whatnow

Baran blames herself.

It was her fault, truly. She’d got so caught up in the heat and the sex and Trinity that it just hadn’t occurred to her, not even the morning after, not even when she’d snuck out with her coat in one hand and her shoes in the other, doing her best to purge the memory from her mind by throwing herself into her work.

She’d been drunk, they both had been. Fuelled by months of lingering touches and stares across the ED, the night had been as inevitable as the sun rising the following morning.

She’d known she shouldn’t have encouraged it, shouldn’t have let Trinity grind up against her on the dance floor until something hard was poking her in the ass, but Trinity was fun. She was young and eager and so goddamn gorgeous that Baran hadn’t been able to help herself.

She’d blown her in the bathroom first. Locked in a cramped little stall, her hands on Trinity’s ass and thighs, pulling her in, sucking her off with Trinity’s hands fisted in her hair, her hips jerking into her mouth until she came with a snarl and a groan.

Then she’d let Trinity pull her to her feet, turn her around and smush her face against the door, nudging her legs apart before lining herself up and pushing in with her hands bruising her hips.

Her cock had been gorgeous, just over seven inches, long and thick. What was even better was that Trinity knew how to use it, letting her alpha take a good degree of control and drive into her, gentle but unrelenting. Baran’s hands had scrabbled against the door whilst her lungs fought for air.

“Oh my god, baby, please. Give it to me. I need it.”

Trinity had snarled into her ear, nipping at her neck and letting her tongue dart over the gland on Baran’s neck, earning a shiver.

“You’re all mine, aren’t you? A perfect omega, just for me.”

The designation reminder should’ve been the first warning in Baran’s mind but with Trinity’s hand pinning her to the door between her shoulder blades and her cock working so fucking deliciously inside of her, any relevant and rational thought escaped her mind.

Trinity came inside her with a possessive growl and her teeth biting sharply into the bone of her shoulder, hands holding tight enough to bruise.

She’d let Trinity take her home, all the omega in her screaming to be close, to not let Trinity go. She’d let Trinity bend her over the table in the kitchen, ridden her for all she was worth on the couch, sucked her off again when she’d needed a break.

They’d even slept between rounds and Baran had woken up aching, practically begging for Trinity to be inside her again. Trinity, of course, being the generous alpha she was, had immediately provided and slid back inside Baran’s tight cunt and rutted against her until they were both coming, panting into each other’s mouths.

Again, it hadn’t occurred to her. The sex, the heat, her senses. All of it had just begged and whined and sobbed for Trinity that all rational thought had gone out the window and seemingly remained that way until it was too late.

They hadn’t spoken since that night, not properly anyway. They’d gone about their work professionally, clearly ignoring how their bodies still screamed for one another, especially when they were in close proximity. Baran felt it in herself, saw it in Trinity. Little flutters in her stomach, the goosebumps coming out on her arms and the back of her neck. More than once she’d spotted Trinity sneaking off to the bathroom, a suspiciously covered crotch and a deep red flush at the tip of her ears.

More than once she’d been tempted to join her, to relive that night in the bar, wrap her hand around Trinity’s length and watch the ecstasy play out across those handsome features that were just so so gorgeous.

But she couldn’t, she knew that. She was her attending for Christ’s sake, her superior. Just even thinking about her that way was inappropriate, let alone acting on it.

It’s the second time she misses her period that she finally tests herself, finally gets her shit together and isn’t all that surprised to find the two lines staring up at her in return.

Pregnant.

Trinity had gotten her pregnant.

Baran hated herself.

She’d ruined their lives, ruined their reputations and their careers. She’d seduced an alpha resident and let her have her way with her, let her pin her up against walls and pound into her until her seed was so deeply rooted in her body that it had taken it in and stuck there.

They hadn’t used protection, hadn’t discussed it, Baran hadn’t got the morning-after pill, her mind clouded with the thought, the feel, the smell of Trinity Santos.

Even now, with the stick in her hand and her eyes on the younger woman by the central hub, she couldn’t think rationally. All she saw was her Trinity, her Alpha, hers hers hers.

But Trinity was fun.

Trinity was young.

She wouldn’t want a baby, not now, not with her. She was too young, too busy, too focused on her career.

She’s not even thirty yet, Baran.

She wasn’t sure how she was going to tell her. Watching her now, smiling with Whitaker as she looked up at the board, Baran couldn’t imagine how she was going to break this kind of news to Trinity, to break that gorgeous smile and bring her, unwillingly into the real world.

Maybe she wouldn’t.

Maybe she’d let her find out for herself.

A new bar had opened up on the outskirts of Pittsburgh.

It was called the Lonesome Tavern and for the first few weeks they had to turn late comers away at the door because they were at capacity. The bar sat where city surrendered to pastureland on rolling Pennsylvania hills overlooking the cracked two lane highway below. You could see the neon beer signs from the road, glowing on the ugly tin siding.

Amy’s battered pick up truck idled beside a row of mud-speckled ranch vehicles and each time the heavy front doors swung open, laughter and country music spilled out. 

Inside, warmth settled over their group like a quilt. The air carried a million competing scents— fried catfish, patient brisket fresh from the smoker out back, buttery cornbread, all mixed against sweet bourbon and cheap beers and hay spread across scuffed wooden floors to soak up spilled drinks. The walls were overcrowded with rusted road signs, Steelers memorabilia, weathered license plates, mounted taxidermy bucks and bulls and prized horns.

Cracked peanut shells crunched under Trinity’s cowboy boots (gifted by Huckleberry himself).

God her heart was pounding. Baran looked… incredible. No words could do well enough to sum her up.

Her hair was down, curls splayed over bare shoulders, a tight red tank top and denim hugging her in all the most devastating ways. Trinity had been uncomfortably wet the moment they picked her up to carpool in Amy’s truck.

Trinity herself knew she looked mouthwatering, but she doubted anyone could ever match the divinity of her lover in her mind. Although, those jeans were really snug up on her ass.

The band occupied a low stage tucked into the back, steel guitar weeping into the room. Couples two-stepped effortlessly across the swept out dance floor, or nuzzled into each other’s arms and just swayed. It was noisy and chaotic and glasses clinked and feet stomped and strangers traded stories as easily with each next round.

Things had been going well. Suspiciously well. 

But a Santos was a Santos and Trinity could drink like she was settling a score.

So it didn’t particularly take long for her to get the perfect amount of wasted and corral the others out to dance with her. Baran didn’t drink, couldn’t— but she’d given her express permission for Trinity to. Which was rather rare and not something Trinity quite felt like passing up. But Baran and Samira had disappeared to smoke and the woman came back in with looser shoulders and an easier grin, so Trinity figured everything was all right.

She hated country music, so she didn’t know the lyrics, couldn’t scream herself ragged and red-faced like she did in a karaoke bar or a club, but she could drag poor Mel and poor Victoria into her rhythm.

Near the center of the room stood the undeniable king of the bar— a scarred bull mounted in an inflatable firehose red ring. The operator was a massive man with well kept dreads and a greying beard who looked far too mischievous behind the battered little console. Every ride, every injury drew whistles and jeers and beer bottles banging down on tables in applause.

That was not the part that interested Santos.

What interested Santos was the fact that her previously introverted mate was being guided over the sides of the ring by Mohan, with a cowboy hat over her curls she hadn’t been wearing before. Her drunk mind zeroed in first on the unfamiliar hat, then on those arms through the wafting blue cigarette smoke permeating the air.

She was stumbling away from her friends before she could help it.

Her clinical, composed, reserved Baran, unrestrained and barely giving the operator time to ask if she was ready before slinging a leg over the saddle confidently. 

Like a sailor out to sea, Santos was drawn in by the tides of her smile.

The first few rotations remained gentle. She laughed like she’d done it before. The bull lurched hard and she evenly compensated, hips shifting effortlessly.

Santos was only vaguely aware she might actually have been drooling.

Every near fall was met with delighted disbelief and a new wave of laughter. She nearly slipped, recovered, curls whipped wildly over her face while she tipped her head back. Her cheeks were flushed, she whooped once, the crowd roaring louder with each failed pass from the operator as though they’d known Baran for years.

She was thrown free, flung to the far side of the ring, staying exactly where she landed to stare up at the ceiling in helpless fits of laughter, throwing an arm over her eyes as the bar exploded for her.

The strings, the trumpets, the singers slowed and took a water break. Just long enough that Trinity heard it over the din of clamor.

“Think I can get her to ride me like that?”

Her stomach curdled with a wave of bitterness.

She spotted it.

Receding hairline, crooked nose that had never bothered to have been reset, arms hairy enough it might as well have been fur. Beady little eyes set in deep crows feet wrinkling speckled white skin. Ugly man.

“Fuck you say?” Trinity called across to him. 

The man scoffed, glanced around, pointed at his own chest over the ugly salmon polo shirt.

“Are you talking to me?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking talking to you. What did you say?” She snarled, stalking closer.

Dennis was just out of range, the only one to have thus far picked up on it. But he was at the other side of the ring on Samira’s side trying to lift Baran’s strangely limp form up.

His mind supplied the image of the sunken plaster in their apartment before Trinity had sheepishly put a poster over the hole her fist had made. He thought of trying to haul her from bars before, that one awful month he’d spent chasing after her like she was her rabid dog that escaped the apartment every night. He was the only one who grasped how fucked it was about to get because Baran and Samira were just clutching each other’s arms and giggling.

“I’m an alpha. Don’t blame me cause I can smell her from here, it’s just biology.”

Now that Dennis heard. Only grimacing in terror further at the following—

“I said, I can get her to ride me like that.”

Even if Huckleberry had been attached to Trinity like velcro he couldn’t have stopped it when it came.

A blur of lightning movement, the bloodcurdling shatter of a sweating beer bottle against the side of a temple, the man didn’t even have time to drop to the floor before Santos had both hands fisted in his polo shirt, walking him backwards towards the door.

The laughing was gone, replaced by frantic scrambling as Samira finally hoisted Baran from the ring, both of their faces stricken as Dennis took off without a word, weaving through the throng of jeering drunk patrons.

The music was swallowed and chopped up behind Dennis as he shot out into the parking lot, the doors swinging open and closed as others jostled to get a front row seat. The only light was that of a truck’s headlights carving pale beams into the darkness, the moon above shrouded behind thick clouds.

The man staggered back, one hand clamped against the side of his head, uselessly puffing out his chest to regain either balance or dignity or both.

The architect of his pain paced in front of him, inching closer. Trinity was drunk enough to slow her steps through the molasses of inebriation, but her fists seemed to lack the same limitations.

At first the droplets were almost gentle. It darkened the dusts atop the gravel parking lot, the scent of wet earth invading all senses. Blood running down into the man’s shirt color streaked over pink as it picked up, the sky opening with no warning.

Dennis charged forward to wrestle Santos backwards, but the woman was both undeterred by his efforts and the weather.

She sent a single shove out into his chest, testing the new waters.

He landed squarely on his backside with the grace of a sack of concrete.

Someone was laughing. It was surely not Baran.

Santos went to pin him where he was but caught a bootheel to the gut. She yelped, then advanced regardless, Dennis still scrabbling at her soaked back.

Forcing his pedaling legs to the side, Trinity’s righteous fury descended with the overwhelming might of adrenaline mixed with liquor. Fists flailing, she mauled him. Her shirt clung to her back and made it possible to find purchase, Dennis resorting to physically planting heavy hands on Baran’s shoulders and guiding her backwards— Dennis understood.

When Trinity bites this hard, all there is to do is let her tire herself out and exit the crossfire.

A hand caught Trinity’s face, slapping, scratching, slipping to clench her throat, only spurring her on further.

The man was spluttering from rainwater all but waterboarding him as he desperately clawed and writhed out from underneath her, only for Trinity to clutch at his knees and tug him backwards to land another right hook into his cheekbone.

Baran was screaming and shoving at Dennis to get out of his arms, Samira joining the unwise effort to haul Trinity away from her bloody masterpiece.

But she was already rising back up to her full height, wiping the blood down the front of her drenched jeans. 

Baran sent a completely unpredictable knee up into Dennis’s crotch and he wheezed and doubled over, hands going to cover the agony now radiating in his groin.

No more gentle a hand was Baran to Trinity, the second she reached her she was curling a hand around her arm and entirely dragging the girl away. Boots and heels against the pavement, one gait staggering, the other unnervingly even.

One hand rising to the nape of her neck, forcing Trinity to keep up like scruffing an aggressive puppy.

The cab door slammed behind her with a hollow thunk that cut the world in half. The outside world dissolved into the smears of brake lights and headlights flaring in the parking lot and the sound of downpour.

Neither of them spoke.

Trinity’s chest heaved and her head thudded back against the seat as her breath fogged the icy window. 

The heater wasn’t running, the engine wasn’t started. Baran hadn’t moved.

She sat rigid in the passenger seat, rainwater dripping from the strands of honey in her inky black curls. Her jaw was clenched hard enough the muscles fluttered beneath the slick skin, every tendon in her throat standing out.

She was practically vibrating.

Some time after she was made to surrender the drivers seat to Dennis as he clambered clumsily in, unaware of the frigid tension and overcome with concern and adrenaline drop off.

“Asked around. He won’t press charges, people are saying he’s got some shit under— sorry, he’s got some stuff under his belt already, not a cop loving kind of guy. So thats– y’know that’s good.” He drummed his fingers over the wheel while he gave the engine a moment to rattle its bones into working order.

“My house.” Baran uttered.

Dennis nodded and worried his lower lip between his teeth as he pulled out of the lot and down the slope into the highway merge lane.

By the time they pulled up to the brownstone the storm had not shown any signs of stopping.

Whitaker moved to scoot out of the seat and let Baran out but she shook her head jerkily and gestured for Trinity to move instead. Trinity perked up from the catatonic state she’d been in staring at the cabin ceiling all the way there and slipped out to open the door wider for her.

Instead of a curt “goodnight, Trinity.” or silence or even admonishment, Baran thanked Dennis and curled her fingers around the nape of Trinity’s neck like they never left to tow her up the front porch.

The key was fit into the lock, Trinity was thrust through the threshold, and Baran swept past her coldly to check on her sleeping son before dealing with her. So Trinity just collapsed into the expensive sofa and shut her eyes. She’d probably be sleeping there either way.

When her eyes flickered open once more, Baran was already back. Placing a ceramic basin of water before her on the coffee table with an armfull of supplies. 

“He’s asleep?” Trinity croaked, casting a longing look to the stairs. She wished she was in any state to go muss his hair and read him a bedtime story.

“Kaveh is at Crystal’s house for the night so he can have a sleepover with his friends.”

Oh.

Oh shit.

Trinity was alone with the most pissed off version of her girlfriend she’d seen yet and she didn’t have a single barrier between her and Baran’s unyielding wrath.

But Baran only bit her lip and skated her gaze over Trinity’s damp figure and the gore coating her face and fists. Her hands smoothed up Trinity’s thighs as she leaned over Trinity, eyes flickering across the flush in those full cheeks.

The younger woman had to close her eyes to manage to croak out her next words.

“Um, are you high?”

No response but hands closing around hers, the soft press of lips to the split skin.

“Are you supposed to do that on Keppra?”

Again, a wordless woman only began pepping up Trinity’s arm, kisses smothering up Trinity’s jaw to her cheeks to her nose to her lips. Maybe she wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch after all. Maybe Baran thought she was valiant and maybe she looked sexy covered in blood that wasn’t all hers.

Baran knew of the darkness harbored within Trinity’s chest. She liked to soothe in with her hands, she loved it for what it was and did not loathe Trinity for its existence. It was part of her and part of loving her.

In return she was needed. Her bed was never cold, her son was well-loved by a woman almost as crazy about him as she was, and she got to keep Trinity forever even if they hadn’t talked about getting married. Trinity was hers forever. Forever and until death and then into the afterlife, Trinity knew who she belonged to.

“Let’s warm you up, huh?” Baran murmured into Trinity’s jaw as her lover held back a whine.

Up on her aching feet, stripping the drenched layers from her prickled flesh until she was only in boxers and a rather beautiful lacy blue bra Baran was certain Trinity had bought for tonight because she hadn’t seen it before.

Barefeet padded in sync over to the radiator tucked beneath the windowsill at Baran’s shivering request. Trinity wrapped her sore arms around Baran’s neck and Baran let Trinity kiss her deeply. Let them taste each other, one hand stroking up Trinity’s right arm, guiding it down to her waist.

Just as Baran’s lips parted and she sighed into Trinity’s warm wet mouth, Trinity’s eyes snapped open at the sound of clicking. The cold sensation encircled her wrist, Baran pulling out of reach in a flash.

“What—”

She raised her wrist to glance at the intrusion, but it jerked back halfway.

“Did you just fucking chain me to your radiator?”

Baran was sinking into an armchair she’d pulled to face the radiator from a few feet away. She didn’t reach to turn on a lamp. She didn’t fill the silence, she just licked her lips and stared at her handiwork. She watched Trinity give her wrist an experimental yank sceptically, then fumbled for some sex toy safeword switch that didn’t exist.

She crossed her legs and listened to Trinity’s breath pick up into rapid panicked huffs and the pattering of rain against the window behind her and the shuffle of the curtains around the breeze through the small opening near the windowsill. Baran shivered, stood, and exited wordlessly. Ignored every ensuing Whoa, where are you going, wait, what— Baran wait, co-come back, what are you doing, please baby, I’m sorry—

In her room, much warmer than the living room with no open windows, Baran picked Trinity’s favorite slip and pulled it over her bare torso, kicking off panties, stretching, gazing approvingly at the mirror.

Slowly, almost lazily, Baran stalked back down the stairs and wandered over to the fridge in the kitchen instead of heeding Trinity’s begging beckoning.

Took out a chilled bottle of water, padded back to sink down into the armchair and took a long, uninterested pull on the water before screwing the cap back on and placing it next to the dark lamp.

She crossed her legs and hooked two hands over her knee before she began to speak.

“When I was nine years old, somebody threw a brick through our window. Somebody who knew their neighbors were Iranian refugees and thus did not ‘belong’ like they did.”

Trinity crumpled into a ball, one arm awkwardly still attached to the radiator as she submitted to the story and the cadence of Baran’s calm voice.

“My mother didn’t feel safe at home, none of us did. So we got a dog. My father bought him from a friend he drank with sometimes, we named him Khars because he was so big, and then we trained him. As a guard dog.

Baran nodded to herself, one hand shifting to the armrest to hold her head up.

“But Khars was… he had never been owned like that before, never been a pet. Eventually, he bit me, then my father for trying to step in.”

Baran met Trinity’s imploring gaze coolly.

“We kept him anyway, we still needed him in case those people ever came back. But…”

She paused once more, eyes flickering to where the steel glinted around Trinity’s wrist in the near blackness.

“We kept him outside chained to a pole most days.”

“He was a good dog in the end, served us well, now he's my mothers most beloved pet, she got him a special urn and everything, put it above the fireplace.” She mused idly, one fingertip tapping her kneecap just to drive Trinity crazy.

“But it took a year or two for him to get it. He didn’t bite because he wanted to hurt me, it was just his way.”

Trinity was attempting to wrench at the handcuff now, murmuring repeated fuck fuck fucks in terror as the radiator groaned and clanged at the exertion. Baran just watched with a soft expression, dark eyes glittering, hands steepled together, breathing easier than she had all night. She was in control once more, Samira’s joint had all worn away from her system, she was living in a fantasy of hers.

“Are you smarter than a dog, Trinity?" She asked, unable to keep the small smile out of her voice. It was a beautiful moment in her life thus far.

“Baran, baby, I get it. I’m sorry, you’re right. That fucking guy just—”

“Trinity.”

“Are you smarter. Than. A. Dog?”

Trinity ceased her jerky tugging, dropped her head. Her wrist was smarting terribly. “Baran, my love. I’m sorry. It won’t ever, ever happen again. I— Baby I need the key.”

Nothing.

“I’m smarter than a dog. Baran, I need the key now.” She gritted out, another instinctive pull echoing in the silence.

Baran let her back rest against the cushions and got comfortable, sending Trinity’s nervous energy into something rippling and furious. They were getting closer.

“Baran, I know I fucked up. I’m sorry, I promise. Give me the key.”

Trinity was so stunning. Baran could watch her wrestle the radiator for days. 

“Enough, I’ve had enough. I want out. Now, Baran, get me— fuck— get me off of this.”

Baran uncrossed her legs and just took it all in like honeyed summer sunshine soaking into her skin.

“Get me the fuck out. I’m not kidding, I want the key right now.”

If a puppy stamped its paw and demanded something of you, you might laugh a little too, just under your breath. Trinity looked so harmless compared to the big bad guard dog looming over that lifeless heap in the parking lot.

“Get me the fucking key Baran! Fuck!”

And on and on, each stabbing snarl and yelp of pain and howl punctuated by some rattling of the chain. It must’ve been fifteen minutes before she even stopped to catch her breath, the poor thing. Oh, Baran did hate to see her in misery like that, of course.

But she knew what was best, and she did it for Trinity’s own good.

At some point Baran checked her watch and was partially delighted and partially horrified to find that three hours had passed. It was well into 2AM.

The winds had stopped crashing like tides into her brick building, the rain had slowed to an intermittent drizzling, the fire escape drooled leftover rainwater. Baran crossed her arms and yawned. Trinity was sobered and mostly done with the sobbing and the begging and the screaming, the arguments, the bartering, the sheer physical attempts, the tantrum was seeing its end faster than Khars’s had.

Largely Baran had ignored it, but she couldn’t resist peppering in some patronization and cooing sarcastic encouragement along the way. Baran might have uttered a few dogs commands, just to see. Mostly the results had been Trinity yelling at her and tearing at the cuff until her wrist was raw and the radiator was equally put out.

Her special girl had tired herself out at long last.

A minute or two after Trinity had slumped dejectedly against the radiator, boneless and exhausted and face slack and tear stained, Baran clapped her hands over her knees and stood.

“Have you finished then, my love?” She purred.

Trinity didn’t avert her gaze from the spot on the floor, just nodding dumbly.

“Yeah? Is my good girl back? Are you ready to be a good girl for me? Or are we spending our night down—”

“I am. I am. I’m good. I’m your good girl.” Trinity raised her head like it was made of concrete, strands of hair brushing over red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks. Her voice was as hoarse as Baran had ever heard it.

She was so soft and pliant, no hint of malice or any of the previous fighting energy left even in the recesses of her being. She was done.

There had been a few times over the hours Trinity had thought that she could convince Baran she deserved it or that she was better now. A particularly tortuous moment where she noticed Baran wasn’t wearing underwear and nearly clawed her own hand off at the wrist trying to get to her until Baran had to threaten to go to the bedroom and lock her out so she would stop before she broke her bones.

But now Trinity meant it. So Baran took pity at last.

She knelt in front of the girl, Trinity making no effort to move an inch so as not to spook off her only chance at freedom. The second Baran’s deft fingers loosened the cuff, Trinity slumped forward into her chest dumbly.

The same walls that witnessed the tantrum now watched Baran help Trinity upright smoothly and hook an arm under her to carry her up the stairs and into their bedroom.

Their bedroom. What a pleasant thought.

 Sleep overcame Trinity with ease, curled into the fetal position on her side of the bed, cradling her wrist to her chest. The weight of her lover pressed around her being, pinning her pleasantly to the mattress.

Six AM found Baran in a groggy confusion, one hand brushing clumsily out to the empty sheets beside her without the will to open her eyes until she was positive. Instead of panic, Baran smiled. Softly, in the dappled blue sunrise, unhurried as she stretched and rose to regard her bedroom. No Trinity, the covers straightened the way Baran liked it, but cold and otherwise untouched.

Slipping into the ensuite bathroom, Baran brushed her teeth and soothed her morning lotions into her arms, hands, face, calves, thighs. It was really a rather erotic experience, similar to the burn and pull of her muscles in pilates. Baran could get off on the power of taking luxurious care of herself, why not? Trinity often got the same treatment, after all.

After the lovebites on the couch turned into an irreversible claim, Baran had no need to tuck away her desires. She liked to leave black designer bags with tagless outfits on Trinity’s kitchen island and slip out with the key from under the gay gnome outside the apartment. She liked to pick out sporting gear, only the best for her special girl, and wrap Trinity’s knuckles with a disapproving eyebrow and a “if you must” attitude before she was deserted for the gym. She liked to massage imported oils into Trinity’s back and thighs and ass and listen to the pleased groans of tension escaping one tendon at a time.

Why shouldn’t she? Baran Al-Hashimi had maxed out her 401k by the time she was 36, sure she was diligent with her splurging and investments, but most of all she loved to spoil. Kaveh, herself, Trinity, even her ex husband Navid and his husband found meals or concert tickets on their doorstep from time to time.

Painters would have spent decades trying to capture the scene so delicately presented to Baran.

Between the amber glow of the under-cabinet lights and the bathing of early morning blues from the broad strip of window over the sink, the scene was swimming in gentleness. Baran more smelt than saw the spices, their organized bowls methodically spread before a chopping board with precise hands slicing through a lemon. A wooden spoon rested over a bubbling little pot on the stove, steam dancing up from its maw and leaving a droplet or two of sweat where Baran could see it on the back of Trinity’s neck.

The honey Baran had wanted at a farmers market that she pretended not to notice Trinity slipping into her bag a few feet behind her was standing proud next to mason jars and little cups of different ingredients.

At the center of it all stood the woman.

Trinity had traded her dirty rainwater clothes for one of Baran’s Red Sox t-shirts and some cozy long black sweats, looking completely at ease like she always did when she cooked. Kaveh would be furious to find he’d missed breakfast when he got back, Baran knew he secretly favored Trinity’s cooking over even hers.

Her shoulders were relaxed, her humming mixed with the song on her phone, volume quiet enough not to wake a presumed sleeping woman.

She did not startle when Baran slid up into her back, Trinity just flicked a burner off and inhaled deeply. (Baran hoped she could smell the lotions. They were a personal favorite of Trinity’s.)

“Feeling better?”

Trinity rotated softly in her arms, eyes genuine and catching on Baran’s sleepily dilated gaze. Her face bore the evidence of agony with the few purpling ridges of her bone structure bisected with cleaned cuts. She left the knife on the board and tentatively brushed cool pale hands over Baran’s waist. Baran nodded with a pleased smirk.

“Attagirl.” She murmured under her breath, nose bumping into Trinity’s intentionally.

Before she could taste Trinity’s lips in the peaceful calm before the haunting of their minds took over the interaction, Trinity knelt before her, deliberately controlled, hands remaining on her waist.

Tilted her head back and observed Baran’s quirked eyebrow, then ever so delicately pressed her temple against Baran’s stomach and stayed put. Just leaning, just inhaling the scent and letting her eyes flutter closed briefly as her mouth parted around her first words of the morning;

“It won’t happen again.”

Baran stroked a hand through the silky dark strands and shuddered as Trinity’s breath fanned down to her exposed thighs upon her contented sigh.

“Never again, Baran. I belong to you, I belong to this house and I belong to your son. I’m yours.” She ended the reverent sentiment with a needy little kiss to Baran’s hipbone through the thin fabric of the burgundy slip.

Painters and sculptors made to seethe from their obstructed view outside those brick walls, Baran was the only one with the privilege of this breathtaking scenery.

She may go on hikes and weave through bustling city streets, she may peer up at mountains and worldly erections of faith and worshiped architecture— but forevermore Baran understood that there was no sight as naturally exquisite as this.

It was around forty five seconds of the kneeling and the murmurings of devotion on the level of acolyte to Baran’s divinity, and Trinity was contained no longer, still Baran’s same old special girl. She just couldn’t help it, Baran knew that.

All she could do was tip her head back and let Trinity know how pretty she made Baran feel.

Trinity knew the counter dug into Baran’s ever so sensitive lower back, so they moved to the armchair, still a sentry watchtower leering at a now vacant radiator. She took her time because Trinity was a little selfish even now, and knew this would suffice for breakfast even if she might have to redo Baran’s.

The slip was pushed up, Baran’s legs were tenderly parted, and her lover wasted not even a miniscule moment of time on anything but her pleasure.

She dotted Baran’s warm colored thighs with rich hickeys, circled Baran’s most sensitive nerve endings with a firm touch as she devoutly worshiped Baran’s stomach with her teeth and tongue.

Trinity had always been incredible with her mouth, but that morning she was ravenous. Carefully so, as though her hunger would never again best her in favor of obedience to her lover.

Her hands kneaded Baran’s thighs, hooked under them as she spread them wider and wider still, giving Baran every moment to direct or approve or anything at all. Baran’s first orgasm flared like an infection, creeping and seizing her muscles and spine, tightening her abdomen and coaxing out a lovely ragged moan.

Her second followed with vengeance not a full minute after— searing and wracking and rampaging and blinding her, the only sensations left were tongue and heat and oh fuck.

One finger curling into the spot she loved, a hand on Trinity’s head trying to pull the overeager deacon of Baran’s chapel from between her legs— of course to no avail.

So Baran took another after the aftershocks of the first had subsided, silently choking on her moans above Trinity, going wordless and strained, a vice grip on Trinity’s poor scalp.

Pulling back, Trinity licked her lips and pushed the remaining arousal dripping down her chin back into her mouth with her cheek pressed to Baran’s thigh, eyes never straying from the swollen love bitten sex before her.

She counted down the seconds in her head with applaudable willpower.

And gently spread two deft fingers across the folds, dipping them inside, further, deeper, firmer.

Hooked them into the exact spot in the soaking tissue that had Baran squirming and nearly crying and swallowed down a third orgasm.

She hates to end on an odd number.

So she, under the guise of simply cleaning Baran with her needy mouth, suckles onto Baran’s clit and all but latches until Baran’s shaking and clamping strong thighs around her head so hard Trinity is seeing stars.

“Ah— ah–off. Off. Enough, Trinity, enough.” Baran panted, both hands forcing Trinity back to get a good look at the usual dazed expression. 

Why she ever picked up a bottle was beyond Trinity, especially when she had this gorgeous cunt to get drunk off of.

Staggering with the help of Trinity to the island, Baran nearly came again at the first mouthful of breakfast. The woman was a miracle worker in the kitchen, truly. She would never be allowed to cook for anyone else if Baran had anything to say about it, that was for sure. It was an orgasmic experience more often than not.

“Get rid of that before we go pick up Kaveh.” Baran instructed when she finished eating, gesturing loosely to Trinity’s throbbing outline against the pants.

Trinity hummed in compliance, but made no move to pry herself from the dishes and tidying up she became anal about the second she entered Baran’s space. Baran might not have minded if Trinity left a little clutter every now and again. She wanted it to be as much Trinity’s as it was hers, like she did with everything to her name.