Archive of Our Own

She had promised. That was the pathetic part, really.

Baran had said it perfectly plain over coffee that morning, sliding a mug across the island without quite meeting her eyes. “He's your senior, just get through one shift without making it a thing.” 

Yolanda had said the same the night before, in fewer, less polite words that still made Trinity’s chest ache if she thought about them for too long. So she had walked onto the floor genuinely intending to be good. To be quiet, to keep her head down, to be civil to Frank Langdon for twelve straight hours just to prove that she wasn't a total liability. Just on the off chance that they might see her behaving and decide she was worth keeping around.

She made it to 7:40.

"Where are you going with that?" Langdon caught up to her at the board, nodding at the chart in her hand. "The chest pain in four's mine."

"Was yours. I picked him up." She didn't slow down. If she wasn't being useful, if she wasn't working twice as fast as everyone else, what use was she to any of them? "EKG's clean, trop's pending, I already ordered the—"

"You already ordered." He said it back to her flat, like he was checking he'd heard it. "He's a fifty-eight-year-old diabetic with an atypical presentation and you've decided in, what, six minutes—"

"I've decided he doesn't need you standing over him to get a workup started, yeah."

"He doesn't need me—" Langdon started, and then didn't finish it, because that was the kind of thing you didn't say loud on the floor. He dropped his voice instead, which was somehow worse. "You don't pick up a cardiac workup and run it solo. You loop in your senior. That's not me being precious, Santos, that's the entire point of the—"

"I looped in the monitor and the lab. They're faster than you."

Langdon's jaw did the thing.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. You want to do it without me, do it in front of Dr. Al-Hashimi, because I'm done—"

"Done what?" Baran said.

Neither of them had seen her coming. She had a way of arriving already in the middle of things, calm, hands tucked perfectly into her Lululemon coat pockets. She looked at the chart in Trinity’s grip, then at Langdon, and then, for exactly as long as she looked at Langdon, not a single second more, at Trinity.

Trinity’s heart stuttered. She searched Baran's face for a crack of warmth, a secret sign that she belonged to her, but there was nothing.

"Dr. Langdon. Whose patient."

"Mine. Four. She picked him up off the board without telling me and started a workup."

"Is the workup wrong?"

Langdon was honest to a fault, which was its own kind of annoying. "No, the workup's fine, but she didn’t run it by anyone."

"Then the workup stands, and the own-your-own stops."

Baran turned to Trinity, and Trinity could practically see the steel door slamming shut. She watched Baran choose the flat, professional register, shutting every other part of herself off.

"You don't run a cardiac patient solo. You're an R2. You're a good R2, which is not the same thing, and if you can't tell the difference yet, that's exactly why you loop in your senior. Hand the chart to Dr. Langdon, now."

Dana glanced over. 

Whitaker pretended not to hear. 

Perlah raised an eyebrow at Princess.

And Trinity felt the heat climb her neck. The embarrassment wasn’t just because of the dressing-down; she'd been dressed down before. 

It was because every single person watching thought they were just watching an over-eager R2 getting clipped by her attending. None of them knew that the woman who had already started walking away from her without a backward glance had made her coffee that morning. Had told her, just get through one shift. 

She was a disappointment. She couldn't even make it an hour. That was the part that burned, the familiar, ugly clenching in her stomach that told her she was ruining everything, again.

They thought this was the worst of it. 

It wasn't going to be. 

The worst of it was going to happen at home, in a much quieter voice, when Baran and Yolanda finally realized she was too much trouble to keep fixing. Trinity already knew it, and somehow, knowing it made the self-destructive urge claw its way up her throat anyway. If she was going to ruin it, she might as well push it until it broke.

"He's stable." She said it to Baran's back, her pulse spiking with the sick thrill of the sabotage. "I'm not asking to crack his chest, I started a workup that you just admitted is correct—"

Langdon turned around first. "Santos."

"—so what exactly did I do, other than not ask permission to be right?"

Baran stopped. She just stayed there for a moment before turning.

"You can be right and out of your depth in the same patient. That's the most dangerous R2 there is." Baran raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "You want to argue the medicine, you can do it at the weekly Morbidity and Mortality conference. Arguing it with me on my floor, in the first hour of a fourteen-hour shift, would be an unwise thing to do." She was already half-turned to go. "Your call."

The whole bay had gone very quiet around the noise of the monitors.

Trinity held it a second too long, desperate to keep Baran's attention on her, even if it was furious. "No."

"No, Doctor," Baran corrected smoothly.

"...No, Dr. Al-Hashimi."

"Good." Baran was already walking again, completely entirely unaffected, writing Trinity off as easily as a footnote. "Go check on the GI bleed in six."

Trinity had cooled off enough to be functional, but nowhere near enough to be pleasant. She only had an hour left of her shift and was running on d no food, which was how she found herself staring blankly into her locker, unwrapping a stale granola bar she didn't even want. She was just chewing it so she wouldn't pass out and give them another reason to be pissed at her.

That was when Yolanda came down the hall in her surgery scrubs.

"You're a long way from the OR," Trinity said, not turning around. She didn't want to see Yolanda's face. She didn't want to see the disappointment, or worse, the detached assessment Yolanda used on difficult patients.

"Got a call for an assist. Heard you had a morning." Yolanda leaned a shoulder against the next locker. "You eat?"

"I'm eating." I'm surviving, aren't I? I'm staying out of everyone's way.

"That granola bar isn’t very much." The surgeon tilted her head, her dark eyes pinning Trinity in place. "You coming home tonight?"

Trinity shut the locker harder than necessary. "You mean my apartment?"

"Trinity."

"What? It's a real place, I pay actual rent on it, and I'm fairly sure there's still a couch in there somewhere." She was turning it into a joke so that nobody could turn it into anything heavier. It was a pathetic, transparent defense mechanism, a way to test the waters to see if Yolanda actually wanted her to come back to their house, or if she was just asking out of obligation. Garcia had watched her run this play enough times to recognize it on sight.

Garcia wasn't interested in playing along. "You haven't slept at your own apartment in a whole week, and neither have I, and I already told you I'm letting that lease go in September. So no, I don't mean your apartment, and you can drop the bit, because it's been a long enough day without you making everything a punchline."

Trinity’s stomach clenched. "So you heard about this morning."

"Everyone heard about it. You don't get read the riot act by your attending in your first hour and have it stay quiet." She leaned back against the next locker and crossed her arms, completely unbothered. "And before you start building your case, let me save you the time. You were right about the patient, you were also insufferable about being right, and you got put in your place in front of everyone for it. All three of those are true at once, and I'm not going to stand here and pretend the first one cancels out the other two."

"I wasn't going to ask you to take a side," Trinity lied. She absolutely was. She was desperate for someone to take her side, to tell her she wasn't entirely broken.

"You were absolutely going to ask me to take a side, you always do. And I've told you before that I'm not your therapist and I'm not your defense attorney, and I'm especially not wedging myself between you and Baran. So whatever you're loading up to say, you can let it go."

The absolute refusal stung. Yolanda wasn't even going to humor her. 

"And if I don't go home at all?" Trinity asked, her self-destructive streak finding its second wind. If they were going to push her away eventually, she might as well do it first. "If I go to my apartment—you know, the one with the couch and the rent and the distinct absence of two people lined up to walk me through everything I did wrong today—then what happens, exactly?"

"Then you spend the night alone being right about a patient nobody's arguing with anymore." Garcia didn't take the bait. Her voice was infuriatingly calm. "Sounds like a great evening."

"Maybe it would be. You two never leave your authority at the hospital, and I'm always the one who ends up bent over a lap paying for it." Trinity lifted her chin, her voice dropping into a reckless, challenging register. It was a complete lie, she craved the discipline. It was the only time she felt anchored, the only time their attention was entirely focused on her, but she weaponized it anyway. "One night where my ass isn't glowing red before bedtime is starting to sound like a vacation."

"Trinity." It came out low, with an edge under it, the tone that usually did the job. "Watch it."

It did not do the job. She wanted Yolanda to snap. "What, are you going to write me up too? Get in line, it's apparently the move of the day—"

"I'm not writing you up, and I'm not going to stand here and out-stubborn you, because I have actual patients and you have stamina I don't feel like matching." Garcia straightened off the locker, her casual posture evaporating into something sharp and absolute.

"Here is exactly what is going to happen," Garcia said, taking a step closer so her voice didn't have to carry past the lockers. "You're going to finish your shift, and then you're going to come home. You're going to walk straight into our bedroom, strip from the waist down, and bend over the edge of the mattress. Baran is going to use the leather strap on you for the stunt you pulled on her floor until you remember exactly how you're supposed to speak to your attending."

Trinity’s breath hitched, a shameful, heavy heat immediately pooling in her belly. She opened her mouth, the defiance flickering, but Garcia didn't let her start.

"And because you decided to stand here and get mouthy with me about it?" Garcia's eyes went dark, stripping away any illusion that Trinity had the upper hand. "When Baran is finished, you are coming straight over my knee for the hairbrush. You're going to take every swat for the attitude you're giving me right now, and you're going to sincerely thank both of us for correcting you if you don’t want to be stuck in the corner chair watching us make each other come all night."

The threat hit Trinity hard. The strap she could take. The brush she could take. But being banished to the cuck chair, forced to watch Yolanda and Baran touch each other while actively ignoring her? That would destroy her.

Garcia held her gaze, completely unyielding. "You can keep being a brat from here to the elevator if it helps. It won't change a single thing about tonight, except maybe the swing count."

Trinity swallowed hard, the words finally dying in her throat. She was entirely at their mercy, completely transparent, and she had zero leverage.

"Be home by nine," Garcia said, already turning to walk away. "Don't make us come looking for you. You won't enjoy that version."

And she was gone around the corner before Trinity could land the last word, which, given how desperate she was to just be told what to do, was probably the only actual mercy anyone had shown her since seven a.m.

The edge of the mattress was digging a dull ache into Trinity's stomach, but she didn't dare shift her weight. She had been bent over the bed for ten minutes, stripped bare from the waist down, listening to the quiet hum of the central air and the terrifyingly calm sound of her girlfriends moving around the house. 

She was probably ruining their evening. They had both worked long shifts, and instead of unwinding, they were stuck here, managing her.

Soon enough Garcia came in. She sat right beside her on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed in her scrubs. The contrast made Trinity's chest tight. Garcia put together and perfect, Trinity bare, exposed, and pathetic. 

Every so often, Garcia’s warm hand smoothed down the tense line of Trinity’s spine. Trinity didn't know what to do with the touch. She wanted to lean into it, to believe it meant she was safe, but her brain immediately supplied the alternative: Garcia was just keeping her pinned. A steady pressure to remind Trinity of exactly where she was supposed to stay until Baran was ready to dismantle her.

Footsteps clicked down the hallway. Trinity’s breath hitched, her fingers digging into the duvet as Baran walked into the bedroom.

Baran didn’t immediately look at her. She walked past the bed, heading toward the heavy oak dresser where they kept the implements, moving with an effortless grace that only made Trinity feel more wrong.

"The problem with being right, Dr. Santos," Baran started, her voice the same even, authoritative tone she used during rounds, "is that it breeds a very dangerous kind of arrogance. And you are already prone to arrogance."

Trinity squeezed her eyes shut, her cheeks burning. It was true. She was toxic, and they were finally getting tired of it.

"I don't need you to speak," Baran continued smoothly, opening the top drawer. The unmistakable slide of heavy leather sent a fresh spike of adrenaline straight to Trinity's pulse. "I need you to listen. Because what happened this morning wasn't just about stepping on toes. Langdon is your senior. The hierarchy exists because brilliant, capable R2s like you miss things when they run hot. When you cut him out, you aren't proving you're a better doctor. You're proving you're a liability who can't operate within a team."

A liability. 

There it was. 

The ugly truth Trinity had known all along, finally spoken out loud by the person she admired most. She was a burden.

Garcia's hand paused between Trinity's shoulder blades, her thumb stroking a slow, soothing circle against the bare skin. It was so confusing. Why was Yolanda touching her like that when Baran was explicitly laying out how useless she was? The gentleness felt like a trick, or worse, pity, and it took everything in Trinity to keep the sudden sting of overwhelmed tears at bay.

"And then," Baran said, her footsteps returning until she was standing right behind Trinity. "You decided to throw a tantrum about it in the middle of my ER."

Trinity swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could hear the thick leather strap being tapped lightly against Baran's palm. 

Smack. Smack. 

She wanted the leather to fall. She needed the physical pain to drown out the loud, self-hating noise in her head.

"I will not tolerate insubordination on my floor," Baran said, her voice dropping into a register that commanded absolute obedience. "And I certainly won't tolerate my girl behaving like a petulant brat when she is rightfully corrected. So, as Yolanda outlined for you, we are going to fix that attitude right now."

My girl. 

The words usually made Trinity feel warm on the inside. But it didn’t feel like that tonight. When Baran called her that now she probably just meant it like ownership. Like a piece of broken equipment you had to haul into the back room to fix because you hadn't gotten around to replacing it yet.

Baran stepped into position, the air shifting directly behind Trinity's exposed skin.

"You're going to take twenty firm strikes with the strap for the stunt you pulled at the hospital," Baran instructed, the leather lightly brushing against Trinity's thighs as a warning. "You will count them out loud. If you lose count, or if you try to argue the medicine again, we will start over. Do you understand me?"

Trinity gripped the blankets tighter, leaning desperately into the warmth of Garcia's hand on her back, eager to be punished for being so defective. "...Yes, Dr. Al-Hashimi."

"Good," Baran said. "One."

The leather landed with a heavy crack.

A blinding line of white-hot heat lit across the softest part of her thighs. Trinity’s breath punched out of her lungs in a shocked rush, her hips jerking forward instinctively, but Garcia’s hand flattened firmly against the base of her spine. 

It wasn't comfort, Trinity reminded herself. It was a restraint, a physical reminder that she wasn't allowed to run from the consequences of her own disastrous personality.

"One," Trinity gasped out, her fingers twisting desperately into the duvet.

"Good girl," Baran murmured. Crack. "Two."

The praise twisted something ugly and painful in Trinity's gut. How could she be a good girl? She had just proven she was the exact opposite on the floor. Baran didn't rush. The pause between each strike was perfectly calibrated, leaving just enough time for the burn to bloom and settle before the strap bit into her flesh again. 

Crack. Crack. Crack.

By the time Trinity pushed the word "six" out of her tight throat, the fight had completely drained out of her body, taking the sharp edges of the morning's arrogance with it. 

The heat radiating from her reddened skin was intense, but as the rhythmic, unavoidable punishment continued, another kind of heat began to build. It started as a heavy, pooling warmth deep in her belly, completely separate from the sting of the leather. With every smack and subsequent rush of endorphins, Trinity felt the undeniable, involuntary pulse of arousal thrumming between her thighs.

She was getting wet, and she hated herself for it. 

She felt pathetic, leaking onto the sheets just because they were finally giving her the discipline she so obviously needed. Out there, on the floor, she had to be brilliant. She had to fight for her space, prove her worth, and carry the weight of every medical decision. But here, bent over the bed, she was just theirs. She didn't have to be smart, and she definitely didn't have to be right. She was just a thing that they wanted to fix, a thing that could be of service.

Crack.

"Nine," Trinity whimpered, her thighs trembling slightly.

"Let it go, Trin," Garcia whispered softly near her ear, her thumb resuming its slow, steady circles on her lower back. "Just let us take it."

And she did, because what else could she possibly do? 

Right around strike twelve, the defensive, chattering walls of Trinity’s brain finally collapsed, plunging her straight into the thick, hazy gravity of subspace. The room narrowed down to three things: the smell of Baran’s expensive perfume, the grounding weight of Garcia’s hand, and the numbers. 

She felt heavy and pliant, her breathing turning deep and ragged. This was the only time she could really breathe, when she was no longer Dr. Santos, but just a thing that they wanted. 

Crack. 

"Four... fourteen." Her voice was entirely different now, stripped of its bratty armor now and instead dripping with a submission she usually tried so hard to hide.

"Keep your knees straight, sweetheart," Baran instructed, the leather dragging teasingly over the blistering stripes before pulling back. "You're doing beautifully."

Crack. 

"Fifteen." The tears finally spilled over her lashes, hot and fast, soaking into the duvet. They weren't just pain tears; they were relief. The relief of being broken down so completely that she didn't have to pretend she was holding herself together anymore.

Crack.

"Sixteen." A soft, needy whine caught in the back of her throat. The slickness between her legs was undeniable now, a throbbing ache that matched the burning flush of her backside. Garcia noticed the subtle shift in Trinity's hips, the way she was unconsciously pressing down into the mattress to chase the friction. Garcia’s hand moved from Trinity's back to gently stroke her hair, a silent acknowledgment of her pathetic desperation.

Crack. 

"Seventeen." 

Crack. 

"Eighteen." 

Crack. 

"Nineteen."

Baran paused for a long moment. Trinity’s entire backside was painted in overlapping bands of furious crimson, radiating a heat that could be felt inches away.

"Last one for me," Baran said, her voice dropping into a thick, low register. "Take it well."

The strap whistled through the air, landing perfectly across the meatiest part of her ass with a resounding CRACK.

"Twenty," Trinity cried out, her voice breaking on the syllable as she slumped forward, her forehead resting heavily against the mattress. She was floating, tethered to the earth only by the agonizing burn of her skin and the wet, heavy throb of her core.

Baran set the strap on the nightstand and stepped forward, immediately replacing the leather with the cool, soothing touch of her bare hands. She smoothed her palms over the inflamed skin, her touch as tender as her discipline had been severe.

"Good girl," Baran praised softly, leaning down to press a kiss between Trinity's shoulder blades. "My brilliant, stubborn, perfect girl. The attitude is gone?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Trinity breathed into the blankets, her eyes heavy and unfocused. "It's gone. I'm sorry." She was sorry for the attitude, sorry for the ER, sorry for being someone they had to constantly manage and correct.

"I know you are," Baran murmured, stepping back to let the cool air hit the raw skin again. She looked across the bed at Yolanda. "She's in a beautiful headspace, but she owes you for the hallway. Your turn, Dr. Garcia."

The mattress shifted as Garcia stood up.

For a second, the loss of her warm hand on Trinity's back felt like a physical blow, a tether snapping. Trinity immediately braced herself, her chest tightening with the familiar, suffocating panic that Garcia had finally realized she was too much trouble, that she was disgusted by the pathetic, leaky mess Trinity had become over a few strikes of leather. 

She anticipated the inevitable comedown, the part where she would be left to wonder if any of this actually meant they cared, or if they were just taking her apart because it was easier than dealing with her whole.

But then Baran seamlessly stepped into the space Yolanda left behind. Baran's elegant fingers sank into Trinity’s hair, gently massaging her scalp. It kept her anchored in that hazy, drifting headspace, even though Trinity’s brain immediately tried to convince her that Baran was just managing her, petting the dog so it wouldn't bite while the vet prepped the needle.

"Don't tense up, Trinity," Baran whispered, her thumb stroking the nape of Trinity's neck. "You're doing so well. Stay right here with us."

Us. The word made something ache behind Trinity's ribs.

Across the room, the dresser drawer slid open again. The sound of something solid and wooden being lifted out made Trinity's breath hitch. She remembered Yolanda’s promise at the lockers: straight over my knee for the hairbrush. Her ass was already a blistering, overly sensitized canvas of heat, and the anticipation of a new implement made her thighs tremble. She felt another rush of involuntary wetness slicking her core and hated herself even more than before. She was supposed to be a top, she always had in past relationships, but with them it was different.

 She was practically vibrating at the prospect of being hit again.

"Sit up for me, Trin," Yolanda’s voice was close now, stripped of the dry sarcasm she usually had.

Trinity pushed herself up on shaky arms, her bare knees dragging against the duvet. She didn't look back at the furious red marks painting her own skin; she didn't want to see the damage she had earned. 

She just let Yolanda guide her. Garcia sat down on the edge of the mattress, spreading her knees slightly, and pulled Trinity across her lap.

Being face-down over Yolanda's scrub-clad thighs shifted the angle entirely. It was so completely degrading. Trinity's sensitized bottom was thrust up, perfectly presented, while her head rested near the opposite edge of the bed, entirely at their mercy. 

Baran remained close, her hand immediately returning to stroke Trinity's back, keeping her pinned in place with nothing but a phantom weight.

"At the hospital, you were embarrassed, and you were defensive," Yolanda said quietly, her hand resting flat against the small of Trinity's back. The wooden paddle brush in her other hand tapped rhythmically against her own leg. "I understand why. But you don't get to take that out on me, and you certainly don't get to use your apartment as a threat to push us away when things get hard."

Trinity squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't even want to go to her apartment. The apartment was empty, and quiet, and nobody there cared if she was right or wrong. It had been a stupid, desperate bluff, and Garcia had seen right through it.

"I know," Trinity whimpered, her cheek pressed into the blankets. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are, baby. Let's make sure it sticks. Ten swats for the attitude, five for threatening to run away. Count them."

The heavy wooden back of the brush came down with a dull, echoing THWACK.

It was a completely different kind of pain than the strap. A broad, concussive thud that rattled straight to the bone and sent shockwaves through the already raw skin. Trinity let out a high, breathy gasp, her hips instinctively bucking against Yolanda’s lap.

"One," she cried out, her voice wet and fragile.

THWACK.

 "Two... ah!"

"Keep your hips down," Yolanda corrected gently, her hand pressing firmly against Trinity's lower back to hold her in place. "Take it, Trin."

THWACK. 

"Three." 

Trinity was melting completely into the pain and the pleasure, the strict boundaries of the discipline providing the exact containment her chaotic, self-destructive brain needed. The friction of her own slickness against Yolanda’s scrub pants as she squirmed only amplified the deep, throbbing ache between her legs. 

She was so wet it was humiliating. Garcia was definitely going to feel the dampness seeping through her scrubs, and she would probably be disgusted, but in subspace, the embarrassment was just another layer of surrender. She had no secrets here.

THWACK. 

THWACK. 

"Four... F-five." The words were barely syllables now, just breathy surrenders punched out of her chest.

Baran leaned in, pressing her lips to Trinity’s temple. "Such a good, responsive girl. Let it all out."

Trinity’s stomach twisted. 

She wasn't good. 

She was awful, actually, and she was going to wake up tomorrow and they were going to remember how awful she was. But the praise lit her up anyway, exactly like they knew it would.

THWACK. 

"Six." 

Trinity's hands gripped the fabric of Yolanda's pants, holding on for dear life. The burn was absolute, consuming her entirely, leaving no room for the stress of the ER, the humiliation of the morning, or the crushing fear that she would never be good enough for them. Right now, taking this, she was perfectly, exactly where she belonged.

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. 

"Seven... eight... n-nine." A sob broke through, a release of pure, unadulterated tension. "Please, Yo—"

"Shh," Yolanda soothed, her voice dripping with affection even as she raised the brush again. "Almost done, sweetheart. Take your punishment."

THWACK. 

"Ten." 

THWACK. 

"Eleven."

The last four strikes were delivered slowly, each one landing on the most tender, swollen curves of her backside. By the time the final THWACK landed, Trinity was a weeping, pliant mess across Yolanda's lap, her hips heavy and pinning her thoroughly soaked core against the surgeon's thigh.

"F-fifteen," Trinity sobbed out, going entirely limp.

"All done," Yolanda said softly, immediately tossing the brush aside. She wrapped her arms around Trinity’s torso, hauling the younger woman up and backward until Trinity was cradled securely against Yolanda's chest.

This was the part that always broke her. The after. Trinity buried her face into the crook of Yolanda's neck, clinging to her scrubs like she was drowning, her entire body radiating heat and trembling with the aftershocks of the discipline.

"I'm sorry," Trinity babbled, the words tumbling out thick with tears and subspace. She had to say it enough times so they wouldn't send her away. "I'm sorry I was a brat. I'm sorry I snapped at you. I don't want to go back to my apartment, I want to stay here."

"I know, baby, I know," Yolanda murmured, rocking her gently, pressing kisses into Trinity's messy hair. "You're not going anywhere. We've got you."

For how long? Trinity's fractured brain whispered, but she shoved the thought down.

Baran sat down on the other side of them, her cool hands smoothing over Trinity's flushed, tear-stained cheeks. "The slate is perfectly clean, Trin," Baran whispered, her thumb brushing away a tear. "You took that beautifully. Now, how about we get you in a warm bath, and then see what we can do about how spectacularly worked up you are?"

Trinity let out a shaky, wet breath, nodding against Yolanda's shoulder as a fresh wave of heat pulsed between her thighs. She would take the bath, and she would let them take her apart again, because she was completely theirs. 

Even if it was only for tonight.

The water in the deep soaking tub was already running, filling the master bathroom with a thick, lavender-scented steam. Trinity felt like she was underwater even before she stepped in, her limbs heavy and her brain wrapped in thick cotton. The edges of the day were gone.

Yolanda stripped out of her scrubs with a tired sigh, tossing them into the hamper before stepping into the water. She reached out, her strong hands catching Trinity’s hips and guiding her gently over the porcelain edge.

The immediate sting of the hot water against Trinity’s blistering backside dragged a hiss out of her. Her entire body locked up. A brief spike of reality pierced the haze, but Yolanda just pulled her back against her chest.

"I've got you," Yolanda whispered, her wet arms wrapping securely around Trinity's waist. "Just breathe through it, cariño. Let the heat pull the sting out."

Trinity let her head fall back onto Yolanda’s shoulder, her eyes slipping shut as she melted back into the heavy, pliant gravity of subspace. 

It felt so good just to be held. She didn't have to think. 

They're just doing maintenance, a tiny, cynical voice whispered from the back of her fractured brain. You don't put a broken tool away dirty. But the thought was sluggish, easily drowned out by the thump of Yolanda's heart against her spine.

Baran knelt beside the tub, her blouse traded for a soft silk camisole. She had a bottle of expensive shampoo in her hand, and she worked the lather into Trinity's hair with slow sweeps of her fingers. 

Trinity let out a breathy hum, leaning into the touch. Her mind drifted entirely, zeroing in on the sensation of Baran's nails lightly scratching her scalp and the smell of the expensive perfume clinging to Baran's wrists.

"You did very well tonight, azizam," Baran said softly, using a cup to let warm water cascade down the nape of Trinity’s neck. "You took your correction beautifully."

The praise settled warmly in Trinity's chest, right where the ache usually lived. "Thank you, Dr. Al-Hashimi," she mumbled, the words slurring slightly in her perfectly relaxed state.

"Baran," the attending corrected gently, rinsing the soap away and pressing a tender kiss to Trinity's wet temple. "We aren't on the floor anymore, sweetheart. You're home."

Home.

The word breached the thick, hazy walls of her subspace like a drop of icy water. Her stomach gave a familiar twist. 

For now, she thought. 

The high would inevitably end. The sun would come up, the illusion would shatter, and they would look at her in the daylight and remember how exhausting she was to keep around.

In her mind's eye, she saw the scalpel waiting for her back at her apartment, safely tucked away in her medicine cabinet. She kept it exactly for mornings like the one coming, when they would remember they didn't actually want her, and she would be left alone to piece herself back together.

But then Yolanda’s hand drifted down to squeeze her thigh underwater, and Baran’s thumbs smoothed over her forehead. Trinity exhaled a shaky breath, letting her subspace pull her back under. She could hide from tomorrow for just a little while longer.

When the water finally began to cool, Yolanda stood, her wet skin gleaming in the dim bathroom light. She didn't ask Trinity to move. Instead, she reached down and hauled Trinity up into her arms as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, stepping out of the tub and wrapping her immediately in a massive heated towel.

The plush fabric was soft, but the pressure against her backside still made Trinity flinch.

"I know, I know," Yolanda shushed, patting the towel over Trinity rather than rubbing. "I've got you."

Trinity let herself be carried into the bedroom, her head resting heavily on Yolanda’s collarbone. The bed had been remade. Yolanda laid her down gently on her side, arranging a thick pillow between Trinity's knees so her hips wouldn't twist and pull at the raw skin of her ass.

Baran was already sitting on the edge of the mattress, a jar of cooling arnica healing balm and a small tube of bacitracin in her lap. She unscrewed the lid of the arnica first.

"Stay perfectly still for me, azizam," Baran instructed softly, her voice dropping into that commanding register that always made Trinity’s pulse flutter.

Trinity nodded into the pillow, her eyes half-mast. She braced herself for the sting, but Baran’s touch was impossibly light. The cool gel glided over the blistering red stripes of Yolanda's brushstrokes and the overlapping marks of the leather strap. 

The immediate relief was staggering. A pathetic whine leaked out of Trinity's throat.

They're just doing this so you don't get an infection, Trinity’s fractured brain supplied, pushing through the subspace. You're an investment. They have to fix what they broke so you can go back to work tomorrow. To them, she was just a thing that they wanted, a thing that could be of service. This was just maintenance.

Yolanda climbed onto the bed, sliding in behind Trinity. She pulled the blankets up over Trinity's shoulders, cocooning her, and wrapped a strong arm around her waist now that they were done with the creams. Yolanda's hand splayed flat across Trinity's stomach, pulling her back flush against the surgeon's chest.

"You did so well tonight," Yolanda whispered, pressing her lips to the damp hair at the nape of Trinity's neck. "You took everything we gave you. Are you completely empty for us now?"

"Yes," Trinity breathed, her heavy eyelids drooping shut. She shifted her hips unconsciously, pressing her aching backside lightly against Yolanda's thighs.

The pressure sent a dull throb of arousal straight to her core. It wasn't the desperate need she usually felt. It was lighter, a byproduct of being completely stripped down and put back together. 

She let her thighs part, offering herself up. It was part of the game; she had to give them whatever they wanted so they wouldn't realize how pathetic she really was, so they would choose her again tomorrow.

Yolanda’s hand slipped lower, brushing through the damp curls between Trinity’s legs. Trinity braced herself, expecting the demanding pace they usually set, but Yolanda just cupped her softly.

"You don't have to do anything, baby," Yolanda whispered, her fingers finding the swollen bud of Trinity's clit. She began to stroke it tenderly. "Just lay here and let us take care of you."

Trinity’s breath hitched. "I want to be good for you."

"You already are," Baran said from the edge of the bed. She capped the salve and set it on the nightstand, then leaned over, tracing the line of Trinity’s jaw with a cool finger. "You're perfect."

The circles of Yolanda's thumb were melting her from the inside out. Trinity’s hands curled into the pillowcase. Her hips rocked back instinctively to chase the touch. She couldn't fight the pleasure. She couldn't build her walls back up, not when Baran was stroking her hair and Yolanda was murmuring sweet praise into her ear.

"That's it," Yolanda coaxed, her rhythm never speeding up, just maintaining that maddening, slow pressure. "You did so good. Now let us take care of you.."

Trinity’s breath fragmented into wet gasps. There was no pain here, no punishment, just absolute devotion. The orgasm rolled through here. She arched into Yolanda's hand, her core clenching tightly around empty air. She was completely overwhelmed by the gentleness of it all.

"Good girl," Baran praised, pressing a kiss to Trinity’s flushed cheek. "Our beautiful girl."

Trinity slumped back, her muscles turning to absolute jelly, but Yolanda didn't pull her hand away.

"We're not done yet, Trin," Yolanda whispered, her fingers continuing their slow, slippery dance, catching the aftershocks of the first climax and gently coaxing them back to life. "I want you completely mindless before you go to sleep."

Trinity whimpered, a lazy, contented sound. She didn't have the energy to argue, and she certainly didn't have the energy to think about the hospital, or Frank Langdon, or the scalpel in her apartment.

The second orgasm took longer to build, dragging her deeper and deeper into the floaty depths of subspace. It felt like she was being slowly submerged in warm honey. By the time it finally broke over her, Trinity was barely conscious, her release marked only by the fluttering clench of her thighs and a broken sigh that seemed to carry the last of her fight out into the room.

Yolanda finally withdrew, grabbing a damp cloth from the nightstand to gently clean her up. Baran slid under the covers on Trinity's other side, wrapping her arms around Trinity's front while Yolanda held her back.

Sandwiched between them, surrounded by the smell of Baran’s perfume and Yolanda’s soap, Trinity let the darkness take her. The intrusive thoughts were completely silenced, drowned out by the synchronized breathing of the two women holding her, leaving her perfectly, blindly secure.

The crash happened somewhere around 3:00 a.m., and it hit her like a freight train.

Trinity woke up to the breathing of the two women flanking her, and instantly felt like she was suffocating. The warmth of subspace had completely evaporated, leaving here in a sub drop. 

Every single one of her defense mechanisms, which had been so thoroughly dismantled hours ago, slammed back into place.

She was an idiot. 

She was a desperate, pathetic idiot who had let them break her down, spank her like a child, and fuck her into a stupor, all because she was so starved for any crumb of affection she was willing to soak up their words even when she already knew the score. Tomorrow morning, the sun would come up, they would put their professional masks back on, and she would be right back to being Dr. Santos, the liability R2 who couldn't keep her mouth shut.

She carefully slid out from between them, biting down on her lip as the movement pulled at the raw, blistered skin of her ass. She didn't want to wake them. She was already enough of a burden.

Trinity padded into the master bathroom, shutting the heavy door and sinking down onto the cold tile floor. The chill seeping into her bare legs was a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the bedroom. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her shins as the first quiet sob tore from her.

You're a joke, her brain hissed. They don't love you. You're just a stress relief squeeze toy to them.

Her hands dropped to her thighs, her fingers trembling in the dark. She didn't have her scalpel here. It was waiting for her back at her apartment, tucked safely in the medicine cabinet between the Advil and the tampons. She wished she had it. She wished she could slice a clean line through the panic and bleed out the humiliation.

Instead, her nails found the raised, uneven flesh of the old scars crisscrossing her upper thighs. With a ragged gasp, Trinity dug her short nails in and dragged them downward, clawing at the scarred tissue until angry red welts flared to life. 

It wasn't enough. 

She dragged her nails down again, harder this time, chasing the sting, punishing herself for being so weak, so gullible, so desperately in love with two women who were just using her to pass the time.

"Trinity."

The bathroom door had opened. Light from the bedroom window spilled in, framing Yolanda’s silhouette. For a split second, Yolanda just looked confused, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Then her gaze dropped to Trinity on the floor, to the destructive movement of Trinity’s hands clawing at her own legs, and the confusion vanished, replaced by terror.

"Trin, hey—stop. Stop!"

Yolanda hit the floor, her hands catching Trinity’s wrists and wrenching them away from her thighs. Trinity fought her, thrashing weakly. An ugly wail tore from her chest.

"Let me go!" Trinity sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut against the harsh overhead light that suddenly snapped on as Baran came in to see what was happening.

Instantly, the older woman dropped to her knees on Trinity’s other side. Her eyes darted over the angry scratches crisscrossing the scarred skin of Trinity's thighs. Baran’s breath hitched, a terrifying sound of pure heartbreak, but her hands were steady as she framed Trinity’s face.

"Trinity, azizam, open your eyes. Look at me." Baran’s voice wasn't an attending's command; it was a desperate plea.

"Don't look at me," Trinity choked out, turning her face away, trying to bury her head in Yolanda's shoulder while still weakly pulling at her captured wrists. "I'm pathetic. I know I'm pathetic, you don't have to look at me anymore. Just let me go back to my apartment."

"You are never going back to that apartment," Yolanda said fiercely, shifting her grip so she could wrap her arms fully around Trinity, pinning the younger woman's hands safely between their bodies. "What is happening in your head right now, cariño? Talk to us."

"You don't care!" Trinity screamed, the words ripping out of her throat. "You don't actually care! You just—you wanted me to be good today so I wouldn't ruin your shift. You wanted me to be a good girl, and I couldn't even do that, so you had to fix me. But tomorrow you're going to look right through me again! Because I'm just—I'm just a thing you use. I'm just a stress relief toy, and I'm a burden, and I can't do this anymore!"

She was hyperventilating, her chest heaving against Yolanda’s. "I know how this works. You're going to remember that I'm arrogant and selfish and a damn liability to the hospital, and you're going to pull away, and it's going to kill me."

Baran reached out, gently prying Trinity's chin up so their eyes met. Baran was crying. The perfectly composed, terrifyingly calm Dr. Al-Hashimi had tears streaming down her cheeks. Her dark eyes were completely shattered.

"Trinity Santos," Baran said, her voice shaking. "Listen to me very carefully. Do you think I would lay a hand on you—do you think I would ever strap you, or let Yolanda put a brush to you—if you were just a toy to us?"

Trinity blinked, the tears blurring her vision. "...You said I was a liability."

"I said a resident who doesn't loop in their senior is a liability," Baran corrected, her thumbs swiping frantically at Trinity's wet cheeks. "I disciplined you because you are a brilliant doctor who is going to get herself fired if she doesn't learn how to play the game, and I refuse to let you sabotage your own career. I disciplined you because you are mine. Because I am terrified of the world chewing you up. Because I love you."

Yolanda pressed a kiss to the crown of Trinity's head, her own voice thick and wet. "You think we pull away from you at work because we don't care about you? Trin, we pull away because if I look at you for too long in the middle of a trauma, I will forget how to do my job. We keep it professional because we have to. Not because you're a burden. Never because you're a burden."

"But I'm so desperate," Trinity whimpered, the nasty voice in her head finally faltering under the weight of their sincerity. "I'm so needy. I just soak up everything you say, even when I think it's a lie."

"It has never been a lie," Yolanda murmured, rocking her gently on the cold tile. "Every time I call you my good girl, every time I tell you I missed you, every time I want you... it's real. I don't want anyone else. I haven't wanted anyone else since the day you let me take you home."

Baran moved her hands down, gently covering the angry red scratches Trinity had dug into her scarred thighs. Her touch was agonizingly tender.

"You don't have to earn your place here, Trinity," Baran whispered, leaning in to press a kiss directly over the scars. "You don't have to be perfect, and you don't have to be 'good' for us to want you. We want your messy, arrogant, brilliant, self-destructive brain. We want all of it. You are never, ever going to be too much for us."

Trinity let out a long, broken wail, the last of the poison finally draining out of her. She sagged entirely against Yolanda, her hands uncurling from their fists.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, burying her face in Yolanda's neck while Baran stroked her hair. "I'm sorry, my brain is just so loud. It's so loud, and I was so scared."

"We know, baby. We know," Yolanda hushed her, lifting Trinity effortlessly off the cold floor. "But we're louder. And we're not going anywhere."

They carried her back to bed, and this time, as they wrapped around her in the dark, the warmth that settled in Trinity's chest wasn't the hazy, temporary illusion of subspace. It was solid. It was real. And for the first time in her life, she actually believed she was safe.