warnings : gn!reader x baran al-hashimi . nsfw , mdni . hate sex . praise + degradation . spit kink (b!receiving) . choking (b!receiving) . grinding / thigh riding (b!receiving) . pathetic baran . fingers in mouth / finger sucking (b!receiving) . light humiliation kink (b!receiving) .
you can find the request here
you slam the tablet onto the nurses station so hard you almost knock a cup of coffee over (and probably almost broke the tablet), the sound cutting through the low hum of monitors and faint chatter. you didn’t mean to, but al-hashimi has been getting on your last nerve lately. baran is already there, with her lululemon over her scrubs, tablet balanced in one hand like it’s part of her body. she doesn’t look up right away, just keeps scrolling through whatever new protocol she’s pushing today, her expression flat and unimpressed the way it always is when you’re around.
“you rerouted my trauma bay two without even paging me,” you say, voice low enough not to scare the patients but sharp enough that the charge nurse suddenly finds something very interesting on her screen. “that kid was circling the drain on fluids and you sent him straight to ct like it was a fucking field trip. what part of ‘stabilize first’ did your spreadsheet miss?”
baran finally glances over, her eyes cool and analytical behind the faint sheen of exhaustion every attending carries by hour ten. “the new imaging pathway cut door-to-scan time by eleven minutes,” she answers, accent clipping the words precise and clean. “data from the last quarter shows better outcomes when we prioritize diagnostics over hand-holding. if you spent less time arguing and more time adapting, your patients might actually benefit.”
you laugh, short and bitter. “adapting. right… because nothing says ‘caring for people’ like treating them like data points on your little va hospital power trip. you’ve been here two weeks and you already act like you own the place.”
she sets the tablet down with deliberate slowness, stepping into your space just enough that the sterile smell of hospital soap and the faint trace of her coffee breath hits you. “and you’ve been here long enough to know the system is broken. but sure, keep yelling. maybe the next code will pause so you can feel like the hero again.” her voice stays even, composed, but there’s a flicker behind it, something tighter than usual. “keep this up and i’ll note it in the shift report. again.”
the rest of the shift is a slow burn of her voice suggesting “minor workflow adjustments” that somehow always circle back to your cases. every time you turn around she’s there with another quiet correction, another calm reminder that her way is the future. by the time the board clears and the night crew trickles in you’re both clocking out in the same locker row, the air thick with everything you swallowed in front of patients. she’s about to head out, keys in hand, moving like she can’t wait to put the building behind her.
you follow her out to the curb because your car is parked two spots down and because the fight still feels unfinished. the concrete echoes your footsteps as you call after her, “you know for someone who talks nonstop about modernization, you sure love controlling every single thing that happens on this floor.”
baran stops beside her car, tinted windows reflecting the streetlights. she turns slow, one eyebrow arched. “and for someone who claims to put patients first you sure waste a lot of energy fighting the person trying to make things actually work.” she unlocks the doors but doesn’t slide into the driver seat. instead she opens the back one and nods inside. “get in. we’re not finishing this conversation where people can see us acting like children.”
you know you should walk away. you know this is the exact kind of stupid decision that ends with hr paperwork and regret. but the tension has been coiling for weeks and something ugly and hot in your chest wants to see it snap. you scoff and climb into the backseat. she follows right after, shutting the door with a solid thunk. the car smells like clean leather and a hint of perfume.
for a long moment neither of you speaks. the overhead light is off, just the dim glow from the streetlights filtering through the tint. baran sits there with her hands on her knees, jaw tight, breathing measured like she’s still on the floor running a code. then she turns to you, composed mask still mostly intact but her eyes darker than usual.
“you think i’m some cold bitch because i push protocols,” she says quietly. “you have no idea what it takes to keep this place from falling apart the way it almost did before i got here.” her hand lands on your knee, fingers digging in just enough to ground the words. “you push back because you like the fight. admit it. you like that i don’t roll over.”
“maybe,” you mutter, and the second the words leave your mouth she’s on you, kissing hard and angry like all the arguments finally found an outlet. her mouth is hot, insistent, tasting like the end of a long shift and the coffee she drinks black. she makes this small frustrated sound against your lips and her hand slides higher up your thigh, gripping hard.
you pull back just enough to breathe. “you’re such a fucking control freak, al-hashimi.”
“yeah?” her voice cracks a little at the edges now, the toughness fraying. she leans in again but stops short, lips brushing yours. “then do something about it. shut me up for once.” her eyes drop to your mouth and back up, and there it is, that soft little flicker she’s been hiding behind every spreadsheet and sharp comment. “come on… you hate me so much, show me.”
you grab the back of her neck and kiss her again, deeper, messier and lay her back on the seats before crawling on top of her. when she parts her lips you spit slow and deliberate right into her mouth, watching the way her throat works as she swallows it down without hesitation. the sound she makes is wrecked, low and needy, her hands fisting your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. her cheeks flush dark under the faint light and she whispers, “again… please.”
“god you’re pathetic,” you say against her mouth, but your voice is rough with it now, heat pooling low in your stomach. you do it again, letting her feel every second of it. she moans quietly this time, the composed dr. al-hashimi completely gone in the backseat of her own car. instead she tries to get closer, one leg locking over yours until she’s pushing up against your thigh, and moves with a slow roll of her hips that makes the leather creak softly.
“fuck,” she breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second like she’s embarrassed by how desperate she already is. then she starts moving, grinding against your thigh in these tight, controlled circles that quickly turn sloppy. you can feel the heat of her through her scrubs, she’s rocking harder when you spit in her mouth again. “you like that, huh?” you say, almost mocking. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this... you walking around acting like you’re better. i just wanted you alone, like this.” she blabbers pathetically.
her hands slide under your shirt, palms hot against your skin, nails digging in just enough to sting. you lightly squeeze her throat to test the waters. she lets out a shaky whimper, hips stuttering against your thigh as she chases the friction. “harder,” she mutters, voice hoarse. “make me feel it. tell me how much you hate me.”
you squeeze her throat harder and grab her hip to guide her movements, pressing your thigh down to meet every roll. “look at you, baran. all day telling everyone how to run the department and now you’re humping me because i finally put you in your place, you look dumb.” you scoff but there’s a smirk on your face that you can’t wipe off. you let go of her throat and push two fingers inside her mouth, pressing down on her tongue, she close her mouth around your fingers and moans around them, sucking on them while grinding faster. the sounds of fabric against fabric filling the car. her breathing is ragged now, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded and glassy.
“keep talking,” she gasps, one hand sliding between you to press against herself through her scrubs while she keeps rocking. “tell me i’m weak,” she mumbles around your fingers. her hips stutter when you grip her face, thumb pressing firm under her jaw while two fingers stay buried in her mouth, forcing her eyes up to hold your gaze. her whole body trembling as she works herself against your thigh like she’s been starving for it.
you lean in closer, voice low right against her ear. “you’re a fucking mess, baran. acting all tough on the floor but the second we’re alone you’re pathetic, because deep down you love being put in your place.” feeling the way she shakes with every grind and words coming from you. you push your fingers deeper inside her mouth, making her whimper pathetically.
she comes like that, sudden and quiet. you pull your fingers out of her mouth and she quickly bitea down on your shoulder to muffle the broken sound that rips out of her. her hips keeps rolling through it, slowly and stuttering, dragging every second out until she’s trembling and panting against your neck. when she finally stills she doesn’t pull away. she just stays there, face buried in your shoulder, breathing hard while her hands loosen their death grip on your shirt.
“don’t say anything,” she mumbles after a minute, voice small and hoarse in a way that makes your chest tighten. “just… stay here for a second.”
you don’t move, you stay quiet while baran stays pressed against you, still catching her breath, the same woman who wrote you up last week now soft in the dark where no one else will ever see. her fingers trace slow patterns on your side like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she stops touching you, and for once the hate feels a lot like something neither of you is ready to name out loud.
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