Tags: established relationship, fluff, bit of feels, no use of yn, baran al hashimi i would do anything for you forever
Request: here! Celebrate 2k with me!
Word count: 0.7k
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Baran is not proud to say that she nearly loses a fight with the football strewn across the driveway. She gives it an irritable kick once she regains her balance—that's for nearly making her face-plant onto the gravel—and pulls in a breath as she grabs her keys from her bag, some of her drowsiness dusting off with the brief fright.
Idly, she hopes you haven't heard her strangled yelp—not because you would laugh, no, but because you would get that look about you. That displeased frown, the twist of your mouth that wordlessly says you hate all of this, how the hospital bleeds her dry, how she won't let you inconvenience yourself—"it's not an inconvenience if I want to, Baran"—and she's too weary to rehash it all again tonight. Actually, she thinks, slotting her key into the lock, she'd very much prefer to never speak about any of it again, in any capacity.
The door quietly creaks open, the house's warmth drifting through. Baran steps in with a slow exhale. It's unusually silent, with Kian at his father's, but light floods everywhere, the familiar scent of home lifting some of the weight off her shoulders.
She's grateful not to find you in the living room. You're not in the kitchen, either, though a pot of something bubbles at the stove.
"Azizam?" She calls out, trudging over to the stairs.
"Here." Your voice drifts down. It's a little muffled, courtesy of the half-shut door of her bedroom. Baran reaches it and gently nudges it open, her smile, already in place, slipping when she takes in the sight in front of her.
There's a basket of laundry at the foot of her bed—laundry she hadn't washed before leaving, she's certain—and you're sitting on top of the covers with your legs crossed, folding. Piles of neatly folded clothes flank your side—short stacks of her t-shirts, another one for her leggings, small balls of socks gathered into a circle. All in dark shades, her blacks and browns and deep grays.
Baran stares. You look up from the shirt you're folding and flash her a smile. "Hey."
Her eyes dip down to your hands, locked on their fluid movement. You tuck in the sides of the shirt, smoothing the sleeves down flat, then fold it in half.
"What—" She finds herself faltering, briefly taken aback. Baran swallows—the action is difficult in a way that alarms her, her throat suddenly tight, her voice coming out more choked than she expects. "What's this?"
"What?" You stand, carefully sidestepping the towers of folded clothes. She's still frozen in the doorway, startled back into moving when you reach for the bag on her shoulder and rid her of the weight.
Her eyes grow hot. "You don't have to do my laundry for me."
"Can't I want to?" You murmur, drawing back closer, tugging her into a hug. "Hi."
Baran swallows again. "Hi," she whispers. Her arms sling around you, her head falling to rest against your cushiony warmth. Her eyes shutter closed; she breathes in, feels your scent filter into her lungs. She holds it for as long as she can, her lungs itching, then pushes it out slow. "You didn't have to do that," she says quietly.
"I know," you hum, squeezing her. "How was your day?"
Baran sighs into you. She feels you brush a soft kiss to her skin, then feels you reach around to free the clip from her hair. Feels you ease the teeth out, gently smooth over the crown of her head, loosening the ache that had been pounding up at her temples. At her prolonged silence, you give her another kiss and cinch your arms around her tighter.
"Long, huh?"
"Mm." She mumbles.
It's all she can manage. She hates it sometimes, how forcing the words through feels monumental. You're never upset when she comes home like this, her mouth suddenly too heavy, her jaw feeling like it's glued shut.
Baran digs her face deeper into you. All at once, she's overwhelmed—with you, with the way you love her, lift her up like it's so easy. She'd grappled with her independence for so long. It's been an uphill battle, her whole life—yes, she's capable, yes, she can be responsible. But it's different, having someone else take over the reigns—not because you think she can't. Never because of that.
you do not need to like garsantos. you can want santos with someone else, though i encourage you to at least consider the significance of having such a relationship on a show like “the pitt.”
however, you do need to recognize the blatant racism that has taken root in most anti-garsantos sentiments.
garcia is abrasive. at times, she can be mean. in season 2, the whole “nepo baby” situation is a bit aggressive.
but garcia is not aggressive. she, in the grand scheme of things, is not mean. her softest moments are with santos.
the conclusion that garcia is abusive, and the conclusion that she is sexually promiscuous, or a fuckboy, is rooted in racism. in prejudiced ideas that have been used to dehumanize black and brown women for centuries.
many have said this, and it is not my intention to repeat the sentiment simply for the sake of it. i bring this up again so that we might also consider the infantilization of santos that often goes hand in hand with this sort of prejudice against garcia.
with garcia painted as an abuser, santos becomes the abused. a narrative is crafted that frames santos as someone who needs to be saved from garcia, effectively stripping her of all her agency and autonomy. she is made small, relegated to the category or status of helpless victim, denied her full personhood.
that is infantilization.
it is also racism.
infantilization is a core tenet of racism.
when you engage with fan content, particularly of other santos ships, and particularly of barantos—though i appreciate barantos, there are a non-negligible number of works that present at least one of these phenomena—do not do so idly. just because it is not real does not mean that it has no bearing on what is.
garcia is not abusive. santos is not helpless. al-hashimi is not her savior.
stop denying these women their personhood. their humanity. stop making these complicated, nuanced characters into racist caricatures.
(they looked at each other once)(they aren't even getting anymore interactions) (neither actor is returning as far as we know) (there are like 2 other fans)
inspired by this request. it’s been a rough day for both of you. a quiet night in isn’t quite all you need to decompress. NSFW! mdni. oral (sex) boral uncle boris boral oral b (best toothbrush brand dentist recommended guess what color mine is).
You are always the first one home. Your work ends two hours before Baran gets off at seven, and you’re usually at home a good hour and a half before her car pulls into the driveway.
You like to have dinner started by the time she gets home. You think it’s a nice gesture, and you’d do anything to see Baran’s face light up the way it does when she comes into the kitchen to find you plating her favorite meals.
Today, you walk in the door and go immediately to the couch. You kick off your shoes and put down your bag on the way, leaving it all strung across the floor, and let yourself slump down into the cushions.
“Fuck,” you sigh, closing your eyes. You curl up on the couch and reach for the blanket on the back cushion, pulling it over you.
It’s been a hard day. Work was rough, you forgot your lunch at home, your phone died halfway through the day, and a thousand other things went wrong that you somehow found yourself right at the center of every time.
At least you had a phone charger in your car. Your phone is at a measly seven percent now, but it’s enough. At least you were able to text Baran that you got home safely.
You keep your eyes closed, releasing another sigh. You feel so heavy, and with each passing moment you find yourself being pulled further towards sleep.
You try not to let yourself succumb to it. You need to get up and cook dinner, change clothes, put your shit back where it needs to be so that it’s not strung all over the house when Baran comes home. But you feel so tired, this couch is so nice, and soon enough you’re out.
—
What wakes you up is the way the cushion dips by your head when Baran sits down next to you. It jostles you just enough, and you blink against the warm light of the living room lamps.
“Sorry,” Baran says softly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
You sit up a little, rubbing your eyes. You give her a dazed look, check your phone for the time, and then sit up the rest of the way. “It’s already seven-fifteen?”
“How long have you been asleep?”
You shake your head, pushing away the blanket. “Dont worry about that,” you say, offering her a smile. “Fuck, I’m glad you’re home.”
Baran leans in, tipping your head up with a hand on your chin and leading you into a kiss. Her lips meet yours gently, tiredly, as if she’s the one who just woke up from a nap instead of you.
“I missed you,” you say once you part.
“I missed you too,” she replies. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “How was work?”
You shake your head. “It was shit. How was yours?”
She leans back against the couch cushions. “The same.”
You move closer to her, enough that she can wrap her arms around you and pull you into her side. You press a kiss to the side of her jaw, then just below her ear, breathing in the soft lavender scent of her perfume.
Then you remember that you were supposed to be making dinner. Your heart drops and you tense, sitting up again.
“What’s wrong?” Baran asks. She runs a hand up and down your shoulder. “Talk to me, love.”
“I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep. Fuck, I can’t believe I didn’t think to set an alarm!”
“It’s fine,” she says. “We can make something together.”
“But I wanted to have it ready for you. I always do.”
“And I appreciate it,” she tells you, sitting up. She shrugs off her purple jacket as she speaks, laying it gently over the armrest of the couch. “I’ve never asked that of you though, have I?”
You frown. “No.”
She stands up, holding out a hand for you to take. “Come on. Team effort.”
“Baran…”
“Am I that bad of a cook?” she jokes, and pulls you to your feet. “It’s fine if I am, you can tell me.”
“You’re not a bad cook.”
“Then let’s go.”
—
You wrap your arms around her waist, stepping forward to rest your chin on her shoulder.
“It smells good,” you murmur, and press a kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder beside the black strap of her tank top.
“It’s just pasta.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sell yourself short,” you say. “Dont do that.”
She rests a hand over yours across her middle, turns her head and kisses you. “Thank you,” she whispers eventually, “for reminding me.”
You pull her closer, listening to the sizzling and boiling of the contents on the stove, and you think that if you closed your eyes then you might be able to fall asleep again.
“Go set out some plates for us,” she tells you. “It’ll be ready soon.”
—
“We need to get that dishwasher fixed,” you say, walking into the bathroom and hoisting yourself up onto the edge of the sink counter while Baran does her nightly routine. “It rumbles and starts and then stops and then starts again. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”
“We can have someone look at it this weekend,” she says. “I’ll call in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
She grabs her moisturizer bottle. She starts twisting the lid, but it’s stuck, and she works at it for a few more moments before setting it down harshly on the counter.
“Are you okay?”
She nods. “Fine.”
“Do you need some help?”
Baran looks at you, looks down at the bottle of moisturizer, and then relents. She hands it to you and watches as you try to wrench the lid off.
“Here,” you say, popping it open and handing it back to her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m tired,” she says, and it sounds so raw and honest that you don’t think it’s an excuse. “Today was just… endless.”
“I know. I get it.”
She squeezes some moisturizer into her hands and rubs it into her face, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. “I know you do.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She wipes her hands on the sink towel, then steps between your legs and places her hands on top of your thighs. “Just be here with me. That’s all I need.”
You nod. You slide forward a little, meeting her in a kiss that is tired and familiar and feels like home.
Baran’s hands slide up your thighs to your hips and she deepens the kiss, pulling you against her. It emboldens her when your legs spread a little wider and your hands find hers, pulling them just beneath your shirt.
“This helps too,” she murmurs against your lips, then kisses you again and swipes her tongue into your mouth.
You feel her hands growing more anxious beneath your shirt. They slide up your sides and palm over the fabric of your bra, and yours come up to guide them under it.
“Is this okay?” she asks quietly, as if she doesn’t already know the answer by the way you’re arching into her touch.
“More than okay,” you say, and pull your shirt off along with your bra.
Baran leans in and presses a kiss to your neck, just beneath your jaw, and peppers more down the column of your throat to your collarbones. She nips at the skin in a way that makes you gasp, and when she leans down to wrap her lips around a nipple, it elicits a sound from you more desperate than you’d like her to think you are already.
“Bedroom,” you tell her, pushing her away so you can hop down onto your feet. “Please, I need this.”
Baran leads you toward the connected bedroom, stopping in the doorway to pull you to her and kiss you, pressing you back against the doorframe. It’s rough against your back and compresses your spine in a way that’s terribly uncomfortable, but you can’t bring yourself to push her away — it feels too good to have her in front of you, pressing into you from the front.
Baran gets down on her knees. One rests on the bathroom tile and the other on the dark wooden floor of your bedroom. She looks up at you with pupils wide and hands expectant.
“Here?” you ask hesitantly.
“Here.”
Before you can overthink it any further, Baran leans forward and licks a trail up your thigh, making you gasp. She reaches up for the band of your shorts, meeting your eyes as she pulls them down with your underwear and helps with gentle hands on your calves as you step out of them.
“Whenever work is shit,” she says, “I imagine us right here, just like this. I imagine having this perfect fucking view of you.”
A familiar warmth spreads through your body, gathering low in your belly and down to live between your thighs. Your breathing gets heavier, you spread your legs a little wider without thinking about it, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip when Baran kisses higher up your thighs.
You can feel her breath fanning against your center and she looks up at you, hoisting one of your legs over her shoulder so she can have better access to you.
“Tell me what you want,” Baran orders, as if she doesn’t already know. Her hand on your hip presses you harder against the doorframe — it’s a precarious position, not the most stable, but she’ll take care of you. You know she will.
“You,” you plead, bucking your hips forward only for them to be pressed back again. “Your tongue, your fingers, whatever you want. I need to feel you.”
“You need to?”
You nod, suppressing a low moan that threatens to escape from deep in your chest. “Please.”
She gives in, leaning in and licking through your wet folds, humming contentedly at the taste of you. She feels your thighs tense and she presses you back hard against the doorframe until they relax, using it as a warning and reward system without hardly meaning to.
You weave a hand into her hair, guiding her closer. You sigh when she runs her tongue over your clit, and she uses enough pressure to make your hips jump.
“Be patient,” she warns, but she can’t say she’s following her own rules. Already she’s wrapping her lips around your clit and sucking gently, fishing for a reaction from you, relishing the low groan you give her. “Good girl.”
She shifts a little in the way she’s kneeling, the hard floors beginning to make her knees ache. But when she has you above her like this, lost in the feeling of her tongue on you and looking at last so relaxed and relieved, the last thing she wants to do is move.
You raise a hand to your own chest, squeezing and palming at your breast, running your thumb over your hardened nipple. You crave release, and while it’s hardly ever a race to the finish line when the two of you have sex, tonight feels different. It’s the exception.
“Keep doing that,” she says, voice a little shaky. “You look so fucking beautiful like this.”
You feel her tongue going lower, dipping into your entrance before moving to focus on your clit again. It throws you off — your legs begin to shake and you place in Baran’s hands an unfair amount of responsibility to keep you standing.
Baran can feel you getting close already. She keeps going, sucking your clit into her mouth and then releasing it to run her tongue over it, gripping so hard with her hands that you’re both sure little indents will be left in your skin from her nails.
Your grip tightens in her hair. Your hips buck into her and she follows the movement, hardly giving you any room to escape the intensity of her mouth against you, and release rushes over you in a sudden flash that has your back arching against the doorframe and a sharp cry falling from your lips.
Baran helps you down from it, working you through the aftershocks and cleaning your release from your thighs with her tongue until you push her head away. She releases your leg from her shoulder, waiting for a second with her hands on your legs until she knows you’re okay to stand securely on your own two feet.
“Come up here,” you say breathlessly, reaching down for her. “I want to kiss you.”
She smiles, nodding, but then she pauses. Her knees ache terribly and even the slightest movement makes her wince. Sometimes she forgets that she’s forty years old, but her body always reminds her.
“Baran?”
“Give me a second,” she says, the warmth of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks as she shifts over to sit down and stretches her legs out in front of her. “Oh, fuck…”
One of her knees pops in a way that makes you wince.
“It’s fine,” she assures you, seeing your expression. “It does that sometimes.”
With wobbly legs, you step in front of her and hold both hands out for her to take. “Come on,” you say. “Up you go.”
“Do I have to?”
“Baran, seriously.”
She relents, grabbing your hands and letting you pull her up.
Once she’s on her feet, she leans in and kisses you. You can taste yourself on her tongue and it sparks another wave of heat to rush through you.
“Come here,” you say, pulling her into the bedroom the rest of the way and guiding her to sit down on the edge of the bed.
“You don’t have to,” she tells you.
“I know. I want to.”
She softens. She likes hearing that. “Okay.”
You climb into bed after her, maneuvering Baran so that she’s lying down and you’re hovering above her, taking off her clothes piece by piece and worshipping every new inch of skin revealed to you.
Today was hard. It’s undeniable, and there is no changing it. There will be more days like this that will spring upon you without warning and do their damage.
But this makes it better: to know that you are cherished, that you can spread that feeling to someone else, that even the worst of days can have desirable ends.
Baran’s other knee pops and you jump.
“The woes of middle age,” you tease. “You’re going to have metal knees by the time you’re fifty.”
“That’s not how it works. We don’t call them metal knees.”
“Yeah, well. Just so you know, I’m happy to drive you home post-op.”
baran al hashimi lemme wash your hair, lemme style it, lemme braid. baby i have curly hair too we can do our routines together. lets get matching bonnets.
i will forever owe my allegiance to the pitt solely for the fact that it gave me trinity santos. she’s sarcastic. she’s rude. she’s abrasive. she loves taking care of other people. she’s a survivor of sexual abuse. she’s struggled with suicidality. she hates when she isn’t believed. she is deeply scarred and wounded. she uses humor as a coping mechanism. she struggles with self harm. she is the most empathetic person you will ever know. she is deeply loving and generous. she’s ashamed of her own love and joy. she doesn’t take care of herself. she would rather be hated than taken advantage of again. she holds grudges. she doesn’t like herself. she tirelessly advocates for everyone she comes across because she knows what it is to be small and vulnerable and helpless. she knows that kindness is weakness but she cannot help but be kind over and over again.
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