Work Text:
“What are you wearing?”
“Hello, Trinity.”
“Hi. What are you wearing?”
“Right now?” Al-Hashimi asks with a smirk. “I have a Lululemon set on. I just got out of Pilates.”
“Haha,” Santos replies flatly. She can hear the faint jingling of keys in the background. “You know what I mean.”
“Uh huh.” She slips her keys into the ignition. “Hold on, I’m going to put you on speaker.”
“I can’t believe you’ve got me doing phone calls,” she mutters to herself.
“I heard that,” she warns as she clicks her seatbelt. “Too much gets lost in translation through texts, you know that.”
“I guess.” She rolls her eyes. “It just feels like I should be lying on my bed and twirling the telephone cord each time.” She widens her eyes as she realizes the implications of what she’s said.
“That’s cute,” Al-Hashimi remarks with a grin, then breaks out in a laugh when she hears Santos let out a groan on the other end.
“You know what I’m referencing,” she declares while pointing a finger at her phone.
“Yes, Trinity,” she concedes coyly.
Santos brings her hand to her forehead. “So, what are you gonna wear?”
Al-Hashimi hums in thought as she pulls out of her parking spot. “I was thinking a blouse and some slacks. Nothing too fancy.”
“Sounds pretty fancy to me,” she deadpans. “God, I’m gonna have to go out and buy a suit, aren’t I?”
She lets out a full-bodied laugh as she merges onto the highway. “If it’ll help, I can send you a photo of what I’m wearing.”
“Oh, that’ll help plenty,” Santos drawls.
“Okay, then,” Al-Hashimi says as she shakes her head in amusement. “Was there anything else?”
“Nope.” She leans her back against the door frame. “Bye.” She makes no move to hang up.
“I’ll see you tonight, Trinity,” she says softly before ending the call.
Santos tilts her head back and closes her eyes, and tracks the panic that flares in her chest and travels to her limbs; she digs her fingernails into her palms to try to will it out on her way to flop down onto her back on her bed.
The prospect of a formal date had been enticing in theory, but the reality of it, even beyond just the struggle of choosing an outfit, is starting to close in on her: the implications, the stakes, the doubts. She’s never been someone to wine and dine, to court, to take home to the parents; she was good for booty calls and dates leading up to hook-ups—and not much beyond that.
But Al-Hashimi’s approach is novel for Santos: she’s forward with her emotions in a way that leaves little room for doubt and saves plenty for hope. It’s this hope that terrifies her, the wanting that it brings to the surface. The question had been so simple, but it’s still bouncing around her skull days after Al-Hashimi had asked it: What does she want?
As a test, she blindly reaches within herself for some answer, but she comes in contact with her festering fears instead, feelings and memories that she’d rather leave rotting in the pits of herself, ones that gradually creep up and out like mold to wrap around her heart and ribcage. She fists her comforter and tries again.
What do I want?
She narrows her scope, limits her timeframe to just this night. This much is true: she wants to get to know Baran better; she wants to spend time with her; she wants to go home with her; and more. She wants more. She forces herself to sit in the feeling, the pulsing shame that makes her want to scratch at her skin to dig it out, if only to regain some semblance of control. She lies there, eyes clenched shut as the minutes tick by, waiting out the waves, trusting that some stasis and clarity will emerge once they pass. The feeling drags on, unbidden memories flashing past, thankfully unable to latch themselves onto her for too long—that is, until she thinks of Garcia. The undefined, gnarled web of feelings between the two of them grabs a hold of her and shakes her by the shoulders, and it’s not the sour moments that come to mind, but the sweet ones: the glimpses of what could’ve been if circumstances were different. It brings about a distinct, heavier kind of pain.
Santos presses a fist firmly against her forehead and reminds herself that the circumstances are what they are: she had wanted more than what Garcia could give her; Garcia had set a hard and fast boundary. That’s the end of it.
She wipes at the tears trickling out of the corners of her shut eyes as she exhales shakily, and then attempts to regulate her breathing. In, two, three, four, hold—out, two, three, four, hold. She repeats this until the memories of Garcia surge through and out of her along with the rest.
She cautiously opens her eyes and mentally shakes her fist at the trauma counselor as she begrudgingly accepts that her methods may have had some merit to them, much as she had resisted them in the beginning. She feels rougher around the edges, but lighter for it.
Her phone buzzes beside her, lights up with a photo from Al-Hashimi without any text attached. When Santos taps on the notification, she’s greeted by an image of a flowy, black long-sleeved blouse and wide-legged cream slacks on hangers. She scoffs and texts back:
put them on 🙄
Al-Hashimi heart reacts to the message, but only replies with
I’ll pick you up at 6:45.
“Ugh,” Santos groans to herself as she sends
tease
Al-Hashimi heart reacts to her message again, but sends nothing else. She sits there for a minute staring at her screen, waiting anyway, before finally going back to her closet to examine her options.
***
Santos hurries down the stairs and bursts out the front door of her apartment building to meet Al-Hashimi, well aware that she’s already kept her waiting for some time. It’s cooler outside now—the sun has set and the sky is a velvety navy with scarce prickles of light peeking through, the moon just now starting to rise, barely a sliver. She glances at it, chin tilted up as if in greeting, before opening the passenger door and slipping in.
“Fuck, sorry, I was having some wardrobe malfunctions,” Santos huffs out. She buckles her seatbelt reflexively before looking over at Al-Hashimi and actually taking her in: the black blouse drapes over her delicately and precisely, as if tailored to her exact measurements, and it’s buttoned down low to give a glimpse of her chest and the layered necklaces that trail down it; she has a few gold rings of varying thickness around her fingers and a stack of gold hoops in her ears, the color of them complementing the brown hues of her curls that fall freely around her face to form a halo. The sight slams into Santos, thuds against her chest, and resonates throughout her body.
“You look really good.” Her voice is husky and barely above a whisper.
“Thank you,” Al-Hashimi says with a small smile, eyes sparkling as they travel over her body. Santos dons her usual earrings and rings, and is clad in a loose, blue-and-white striped button-up that’s cuffed at the sleeves, paired with the nicest pair of black pants she owns and a loose necktie around her open collar. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” She reaches over to finger her tie. “Handsome.” She holds eye contact as Santos blushes all over.
Santos runs her tongue over her bottom lip at the attention and gathers herself. “You know, I ironed this,” she proclaims proudly while pointing at her shirt, eyebrows raised and lips drawn into a line.
Al-Hashimi pinches the fabric of her collar and inspects it. “It’s quite crisp.” She smiles at her fondly before tugging her toward her by the tie for a slow, deep kiss. She pulls back to mutter against her lips, “Well done, baby.”
Santos feels a veritable jolt strike her brain, and it stills her in place over the center console; it’s only the sound of the car shifting into drive that snaps her out.
She’s still getting used to Al-Hashimi’s open declarations, and she’s doubtful there will ever come a time when she’s not left dazed by the glimmers of softness that break through the composure and stoicism that she’d become so accustomed to while working with her. (Robo Doc no more, she thinks to herself.)
They drive to the restaurant in an easy silence, content with just bathing in one another’s presence, the enclosed space of the car wrapping them up and drawing their bodies closer. Al-Hashimi’s hand rests comfortably on Santos’s knee all throughout, and as the drive carries on, Santos hesitantly brings her own hand to rest atop it. When the hand gives her knee a small squeeze in response, Santos feels a rush of courage and brings it to her mouth to press a kiss against it. She watches Al-Hashimi as she trails kisses down to her wrist, tracking her reaction while she maps out the boundaries of their nebulous relationship with her probing touches.
Al-Hashimi sneaks a look at her and then brings their clasped hands to her own mouth, eyes on the road as she responds with her own kisses on Santos’s hand. She returns them to Santos’s thigh and stalls, weighing her words before letting them loose. “You’re sweeter than you let on.” She looks over and catches Santos’s blank face staring at her. She gives her hand another squeeze before her eyes return to the road.
“Tell me if it’s ever too much.” Santos’s voice is fragile, chipping at the edges.
Al-Hashimi’s response is swift. “Don’t hold back with me.” She meets the wide eyes boring into her profile. “Please.”
The words should feel comforting, but they swing through Santos’s gut like an axe to spill her insides. She blinks up at the roof of the car to subtly keep her welling tears at bay and digs her nails into her palm to divert the feeling elsewhere. She clears her throat and croaks out, “Yeah. Okay.”
Al-Hashimi scans the road before leaning over to press a kiss against the side of Santos’s head.
Santos purses her lips to keep a wide smile from breaking out on her face. “You’re gonna run us off the road,” she remarks, her tone light in the wake of Al-Hashimi’s gesture. Her free hand travels up to pinch at her lip as she slides her eyes back over to her, grin managing to break free from beneath her hand.
“I would pull over to kiss you properly if we weren’t already running late.”
“Sorry about that,” Santos mutters.
“Don’t be,” she assures her. “We can make up for it after.”
“Oh yeah?” Santos volleys. “You already thinking about that?”
“Perhaps,” Al-Hashimi hums. “My back seat is pretty roomy.” She enunciates the last two words.
She peeks back behind her seat. “Huh...interesting...”
“Very interesting, indeed.” There’s a knowing smirk on her face as she gives Santos a quick look-over before returning her eyes to the road. “You really do dress up nice, Trinity,” she sighs almost wistfully.
“Don’t get used to it,” she quips. “I fought for my life to make this happen.” She lets her gaze trail over Al-Hashimi, drinking her in. “If I said what I felt about how you look right now, we’d never make it to the restaurant.” Her voice is low and it thrums throughout the car as if it were bass coming from the speakers. She swallows to tamp down her rising desire.
“Tell me later,” Al-Hashimi whispers.
Santos hums in response, throat dry.
***
Santos opens the restaurant door for Al-Hashimi and follows behind her as she goes to check in, her hand tentatively coming to rest at the small of her back while they wait to get taken to their table. Al-Hashimi leans back into the touch and flashes her a dark look, quick enough that the server can’t catch it, but striking enough that Santos feels it shoot straight to her gut. The panic that she had felt earlier has settled, but the chasm it leaves behind is promptly filled by dense anticipation; she hadn’t prepared for this aspect of the night—the waiting.
Their table is along the edge of the restaurant with no one seated nearby which affords them some privacy, and Santos feels more at ease for it: no spectators, no witnesses; Al-Hashimi is her only audience. Once they’re seated, she takes a moment to scan the interior: high ceilings that evoke the composition of a Kay Nielsen illustration, dim lighting that resembles the ambiance of sitting near a fire with heads huddled close in hushed conversation; the din of the room blends smoothly such that no one sound is distinguishable beyond that which is immediately in one’s vicinity. It all coalesces to make Santos feel light and buoyant, so that each word and action flows easily and doesn’t leave her wavering. Her eyes lock back onto Al-Hashimi’s, a tiny smile bursting forth.
The server is quick to take their orders, and Al-Hashimi makes sure to ask for sake for the both of them. They sip at it while they wait for their dishes.
“I trust the ED hasn’t erupted into flames in my absence?” She raises a brow.
“No.” Santos rolls her eyes before giving her a pointed look to add, “You know, I think it’s actually running way smoother now. We actually have time to get through patients without you on our asses about charting.”
She’s about to take the bait but thinks better of it, and her parted lips curl into a tiny smile instead. “Funny.” Santos’s eyes trail off to the side as her smile starts to fade. Al-Hashimi tilts her head to catch her eyeline. “Seriously though, is everything going okay?”
“Uh, yeah,” Santos says with a nod, eyes skimming over their tabletop. “Same as when you called the other day.” She squirms under Al-Hashimi’s lingering, expectant gaze, and once she realizes she won’t let her drop the subject so easily, she admits, “I’ve been thinking about switching to the night shift.”
“Oh.” Santos catches a wave of surprise flicker across her face before she’s able to hide it. Al-Hashimi purses her lips. “Can I ask why?”
She parts her lips for a moment as she considers her words. “I just feel like I could learn a lot from the doctors on that shift,” she explains with a wave of the hand. “It would just be a temporary thing until—” She’s cut off by the server placing their plates in front of them, and she’s grateful for it.
The truth is, her shifts have been nothing short of daunting and uncomfortable with how often she runs into both Whitaker and Garcia—she swears she sees them more now. She hadn’t realized how much of a helpful distraction Al-Hashimi had been, how her presence would draw her focus during any free moments and effectively serve as a buffer.
Whitaker has taken to hovering in the periphery of her vision, never saying anything but just...there; and it’s almost as if they’re back in her apartment and living together again whenever it’s just the two of them in a space. She has to bite back the vestigial banter that still rises to the surface around him, opting instead for terse work-related comments only. And it hurts her to see him holding back, too. She hasn’t quite been able to admit to herself how much she misses him. She keeps the ache of it lodged inside her, precariously housed beside the ancient abyss of a twin ache, one she occasionally picks at like a scab for the sake of feeling something, anything. But it’s a slippery slope: one wrong move, one touch too rough, and she risks tearing open the wound even wider and waking its neighbor, the two unifying to consume her entirely. She walks around with a landmine inside her, one she’s always one bad day away from deliberately setting off herself.
Her body still reacts as if shocked by static whenever she hears the beginning notes of Garcia’s voice. She doggedly avoids eye contact and lets all of her teaching questions dangle in the air; but Garcia has taken to asking her by name as of late (last name, of course, lest they fail to keep church and state separate—Garcia would never, not anymore). When this happens, Santos keeps her expression blank and impenetrable, but those familiar dark eyes still bore into her sometimes and needle their way in despite her defenses. She fights to keep her out, to keep the door boarded up and slammed shut, and it infuriates her that Garcia still has access to her in this way, it makes her want to shout at her over patients—stable or critical, awake or unconscious, no matter.
Their “breakup” had been a quiet affair. Santos hadn’t had much fight in her, wrung dry as she was by the compounding horrors, and their confrontation had only served as further proof of what she believed to be her preordained, deserved loneliness. She’d remained impassive before her, an immovable object. Garcia had tried to goad her into betraying any of her emotions, but Santos had fully closed shop, boarded up at the first whiff of things ending. It was all she could do to not leave the whole ordeal with her tail between her legs; she had refused to let Garcia witness that, refused to let the humiliation multiply even further, refused to grovel or fight for anything more beyond the scraps Garcia had thrown at her under the table all those months. So she’d gone home to lick her wounds by picking at the old and creating some new.
“Trinity?”
Santos blinks away her ruminating thoughts and peeks up through her eyelashes to find Al-Hashimi’s attentive eyes on her. “Hm?”
“You were gone for a moment there,” she says quietly.
“Sorry.” She flashes her an unsteady grin before adding, “I’m here now.”
Al-Hashimi studies her as she considers whether or not to dig deeper. “Everything okay?”
“I’m good,” she says with a nod.
“Okay.” She reaches a hand across the table to grasp gently at Santos’s fingers.
Santos swallows before commenting, “The food looks great.” She hopes the heaviness sitting in her chest doesn’t carry through in her voice.
Al-Hashimi remains watchful, her eyes stripping Santos bare, peering inside her without shying away. She finally peels away her gaze, not quite satisfied with what she finds, but resigned to pick it back up at a later point. She hums while squeezing Santos’s hand before pulling it away to grab her chopsticks. “Let’s eat?”
Santos lets out a small breath and rushes to keep the conversation moving, picking up a piece with her own chopsticks as she asks, “How’s your new job?”
Al-Hashimi flashes her a tentative grin. “It’s been good,” she replies with a lilt in her voice. “I’m enjoying getting to know everyone.”
“Yeah?” She raises her eyebrows as she teases, “Meet any cute residents yet?”
She shoots her a look. “Would you be jealous if I said yes?”
She pretends to think about it, tilting her head up toward the ceiling. “A little.”
“Hm.” She regards her for a beat before dragging the tip of her heel along Santos’s leg under the table. “None as cute as you.”
Santos dips her head down. “Smooth.” Despite keeping her voice steady, a flood of warmth radiates out from her chest and spreads across her neck and face, and it only intensifies as Al-Hashimi’s trailing touch continues, as the burn of her sharp gaze remains on her all throughout.
Al-Hashimi brings a piece of sushi to her mouth and grins around it when Santos’s eyes meet hers again. She chews and swallows before disclosing longingly, “I miss working with you.” She catches Santos still almost imperceptibly, but continues. “I miss seeing you every day.”
“Oh.” She sets her chopsticks down and reaches to drink from her glass of sake to buy herself some time to recover before responding; she puts the glass back down and still has nothing, the alcohol hardly helping to shake something loose.
Al-Hashimi lets the silence drag out before finally breaking it. “Is it okay that I said that?” Santos swears she hears her voice falter, her words subtly tinged with uncharacteristic nervousness.
Santos nods her head fervently. “Yeah,” she says finally. “Sorry. It just caught me off guard.” She runs a finger along the collar of her shirt, eyes fixed on the spread of food on their table. “It’s just all kinda new for me,” she admits. “All of this.” She swings her gaze back up to meet Al-Hashimi’s, who nods in response, but doesn’t say anything. Santos pinches at her chopsticks as she musters up her courage and beats back at the disbelief and distrust that gnaw at her ankles like stray neighborhood dogs. “I do, too.” Her voice is strained and barely there. “For what it’s worth.” Her eyes flicker back to Al-Hashimi for only a brief second before returning to her plate. The admission makes her feel as if she’s splayed out on the table along with the sushi, fully at Al-Hashimi’s mercy to do with her what she will.
She grabs Santos’s hand that had been fidgeting with her chopsticks. “It’s worth a lot.” She moves to search for her eyes. When she meets them, she adds solemnly, “Thank you.”
Santos gives her a small smile, the most she can offer in the moment as she reels at the turn the conversation has taken.
Al-Hashimi’s eyes dart across her face before leaning in to reach a hand across the table and tilt her chin toward her. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
She meets her intensity. “What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t think I’d be able to stop.” She grazes her thumb along her jaw, eyes falling on her lips. “And I’d rather not get kicked out.”
Santos lets out a breathy chuckle. “Let’s finish eating then, yeah?” She grabs the hand at her chin and holds Al-Hashimi’s fingers delicately, then presses a reverent kiss against her knuckles, as if seconds away from bowing before her.
Al-Hashimi breaks out in a close-lipped grin and tilts her head to the side, brimming with contentment. She nods curtly and squeezes Santos’s hand. “Let’s.”
***
“I’m paying next time,” Santos grumbles as she holds the restaurant door open for Al-Hashimi.
She steps out and turns to look at Santos with bright eyes, eyelashes fluttering as she wears a slight smirk. “Okay,” she concedes with a slow nod. When they fall in step beside each other, she reaches out to wrap her arm around Santos’s upper arm. The dark velvet of the night has fully overtaken the cloudless sky, and it blankets them such that the world narrows to just the two of them. A brisk breeze swirls around them as they head toward the car, and Al-Hashimi nuzzles in closer.
Santos buzzes at the contact, but tries to remain cool and take it in stride. She’s not a very touchy person, but her aversion to touch and her craving for it exist as two sides of the same coin—and Al-Hashimi’s open affection is coaxing out a part of her that she’d long since shut away, one that’s only evidenced in the childhood photos where she’s pictured clinging onto family (and then absent in all photos once she joins gymnastics).
“What are you thinking about?” Al-Hashimi asks quietly with fond eyes on Santos’s profile.
Santos glances to the side at her for a second before refocusing on their path, the car already in their view. “How nice this is,” she murmurs. They reach the car and she turns so that their fronts meet with Al-Hashimi’s arm still hooked around hers. She takes a small breath. “How nice you are.”
At the sight of Santos dipping her tongue out to run it between her lips, Al-Hashimi brings her hand to her jaw and leans in for a kiss: it’s kind and gentle and unhurried; she sucks lightly on Santos’s bottom lip, her upper lip, before slipping her tongue inside her mouth and then pulling back to whisper, “Sweet girl.”
Santos feels her sinews pull tight and a muffled whine escape. She moves to wrap her arms around Al-Hashimi’s neck, fingers sliding into the curls at her nape to tug at them softly and bring her in closer to deepen the kiss. She bites her bottom lip as she pulls away for a second, then dips back in with her tongue for a sloppier kiss. She starts panting when Al-Hashimi sucks on her tongue and has to pull away to take a shaky breath, and she finds her mind blissfully blank save for the urgency with which she needs the woman in front of her.
Santos presses a peck against her lips, then another at the corner of her mouth; her hooded eyes peer at Al-Hashimi’s face when she pulls back an inch and starts trailing kisses along her jaw and then down to her neck. She toys with sucking at a sensitive spot, but a firm grip in her hair pulls her back; she looks up through her eyelashes to meet Al-Hashimi’s squinted eyes, and she understands her expression without words, obeys without question; she resumes her kisses along her neck, sans sucking. The steady grip of the hand at her head emboldens her, and she runs her tongue along her neck before going in to nibble at the skin there. She takes the chain of one of her longer necklaces between her teeth and tugs it back to gaze up at her devilishly, pleasure blazing throughout her at the sight of a flushed Al-Hashimi, the black holes of her pupils nearly swallowing Santos whole.
At the chirp of a car unlocking near them, Santos pulls back with a jolt as the world around them filters back into view. Al-Hashimi lets out a breathless chuckle and Santos comes to rest her forehead on her shoulder with a frustrated groan. She pulls back and turns to glare at the couple walking toward their car before meeting Al-Hashimi’s eyes. “Can we go to your place tonight?”
Santos hopes that whatever desperation shines through her words is attributed to her kindling desire rather than her need to avoid the confines of her own apartment, in which every square inch of each room is boobytrapped with memories that only serve to conjure up what she’s sorely lacking, cruel reminders of what she’s lost (or been too weak and cowardly to hold onto). She can hardly stand to be in there with how she’s practically bumping into echoes of Whitaker and Garcia around every corner: on the couch linger the Real Housewives marathons with Whitaker over takeout that she (unconvincingly) pretended to hate, and the heavy petting with Garcia that Whitaker lived in fear of walking in on after interrupting them once on his way to the kitchen; in the kitchen linger the surprisingly fluid and harmonious maneuvers of the three of them as they danced around one another to get ready for work at the crack of dawn, and the occasional quickies with Garcia when they had been too handsy and desperate to make it to her bedroom; in her bedroom linger the rumbling of Whitaker’s knocks at the door whenever she overslept or shut herself in after a particularly hard day, and the heated words and moans that tumbled out of Garcia’s throat and carried outside the thin walls. It’s no different than being in the hospital, the way she can’t escape the both of them, the way they seem to haunt her.
Al-Hashimi caresses Santos’s cheek as she replies, “Of course.” She leans in for a quick peck before unlocking her car and heading over to the driver’s side.
Santos spends the bulk of the ride to Al-Hashimi’s apartment not-so-subtly watching her drive. She’s caught twice, at which she jerks away quickly, a blush overtaking her face. The third time it happens, Al-Hashimi glances at her fondly and says, “You’re allowed to look at me, Trinity.”
“I know,” she laughs out weakly as she looks down at her hands.
Al-Hashimi reaches out to grab one and brings it to her lap. “Then act like it.”
Santos fixes her gaze on her again and gives a small smile when their eyes meet for a brief moment before Al-Hashimi goes back to watching the road. “Your apartment is annoyingly far,” she grumbles. She frees her fingers from her grasp and crawls them farther up Al-Hashimi’s thigh.
“We’re almost there,” she assures soothingly.
Santos hums in acknowledgement and wraps her fingers around the curve of Al-Hashimi’s inner thigh, dipping them down closer to her center.
“Trinity.”
She plays innocent. “Yeah?”
Al-Hashimi chuckles incredulously before warning, “No funny business while I’m driving.”
She clicks her tongue in disappointment. “You’re no fun.”
“It’s just a few more minutes, baby.”
“Okay, that’s not helping,” she huffs.
Al-Hashimi gives her a playful sidelong look. “Are you always this impatient?”
“Do you always look this hot?” Santos retorts with a squeeze to her thigh.
She flashes her a smirk in response, and the two slip into a dense silence for the remainder of the drive, only communicating in sly looks that drift down to their lips and trace along the lines of their bodies.
***
They tumble through the apartment door and Santos is instantly all over her, but Al-Hashimi is quick to dictate the pace with a hand in Santos’s hair that tugs her closer and farther at her will. She pulls away from a messy, open-mouthed kiss and holds Santos’s inches away from her. “So eager,” she fusses, eyes flitting across her face with a slight curl of her lips. She removes all contact and strides over to sit on her couch. Without any instruction needed, Santos trots along right behind her. She hovers in front of her, unsure of herself until Al-Hashimi pats her lap, at which she crawls into her and straddles her hips. Her hands come to rest on her waist where they tug at the fabric of her shirt, eyes flickering from her waist to her eyes, silently pleading.
“You have to tell me what you want, Trinity,” she intones, expression tranquil and not yet betraying any signs of arousal.
She runs her hands across the expanse of Al-Hashimi’s torso, tilting her head to the side as she asks, “Can I take this off?”
She pretends to think for a moment before bringing up their earlier conversation. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re feeling about how I look, first?” She brings a hand up and runs it along Santos’s cheek, the cool metal of her rings jolting through her as she leans into the touch to chase after it. Al-Hashimi regards her with a contained smile as she tracks her reactions.
Santos dips down and presses her lips against the spot under her ear where she whispers, “I can show you.” She untucks her shirt and slides her hand under, trailing her kisses along her neck as she runs a hand down the open expanse of her chest. She adjust her angle slightly so that her lips follow after her hand, tasting the salt of her skin and pressing against the gold of her necklaces; she travels down to her chest, sucking gently at the skin, fingers tugging aside the fabric of her shirt so she has access to the side of her breast, where she takes the liberty of sucking more harshly. She smiles against the skin there at the feel of Al-Hashimi’s chest swelling against her with a deep breath, at which she peels away to peek at her face, desperately searching for signs of pleasure, for signs of a job well done. When Santos catches the small smile that plays across Al-Hashimi’s lips, she rushes forward to press a forceful kiss against them.
Her hand under her shirt crawls up toward the underside of her breast, fingers skirting around her areola before tugging at her nipple. Al-Hashimi finally lets a moan slip out, and they continue to kiss sloppily until Santos pulls back and slides off her lap to kneel before her legs, prostrating as if praying in a pew. She brings her hands to the waistband of her pants, arms draped along her thighs with one finger digging under the clasp.
“Please.” She flutters her eyes as she looks up at her, wide eyes imploring.
Al-Hashimi reaches to run her fingers through her hair, and shoots her a dark yet tender look. “You’re such a good girl,” she croons. Santos bites her lip as heat pulses throughout her, but doesn’t dare make a move. Al-Hashimi nods her head once as she instructs gently, “Go ahead, baby.”
Santos lets out a shaky breath as she brings both hands to undo her pants, fingers sliding down the zipper with palpable anticipation before moving to the waistband. She blinks up at Al-Hashimi for a second and then begins to pull them down, Al-Hashimi’s hips lifting as she does so. She inches them off her legs and places them on the rug beside her, eyes now darting across the swathe of skin before her.
Her blown pupils converge at her center, where the sheerness of her soaked, black lacy underwear offers a view of the dense thatch of dark curls there. She licks her lips at the sight, but leans back as she recalls the last time she was in this apartment, the frenzy with which she had approached it all—so she resolves to take her time, to show Al-Hashimi just how she ignites a fire within her, just how it burns through her flesh and brings her to her knees before her, devout and ready to worship at her feet.
Santos takes hold of Al-Hashimi’s leg and begins pressing kisses up her calf, her heady gaze trained on her throughout. When her lips reach her knee, she starts suckling gently at the flesh, teeth tugging the closer she gets to her center. She hears a muffled whimper at the same time she feels a hand thread through her hair, but she remains steady in spite of how she’s fraying at the edges, in spite of how her blood is pumping throughout her and pooling where she craves touch the most. She moves onto kissing up her other leg despite the protesting tug at her scalp, and when her mouth comes up to her knee, she runs her tongue up the length of her thigh before finishing with a chaste kiss at the seam where her thigh meets her center.
She drags her hands up the sides of her thighs to hook into the waistband of her underwear, but doesn’t move to slip them off. Instead, she presses close-lipped kisses to her center as Al-Hashimi wriggles above her and opens her legs wider, the heat there beckoning her, calling her. When she delicately tongues at her clit, Al-Hashimi finally breaks and drags Santos’s head back to look at her: her eyes skip across her face, and Santos throbs keenly at the open desire that blooms across it. They share a silent moment as Al-Hashimi stares at her with her mouth parted, the corners of her lips tugging up slightly, before she pulls Santos off her with the grip at her head and nudges her shoulder to create more space. Santos sits back and watches as Al-Hashimi slides off her underwear and drops them atop her abandoned slacks before leaning back against the couch cushion and sliding her hips forward.
“Get to it, Trinity.”
Santos marvels at the wetness that laces her curls as she inches closer and hooks her arms around her thighs, her nails scraping against their tender skin as she settles in between them. She lets out a sharp gasp when Al-Hashimi roughly stations her hand in her hair to urge her closer to her cunt, follows the silent directive by running her tongue from her inner thigh to her folds, where she flattens it against her and licks a tentative stripe. As she begins to earnestly tongue against her, the musk there envelops her, shooting straight through her to evaporate what remains of her resolve. The tightening of the thighs around her head and the grip at her hair hastens her movements and leaves her woozy, doing heaps more for her than the sake at the restaurant had.
With her hands digging into the softness of Al-Hashimi’s thighs, she shuts her eyes and juts out her chin to angle her tongue into her opening, tending to it before moving to lick up to her swollen clit; when she sucks at it harshly, Al-Hashimi lets loose a loud groan, and Santos smiles around her cunt as she peers up at her through hooded eyes. She finds Al-Hashimi riveted on her, eyebrows pinched in pleasure and head lolled to the side as her chest rises and falls erratically.
At the glimpse of Al-Hashimi without her usual mask of composure, Santos urgently tries to communicate her appreciation by firmly running her tongue up against her folds over and over and over. Al-Hashimi’s legs wrap around her, ankles coming to rest against her back as she sinks into the sensation, her thighs suffocating Santos who moves to tend to the hood of her clit with pursed lips, alternating between sucking and grazing it with her teeth. Santos gasps for breath between her thighs, but never lets up, intent on giving her body over to Al-Hashimi entirely, on bringing her to the brink, where her face and mouth are ready to catch her over the edge. The lack of oxygen spikes her own arousal, and the throbbing in her skull pulses in tandem with the throbbing at her cunt to produce a lethal resonance. She mindlessly grinds against the heel of her own foot in search of friction, and Al-Hashimi is quick to register the movement against her legs.
“Do you like that, Trinity?” Her voice is rough and raspy, and it’s as if the radio channel it’s on has a line straight to Santos’s cunt.
She pulls her mouth away ever so slightly to whisper, “Yes,” the puff of air striking the slick of her folds.
Al-Hashimi hisses above her at the sensation, but her following words still fall out clearly and precisely: “You’re doing so good with that pretty mouth of yours.” She gazes down at her with heavy eyelids, pupils overtaking her eyes as she caresses the top of Santos’s head. “So well behaved.”
Santos’s resounding whine vibrates against her cunt. “Please,” she croaks out, eyes now pinched closed.
Al-Hashimi chuckles as she asks, “Please what, baby?”
She doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t even know what she had been asking for when the word tumbled out, so she continues licking against the folds before her, whimpering at the need that only grows exponentially within her. A tug at her scalp pulls her mouth away.
“Trinity.” Santos looks up to meet the eyes slicing through her, and vaguely registers the coolness of the air hitting her slick-covered face. “What do you want?” Al-Hashimi runs her thumb against Santos’s bottom lip with her other hand as she waits, tenderness strewn across her face, coaxing out that part of herself that Santos has kept shut tight deep within her, its contents now seeping through the cracks.
Santos shakes her head and casts down her gaze, would move closer to Al-Hashimi’s cunt to avoid answering if it weren’t for the fingers firmly threaded through her hair.
“Look at me.” She complies without thought and meets her searching eyes. “What is it, baby?”
She finds it easier than expected to give in to the request—something about Al-Hashimi’s unique combination of qualities, the particularities of this night, the happenings of her day, have thawed her out and melted away the usual fight she reserves for moments like these. “Keep talking to me?” She feels the heat of her blush deepening at the admission, but the sweet grin that Al-Hashimi breaks out in makes the admission feel lighter.
“Of course,” she answers emphatically. She bends down to kiss her, licks into her mouth before reclining again and pressing Santos’s face against her cunt. “Be a good girl and make me come.”
Santos groans against her as she begins to lap religiously at her swollen clit, her head held in place by strong thighs, the tugging at her head also tugging at the hot desire in her own cunt.
“Suck.” Santos takes the clit in her mouth and follows orders. “Good,” she sighs out. At the praise, she resumes her own grinding, hunting for whatever friction she can find as her clothed cunt haphazardly comes against her heel and leg with no real rhythm. Santos lets out her own muffled cries around Al-Hashimi’s clit and they blend with the breathy gasps floating out from above her.
Al-Hashimi thrusts her hips repeatedly to meet Santos’s mouth, her hand still pressing her face against her, and the forcefulness of it nearly pushes Santos over the edge. She feels all awareness of her self slip away entirely, leaving behind only the acute sensations that course throughout her body and keep her alight; there’s a sick bliss for her in existing, albeit fleetingly, as a body without thoughts or memories, and she lets out a sharp cry of relief at the emptiness that engulfs her.
“Do you like it when I use your face like this?” Al-Hashimi grits out as her hips quicken against her. Santos groans against her wet folds as she struggles to take a breath, tears prickling out of the corners of her eyes. The hand at her head pulls her back suddenly. “Tell me.” As she fights through her heady, mindless haze to articulate herself, Al-Hashimi observes her with dark eyes, seconds away from eating her whole.
“You taste so good,” Santos struggles to breathe out.
Al-Hashimi hums in approval and wipes at the tears slipping out of Santos’s eyes. “You’ve done so well listening to me,” she sighs. “So sweet.” She shoves her face to her cunt again. “Now finish the job.”
Santos digs her nails into Al-Hashimi’s thighs as she runs her flat tongue against her slit and then holds her swollen clit between her teeth before wrapping her lips around it to suck at it vigorously. The influx of guttural moans above her only bolsters her efforts, and she starts to let the bulging clit slip out of her lips after each suck, only to come back to take it in her mouth again, repeating this motion in rhythm with her own hips below her. She swears she could come from this alone, just from sucking off her clit as her cunt pulsates and leaks against her mouth and chin, Al-Hashimi’s sounds and praises washing over her.
“Trinity,” Al-Hashimi lets out with a high-pitched moan. “I’m close,” she gasps. “You feel so fucking good.” Her words morph into another moan as Santos increases the speed and pressure of her lips and tongue against her. She maneuvers a hand up to her opening and slips a finger into her gaping hole, finger curling up sharply as she pulls her lips back roughly with each suckle of her clit. Her cunt widens and tightens around her finger, and when Santos slips in another and presses both against her front wall, Al-Hashimi goes still and silent above her for a second before her orgasm starts to jerk through her, her hips bucking against Santos’s face with each wave, hand pulling harshly at her hair as she rides them out with throaty moans.
Santos remains steady at her cunt, fingers pumping and twisting as her walls flutter against them, tongue applying rhythmic pressure against her clit throughout. When her convulsing finally settles down, Al-Hashimi brings her face up and bends forward to taste herself as she licks into her mouth and kisses her languidly. She pulls back an inch and peers into Santos’s eyes, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re such a good girl for me, Trinity,” she murmurs before scattering kisses across her face. She grabs Santos’s wrist and brings her fingers to her mouth, tongue wrapping around them to suck off her own cum. The erotic sight takes what little breath Santos has, and when Al-Hashimi brings the fingers to her mouth after, she whines pitifully around them, eyes drooping shut as she tunes into the throbbing in her cunt.
“I need you,” Santos pouts once the fingers slip out of her mouth, her aching effectively stripping her of any pride that typically keeps her from begging so readily.
Al-Hashimi reaches to grab a tissue from the box on the coffee table and wipes Santos’s face, then rises from the couch, legs slightly wobbly beneath her, and pulls Santos up with her. “Come here.” Santos follows the sweet tone and leans in close as they stand supporting each other; she’s rewarded with a gentle kiss to her lips that ends too soon once Al-Hashimi drags her along behind her.
After drifting to the bedroom, Santos gets onto the bed and scoots backward until she’s leaning against the headboard, and watches as Al-Hashimi strips off her shirt before kneeling onto the mattress after her. The image of her leaves her rapt, and despite the fact that she’s the one still clothed, she feels splayed open before her, ripe for the taking. Al-Hashimi brings her hands up to undo her necktie, places it beside them on the bed, and then hovers at the shirt buttons with a question in her eyes. Santos nods quickly, and as deft hands begin unbuttoning down her shirt she adds, “You can do anything you want to me.” She feels pathetic for it, but she’s well past the point of caring.
Al-Hashimi releases a breathy chuckle at her eagerness, eyes flicking back up to meet hers with a fond expression. “I’ll be checking in regardless,” she replies quietly. She slides the shirt off her shoulders and moves to unbutton Santos’s pants, but is pulled into a fierce kiss instead as Santos’s own hands start working on taking them off. She shimmies them off along with her boyshorts and brings Al-Hashimi to straddle her waist as they continue kissing. (Santos is well-versed in manipulating these moments in which fear stabs at her, in which one wrong move, one inch of skin revealed an instant too soon will prompt a teeth-pulling conversation that leaves her feeling naked in the worst way). She sighs in relief against her mouth when Al-Hashimi’s hands cup her breasts and knead at them, fingers then going to tweak her nipples and roll them roughly as Santos’s chest arches into the touch.
Santos pulls back from her lips and looks at her gravely. “I’m already ready.” She grabs a hand from her chest and dips it into her damp curls.
“You’re so wet for me,” Al-Hashimi huffs out with a thrill. She pulls her hand back and takes off her rings, and the clatter of their metal hitting the wood of the nightstand keenly reverberates through Santos and whets her appetite. “Get on your hands and knees,” she says darkly as she crawls off her lap.
Santos instinctually bows her head at the command as she scrambles to follow her instructions, slipping into the familiar role of laying her body before a domineering woman, rolling over to bare her belly and not her teeth.
Al-Hashimi stands on her knees and grabs a pillow to wedge it under Santos, eyes finally landing on the view spread out in front of her. She brings a reverent hand up to the slick folds greeting her, idles two fingers through them back and forth, back and forth, until they’re fully coated. Santos pushes back against the touch with a rumbling groan, the side of her face coming down to shove against the mattress as she sinks in further, body leaden. Al-Hashimi wraps a hand around to rub at her clit as the pads of the fingers of her other hand press into her opening, dipping in only a fraction.
The scant touch is maddening. “More, please,” Santos desperately pants.
Al-Hashimi removes a hand from her throbbing cunt and caresses across her back before hooking around Santos’s upper arm. She lifts her up and brings her back flush against her front, then wraps both of her arms around to toy with her breasts; she kisses her cheek before trailing down to suck at her neck. Santos leans her weight against her and melts into the hold, her eyes fluttering shut with a sigh, swathed in a warm grasp that for once isn’t followed by swarming, bounding doubt.
“Does that feel good?” Al-Hashimi croons into her neck.
“So good,” Santos rushes to answer.
She hums against her contentedly. “I have an idea.” Santos perks up at this. “And there’s absolutely no pressure to say yes,” Al-Hashimi continues.
“I already told you that you can do anything,” she huffs out in frustration.
“And I already told you that I would still check in with you,” she retorts playfully. She leans her head back and tilts Santos’s face toward her by the chin as the arm that was wrapped around her torso feels around on the mattress. She kisses her lips softly and dangles the previously discarded necktie in front of Santos. “How would you feel if I tied your wrists behind your back as I fucked you?” She says the words so casually that understanding strikes Santos with an unexpected force, that axe slicing through her again—but this time, it leaves in its wake a sharpened desire as it flays her body open, willing to take and take, to soak up and revel in all that Al-Hashimi sees fit for her. All she can do is nod dumbly as she stares at the tie in front of her. “Use your words, Trinity,” Al-Hashimi insists as she pecks her cheek.
Santos swallows. “Yes.”
“You would feel ‘yes’?” A smirk overtakes Al-Hashimi’s face.
She groans and rolls her eyes, then shoots her a wide-eyed pleading look as arousal rings in her ears. “Can you please just tie me up and fuck me?”
She pouts faintly at her as she acquiesces. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” She rubs her thumb across her cheek. “And since you’ve been so good this whole night.”
Santos inhales audibly as Al-Hashimi shuffles behind her and brings her arms behind her back to wrap the fabric of the tie snugly around her wrists. She gives it an experimental tug. “Does that feel okay?”
She hums at the pull of her shoulders—wishes it would escalate to a pulsating pain that eclipses all cogent thought and lands her solidly in her body as it floods with twisted pleasure. “Very.” Al-Hashimi brings a hand to her jaw and drags her in for a slow, deep kiss, tongue pressing against her own. When they pull back, Santos’s eyes remain fixed on her lips as she admits in a low voice, “You can be rough with me.”
“Yeah?” She pulls at her restraints and rasps out, “Would you like that?”
Santos licks her lips. “I need it.” Her eyes flicker back and forth between Al-Hashimi’s eyes.
Al-Hashimi returns the heady look, the silence between them swelling, tension thickening. “Good,” she says finally, her eyes darkening. With her hand still on the tie, she shoves Santos back against the mattress and runs her other hand down to her ass. She gives it a light, tentative smack, and when Santos’s hips push back against the impact with a whimper, she comes down on it again harder. She watches wetness leak out of her opening and runs her fingers through it as Santos squirms beneath her, and then finally slips them in.
As Al-Hashimi alternates between slapping and soothing the scarlet skin with her fingers digging into her cunt, Santos slips into another plane of arousal, one in which she feels something within her turn inside out, leaving her raw and overreactive; she relinquishes all vestiges of control to chase after the mounting pleasure that is seconds away from consuming her entirely, from causing her to spontaneously combust on the mattress melding into her. Her legs tremble from under her as she plunges deeper into this state, until all that matters is the woman above her expertly tending to her hypersensitive nerve endings, tweaking and tuning them with such swiftness and assuredness that Santos is somehow both seared to the bed and floating away from it. “Harder,” she begs.
Al-Hashimi rams her fingers into Santos, her hand held at her own hip as she fucks into her and punctuates each thrust with a smack to her ass; Santos flinches at the touches before shuddering from the brutal ecstasy that follows. “Fuck,” she hisses out. She slams her hips back against Al-Hashimi, face pressed against the comforter as drool dribbles out her mouth, tears trickle out her eyes, slick slips out her cunt—she’s bursting at the seams. A strangled whine claws its way out her throat as she struggles to hold on.
“Do you want to come?” Al-Hashimi husks out, her fingers now gripping onto the flesh of Santos’s flushed ass for leverage with each pump of her fingers.
Santos lets out a long groan that forms into a guttural “Yes” at the tail end of it.
“How badly?” she taunts as she slows her motions.
“Please,” she whimpers. “Please, please, please pl—” She breaks out into a sob as Al-Hashimi slams into her again with an added finger, clenches her eyes shut as her mouth opens wider.
“Good, baby,” she grunts. “Look at you, taking me so well,” she marvels as she quickens to a steady, harsh pace, the mattress creaking under them, headboard thudding against the wall.
Santos bites around the comforter as the praise drags another debasing cry from her throat, searching for any sort of grounding while her nerves and muscles are pulled tighter and tighter, now on the verge of snapping. Al-Hashimi seizes her by her tied wrists to bring her back against her when she notices. “Uh-uh,” she chides. “I want to hear you.” She brings her teeth to her neck and works her tongue at the salty skin there, the pulsing of Santos’s blood frenzied against it. She presses a tender kiss against her carotid, and the contrast of it with the forceful jerks into her cunt leaves Santos dizzy, her vision swimming. “You can let go, baby,” Al-Hashimi whispers against her flushed neck, a sheen now covering it. “You can do it, Trinity, be good and come for me,” she urges gently with a sharp yank at her wrists.
Santos lets out a wail that contorts into a low, gravelly groan, becoming jagged with each spasm of her body as her orgasm crashes into her. Her vision goes dark around the edges with prickles of white, and in her stupor, she swears they’re stars, and she feels herself floating away to be hung up in the night sky beside them with the moon. She almost topples over as her legs give out from under her, but Al-Hashimi catches her and swiftly frees her wrists before laying her on her back as she finishes coming down. Santos jolts at the initial feel of fingers against her clit, but easily settles into the touch, hips still jerking as Al-Hashimi helps tease out the remains of her climax. She faintly registers the warmth of her body beside her and the press of her lips against her face and neck, the touches coaxing her back down to earth. Her breathing finally starts to level out as her body dissolves into the mattress, eyes shut and mouth slightly parted.
“Hey.”
Santos feels a hand tracing along her torso before coming up to cup her jaw. She groans and turns her head away from the voice, skin still flushed.
“Trinity.” The voice is sweet and gentle, the small puffs of air meeting her damp skin. She turns toward it and cracks open her eyes which fall upon Al-Hashimi’s disheveled visage, and the soft smile that unfolds there in response draws Santos in to press her lips against hers.
Santos pulls back and sinks back into the pillow again, eyes flitting shut. “God.”
“I thought I told you to call me Baran,” she says easily, pressing her lips against her cheek.
She peeks at her out of the corner of her eye. “Funny.”
As Al-Hashimi peppers her with kisses, she cards her fingers through Santos’s hair, who leans into the caresses like a puppy.
After a few minutes of bathing in this blissful silence with one another, Al-Hashimi finally speaks up. “So, I have to work tomorrow.” She lifts her head up and brings it closer to Santos’s as she rubs her thumb against her cheek. “But would you want to spend the night anyway?”
Santos furrows her brows and blinks her eyes open to level her with a look. “They have you working Sundays there?”
She presses her lips together. “I switched shifts with someone today.”
“Oh.” Understanding fills her body, but it quickly starts to curdle. “So you didn’t also have today off?” She chews on the skin of her lip and hopes the question doesn’t land as an accusation, hopes her tone doesn’t betray her rising apprehension.
She hums beside her and smooths Santos’s lip with her thumb. “No,” she replies lightly.
As Al-Hashimi brings her lips to her face, Santos scoffs, “You didn’t have to do that.”
She stops and hovers inches away from her. “No,” she concedes. “I didn’t. But I wanted to.”
Santos lets out a sharp, wry laugh, and Al-Hashimi backs her face away further, as if inching away from something feral.
“Is there an issue?” Her words are contained, but carry an undercurrent of defensiveness that Santos picks up on.
Santos closes her eyes to take a deep breath as she works to defuse the situation and figure out which wire connects to which on the bomb she’s seemingly strapped to her chest and carried in herself.
“No,” she sighs. “Sorry.” She brings a hand up to cover her face, drags it across before turning to meet Al-Hashimi’s wide, watchful eyes. “I told you I’m not used to—” she waves her hand in the space between them “—this.” She worries at her lip and averts her gaze. “I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Okay.” When Santos looks back to find her expression placid and alert, doubt starts creeping its way in again to lodge itself back under her skin. Al-Hashimi catches its beginnings and asks earnestly, “Is this still something you want, Trinity?” At the furrow of Santos’s brows, she elaborates, “I asked you not to hold back with me earlier. I’m also not holding back with you.” Her hand returns to Santos’s face, who nudges into it automatically, blinking her eyes shut as she lets its warmth ground her. “I’m worried I’m going to scare you off with it all,” she says quietly.
Santos nods her head once in understanding before opening her eyes, which widen as the weight of her next words thud against the walls of her chest. “I want it,” she admits, voice small. Then adds after a beat, “All of it.”
She’s not sure what it is about this night that’s blown all her doors wide open, doors that she usually keeps locked and boarded up, doors that are now free-flowing, her words and feelings strolling right on through and slipping out into the world. The realization paralyzes for an instant before its lightness glides through her and makes her hope the fleeting feeling will return again once it inevitably leaves—makes her hope it eventually takes up residence.
A tentative smile dances across Al-Hashimi’s lips. “Okay.” Her voice carries its own hope. “If it ever feels like too much, though, you’ll let me know?” She tilts her head. “We can always slow things down, redefine things,” she explains delicately as she reaches to finger a strand of Santos’s hair.
She purses her lips into a flat line as she considers her answer. “I’ll try,” she promises weightily. It’s the most candid response she can give, well aware as she is of how often she’s still at the whim of her base reactions, those instincts that protected her for years, but now only construct a moat around her that keeps anyone and everyone from reaching her deep inside the castle of her mind.
Al-Hashimi crosses the drawbridge and brings her in for a kiss, one which Santos instantly deepens. She pulls away to ask with a lilt in her voice, “I take it you’ll be spending the night then?”
Santos meets her lips again, teeth bumping as they both grin widely, before she slips her tongue in and lets out a sigh against her, the deep well of her want calling to her again. She moves suddenly to straddle Al-Hashimi on top of her, eyes skipping across her chest on her way to her face. “Absolutely.”
