Work Text:
Trinity Santos is tapping her fingers on the wheel of her RAV4 as she drives up the final ramp to the very top of the labyrinthine parking garage adjacent to Pittsburgh Trauma. She’s unexpectedly early to work, and alone. It’s Whitaker’s day off. The two of them aren’t usually early, since Whitaker insists on actually sitting down and eating breakfast every morning, a ritual Santos has neglected since middle school. She does feel a little bad. He’ll be disappointed to see that she didn’t eat the overnight oats he had prepared the night before.
It’s shaping up to be a nice day. 75 degrees and sunny, with a bright blue, cloudless sky. The kind of weather perfect for going on long walks on the beach, if you were into that kind of thing. Santos certainly isn’t. She hates the beach. She’s always burned rather than tanned and she hates being in a swimsuit.
Santos is proud of herself for finding such a nifty little secret spot so early on in her internship. She’d quickly discovered that the attendings had already staked out the hospital roof, but the top deck of the parking garage is always deserted. So she’d claimed it as hers; well, hers and Whitaker’s. She’d sworn him to secrecy. Really, she tries to avoid bringing him up here, preferring to hold onto it for when she needs alone time.
The roof is quiet and warm from the sun. It feels good for a few minutes, the quiet and the warmth, but then she starts to feel odd and twitchy. She didn’t like being alone with her own thoughts.
She picks her backpack off the ground and unzips the smallest pocket on the front, which contains some crumpled-up receipts, a crushed protein bar, a spare tampon, and bingo, her Elf bar. As she takes a hit, she breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, exhaling vape smoke into the crisp morning air. At least tomorrow was her day off. She could finally relax, zone out on the couch in her sweatpants.
“Dr. Santos.”
Trinity, startled, begins to cough. As luck would have it, she had taken a fat rip of pineapple-strawberry-whatever-the-fuck flavored vape the second Dr. Yolanda Garcia had somehow materialized in her secret hiding spot.
Fuck.
She’ll admit it. She’s absolutely been avoiding Garcia, and she’s written off any hopes of entering surgery, at least not at Pittsburgh. Whenever Garcia does come down to the ER, Santos gets out of her way, or at the very least manages to keep her mouth shut and follow orders, which sometimes takes all the restraint she has.
It isn’t so much that Garcia hadn’t believed her about Langdon, or that she had broken her trust somehow. Trinity Santos is more than used to not being believed, and she doesn’t really trust anyone. No, it was something about her tone, the timbre of her voice, the look in her eye when she told Trinity she was trouble. The exchange had been humiliating, had left her with a pit in her stomach. But what was more humiliating was that she thinks about it sometimes when she lies in bed at night, and when she does, it makes her so horny she has to make herself come to get any sleep.
So, she tries not to think about it. Avoids Garcia, since for all she knows on her shit list anyway. For being a snitch, for being a liability, for being a thorn in her side and all the other things she’s always been. Since that first day and the fallout from it, being right doesn’t feel good anymore. So Trinity has been operating on autopilot, keeping herself busy. She goes to work, goes home. Goes to the gym or on a run. Watches bad TV with Huckleberry until they pass out on the couch. She goes out, on occasion, to drink alone somewhere, or to fuck someone. She always feels the same way after. No matter whose warm body she touched or how good it felt, a feeling of overwhelming emptiness seeped through her afterwards.
“Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me.” Garcia crosses her arms, sucks on her teeth.
“Yeah, yeah, you caught me. Spare me the lecture, thanks.”
“What lecture?”
“About how this,” She says, taking another puff just to be a brat about it, “is bad for you, and I’m a doctor, and I should know better.” Santos knows she’s being snappy, that if they were in the ER she wouldn’t dare to talk to Garcia like this, but she’s irritated. She comes to the parking deck for alone time, not for conversations with the woman she’s been avoiding.
“It’s okay. I like a lot of things that are bad for me. I figured you did too.” To Trinity’s surprise, Garcia plucks the vape from her hand and takes a drag. She exhales and grimaces.
“Jesus, that’s awful. What’s with your generation and the fucking flavors? What’s this even supposed to be?” She holds the vape sideways to read the label. “Pineapple Strawnana. Wow. Got a sweet tooth, Dr. Santos?”
Santos flushes. Of course it’s the one with the stupid fucking name.“Yeah, whatever.”
“Hey. All I was saying is back in my day, we smoked actual cigarettes, not cotton candy-flavored bullshit. You know these were actually supposed to help you quit, not get you addicted?”
“‘Back in your day?’ You’re like, what, eight years older than me?”
“That’s enough to make a difference.”
Santos gives her a withering look. “Sure, if it helps you sleep at night.” She hits the vape again. “Not like it’s your business, but I actually did smoke cigarettes in undergrad.”
“And you smoked what, American Spirits?”
“Nope, nice try though, millennial. Camels.” Camel Crush, actually, but she’s not gonna tell Garcia she smoked menthols. She already feels lame.
“So it’s not a sweet tooth you have? Just an oral fixation?”
Santos feels her knees weaken and her stomach start to roil. “Yeah. Something like that. Why are you up here, anyway? And where’s your car?”
“I came up here to talk to you, not to park my car.” Shit, maybe her secret spot isn’t so secret after all. If Whitaker spilled, she’s gonna throttle him when she gets home. This is the most words they’ve exchanged in months that weren’t related to whatever the workday had thrown at them. But now Garcia is flirting more boldly than she’d ever expected.
Maybe she sees right through Santos. The way she’s looking at the younger woman definitely makes her think so. Maybe Garcia can see all of her, plain as day. All of her anger. All of her pain. All of her fear.
All of her desire.
Trinity slips the vape into her jacket pocket. She’s had enough–her head feels fuzzy. Maybe she should’ve had breakfast after all. Her heart is beating so fast she feels like if she spends another second around Garcia she’ll pass out and that’s really not how she wants to start her shift.
“Well, Dr. Garcia,” She slings her backpack over her shoulder. “It’s just us and the pigeons up here. Say what you need to say.”
“All I wanted to say, Dr. Santos, is that I just think it’s about time we get that cocktail you owe me.”
Trinity feels herself blush. God, she hates how easy to read she is, as much as she tries to hide it. She badly wants to give Garcia the cold shoulder, to stand her ground, but unfortunately, all she is horny. It’s becoming apparent that when it comes to a beautiful woman, she really has no backbone.
Fuck it.
“Sure.” She swallows. “When?”
“How about tonight?”
“How do you know I’m not busy?”
Garcia shrugs. “Educated guess?”
Ouch. But she’s not wrong. “I can do tonight.”
“I think we’d both prefer to go home and shower first. How about nine?”
“Sure. Got a place in mind?”
“Give me your phone, I’ll put my contact in and text you the details later.” Well, that’s certainly a step up from the pager.
****
This shift, Santos doesn’t see Garcia at all. Part of her wonders if it was on purpose, a tease, but she knows that’s a selfish and absurd thing to think. They work in a fucking hospital, she’s just busy, which is probably in the patients’ best interest as well as her own. That woman turns her into a fucking mess. Ever since that fasciotomy on her first day she’s been aching for Garcia to take her hand like that again—controlling her movement, controlling the pressure. Maybe tonight, she thinks, but shoves the words away. She needs to focus, can’t afford to think about those long, steady fingers working their magic suturing or slicing or…
Thankfully, a gurney flanked by EMTs crashes through the doors.“Motorcyclist collided with a truck, got dragged 30 or 40 feet.”
Thank God, now Santos can do what she does best. She compartmentalizes and springs to action before Dr. Robby can even call her over. She expects that he thinks her interest involves the gruesomeness of it; less road rash and more flesh completely ripped off the poor guy’s legs, bloody muscle showing through, but she’d take on the Kraken at this point to get her mind off of Garcia.
“Dr. Santos, you’re looking eager.” Robby says. “Tell us what to do.”
“Start with a chest x-ray for thoracic trauma, arms and legs too in case of fractures.” She turns to the patient. “Sir, were you wearing a helmet?” The biker nods wearily. Great, not a total moron then, she thinks, and gets to work.
***
The front door slams shut, and poor Whitaker is so startled he almost launches out of their recliner. Whoops. Santos hadn’t meant to do that, but her mind is far too occupied to consider roomie etiquette.
“Jesus, it’s just me.”
Whitaker tugs his sleeping mask off his face, grateful to see it’s his roommate and not a serial killer. “Oh. Hey, Trinity.”
“Sorry about that, Huckleberry. How was your day off?”
“Good, good.”
She must look even more tense and frazzled than usual, because then Whitaker asks, “Wanna talk about work? Or…hey, anything on your mind?” Oh, Dennis. Those big eyes and guileless expression. He’s being considerate, sweet even, but it just annoys Trinity.
Right now, she’d rather leave everything at the door. Leave work at work. Except she can’t, because she has just agreed to go get drinks with Dr. Garcia, which feels different from getting drinks with her other coworkers because she’d never touched herself thinking about any of them.
“Um, I would, but I have to get ready right now.”
Dennis raises an eyebrow. “You have plans?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Yes, Dennis. I have plans. Unbelievable, I know.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know. I thought we were gonna watch TV tonight.”
“Well, this was… last minute.”
“Tinder?”
“I already told you, I’m banned from Tinder.” Not even an interesting story, just the vengeful hookups from her undergrad years that she had ghosted. Hey, it’s not like it was intentional.
Dennis’ eyes dart around the room–that’s his tell that he’s thinking something he’s not saying. “Christ, just say it, Huckleberry.”
“Is it… someone from work then?”
“No,” For the millionth time today, she wishes she wasn’t so easy to read. “Yes.”
Before he can even ask, she snaps, “I’ll spill, just let me shower first, okay? I smell like piss and blood.”
****
Trinity turns on the shower and begins to undress as she waits for it to heat up. She strips off her undershirt, her sports bra. When she takes off her cotton boyshorts, she checks to confirm what she already knew. A wet spot had indeed formed in the crotch of her underwear. She had been thinking about Garcia all day. Santos scoffs and throws them into the hamper. What the hell is wrong with her?
And it hasn’t been that terribly long since she last got laid. She’d indulged in a hookup about two weeks after she started working at the Pitt. She was pent up to the max and needed to let off some steam, so she messaged a Carnegie Mellon undergrad on Hinge. They got a coffee by her campus, and Santos let her talk. Asked her questions. Invited her home. They hadn’t really spoken since then. The sex wasn’t bad, but Santos felt empty after anyway, and she’d kicked the poor girl out after they fucked. A fuckboy move, she knew, and one she tried not to pull anymore, but Whitaker was due home and she didn’t want to scandalize the poor boy so early on in their cohabitation. So she’d called the girl an Uber and sent her on her merry way. Plus, she’d always been a shitty postcoital companion.
She’s always preferred to be left alone.
Aside from those urges that sprang from nothing more than impulse, the thought of sex had become dormant, frozen in the back of her mind. She’s settled into a tentative rhythm at her job, in her day to day life. No time for thinking about that. No time for thinking about her body.
It feels like Garcia has reached into her brain with forceps and dragged it all to the front with just a few words, forcing the blood in her veins to throb and need to swell within her. In only a few minutes, her desire becomes almost unbearable.
“Snap out of it,” Santos mutters to herself as the room steams up and she steps into the shower.
***
With Whitaker, there’s no point in being cagey. Even with the emotions she thought she’d been able to conceal, he learned each one of her tells within a month of living with her. But for the first time in a long time, that’s something that makes her feel understood, not exposed.
So, tentatively, for the first time in a long time, she has a friend. Someone to talk to, bitch to, say things she means and things she doesn’t. Trinity is used to her bad attitude making people resent her, but Whitaker is tougher than he looks. Nothing about her has phased him in the two months they’ve lived together. Hell, he even does the dishes when she leaves them to ‘soak’ for three days straight. So she supposes she can trust him enough.
She cracks open two IPAs, hands one to Dennis, and takes a big swig before recapping her run-in with Garcia.
“Why do you think she waited this long to talk to you?”
Santos shrugs. “Maybe she was waiting for me to come to her. I assumed it was mutual avoidance, but maybe it was all me. I don’t know.”
Whitaker sips his beer thoughtfully. “It might’ve been. Maybe she was pissed off about being wrong about… y’know. Not pissed at you, but just not wanting to be reminded she was wrong about something.”
“Typical for a surgeon.” She pauses. “I wish I was angrier at her than I am.”
“Well, if you’re not angry, what are you feeling?”
Trinity sighs. “Honestly, mostly just horny.”
“I feel like your baseline is horny.”
Trinity shrugs. “Maybe so. But…” It’s Garcia’s dominance, her authority, of course. The way she commands a room, the way she can make you do whatever she wants just by asking; demanding. And, well, Santos doesn’t really feel like unpacking that with Huckleberry right now, so she changes the subject.
She stands up, does a little 360. “Anyway, how do I look?”
Santos is wearing a silky black short-sleeved button down and baggy army green cargo pants cinched around her waist with a cowhide leather belt, complete with a big-ass buckle. She’d found it at a thrift store a few weeks back and hasn’t gotten a chance to wear it yet. A sterling silver chain hangs around her neck. She’d also put on a matching light grey Calvin Klein set, a bra and boyshorts. Santos seriously doesn’t remember the last time she wore a matching bra and underwear. She had inspected herself in the mirror fastidiously, even half-considering shaving which she hadn’t really done since she quit gymnastics for good, but decided against it.
She’d agonized over what fragrance to wear too, eventually deciding on something that felt aftershave-y and masculine but not overwhelming, just woody with a little musk and tobacco.
“Uh, you look nice.”
“Dennis, I need more than nice. This is like, the first time she’s seeing me out of scrubs.”
Dennis sighs.
“Ugh, what?”
“The belt buckle.”
“You think it’s too much?”
“Just looks a little… out of place on ya.”
“Okay, whatever.”
“Hey, it just looks like something one of my brothers would wear.”
“Oh wow, is my belt buckle really some kind of country bumpkin stolen valor?” She strolls over, then quickly hooks her arm around his neck and gives him a noogie.
“Hey!”
“Sorry for not being a farm boy.”
Whitaker chuckles. “One day I’m gonna take you out to the country and make you really rough it, Santos. Mucking stalls and all. Think you could handle it?”
“Ugh, I’m sure I could, if I wanted to. But I really don’t want to.”
“I’m sure you could.” He smiles. “You look good, Trinity. Keep the belt buckle. I think she’ll like it.”
“Thanks,” She says, blushing a little as she chugs her IPA and crushes the can. She tosses it in the recycling bin on her way out. “See you later. Or maybe not.”
“You got this! Hey, don’t forget to text me!” Dennis calls after her as she closes the front door and calls her Uber.
***
Garcia’s bar of choice is cool and classy, because of course it is. The drinks can’t be called cheap, but are still reasonably priced. A Portishead song plays over the gentle murmur of the bar patrons. The place is about a quarter full; it was a Tuesday night after all. Good. Santos prefers it that way. Nothing worse than having to flag down an overwhelmed bartender.
She glances at her wrist, checking her watch. A present from her dad from when she graduated. She was surprised he got her something so masculine, considering they barely spoke. At least he’d noticed. Santos hadn’t worn a dress since junior prom, and that was only because her mother had forced her: the subject of one of several legendary blowout fights between the two of them. Apparently (verbatim, translated from Tagalog) she’d only accept her daughter in a suit “when she dropped dead.”
Santos wore one to her college graduation. Unfortunately, her mother was still alive and kicking.
So, her dad had given her the watch. An expensive, preppy one from Ralph Lauren, with a brown leather strap, obviously from the men’s section. Her mom had given her nothing, but she supposed she should just be grateful—her parents had bankrolled her education and her rent until she graduated from medical school. She still cashes the checks they send her every month.
When her savings balance hit the magic number, she said, she’d stop taking their money. No matter what she did, she always feels like the ground beneath her is shaky. Like she could get fired any minute now—for her insubordination, for fucking up and killing someone, or for just being her obnoxious, know-it-all self, and she’d freak the fuck out and her life would be over. The last thing she wants is to refuse her parents’ money and then come crawling back begging for it. So Santos cashes the checks. She pays for her and Whitaker’s groceries and takeout and covers the rent. She tries to carry around cash to give to anyone who asked for it. She still feels like a spoiled brat, but at least she can give herself the illusion that she’s altruistic.
“Early again, Odds.”
Trinity is disrupted from her reverie when Garcia slides into the open stool next to her. She looks sexy, of course, in a tight black tank top and her curls down and tousled, framing her face like a halo. She was wearing heels, too: Trinity wasn’t sure if she expected that. The nickname unsettles her. Does Garcia want her to pretend like nothing happened? Like Trinity hasn’t been avoiding her?
“I’m trying to be a more time-conscious person.” Not really. Being early to work is incidental, being early to a date with Garcia is prudence.
“That’s a good habit.”
“Yeah. To balance out the bad ones.”
“I’ll drink to that. Speaking of, have you ordered?”
“Not yet.” Santos glances at the bartender, some asshole with a top knot who is playing on his phone, which annoys her a lot more than it usually would. “What do you want?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
Santos would usually find that annoying too, but she doesn’t have it in her at the moment. So she just whistles at the bartender. “Hey. Two vodka tonics with lime.” Garcia seems the clear liquor type. Best to keep it simple.
There’s a too-long beat between the drinks being ordered and the glasses landing in front of them. They’re not speaking or even looking at each other, Santos is looking at her own hands in her lap and picking at a wicked hangnail. Garcia quickly taps out a message on her phone (To who? About her?) and then puts it back in her purse when the drinks arrive. Santos pays with cash.
“Wanna sit in the booth?”
It’s phrased like a question, but it’s not one, since Garcia moves to sit on the red vinyl cushion and pats the space next to her. Santos had thought about taking the booth when she walked in but didn’t, still not wanting to make assumptions. It felt too intimate.
“Okay, let’s talk.”
Garcia takes a breath. Santos doesn’t look her in the eye, fiddles with the tiny umbrella inexplicably decorating her drink. “Listen. I really don’t want you to feel like you have to avoid me, Dr. Santos. And I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for not believing you.”
Santos huffs, but now she feels like she can make eye contact, at least. “Really? Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you apologize to anyone before.”
“Well, now you’re seeing it. I was wrong. I didn’t want to see the worst in a friend, so I let shit slide that I shouldn’t have. I… missed signs that I shouldn’t have missed, because I didn’t want to see them. You did the right thing.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really feel like it.” Trinity plucks the umbrella out of her drink, flicks it onto the table, takes a big sip. She sees why Garcia likes this place; the pours are strong. “Feels like I’m being punished.”
“Punished?”
“Yeah. For depriving the Pitt of their favorite fucking boy toy even though he stole from the hospital and stole from his patients. Surprise surprise, guys that look like Clark Kent can be pieces of shit too. Not the first time and certainly not the last.”
“He’s not a piece of shit. You never had a chance to really know him before all of this.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Not you too–”
Garcia cuts her off. “Hey. He didn’t get a chance to get to know you either.”
“Yeah, well, sad. Doctor Dimples is gonna hate my fucking guts forever along with everyone else in that place. And I’m sure he would’ve hated me even if he wasn’t tweaking out.”
“And that would be his loss. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you, Trinity. You’re an excellent doctor and nobody at the Pitt hates you.”
Santos blinks. Usually the use of her first name makes her bristle, but she likes how Garcia says it. How Yolanda says it. She finishes her drink. “Sorry. I’m just…” Her lip twitches and she looks away, racking her brain for what to say next.
Garcia shakes her head. “You don’t need to apologize. And for the record, I don’t hate you at all. Garcia pauses, testing the waters, maybe. She circles the rim of her glass with a finger. Trinity swallows. "I actually really like you.”
It makes her feel incredibly fucking corny that those words make her heart skip a beat, like she’s in middle school again.
“If I hated you, I wouldn’t have let you buy me a cocktail. But seriously. I promise that Abbot wouldn’t be bragging about your REBOA to anyone who will listen if you were on the shit list. That was pretty fucking slick of you, by the way.” Garcia gently punches her shoulder, and Trinity expects to be taken aback by the familiarity, but she isn’t. “Not everyone would’ve had the skill to pull it off and even less would have the guts to even try. You have a lot of guts, Trinity.”
Her first name again, and the praise. Heard from Garcia’s own mouth For the millionth time that day, she curses how easy she is to read. The vodka in her system certainly isn’t helping her, as she’s certain her face and chest are a blotchy pink. And for once, she doesn’t have a comeback.
“Dr. Santos, you’re not being punished. You’re overthinking, but that kind of reaction doesn’t come from nowhere. You’ve been burned. Believe me, I know how that feels. But it doesn’t have to be the story of the rest of your life.” She pauses. “I hate to admit that I keep up with the rumor mill, but I know what you did for Whitaker, too.”
“It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“Come on, Dr. Santos. You’re doing a disservice to people by not letting them get to know the real you.”
“So you want to get to know the real me?”
"Yeah. Obviously, I do. Is that all you got out of what I said?”
“Ugh. No, I get it. I’m not actually a cold-hearted bitch, I just pretend to be to protect myself and I need to let people in because friendship is magic, or whatever.”
“Okay, first of all, I didn’t quote My Little Pony at you. And you don’t need to be friends with everyone. You have good instincts, but don’t confuse your instincts with your gut reaction. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yeah.” She looks into Garcia’s eyes. She can tell Garcia believes her. “Yeah, I do.”
Garcia raises her glass to her lips, tips her drink back and chugs. A drop of tonic rolls off the side of her mouth, dripping down her jawline onto her long, slender neck. Without thinking, Santos reaches over to wipe it with her thumb, tracing the droplet back up to her lip.
“Good. Next round’s on me.”
***
Maybe it’s the alcohol or the genuine apology, the praise or the way she said Trinity, but the heavy tightness that Santos feels in her chest every time she sees Garcia since that first day has finally dispelled. All she feels now is warmth and desire. Maybe even the slightest hint of mutual understanding. Since the elephant in the room fled, Garcia has become touchier: moving closer so her warm thigh touches Santos’ own, running a hand up her arm and turning it over to ask about a tattoo, the fine line tiger on her forearm.
“Most of them don’t have any meaning, but this one is my Chinese zodiac. Confident, bold… stubborn, impulsive. Always resonated with me.”
“And a Scorpio on top of that. You’ve been a fighter since you were born, haven’t you?”
“Since before I was born. My mom said I kicked the shit out of her when I was in the womb. I was a nightmare pregnancy, apparently.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“Just one. My younger brother.”
“Are you close?”
Santos nods. “I miss him. I wish I saw him more, but he’s all the way across the country. He just started undergrad at Berkeley.” The last time her family was all in the same room together was her brother’s high school graduation, and she exchanged less than fifteen words with her mother the entire time (she counted). But she doesn’t want to think about that right now because Garcia is still mindlessly tracing the lines of her tattoo with her index finger and her intense eyes are gazing into hers in a way that makes the heat in her stomach turn molten.
Garcia hums, traces her finger back down to Trinity’s wrist, rubs circles on her pulse point. “Berkeley. Good school. So you’re both overachievers?”
“Something like that.” Trinity turns her head, about to finish the last of her second vodka tonic (which is mostly melted ice at this point), but Garcia gently knocks her warm thigh against her own, continuing to rub small circles on her wrist. Fuck, she wants her to make the first move, doesn’t she? Trinity sets the glass down, leans toward Garcia until she can smell the lemon and tonic on her breath, the scent of her perfume, sweet and floral with a hint of vanilla.
“Yolanda Garcia, you know that you’re a tease, don’t you?”
“Are you going to do anything about it?”
That’s more than enough permission. Her lips are soft and she tastes so good and feels so warm that Santos groans as she kisses her, twining one hand into Garcia’s thick curls and cupping her jaw with the other. Garcia hums to herself as she runs her hands over Trinity’s muscular biceps. Thank God that gym membership is finally paying off is the last thing Santos thinks before Garcia opens her mouth to deepen the kiss and makes her mind go blank, desire flaring white-hot within her.
Garcia pulls back too soon for her liking, but it serves as a reminder that they’re still in public, as deserted as the bar is. Fuck, Trinity doesn’t care, she just wants those lips back on hers and their bodies pressing close together, so she kisses her again, hard and nearly knocking their foreheads together. They’re so close she has to hold every urge back to swing her legs over Yolanda’s lap, straddle her and grind against her for some relief. Garcia cups her jaw and pulls them apart just long enough to ask: “My place?”
***
The car ride back to Garcia’s apartment is about ten minutes long, which gives Trinity’s anxiety time to bubble up, something which she finds extremely annoying. Screwing a resident isn’t the most professional move, as much as both her and Garcia (and half her department, judging by Princess and Perlah’s gossip) want it.
Thankfully, Trinity doesn’t have to think once they cross Garcia’s threshold because the second the front door is locked, she tugs Santos toward her by the belt buckle until their bodies are flush, their foreheads touching. Garcia runs her hands up under Santos’ shirt, her touch feather-light but still enough to make Santos shudder and break out into goosebumps. Garcia murmurs her approval, a soft growl that makes Santos gasp.
“Kiss me,” Santos pleads, and thank God she doesn’t have to ask twice. Garcia grabs her jaw and pulls her into a bruising kiss, immediately slipping her tongue into Santos’ mouth. Santos can’t help but whimper—still, she wants to bite back, so she grabs Garcia’s face by the cheeks, pulls her closer, sucks on her tongue until she knows it’ll hurt. Still, Garcia’s movements are steady as can be. She takes her time with Santos’ body, feeling up Santos' abs and rubbing circles over her nipples through her sports bra. Santos rocks into her touch, but Garcia stills her with a hand to her hip.
“Be patient,” Garcia chides.
“Why?”
Garcia grins, cages her against the wall fully, licks a hot stripe up her neck before gently biting her earlobe and leaning in to whisper: “Because it’s better this way.”
Thankfully, she moves a hand down to Santos' belt, pulls the leather through the metal loop easily with one hand, long slender fingers tracing the waistband of Santos’ boxers. Santos huffs and whimpers until Garcia reaches underneath, finally pressing her fingertips to her aching cunt.
“So wet,” Garcia purrs as she teases Santos, swiping her fingers through her cunt and pressing a thumb up against her clit.
“Yeah,” Santos murmurs, eyes shut as she slips into bliss, relieved to be able to finally be able to submit completely to this woman.
“You want it, don’t you?” Santos doesn’t realize the question is rhetorical until two fingers slip smoothly into her cunt. God, it feels so good, even better than she could’ve imagined (frankly, than she had imagined—that forearm fasciotomy had provided her with some prime jerk-off material). All she can do is whimper as she steadies herself against Garcia, hands digging into her shoulder blades. Garcia only twists her fingers deeper. Her mouth has moved to Santos’ neck, leaving wet kisses one on top of another. Santos can’t even think; she badly wants her to use her teeth, wants her to speed up the pace of her fingers, to make her come until she sobs. She’s about to beg her for it, for more, but Garcia’s words echo in her mind: Be patient, it’s better this way.
So she tries to stave off her impending orgasm by taking in each sensation, one by one:
The steady rhythm of Garcia’s fingers fucking into her.
The filthy noises they pull from her cunt.
Garcia’s gaze, eyes dark and shiny and watching her in a way that makes her face burn. It makes her want to look away, so she does.
“No, Trinity, look at me.” Santos takes a deep breath and does. “Good girl.” That and a thumb pressing hard against her clit does it. Santos chokes back a sob as her eyes roll back and she shudders hard, gushing against Garcia’s hand and soaking her boxers. Garcia fucks her through it in firm strokes until Santos squeals with oversensitivity.
“God,” She whimpers, her forehead pressed into Garcia’s shoulder.
“I’m not done with you.”
“At least let me take my underwear off first.” Santos pulls her boxers off, shocked by how sopping wet they are. That’s new. She wouldn’t mind it happening again.
“Actually, I think you should take mine off, now. Let’s go to bed.” She takes Santos’ hand to lead her but Santos’ trembling legs give way and send them both tumbling to the floor. Garcia laughs, bright as a bell, and it cuts through the post orgasmic haze in Santos’ head. She rolls on top of Garcia, straddles her and grabs her face, kissing her again and again.
“Want you so bad,” She breathes, renewed arousal sending her grinding down on Garcia’s thigh.
“Use your words, Trinity. Tell me what you want.”
“I wanna eat you out,” Just saying the words make her feel lightheaded with need. “And then I want you to fuck me again.” She quickly tacks on a “please.” and Yolanda gives her that smug smile. Santos takes that as approval and pulls Garcia’s black turtleneck off. Thank God she isn’t wearing a bra. Santos isn’t sure she had the wherewithal to unhook one at that very moment, she knows her hands would be shaking. She starts mouthing at Yolanda’s
breasts; they’re perfect, of course, her nipples pert and hard, her hand stroking Santos’ head when she leans down to suck on one, kneading and squeezing the other.
Santos kisses down her stomach, unbuttons her slacks, quickly pulls them off. Garcia is wearing a lacy black thong. That sends a bolt of confidence through her body, so she runs a finger over Garcia’s clothed cunt just to feel how wet her panties are as she trails kisses down her stomach. Santos presses a quick kiss under her navel before pulling her thong down to her ankles to devour her.
When it comes to eating pussy, Trinity doesn’t waste time. She spreads Yolanda open and immediately glides her tongue through her glistening cunt, licking strong swipes up to her swollen clit. This is where she wants to be, with Garcia’s legs propped up on her strong shoulders, her fingers twined in her hair and her hips pushing her wet cunt closer, groaning when Santos wraps her lips around her clit and sucks hard. Spurred on by this, Trinity eagerly laps faster—but to her surprise, Garcia pulls her up by her hair, the sting forcing a whimper out of her.
“You’re so greedy, Trinity. Trying to get me to come fast so I fill your pretty pussy up again?”
Santos flushes crimson and opens her mouth to protest, but Garcia shushes her. “Listen. I’m giving the orders here. I want you to take your time. I’ll tell you when I’m ready to come. Does that sound good, sweetheart?”
Trinity moans at the pet name and the assertive confidence in which Garcia deals out her demands. “Yeah, yeah, sounds good.”
Santos is perfectly happy to worship Yolanda’s pussy. She slowly moves her head side to side while she explores with her tongue, mouth and nose full of Yolanda’s rich, musky scent. It feels like she’s making out with her cunt, gently sliding her tongue all around then tentatively pressing it in. All the while, she listens for Yolanda’s little sighs of pleasure. She’s not particularly vocal, (at least not as vocal as Santos is) so it feels even better when Yolanda really moans and wetness seeps onto her tongue.
“So good. Yeah, keep doing that, baby.” She cards her hands through Santos’ hair and it makes her shiver and dive further into Yolanda’s cunt, finding a gentle rhythm that Yolanda seems to enjoy since she’s rolling her hips at a leisurely pace. Santos flicks her eyes up, memorizing the sight above her for her next sleepless night.
Yolanda is the picture of pleasure, eyelids fluttering, emphasizing her long dark lashes. She’s so beautiful with her hair down, dark curls falling over her shoulders, her rich brown skin. Santos moves a hand up to cup her breast, pinching a hard nipple, which she supposes Yolanda doesn’t expect because she groans and angles her hips so Santos’ tongue is fucking her even deeper. She groans against Yolanda’s pussy and Yolanda pushes her head closer and manages a “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come–” through her gritted teeth as Santos sucks on her clit, savoring every last drop of her orgasm as Garcia throbs and shakes against her mouth. She comes up for air, finally, and takes a deep breath, instinctively wiping the slick off her face with the back of her hand. Garcia just grabs her face and kisses her hard.
When she pulls back, it’s to ask “What do you want? Fingers or…” She eyes her nightstand. “I have a strap-on...” Fuck. Santos has worn one, but she’s never taken it before.
Santos’ expression must betray her because Garcia says, “No pressure. I want you to feel good, okay?”
“I mean… it sounds fucking hot, but…” She swallows. “I just… I’m not sure if I can go there right now. Could you use your fingers?”
Yolanda hums and runs a thumb over Trinity’s bottom lip, coaxing her to open her mouth, and inserts two of those slender, prodding fingers into her mouth. “Suck.” Trinity obeys immediately. She knows to make a show of it, grabbing Yolanda’s wrist to move her fingers deeper as she laves her tongue over them and gathers saliva in her mouth.
“Good girl,” Yolanda coos, and pulls her fingers out. Then she leans back against the headboard, legs folded. “Come here. Sit in my lap.” She says, and Trinity practically scrambles up into her arms. “Like this,” Yolanda is flush against her as Trinity settles into her lap, and she can feel her warm breasts and hard nipples pressing against her back. Santos sighs as Yolanda begins running her spit-slick fingers up and down her cunt, teasing her entrance.
“Please,” Trinity whimpers.
“Please, what, baby?” Yolanda teases in that low voice, her lips so close to Santos’ ear that she shivers. Her lips dance from Trinity’s earlobe to the sensitive spot behind her ear where her jawline meets her neck; she gently bites and sucks on that spot, causing Trinity to squirm and whine. “God, you’re so fucking wet,” She murmurs as she spreads Trinity open.
“Fuck, Garcia, I mean Yolanda–sorry–” Santos is surprised by the giggle that comes out of her own mouth. “I don’t know what to call you–how about…”
She can hardly believe what she’s about to say and how turned on it’s making her, but she’s far past the point of caring.
“How about daddy?” Santos blurts.
She’s met with silence.
Goddammit, Her big fucking mouth. This woman has already given her so many chances not to fuck it up, but she just can’t help herself, can she? Santos can feel her blush deepen, creeping from her chest to her cheeks. She scrambles out of Garcia’s embrace, not even glancing at the other woman. She crosses her arms over her bare chest, trying to shrink herself as much as possible. She feels like she’s going to cry.
“I’m sorry, fuck. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said something like that. I can leave, if you want–”
“Shut up,” Garcia groans, yanking her forward by her hair, and cuts her off with a biting kiss.
When she pulls back, she growls, “I knew you would like it like that. I knew you’d be so good for me, let me take you and fuck you the way that I want.”
“Yeah,” Santos nods, breathless. Yolanda grabs her chin, looks her in the eyes.
“Tell me. Are you going to be a good girl for daddy?”
“Oh, fuck yes,” Santos moans, nodding her head.
“Good girl,” Garcia grins against her neck before nipping the soft skin behind her ear and sliding her hand between Santos’ thighs. Two fingers slip into Santos’ wet cunt with ease.
Santos gasps, “Oh my god. Fuck me, daddy.”
She rocks back onto Garcia’s fingers, wanting, needing, actually, for her to go deeper. Garcia holds her firmly, arm wrapped around her waist, but doesn’t move her hand. She brings her lips to Santos’ ear.
“I don’t know if you’ve earned it yet, Trinity. How do I know that you’re going to behave yourself? Or maybe you like being bad? Is that it? You wanna be my bad girl instead?” She twists her fingers deeper and all Trinity can do is whine. “Use your words.”
Santos musters all her resolve, stutters out, “Fuck, I don’t know, I’ll be whatever you want, I’ll do anything–”
“Specifics.”
In short bursts between her moans and whimpers, Santos confesses every fantasy she’d been harboring for the past few months.
“I’ll let you use me however you want, fuck me whenever you want,” She gasps, “At work, you can take me to the locker room, or the fucking OR, I don’t care, as long as you just bend me over and fuck me. Whenever you want it, just find me and you can use me, you can ride my face, do anything you want, just please, please, fuck me, daddy–”
Satisfied, Garcia begins to fuck Trinity at a clip and quickly adds a third finger, pressing up, up into that spot that makes her twitch and shake, like she’s a seasoned pro at filling up Trinity’s cunt. Santos isn’t sure how she has the wherewithal to even think, She’s a surgeon, of course she’s a fucking pro and then I want her whole hand in me. Fuck, where did that come from? Trinity takes a steadying breath and turns her head to meet Yolanda’s gaze.
“I want more.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to fill me up. All the way. Please.”
Surprise, and a flash of concern, flicker across Garcia’s face. “Are you sure?”
Trinity grabs her wrist, urging her deeper. “Yes, I’m fucking sure, Yolanda, Jesus Christ–” Yolanda smirks and makes a noise between a chuckle and a growl.
“Let's do this properly then. Lie back.” She withdraws her fingers so they can change positions, which feels absolutely torturous, but Santos is so giddy at the thought of what’s to come she doesn’t even care. She doesn’t know what’s gotten into her; she’s never done anything like this before. Trinity Santos has never called a hookup ‘daddy’ or taken a whole fist in her cunt, but she’s rolling with it. When she sees Garcia pull a bottle of lube out of her nightstand drawer she shakes her head. “I don’t need it.” Garcia raises her eyebrows again, but her eyes are dark and her mouth twists into a smirk.
Trinity lies back, feeling sort of exposed, suddenly conscious of her body under Garcia’s scrutinizing gaze. Before she can think about it too much Yolanda leans over to kiss her and spreads her legs. Yolanda must feel her tension since she breaks the kiss and says in a low voice, “Relax, baby. Let me take care of you.”
She slips two fingers effortlessly into Trinity’s cunt and glances up at her: when Trinity nods, she adds a third, slowly spreading them out inside her.
“Oh, fuck,” Trinity whimpers, feeling her walls pulse around the stretch. Yolanda uses her other hand to tease her swollen clit, alternating between gently pinching it between her thumb and forefinger and rolling her thumb over it in slow, agonizing circles. God, it’s never, ever been this good. She’s never felt this taken care of. The way Yolanda looks, her eyes fixed on her, brows knit, so singularly focused on Trinity’s pleasure, is enough to make her come. But she wants it to last, she wants time to stop so she can lay here and take Yolanda’s fist in her cunt and bask in the pleasure of it all forever.
“Good?”
“Better than good,” Trinity breathes. “More, please–” And that’s all Yolanda needs to hear to twist her hand into Trinity and press her thumb to her forefinger inside her. It feels so good and so full Trinity feels like she’s going to black out, like she’s going to cry, like she could happily die here, sobbing and squirming on Yolanda’s fist.
“That’s it, baby. You’re taking it so well for me. Hey, look at me.” Trinity doesn’t even realize that her eyes are shut but she wrenches them open to meet Yolanda’s.
“You like being daddy’s girl? You like taking my fist in your pussy?”
“Yeah, daddy, yeah–” Then she glances down between her spread out legs and sees Yolanda’s hand disappearing inside her to the wrist and Yolanda spits on her cunt and uses her other hand to rub her clit and that’s what does it. Trinity comes so hard she screams and doesn’t even bother covering her mouth, pitching her hips up as she shudders and spasms around Yolanda’s hand. She knows it’s only seconds but time seems to slow down, seems to stop entirely as she pulses around Yolanda’s hand.
She doesn’t realize she’s crying until she comes down from the high. She tries to move her hands to cover her face but Yolanda is faster, moving up to gently wipe the streaming tears away.
“It’s okay,” she soothes. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath for me.” Trinity does and Yolanda withdraws her fist which makes her start crying harder for some reason.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t know why–” Yolanda just shushes her gently and soothes her, stroking her hair and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s a lot. You did so, so good.” Trinity lets out a shuddering sigh, holds on tight to Yolanda, presses her face into her shoulder as Yolanda rubs circles on her back. In Yolanda’s embrace, she’s trembling, she’s sobbing, but she feels safe. When her breathing steadies, Yolanda strokes her hair lightly and says, “Hey, I’m going to get you some water. I’ll be right back, okay?”
While she’s gone, Trinity sits up and blinks. She feels exposed and a little sore, the tears still stinging her eyes. She feels vulnerable, but not in a way that makes her feel afraid. It’s something else. Like the other shoe isn’t going to drop, actually. That someone saw through her defenses and didn’t use it to hurt her but to make her feel better than she’s ever felt. It’s weird, a little uncomfortable, but she doesn’t hate it.
She looks around Yolanda’s bedroom. It’s fastidiously neat. Trinity wonders if it’s always like this or if Yolanda cleaned up just for her. She has some framed prints on the walls, Matisse, or some other impressionist, she thinks, and a Frida Kahlo. Out of curiosity, Trinity peeks into the still-open nightstand drawer–there’s the lube, the previously mentioned strap-on, which is fairly well-endowed, and a bundle of silk rope. Despite how fucked out she is, the sight makes her cunt twitch.
“Maybe next time, sweetheart.” Yolanda’s voice rings across the room and Trinity looks up sheepishly. She’s wearing a silk nightgown now, carrying a washcloth, a fluffy bathrobe, and a glass of ice water. “I think you’ve had your fill for tonight.”
“Caught me red-handed,” Trinity admits, taking the washcloth, which is warm, and soothes her red, puffy eyes first and then washes off the stickiness between her thighs. “Thank you,” She says. Yolanda puts the glass of water on the nightstand and puts the robe around Trinity’s shoulders, helping her into it and then into the sheets. “Really,” Trinity admits, “No one’s ever taken care of me like this before.”
“Mmm,” Yolanda presses a kiss to her neck, rubbing her shoulders and back muscles. Trinity sighs, leans back into her touch. Yolanda’s lips trail up her neck to the shell of her ear. “Well, get used to it.” She whispers. “I’m not done with you.”
Trinity’s whole body heats up in a way she’s never felt before as a smile spreads across her face. She’s tired, she’s sore, but she feels like she’s floating on air. Her eyes begin to flutter shut. But then she remembers something. “Hey,” Trinity murmurs. “How did you know about the parking deck?”
“Hmm. All I’m going to say is,” Yolanda says, “Trinity Santos, you’re a lot more obvious than you think you are. In many ways.”
“Thank God for that,” Trinity hums as she drifts into the best sleep she’s had in a very long time.