strawberrylemming
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Summary
Trinity knows it’s inevitable. She understand that this–this thing–can only coil so tightly before it snaps. And guess who’s ass is in the trap?
‘Santos. A word.’
Not a question. Not even a suggestion, really. An order veiled as something softer, something less loaded. Garcia doesn’t even look at her; pert buns swaying slightly as she and her perfect posture lead Trinity to the stairwell. How is she still standing like that–after, what, nine hours? Trinity aches. She has blisters from her shitty tennis shoes that Huckleberry insisted she buy–her ratty old gym shoes were fine, by the way–and an omnipresent thudding behind her eyes and the inability to keep her shoulders rolled anywhere but forward. Garcia spins on her heel; her shoes are pristine, white and stitched with fine thread. Trinity wants to die, just a little.
‘You’ve been avoiding me.’
There it is. Trap, meet ass. She’s been told she has a nice one, so hopefully that counts for something.
Bookmarked by ilydolly (strawberrylemming)
31 May 2026