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if there’s one thing trinity santos doesn’t have on her 2026 bingo card, it’s being sexually bullied into having a self-care routine by baran al-hashimi.

it’s insane.

she’s trying to kill her, she’s sure.

trinity doesn’t know how she does it.

they could go and go and go all night and baran still comes into work three hours later looking as fresh as a daisy as if she’s never needed a day of sleep in her life.

trinity, on the other hand, is shattered.

it’s ridiculous.

she’s stronger than baran.

she’s younger than baran.

she used to be an olympic athlete for fucks sake.

she should be able to handle this.

it wasn’t like yolanda was exactly gentle either.

but she doesn’t eat right, barely drinks water, is on her feet all day, works and doesn’t exercise as much as she used to.

her relationship with baran isn’t helping.

baran has her missing sleep and fucking exercising all night long so thoroughly that trinity’s walking into the er funny and falling asleep at her desk before it’s even noon.

it’s going to get someone killed soon.

that is until baran starts making her stay the night, starts making her get up at the same time she does, feeding her actual healthy food in the morning even when she doesn’t want to eat. she gives her water at work, threatens to ban her from caffeine, makes sure she’s sleeping regularly, shares her salad lunches.

it’s infuriatingly sweet.

but after a week or two, trinity starts realising she can go all night and be bright and alert the next morning, she can outlast baran’s stamina and she can think with a clear head.

she’s healthier. actually healthier. and it’s all baran’s fault.

“Fuckleberry’s home. Stay here,” she breathes, leaning forward on her hands to kiss Baran, who chases her and whines faintly when she pulls away and hops off the bed.

Baran’s trying to catch her breath, draping an arm over her eyes, knees fallen apart, thighs sticky, as Trinity throws on some boxers and the closest t-shirt. It’s Baran’s Stanford 2010 debate team shirt that practically lives at Trinity’s apartment. She opens the door and closes it quickly behind her, almost running right into Whittaker.

“Fuck. Jesus, hi,” she gasps, shoulders brushing back against the door.

“Hi…” he drawls, eyeing her weirdly.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, out of breath.

“I live here?” Trinity levels him with a glare.

“You’re supposed to be out playing house right now.”

“Yeah, and Amy called on the way asking for my calving book. She’s got like two cows that could give birth any day.”

“Ew, oh my god,” Trinity groans.

“I think we used it to level your dresser,” he starts, and Trinity’s eyes go wide, desperately hoping that isn’t the case.

“Nope, don’t think we did. I thought you were using it as a plant stand or something,” she offers, and he thinks for a second.

“Right, yeah.” He glides past her with a suspicious look, noticing how sweaty and disheveled she is. When he passes the second time with the book, she’s just standing in front of her closed door. His expression drops. “Oh my god, do you have Garcia in there?”

“No. No, I’m not, we’re not…anymore,” she says quickly, awkwardly, following Whittaker into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, but Trinity can feel what he’s thinking. He’s oddly protective over her, and it never fails to make Trinity squirm.

“Why do you have a Stanford shirt?”

“Oh it’s, uh, not mine,” Trinity says thoughtlessly.

“So, you do have someone in there,” he grins, and she forces down a blush by grabbing his shoulders and spinning him around in the direction of the door. “Have fun. Be safe. I’ll text next time I need to enter my own apartment,” he says as she’s shoving him out the door.

“Good riddance, Huckleberry,” she calls after him, locking the door and securing the chain just to be safe.

Trinity takes a deep breath outside her room — trying to flush Whittaker from her mind — before entering. On the bed, Baran has her hand between her legs, slowly, quietly circling her clit. Her eyes are closed, one hand rolling a nipple between her fingers, soft gasps pushing past her lips.

“Fuck, Baran,” Trinity sighs, tearing off the shirt and boxers and sliding the strap back on. “Have you been touching yourself the whole time I was talking to Huckleberry?” Baran whines and nods, her eyes barely fluttering open. Oh, she’s fucking gone.

Trinity settles eagerly between her legs and just watches her. She’s so wet she’s dripping onto the bed, swollen and clenching around nothing. Trinity moans, her hands falling to Baran’s soft thighs.

“I need you inside me,” Baran mumbles, and Trinity can’t help but smile. She loves when Baran gets like this, so aching and desperate she’d do just about anything to cum.

“I can tell, baby.”

“Please. I was so close when you left,” she whines, her fingers clicking against her clit, and Trinity can see the stringy slickness on them.

“You’re still close,” Trinity teases but not for long, her own clit throbbing at the sight.

She shifts closer, aligning the strap and holding Baran’s hips. When she drives in hard and bottoms out, the most obscene sound Trinity’s ever heard punches past Baran’s lips. Her back arches, and her hand flies up to press low into Trinity’s belly.

“Fuck. fuck. Actually, I think you need to pull out. Oh, god.” Trinity can feel her clenching down, twitching and trying so hard to keep still. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Now you’re embarrassed?” Trinity laughs at the blush that rises to Baran’s cheeks. She pushes against Trinity, but Trinity doesn’t budge. “You worked yourself up while I was gone, and these are the consequences.”

Baran’s hips twitch.

“Oh, Trinity, fuck,” she moans, her head rolling back, fingers falling from Trinity’s belly to fist the sheets as she cums without Trinity having to do a goddam thing.

And then she fucks Baran through it, hard and deep, swiping at her clit until she cums again with a series of cries and moans that almost make Trinity fall apart. She can feel the spattering of liquid on her thighs as they slam together, hear it on the strap as it squelches in her. And when Baran can’t take it anymore, tears stinging at her eyes, Trinity slows and stops.

Baran keeps a vice grip on the strap as she comes down, so Trinity just runs her hands up and down her damp skin, soothing. They’re both gasping as Trinity finally pulls out. Baran’s eyes flutter open, hazy and tired, and she reaches her hand down to feel the soaking wet sheets between her legs.

“Your sheets,” she groans. “I’m sorry. I don’t normally do that. I would’ve laid a towel down.”

“I think that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” is all Trinity can manage knowing she’s dripping wet and throbbing. Baran’s eyes go dark, and she licks her lips.