk to. You don’t need a medical degree to see that you love each other.”
Dana smiles and, slowly, takes a step toward you, and only when she’s sure you won’t make any sudden moves does she rest her hand on your arm.
You can’t speak. Your throat has closed and it’s not the asthma, this time. You had guarded that secret so jealously that now, hearing someone else say it out loud is like being stabbed right in the chest. You had been so careful; you had told everyone that you and Trinity had moved in together — for financial convenience, obviously — and the relationship between her and Yolanda was common knowledge by now. You never would have thought that your glances would give you away.
“I don’t care, Y/n. I’ve never cared. Who you love, how many people you love, how you love them… that’s your business. What I care about is that two people who love you are a few minutes’ drive from here and they’ve been looking for you for hours. They’re looking for you and you’re up here, alone, in the cold, with a pack of cigarettes in your veins and a bruise on your face and a deafening wheeze in your lungs. Punishing yourself.” Her voice cracks, barely, on the last word. “Punishing yourself for something that isn’t your fault.”
“I know you know it but knowing it and believing it are two different things, kid,” the knot in your throat tightens, “and until you believe it, you can’t be up here alone. I don’t trust your choices right now.”
“Well… I don’t trust myself right now either.”
Dana squeezes your arm as another coughing fit strikes you.
“That child was special,” she says, and her voice has changed again, lower, softer. “Every time I walked past his room and saw you in there telling him things, making him laugh, checking the machines pretending everything was normal… every time I thought that boy was incredibly lucky to have you as his doctor.” Pause. “And today the world lost something irreplaceable. But not because of you, Y/n. Not because of you.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your eyes burn and your throat is a tight knot and if you open your mouth now you know what will come out is a strangled sound, a cry of pain that you don’t want Dana to hear — not here, not now.
“It’s time to get off that ledge, y/n. Go home to your girls.”
A long silence settles between you. The traffic below continues as always — indifferent, constant, stupidly normal — and the sky has gone completely black now, without that orange strip on the horizon left to hide behind. Dana is standing, less than two meters from you. She hasn’t moved closer but she hasn’t moved away either. She guards that space the way one guards a border.
“You know what he told me, once?” you say, and you don’t know why you’re saying it, you don’t know where it comes from, but the words come out before you can stop them. “John. One evening, while I was checking his vitals and he couldn’t sleep, he asked me why I became a doctor.”
Dana doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. She listens.
“I told him I became a doctor because I wanted to help people and make them feel better. And he looked at me with those big eyes that were impossible to say no to, Dana, and he said: ‘But then why do you cry when you leave my room?’” Your voice breaks, you can’t help it, as the memory of that sweet child invades your mind with force.
You bite your lower lip so hard you taste blood.
“A six-year-old child… and he noticed I was crying. He noticed that every time I left his room I leaned against the corridor wall and cried because I knew — I knew, Dana, from the very first day — that he wasn’t going to make it. That every probability I had studied in my medical textbooks testified to how his story would end. And he knew I was crying and he never said anything until that evening when he asked me and I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know how to explain to a child that I was crying because—”
You stop. The sob takes your throat like a hand and squeezes. You lean forward, your hands on the cold cement, and for one horrible second the world tilts — the edge is right there, less than a few centimeters away, and your body weighs too much and the void pulls —
Dana’s hand grabs your arm with force. So hard that you feel every single finger through the fabric of your jacket. She pulls you back and for a moment you find yourself with your back against her chest, her arm around your shoulders and her heart pounding against your back.
Not the calm heartbeat of a woman who has everything under control, but the terrified heartbeat of someone who has just seen what could have happened.
“Don’t move,” she says, and her voice is unrecognizable. Hoarse, broken, stripped of all professionalism, of all distance, of every role. “Don’t move, y/n. Stay here, stay still.”
Her arms tremble around you.
Yours tremble against her body.
And you stay like that for a time you can’t measure — seconds, maybe, or minutes, or hours compressed into a heartbeat — until Dana drags you off the ledge, setting you with your back against the cement you were sitting on just moments ago.
“He answered me himself, you know,” you whisper, and your voice is a whisper, the thinnest thread barely audible, the ghost of a sound. “I apologized for not knowing how to answer him and he said: ‘Maybe you cry because you care about me. My dad cries too and I know he loves me.’”
Dana doesn’t answer, but her arm tightens around you and her breathing becomes irregular, short, broken — like the breathing of someone fighting not to cry and succeeding by the thinnest margin.
“And he was right,” you say. “I was crying because I cared about him. And now I’m crying because he’s gone and his father is gone and I’m on this fucking roof wondering if—”
“Enough.”
Dana lets you go. She shifts, moves in front of you; kneeling on the cement, her hands on your shoulders, her face thirty centimeters from yours, and in her eyes you see something you’ve never seen in twenty years of emergency room condensed in that woman: fear. Pure, naked, total fear.
“Enough,” she repeats, and her voice trembles but holds. “Listen to me. That child loved you. His father was destroyed by grief and did the things that grief makes people do. And you’re here, alive, with a bruise and a heart that hurts too much, but you’re here. You’re here, Y/n. And I need you to stay here.”
She takes your face in her hands. Her fingers are cold and rough against your skin.
“I need you to use that inhaler. I need you to get up from this cement and come down from this roof and let me drive you home and let those two women hold you tight tonight. I need these things, Y/n. I need them. Can you do them for me, if you can’t do them for yourself?”
You don’t answer. Not with words. But your fingers find the jacket pocket — the one without the phone — and pull out the inhaler. The metal is ice-cold. You bring it to your mouth. Press. Inhale. Hold for a few seconds.
The bronchi open. Air flows in and the wheeze, finally, fades.
Dana nods. She releases your face. She sits next to you, shoulder to shoulder, and for a full minute you stay in silence, seated on the cement with your backs against the ledge you were sitting on just moments ago.
“That child is the reason you get up from this roof,” Dana says. “Not for me. Not for your job. Because that child — you are not allowed, y/n, do you hear me? — you are not allowed to turn that child into a memory of something that was lost.”
You stand up.
Your legs tremble, your knees protest, and for a second the world spins, darkness closing in at the edges of your vision, but Dana quickly grabs you by the elbow to keep you from falling.
“Easy, kid,” she says. “Easy.”
She holds your elbow a few seconds longer than necessary, until she’s sure your legs can hold on their own, and then lets go — but doesn’t move away. She walks at your side toward the roof door, half a step behind, close enough to catch you if you fall and far enough not to make you feel like an invalid.
“My keys are in the locker,” you say, your voice hoarse. “I need to—”
“Oh, you don’t actually think I’m going to let you drive, do you?” She turns to you as if you had just told her you’d removed a lung from a healthy patient, arching her right eyebrow.
“Dana—”
“I’m driving you home. End of discussion. Your car will get some rest.”
You don’t have the strength to argue. You don’t have the strength to do anything, really. The adrenaline left a long time ago and what remains is an exhaustion so total that it feels like you’re moving underwater. You follow Dana through the ER — emptied out at this hour, thanks to some divine miracle — until you reach outside, the parking lot, where the cold night air makes you shiver.
The drive home is blurred, the warmth of the car lulls you and the devastating emotions of the day drain you so much that you think you closed your eyes at some point. You don’t even remember telling Dana where you live, actually; and yet, when you open your eyes you recognize the façade of your apartment building.
You turn toward her. In the darkness of the car, her face is lit in flashes by the orange streetlight and her dark circles seem deeper, her gaze more tired. She spent her evening on a roof, in the cold, for you. She should be home with her boys by now, and instead she’s here.
“Dana.”
“Tell me.”
“Why did you come up?”
She looks at you for a few seconds and then, with a tired smile, answers, “Because I don’t only have two children to look after, but also many other doctors just like you, kid — Santos and Mohan and Javadi and Whitaker. You’re all my godchildren, and I have to make sure my godchildren are safe.”
“Thank you,” you say, and the word is so inadequate, so small compared to what it contains, that you’re almost ashamed to say it.
Dana huffs a half-laugh — dry, tired, real — and then hugs you.
“This pain will pass, y/n, but until then, turn to the people who love you.”
She gives you one last squeeze and then gets out of the car to open your door for you, walks you to the entrance and waits patiently while you find the keys inside your jacket. The head nurse waits until you’re inside the building and then, with one final nod, walks away.
“I expect not to see you at work tomorrow, and when you come back, we’ll have a talk about what happened tonight. It’s not optional.”
Dana closes the front door, with you inside, and heads toward the car. You hear her start the engine only after you step into the elevator and the doors close behind you.
You arrive in front of your door without realizing it; you slip your hand into your jacket pocket to pull out the keys again and open the door.
The smell hits you first. Lavender — Trinity’s detergent. Coffee — Yolanda. Something burnt — the toaster, probably, forgotten somewhere in the chaos of the day by Trinity; Yolanda keeps everything under control, after all. Home. The sound of that word in your head hurts in a way you didn’t expect.
“Finally.”
Yolanda’s voice comes from the living room. The tone is the exasperated one she uses when you come home late; irritated, a bit annoyed, but fundamentally calm. The tone of someone who thinks they already know what happened: long shift, charts, the usual delay. You hear the sound of the couch deforming under the weight of someone getting up and then her footsteps — barefoot, quick — in the hallway.
Yolanda appears from the doorframe; she’s wearing your gray sweatshirt, sweatpants, and her hair is tied up. She’s gripping the phone in her hand and slipping it into her pocket with the automatic gesture of someone who has just stopped checking the screen.
“I know you were finishing charts, but you could have at least—”
She stops.
The words die in her mouth. You see it happen in real time: the sentence fading, the lips remaining half-open, the eyes moving from your eyes to your right cheek. And staying there, pinned.
Her face changes and the irritation vanishes, the relief vanishes. What remains is something bare, sharp, surgical.
“Y/n.”
Your name sounds different from how you’ve heard her say it a thousand times. It sounds like an alarm sounds.
“What the hell happened.”
It’s not a question. You know her well enough to know that when Yolanda phrases things like that — flat, dry, without a question mark — she’s not asking. She’s demanding an answer.
“Trinity.”
She says it without turning around, without taking her eyes off yours, raising her voice just enough for it to reach the living room. Trinity’s name spoken in that sharp, urgent, clinical tone is the same one she uses in the operating room when something goes wrong and she needs another pair of hands.
You hear Trinity get up from the couch, her hurried steps in the hallway, and then you see her appear behind Yolanda, with the blanket still clutched in one hand and the expression of someone expecting a complaint about the lateness who finds something else entirely.
She looks at you, her gaze quickly finds the bruise on your face and stops there. The hand gripping the blanket opens and the fabric falls to the floor without a sound.
“Who,” she says. A single syllable. Low, hoarse, charged.
“Can we sit down? I’ll explain everything, but—”
“Who the fuck did that to your face, y/n.” Trinity has taken a step forward. She’s in the hallway now, less than a meter from you, and her eyes haven’t left the bruise for a single second. Her hand rises toward your cheek — slow, controlled, with the gentleness of someone handling something broken — and her fingers stop a centimeter from the skin. She doesn’t touch. She feels the heat of the inflammation through the air.
“Close the door,” says Yolanda, behind you. You hadn’t realized it, but the front door is still open, flung wide onto the landing. You push it. It closes. The sound of the lock clicking shut is final. For one single instant you had the temptation to run away, but it wouldn’t solve anything now. If anything, it would only make things worse.
Trinity takes your chin between her fingers and turns your face toward the hallway light. Her lips tighten. You see her clench her jaw once, twice; a gesture she makes when examining victims of violence.
“It’s not a fall,” she says. “It’s not a locker. It’s not a cabinet door. It’s a punch, y/n. Someone punched you.”
Silence. That she was good, you already knew, but this…
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” Yolanda speaks. She has come closer now, and you feel her to your left. Her tone is low, careful, controlled with a visible effort, like someone walking on a glass floor. “We called. Messages. Dana said charts. But you weren’t answering. Why?”
“Because I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
The difference, right now, seems irrelevant to you.
Trinity releases your chin. She takes your hand — the right one, the one with the fingertip scraped by the cement, which fortunately she doesn’t notice — and guides you to the living room. She sits you on the couch and then sits beside you, so close that her thigh touches yours, and she doesn’t let go of your hand. Her fingers are warm. Yours, on the contrary, are ice-cold.
Yolanda stays standing. Arms crossed, leaning against the TV cabinet, facing you. The news is still on — the volume low, images scrolling across the screen — and for a second your eyes fall there, on the screen, and you pray they’re not replaying the bridge story because if they see it now, before you—
“Turn that thing off,” Trinity says to Yolanda, and from the tone you can tell it’s not because of the noise. She noticed your gaze. She saw where you were looking. She doesn’t know why yet, but she saw it.
Yolanda picks up the remote and turns it off. Silence. Only the refrigerator humming, the bathroom faucet dripping, your breathing.
“Talk,” says Yolanda.
You look at them. Both of them. Trinity is at your side, with your hand in hers and her eyes fixed on you — those eyes you’ve learned to read like an open book and that are now full of something that oscillates between fear, fury, and anguish. Yolanda stands before you, arms crossed, with the expression of someone performing an emotional triage.
“John died this morning.”
A shadow passes over Trinity’s face. She knew — they both probably knew, departments talk — but hearing it from your mouth, in your broken voice, is different. Her hand squeezes yours.
“Cardiac malformation. Fifteen minutes of cpr. He didn’t make it.” The clinical chart tone; the wall every doctor hides behind, with great effort and very often without great results. “His father was in the family room. I went to notify him of the death. He… let’s say he didn’t take it well.”
“The bruise,” says Yolanda. Hers is not a question.
“He screamed at me that it was my fault, that I had killed his son, and then he punched me.” You gesture toward your cheek with a nod. “Outside the room. No one was around.”
Trinity’s hand contracts in yours. A reflex, a jolt; the body reacting before the mind. Her breathing has changed — it’s shorter, quicker, her chest rising and falling in jerks.
“And you didn’t tell us,” says Trinity.
“That’s not all.”
Yolanda pushes off the cabinet, takes a step toward you. Her arms have uncrossed and her hands are at her sides, open, and there’s something in her posture that reminds you of the way she approaches the operating table when she already knows the surgery is going to be long and complicated and isn’t going to go the way it should.
“He… left the hospital after hitting me. He jumped from the bridge on Eighth. Died on impact.” You swallow. “They reported it on the evening news, in the afternoon. Dana recognized him… she’s the one who brought me home.”
The silence that follows is not silence. It’s the sound of two people processing information too large, too heavy, too full of implications to be absorbed in a single breath. Yolanda has stopped moving; she stands in the middle of the living room, two steps from the couch, with an expression you’ve seen only once — in the operating room, when she lost a patient on the table and took off her gloves and set them in the bin with a calm that had frightened everyone. Trinity, beside you, has closed her eyes.
“The charts,” says Yolanda. And the word falls into the living room like something heavy, something dirty. “Dana told us you were finishing charts.”
“Dana lied for me. I had asked her not to say anything.”
“And where were you.” Yolanda whispers, her gaze concealing the need for a denial that, however, doesn’t come.
“On the roof.”
One second.
“On the roof,” Trinity repeats, and opens her eyes. “For how long.”
“Since four. Maybe earlier. I don’t know.”
“Four hours,” says Yolanda, and her voice trembles. “Four hours on the hospital roof without answering the phone, after a man punched you in the face and jumped off a bridge.” She inhales. “Were you on the ledge?”
You don’t answer. But the way you avoid her gaze is answer enough.
“God.” The word leaves her like an exhalation. She brings her hands to her face, presses them against her eyes, drags them down slowly, and when her eyes reappear they’re glistening. Glistening in a way you’ve never seen. Glistening in a way that frightens you more than anything that has happened today, because Yolanda doesn’t cry — she never cries. “Y/n… You were on the ledge.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“You weren’t going to?” Trinity stands up, and her voice rises with her. “You don’t know if you were going to or not. You don’t sit on a ledge for four hours when you know what you want to do, y/n!”
She’s right. She’s right and you know it and she knows it and the silence that follows is the proof.
“The charts,” says Trinity, and her voice has changed. It’s fragile, wounded. She takes her hands from her face and her eyes are red and wet and full of a desperation that devastates you. “We believed it. I believed it, Y/n. Dana said you were finishing charts and I said ‘ok, she’s doing charts’ and I stopped calling because I thought you were working and you were on the ledge. For half an hour longer I didn’t look for you because someone told me a lie and I believed it and you were—”
Her voice breaks. She turns her back on you and takes three steps toward the kitchen before stopping with her hands pressed on the tabletop, arms straight, head bowed. Her breathing is loud, ragged — the breathing of someone trying to hold the pieces together by sheer force of will. It’s the breathing you’ve heard her do many times before… just before a panic attack.
“Trinity, sweetheart—” you stand up.
“Sit down.” Yolanda. She isn’t looking at you. She’s looking at Trinity and then, with three quick steps, reaches her. She places a hand on her sternum and presses gently, to make her feel her presence. She presses softly, with an open palm, a gesture that both of you use to help your girlfriend — to give her something physical to focus on when her breath escapes her.
Trinity inhales, once, twice. Slowly, fighting against the panic rising in her chest. Her hands are still on the table, knuckles white with the effort and arms trembling under the weight of a body that wants to give in.
You stay on the couch, motionless, while guilt devours you. Not only for everything that happened today but also for this. For the fact that Trinity, one of the two women you love with all your heart, is having a panic attack in your living room, and the cause is you.
“Breathe, love,” Yolanda murmurs; her voice is calm, low, steady… completely different from the one she just used with you. It’s the voice she reserves for Trinity in the worst moments. “Look at me. Breathe in with me. That’s it. Good.”
Trinity raises her head. Her eyes find Yolanda’s and cling there, like an anchor. She inhales when Yolanda inhales. She exhales when Yolanda exhales. They do it three times, four, five, until the rhythm stabilizes and Trinity’s hands on the table finally stop trembling.
“I’m sorry.”
You say it from the couch, with your hands on your knees and your voice trembling like a child’s. You say it looking at them and the inadequacy of those two words crushes you.
Trinity pulls away from the table. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, with a rough, almost angry gesture, as if the tears were a personal offense. She inhales once, deeply, and then crosses the living room and comes back to you.
She kneels on the floor in front of the couch, and her hands take your knees. She looks up at you from below and her face is devastated and furious and full of love, and all these things together shouldn’t be able to coexist on the same face, yet on Trinity’s they do — they always have.
“I’m not done,” she says. Her voice is still hoarse, still unsteady. “I’m not done being angry with you. I’m not done being afraid. I’m not done—” She stops. Swallows. “But first I need to know one thing. And I need you to tell me the truth, love — not the version you think is less painful. The truth.”
You nod.
“On the ledge. For four hours.” Her fingers tighten on your knees. “At any point during those four hours, did you think about jumping? I’m asking you if the thought crossed your mind, even for one second.”
The living room is so silent you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Yolanda stands at the kitchen entrance, motionless, arms at her sides and eyes fixed on you. She waits. They both wait.
And you could lie, you could say “no, never” with the same ease you said “I’m fine” to Dana this morning. You could protect — again, still, always — and add another layer of lies between yourself and the people you love.
But you stopped lying tonight. You’re tired, and you can’t do it with their eyes on you.
“Yes.”
A single syllable, so brief and yet the heaviest you have ever spoken.
Trinity closes her eyes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t remove her hands from your knees, but her face does something that destroys you: it contracts, for a second, as if she had received a physical blow — a real, bodily pain — and then recomposes itself. When she opens her eyes there are tears, but beneath the tears there is something else — something hard, determined, unshakable.
“Ok,” she says. “Ok.” She’s shaken, visibly shaken, but she’s trying to process somehow the bomb you’ve just dropped.
Yolanda has moved. You didn’t hear her, but now she’s behind you, on the couch, and her hands are on your shoulders. The weight of her hands on your tense muscles is warm and steady and says: I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.
“And Dana?” asks Yolanda, from behind you. Her voice is controlled, but her fingers on your shoulders tremble, just barely, betraying everything else. “Dana knew? That you were on the ledge?”
“She came up. She found me there and — she pulled me down.”
A sound escapes Yolanda’s throat. It’s not a word; it’s a strangled sob. Her fingers tighten on your shoulders, once, hard, and then relax. She leans down, leaves a kiss in your hair, and you feel her hands stiffen slightly.
“You smoked.”
“I—”
“Goddammit, y/n,” Yolanda whispers, her voice still trembling, but with anger now.
Trinity doesn’t react — not immediately, at least. Her face stays motionless, perfectly still, for three whole seconds, and then something breaks. You see her rise from her knees, sit next to you on the couch, and rest her head against the backrest, eyes on the ceiling. She inhales. Exhales. Inhales again.
“You’re asthmatic,” she says, to the ceiling. As if she were telling the universe and not you.
“I know.”
“You know.” A pause. “You know, and you smoked.”
There’s no anger in her voice. There’s something worse: there’s weariness. The exhaustion of someone who spent hours fighting against imaginary scenarios and now discovers that reality was worse than all of them.
Yolanda has moved. She’s no longer behind you; she’s gone to the bathroom to get something. When she returns, she has the stethoscope gripped in her hands, along with your backup inhaler — the emergency one, with the corticosteroid and not just the bronchodilator.
“Yolo—” you sigh.
“Don’t piss me off more than I already am right now, please.”
She sits to your right and makes you turn toward her; she slides the bell first across your chest and then your back, ordering you to breathe in and out when she tells you to.
“I can still hear the wheeze. Take a puff.”
You grab the inhaler; her look brooks no argument, and you’re not sure how much further you can push the rope before it snaps, so you follow her orders to perfection, and when, a few minutes later, she checks again, she’s satisfied enough to put the stethoscope away.
She lets herself fall onto the couch, at your side, and her arms wrap around you, together with Trinity’s; the surgeon rests her forehead against your shoulder, and her body trembles. You feel something warm and wet soaking through the fabric of your shirt where her cheek is pressed, and you realize she’s crying. Yolanda is crying. In silence, without a sound, with tears falling without permission, and you’ve never seen her cry in your life, and the fact that she’s doing it now, here, against your shoulder, tells you everything there is to know about what you’ve done to her tonight.
You stay like that.
You don’t know for how long. Time stopped mattering the moment you stopped lying, and now all that exists is this: three bodies on a couch, three broken breaths trying to find each other again, the living room that smells of lavender and cold coffee, and the world outside the window going on without you.
It’s Trinity who moves first.
She stands — eyes swollen, red, but her gaze steady, present — and removes your jacket. She does it slowly, sliding it off your arms one side at a time, and the smell of stale smoke rises from the fabric like an animal waking up. She folds it with care — too much care for a jacket that should just be tossed in the corner — and takes it to the hallway. When she comes back, her hands return quickly to you, to your face; she touches you as if that could anchor you, in her mind.
Trinity sits next to you again. She takes your chin between her fingers and turns your face toward the lamp. She examines the bruise, with light, professional fingers — the touch of a doctor assessing a trauma. As if she weren’t assessing the battered face of the woman she loves.
“Ice won’t do much good at this point,” she says, softly. “Tomorrow it’ll be worse. But nothing’s broken.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.” A shadow of something crosses her lips. “But you don’t get to decide, today.”
Yolanda’s eyes are still glistening but she’s no longer crying; her breathing has stabilized — not as controlled as usual, but certainly better than before.
“Tomorrow we talk,” she says. “About everything. The cigarettes. The asthma. Dana. The roof. The ledge. The phone. About how we make sure this never happens again.” Pause. “I can’t go through another evening like this, y/n. I can’t do it. Not a second time.”
“Neither can I,” says Trinity, from the other side, quietly.
“Tomorrow,” you say. It’s all you have. Your voice emptied out, your body exhausted, and their bodies at your sides, and the blanket — picked up from the floor by one of them, at some moment you didn’t register — around your shoulders.
You don’t promise anything. You don’t say “it won’t happen again” because you don’t know if that’s true and you’ve stopped lying tonight. You rest your head against the backrest, close your eyes, and let the weight of your body give in toward them. Toward Trinity, on your left, who takes your hand under the blanket and laces her fingers with yours. Toward Yolanda, on your right, who squeezes your arm and presses her cheek against your bicep.
You surrender. To them. To this. To the fact that you are alive and you are here and it hurts and tomorrow it will hurt again, but at least you won’t be alone.
Three figures holding hands.
All three of them standing.
Just like in John’s drawing.
Heyy, sooo… It’s been a while uh? At least, I was really inspired for this one. I hope u liked it and yes, I fell in love with Santos and Garcia (what I have to say, toxic yuri is my kryptonite). Anyway, requests are open (as always) and have a great day!
summary: asking your partner if you should lose weight.
characters: cassie mckay, samira mohan, emma nolan, trinity santos, victoria javadi, parker ellis, joy kwon, mel king, emery walsh, yolanda garcia
a/n: here's the other part!! I promise I'll try my best to make the girls version too so u guys can have everything hehehe again, your comments mean soso much to me!! tysm for loving my posts so much
