kicking off pride month RIGHT. sneak peak of an upcoming barantos fic! mdni! strap on, squirting, w/c: 1k
Baran is moaning so fucking deliciously, her face red, eyes closed, head thrown back into the pillow as Trinity fucks her into the bed. She’s fisting the sheets, tensing, when Trinity hears the front door open and keys being tossed down.
“Trinity? You home? Have you seen my book on calving?”
“Fuck,” she hisses, stilling.
Baran whines, so drunk on Trinity’s strap she has no idea why she stopped. As much as Trinity would love to drive Baran over the edge right now, she’s maddeningly incapable of being quiet when she cums — she knows this from experience trying to shut her up in inappropriate places — and that is not something Trinity wants to think about the next time she has to meet Huckleberry’s eyes.
So, she pulls out, probably too quickly, and Baran moans sharply. Panicked, Trinity clamps a hand over Baran’s mouth, which at least gets her to focus. But her eyes go sort of dark and hungry, and Trinity swallows.
“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.
“Come here,” she breathes, and Trinity’s scrambling up to kiss her, the strap pressing into Baran’s trembling thigh.
I found this half-finished in my drafts from april. I figured I’d finish it quick and post it <3 emotional hurt/comfort, baran comes home tired and drained. this drabble is named after the poem ‘after many springs’ by langston hughes (pictured above on the left).
sometimes she needs a little bit of silence. when the world gets too big and loud and needs her too much, or when she wakes up in the middle of the night with memories flooding in that are best left forgotten. baran needs silence — it is a form of rest, at times more fulfilling than sleep.
you thrive in the silence. when she comes home from work and can barely hold a conversation, you don’t force anything out of her. you coax her into a hot bath and wash her hair and let there be nothing spoken between you that she doesn’t initiate, just a mutual understanding of what is needed and what is given.
baran lets herself be guided for once. she allows you to make her food and she trusts you to stay with her when she lies down in bed and closes her eyes, and you are all too willing to take her into your arms when she rolls over and sets her head on your chest.
the silence ends when she speaks into the darkness. “do you think it will get better?”
you don’t ask what. you figure she is past wanting to give long explanations, whether about work or her seizures or any of the other trials she faces on the daily. “I know it will.”
she seems to sink into you a little bit more. she slides a hand under your shirt to rest on your abdomen just so she can feel you, the warmth of your skin beneath her tired hand, the softness of her palm flat against your body.
the first time she lied down with you like this, with nothing expected from her except to be loved by you, it nearly made her cry. it had been so long since anyone had took her into their arms like that that she had felt suffocated by the comfort in all of the right ways, and she had kept you there for so long that the next morning her back ached from keeping herself locked around you for so long.
“are you okay?” she asks suddenly. she feels bad for not asking about your day earlier, but hers had left her so drained that she could barely stand.
“I’m fine,” you say. you slip a hand into her hair, still slightly damp from the bath, and massage her scalp softly. “really, don’t worry.”
she accepts that. she will ask you for more details in the morning, when the gentleness of the weekend gives her a chance to rest and she can finally think again. “okay.”
“get some rest.”
sometimes she doesn’t sleep well after long shifts. work sticks to her on those days and cases run through her head, what-ifs and regrets. she thinks back on patients she has saved and those she has lost and what she could have done differently had she been more perceptive or better-prepared.
it’s why she used to use those ai models before you made her stop — they made her feel as though something could fill the gaps in her logic, check the validity of her steps before she took them. she has always struggled with trusting herself.
she always trusts you, though. sometimes she thinks she trusts you too much, but you haven’t done anything yet to warrant that trust being revoked. and luckily tonight is one of the nights she feels sleep coming to her more easily, the pull of it growing steadily stronger, and she allows herself to sigh contentedly against you.
suddenly, she remembers. “fuck…”
“what?” you ask. “what’s wrong?”
“I didn’t call him,” she says, sitting up. she reaches over you and picks her phone up off the nightstand, unlocking it and scrolling through her contacts. “I didn’t call my fucking son, and I always call him when he’s at his dad’s before he goes to bed.”
you know that. you always give her space during that nightly ritual, taking your time to clean the dishes while she disappears onto the back porch or into the living room, voice low and soft. you have both become accustomed to the ritual of it, and you’re sure baran’s son has as well.
“I have to do it now,” she says. “fuck, I can’t believe I forgot.”
“wait,” you say, placing a hand on her shoulder that prompts her to look at you, wild-eyed and so tired. “it’s almost midnight, baran. he’s asleep by now.”
“he’s probably so disappointed,” she murmurs. “I only miss calls when I’m sick or—”
“you might as well have been sick tonight,” you interrupt. “you walked in and you looked on the verge of collapse. you aren’t disappointing anyone, and as soon as you get up tomorrow you can call and tell him you weren’t well.”
she looks down at her phone, thumb still hovering over the contact of her ex-husband, and you half expect her to call and demand that he put her son on the phone no matter what.
eventually, she turns her phone off. she hands it over to you and you set it on the bedside table again, then pull her back into your arms and ease her down again.
“get some rest,” you say, and this time she listens.
i had the funniest dream last night. robby was there saying he was not going to go on his sabbatical. he was emotional about it, like he was acknowledging he wasn’t doing well. other pittlings were giving each other looks of concern and dread like oh fuck now we don’t get our reprieve from this fucker anymore. and i was like yeah, dude, you need to go to therapy not an extended suicide tour. and then he suddenly had a metal bat, which he smashed (and broke?????) on a table before looking at me like he was going to rip out my throat with his bare hand
baran al hashimi x fem!reader - 2k words - age gap (r is late 20s, baran is 40) - you and baran have been hooking up for a few months, never really going beyond that. one satruday you run into her at your favorite museum, and she has a guest | from this poll |
note: happy pride month gays. love y'all. unhh. (the sound is included in the message.)
Every other week, Kaveh stayed at Baran's house, which meant that every other Saturday, they ended up at the Carnegie Museum of Art.
It was one of Baran's favorite traiditons. The museum itself was stunning on its own, but it was made lovier when a tiny little body was pattering next to her, pointing out this-and-that, talking his little head off with questions, darting around the exhibits while Baran tried to mindfully enjoy it.
Baran had loved this museum since she was roughly fourteen years old and miserable on her middle school trip to D.C. She had gone to a nice enough school that they could afford to do an afternoon stop in Pittsburgh on the way home, and Baran had wandered into the museum half-asleep and walked back out feeling rearranged. There were many things about Pittsburgh that, now 40, she tolerated rather than loved. But this place had stayed in her bones.
Kaveh, unfortunately, was seven. He was usually a fantastic sport, but there were only so many oil paintings a child could stare at before he felt he'd seen them all.
Still, every Saturday Baran asked, “Do you want to come with me today, joonam?”
And every Saturday her sweet boy said yes.
She always let Kaveh lead when they visited the museum because there wan’t a single exhibit she didn’t enjoy and she had learned really quickly that if he felt he had control over what they were seeing, the longer he was able to last.
Usually, this meant they ended up in the sculpture hall. Kaveh adored the tall, skinny statues there with his entire little heart.
“They look silly,” he would whisper loudly, staring up at the long bronze limbs and dramatic poses with complete delight.
And every single visit, without fail, he would eventually turn to Baran with barely-contained excitement and say, “Māmān, take a picture.”
Then he’d plant himself beside the statues and imitate them as seriously as possible, long face, arms thrown awkwardly into the air, knees bent at impossible angles as Baran gleefully snapped his photo.
Kaveh was bounding back to her side and standing up on his tip-toes to see the fruit of his photo shoot. She was showing him the latest one, his nose wrinkling with pleasure at his own performance, when his head snapped to the side with the speed of a small animal catching a scent.
Baran had about half a second of confusion before he pulled in a breath and used every bit of it:
“DOCTOR Y/N!!!”
Baran jolted so hard she nearly dropped her phone.
“Kaveh—”
Too late.
Across the gallery, you turned around and Baran’s heart sunk through every floor of the museum. It seemed like an awful collision of her two worlds that she very carefully kept separate.
She knew you in fragments that didn’t belong in a place like this, your scrubs and tired eyes after a long shift that always softened when you saw her, you padding through her kitchen at night, stealing water from the fridge like you lived there too, you half-asleep against her shoulder, breath warm.
She also knew how your voice sounded when it went all high-pitched and breathy, whimpering pleas of her name in her ear as your hands scraped down her back, her kissing your neck—
And now there you were. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a tote bag from a college Baran had never heard you mention, rings stacked on your fingers that caught the gallery light. Your hair was different than she'd ever seen it. You looked soft.
She watched your expression move through confusion and arrive at something warm and surprised and delighted.
"Hi, Kaveh," you called across the gallery.
Kaveh was already moving. He crossed the room at a pace that was technically not running because his feet were not fully leaving the floor at the same time, but was in every other sense running. You crouched down to meet him and he wrapped his arms around your neck without preamble, without hesitation, the way children do when they've decided about a person.
"You're here!” he beamed.
"I am here," you laughed, settling back on your heels with your arms resting on your knees, completely unbothered by the contact with the museum floor. "What are you doing here, little dude? Are you an art guy?"
Kaveh pulled back and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Māmān likes it a lot more than me though. But she says it's good for my brain."
"Smart woman, your mama."
Baran had crossed the gallery at a more appropriate pace and arrived to find you already looking up at her, easy and warm, not making anything of it.
"Dr. Al-Hashimi."
"Dr. Y/L/N." She heard how formal it sounded and internally winced. She cleared her throat and softened her tone. "Small world. I'm sorry about the ambush."
"Please don't be," you beamed, standing. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all morning."
You had met Kaveh twice before and Baran had kind of freaked out both times (you knew good and well she didn’t really want you two interacting, didn’t want to blend whatever fuck-buddy situation you had going on with the version of her life she was presenting to her son) but both interactions had been really, really lovely. You’re not sure what you did to earn Kaveh’s adoration, but you were glad you had it as the adorable little boy beamed up at you, staring at you like you hung the stars.
Baran, standing slightly to the side, was also looking at your face. For completely different reasons. She took in the different style of your hair, the jewelry she hadn’t seen because it was kind of a pain to wear rings at work, the tote bag with your college insignia — a school Baran had not known you attended, had never heard you talk about, another piece of the woman she hadn’t had yet.
There were so many pieces.
“Are you here alone?” Baran heard herself ask.
You smiled. “I am, embarrassingly enough. I just like it here.” You paused. “Mom-son date?”
“We come most Saturdays,” Baran said. “When Kaveh is persuadable.”
“It’s an awesome hangout spot,” you nodded warmly, trying to will your heart to stop fluttering. Baran looked so… touchable? Something about her was calmer, more settled, and you wanted to soak it in like a sapling begging for just a drop of water to sustain it, but she was here with her son. And you were just a friend. Barely even that.
“Well, it was lovely to see you both,” you started to turn, “I hope you—”
Kaveh latched onto your arm, eyes going big with sudden sadness. “Wait, are you going?”
You froze, mouth falling open a bit, and your eyes shot to Baran. Sure, you liked her company and loved her son, but you knew this woman had boundaries and you never took that personally.
“Um, well, Kaveh—”
"Don’t go yet because we are looking at statues and you can join us," Kaveh said excitedly. "Do you want to see?"
You blinked. Your eyes still searching Baran's face.
It was sweet, Baran realized. She allowed her head to tilt, a warm smile to come across her face.
"Yes," she said warmly. "Join us. We could use the company."
Huh. You shook of your shock and replaced it with an eager nod of your head.
"I'd love to," you replied, a similar smile pulling at your lips. "Show me."
—
You fell into step beside her at an easy distance, and Baran noticed that too — the careful inch of space you maintained, not crowding her nor presuming that the invite meant she, all of the sudden, wanted you on top of her.
You talked to Kaveh mostly, crouching when he pointed at things, asking him questions that took his opinions seriously, which made him stand a little taller each time.
"That one is super sad," Kaveh pointed at a bronze figure with its head bowed.
"Hm," you studied it. "What do you think he's sad about?"
Kaveh thought about this. "Maybe he lost something."
“Lost something?” Baran prompted.
“‘Cause his head is down, Māmān,” Kaveh replied. “He’s lookin’ for it.”
It surprised a laugh out of you — real and unguarded, bubbling up from your chest and floating out into the high-ceilinged room — and Baran's eyes went straight to your face.
She'd heard you laugh before. But not like that. Not with nothing behind it but the simple fact that something delighted you.
She looked away before you could catch her looking.
She was noticing things she had no particular right to notice. The way you paused longest in front of the landscapes. The small private smile when something caught you, unannounced and unperformed. The fact that you knew which paintings were which without looking at the placards.
Initially she had been bracing herself for some level of awkwardness bred from the reminder that you existed in a different compartment of her life, one that didn't belong here under the high windows with her son. But you hadn't made it awkward. You just looked very content not to be alone on a Saturday, and it made her heart twist.
She felt herself begin to unknot.
"You come here often?" she nudged you with her hip as you walked again, and didn’t miss the way your eyes twinkled at the contact.
"Most weekends I'm not working," you tilted your head at the room around you. "There's a painting in the next gallery I've been coming back to for about a year."
"Which one?"
You smiled a little. "I'll show you when we get there."
In the decorative arts wing Kaveh grabbed your hand to drag you toward a suit of armor, and you let him, and Baran watched your face when he pressed his small nose against the visor to peer inside. The expression you wore was so soft, so unself-conscious, that it caught her off guard.
She had long wondered what you were like when you weren't managing anything at all, be it your poise at work or your manners in her apartment or your ecstasy in her bed. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was exactly what you looked like laid bare.
—
They reached the end of the last gallery with the slow inevitability of a good afternoon running out. Kaveh had gone boneless against Baran's side around the second hour mark, dragging his feet and clinging to her arm, suddenly non-verbal.
You crouched down to him. "It was very good to see you, Kaveh. Thank you for the statue tour."
"You can come next Saturday," Kaveh offered, hand reaching out to fiddle with the neckline of your shirt.
Baran watched your face. She saw you almost smile and then she watched you catch it and smooth it over.
"That's a very kind invitation," you said carefully, to Kaveh, but you were still looking at her.
The restraint of it was so practiced and so deliberate that it nearly hurt. She had put you here in this careful, curtailed space and you had stayed in it without a word of complaint, because she'd asked you to a few months ago. Please don’t ask about my ex-husband, please don’t ask about my son. You had nodded and respected it ever since, because that was the kind of person you were.
She had an empty afternoon ahead of her, but you were full of so many little pieces that had started to crack away from your skin and fall into her palm just over the course of an hour. She wanted more. She wanted every shard until she could build your full mosaic.
"We were going to get lunch," Baran said. "There's a place around the corner Kaveh likes."
She paused, small and deliberate.
"I would like it if you came."
Baran watched the surprise dance across your eyes even though you tried to remain nonchalant. You were a very smart girl and she knew you understood exactly what she was actually saying. This was very different from when you would brush shoulders in the hospital, or when your phone would buzz with a "Are you free tonight?"
"Are you sure?" you asked softly.
"Very sure," she said, then raised her brow with a smirk. “Do I have to say please?”
You looked at her for a beat longer, something soft and open moving through your expression, and then you smiled so large it changed your whole face.
"Okay," you said. "I'd like that."
Kaveh grabbed both your hands at once, one each, and lurched forward without ceremony.
kicking off pride month RIGHT. sneak peak of an upcoming barantos fic! mdni! strap on, squirting, w/c: 1k
Baran is moaning so fucking deliciously, her face red, eyes closed, head thrown back into the pillow as Trinity fucks her into the bed. She’s fisting the sheets, tensing, when Trinity hears the front door open and keys being tossed down.
“Trinity? You home? Have you seen my book on calving?”
“Fuck,” she hisses, stilling.
Baran whines, so drunk on Trinity’s strap she has no idea why she stopped. As much as Trinity would love to drive Baran over the edge right now, she’s maddeningly incapable of being quiet when she cums — she knows this from experience trying to shut her up in inappropriate places — and that is not something Trinity wants to think about the next time she has to meet Huckleberry’s eyes.
So, she pulls out, probably too quickly, and Baran moans sharply. Panicked, Trinity clamps a hand over Baran’s mouth, which at least gets her to focus. But her eyes go sort of dark and hungry, and Trinity swallows.
“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.
“Come here,” she breathes, and Trinity’s scrambling up to kiss her, the strap pressing into Baran’s trembling thigh.
Two and a half years after permanently joining the staff at PTMC, things are going better for Baran than she ever could have expected. She has an amazing kid, a demanding but rewarding job, two incredibly wonderful and hot girlfriends. Everything has it's place, her life is ordered and routine. It's great. Things are great. As long as everything stays in its assigned box, things will continue to be great. Right?
Maybe the status quo isn't working anymore.
[18+ MNDI . 3.5k words . also available on ao3]
beep beep beep
The loud blare of the alarm clock filters into Baran’s consciousness, just barely pulling her towards wakefulness before a loud thwack turns it off. She’s about to drift back off, back into the dream she had been having, details fuzzy but full of warmth and sun. Maybe Trinity had been there, or Yolanda, maybe it was ice cream… she never finds out, because instead she’s being pulled closer to the other body in her bed, her face is being peppered with kisses, making her impossibly warmer and infuriatingly more awake.
“Love,” her companion whispers, dropping one more kiss on the center of Baran’s forehead before flopping back down next to her.
“I’m awake,” Baran groans, rubbing a hand over her face, glancing at the alarm clock with bleary eyes. 5:17 shines back at her, mocking. The room around her is much less sunny than her dream, the pre-dawn light only just beginning to come in through the open windows. She sits up, is about to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, when an arm tightens around her waist, and a head buries itself against the small of her back.
“Don’t get up,” Trinity mumbles into her shirt. Baran just laughs softly, twists in the other woman’s arms until they’re laying face to face, Trinity’s eyes shut tight against the morning. It’s her turn to repay the wake-up favor, as she gently places kisses across Trinity’s forehead, her cheeks, her nose, working her way slowly down to her lips. Trinity sighs appreciatively when she reaches her destination, lips parting almost immediately to deepen the kiss. Baran brings a hand up to gently cup Trinity’s jaw as the younger woman’s hands wind their way around Baran’s back under her shirt. Hands that tighten frantically when she feels Baran begin to pull away. “No fair.” Trinity’s eyes finally blink open.
“No fair?” Baran smirks, trying, and failing, to sit back up.
“You started something without intending to finish it.” One of Trinity’s hands slips around to Baran’s front, fingers lightly tracing over her stomach.
“I started something?” She raises an eyebrow. “If I remember right, you woke me up by kissing me.”
“Yeah, and I was planning to follow through,” Trinity says, surging forward to capture Baran’s lips again, moving to trail kisses behind her ear and down her neck after a moment.
“I have to go,” Baran laughs despite herself, one hand winding into Trinity’s hair in a half-hearted attempt to stop her.
“Skip pilates,” Trinity murmurs against her collarbone, biting gently. “Stay here with me.”
“Love, I have to go.” Baran really does pull away now, pulling Trinity off by her hair. Her resolve slips a little when she sees her girlfriend’s face, though. Lips swollen, pupils blown, looking thoroughly wrecked already.
“Please,” Trinity whispers, and, with a wicked glint in her eye, pulls Baran’s hand to her, slips it under her pajama shorts, into her underwear, into the wet heat there. “Skip pilates.” Baran loosens her grip in her hair, and Trinity drops her head back to her neck, biting and licking and doing her best to not leave any marks.
“Fine,” Baran concedes, smiling. Trinity releases her hold on Baran’s wrist, but Baran keeps her hand where it had been placed, two fingers swiping widely over Trinity’s clit, revelling in the gasps that slip out against her skin. She stays there, continues on, driving Trinity higher and higher, closer and closer, until she has her right on the edge and– stops. Chuckles when that results in a frustrated whine. Brings her wet fingers to Trinity’s lips, traces lightly over the bottom one before pushing gently inside. “If I’m going to skip, then you’re going to make it worth my while. Sound fair?” Trinity nods emphatically, Baran’s fingers pulling out with a loud pop. “Then get to it.” Baran quirks an eyebrow as she pushes her girlfriend’s head down.
In the end, they both barely make it to work on time, and only because Baran concedes on their ‘no carpooling,’ rule. Yolanda is waiting for them near Baran’s usual parking spot on the top level of the garage. “Cutting it a little close, you two,” she says, smiling, as she pulls Trinity into a hug, the younger woman melting against her.
“Yes, well, someone convinced me to skip my workout this morning.” Baran passes the pair, pausing briefly to place her hand on Yolanda’s shoulder, thumb stroking gently along her neck. “How was the night shift?”
Yolanda just sighed heavily, in a way that communicated it had been perhaps a little more than normal. “Walsh owes me for picking that one up,” she says, shaking her head, clearing the memories. “You two better get going.” And like that the moment is gone. She’s dropping a quick kiss on Trinity’s waiting lips and pushing away, heading over to her own car. “Have a good day,” she adds just before shutting the door.
“I hate night shift,” Trinity mumbles once she’s gone.
Baran and Trinity begin walking in, the distance between them growing, slowly becoming more professional the closer they get to the doors. By the time they’re in the elevator, there’s a perfectly appropriate three feet between them, Trinity slumped against the wall. She looked so tired, and lonely, and… completely like herself, like her work self. The version of her that had to maintain professional boundaries, that was a damn good doctor, who could laugh and joke with her patients, all while staying two steps ahead, careful not to say too much, give too much of herself away. As a pediatric fellow, Trinity saw mostly children in the ED now, but there were always parents, always coworkers. Everyone knew about Dr. Santos and Dr. Garcia, or if they didn’t, it wasn’t hard to figure out– casual jabs at one another, seeking each other out for support or encouragement after tough cases, lunch in the breakroom on slower days. Those stolen moments buoyed her, made all the horribleness around them bearable. Shifts without Yolanda wore her out, wore her down, even if it was just Yolanda’s day off. Being on opposite shifts from her was worse. No stolen time during the day, and no time to forget it all together at night.
Baran’s hand twitches at her side, wanting to reach out, to cross the elevator, to do something to ease the tension in her partner’s shoulders. She wants to let herself be a substitute, knows that a “good catch Dr. Santos,” or a “do you need anything Dr. Santos” does help, but also knows that all of the calculation that comes with those moments doesn’t make them nearly as effective. Knows that sometimes the moment of mental math, wondering if she has touched Trinity more than she’s touched anyone else this shift, makes the touch not worth it in the first place.
Trinity catches her staring, and Baran gives in, taking a step towards her, hand outstretched– the elevator dings and the doors slide open. The sounds and smells and the chaos of the emergency room slip in to join them. Trinity lets her hip brush Baran’s hand as she leaves.
-----------
The shift begins to pass in much the same way. Baran keeps finding herself with almost-moments with Trinity, when the fellow is charting or leaves an exam room at the same time. And always, just as she’s about to say something, or place a comforting hand on her elbow, or really anything, something or someone interrupts her. It’s starting to drive her crazy, and a frustrated look must cross her face, because sometime around noon, Trinity is catching her eye and cocking her head toward the supply closet.
It’s quieter in there, and a little cooler, and Baran lets herself stand a little closer to Trinity. She hums happily as the younger woman’s hands slip inside her jacket and around her hips.
“Are you doing okay?” Trinity asks gently, seeking Baran’s eyes.
“Me?” Baran raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been trying all day to get a moment to ask you the same thing.”
“Oh,” Trinity starts. She’s about to say more when the door swings open and Jesse comes in, heading for the chest tubes. Baran steps back automatically, rolling her eyes a little.
“Thank you Dr. Santos,” Baran says, dropping back into a more professional tone. Trinity just nods and then she is gone.
It’s hours before she even gets a chance at another moment. Trinity is charting near the central nurses’s station, wrapping up what must be close to her last notes of the shift. Baran is leaning against the counter nearby, debating whether or not she could quietly ask about dinner plans now, when she is again interrupted.
“All right, Dr. Al,” Abbot barks, clapping his hands together as he slides up next to Baran, leaning on the counter. “I think you’re really gonna like this one.”
“Oh, no, not again.” Baran rolls her eyes, not bothering to look up from the tablet in her hands. “I’ve told you before, I’m perfec-”
“Ah ah ah, not so fast,” Abbot interrupts, “you haven’t even let me tell you about her.”
“Her?” Baran can’t help herself, she does look up at that. Abbot had been playing this game with her for weeks now, having convinced himself that his primary purpose in life must be finding Baran a partner to settle down with. Until now, it had all been men, mostly guys he knew from SWAT work, or from his Army days.
“See, I knew that would get you! Yes, her.” His eyes sparkle with laughter. “You know, if your problem with all my previous proposals was that they’re men, you could have just said so.”
“That’s not, uh,” she all but whispers, fighting to find the right thing to say, to get herself out of this without giving away too much. Over Abbot’s shoulder, she can see Trinity freeze, listening.
“Really, Al. Next you’re gonna tell me you’re in a relationship,” he sighs and finally picks up his own tablet, appearing to be ready to move on to his actual job. “You’re not, right?”
Baran isn’t looking at him at all when she says, tight lipped, “No, I’m not.” Trinity slams her dictaphone down and walks away.
-----------
They don’t get a chance to talk about it for three days. Yolanda had picked up a whole week of night shifts from Walsh, and it was Baran’s two-night stretch with Jasper at home. Usually that would mean Trinity and Yolanda sleeping at their place, usually they would manage one dinner all together, usually they would text and call Baran near constantly. But this week was not usual. Because Yolanda was on nights and Trinity decided Dennis needed a roommate again. Instead of coming back to Baran’s place after work, Trinity had cited some personal crisis happening with the younger doctor, driven home with him, and promptly shut off her phone. The texts and calls in the following few days had been sporadic. Moments to catch Trinity at work even more so. She hadn’t even seen Yolanda since that morning in the parking garage.
So by Friday, when she and Trinity have spent all day saving people from a massive multi-car pileup on the freeway, and Yolanda has spent all day flipping her sleep schedule, and Jasper has gone back to his dad’s (which is routine but never easier), Baran is fried. Running on fumes, she picks up Thai food from their favorite place and drives to Yolanda and Trinity’s apartment. Just assumes they’ll be there. No one had texted her to make a plan. She’s tired, and emotionally drained, and lonely, and she doesn’t know what she was expecting when she walks into the apartment, but it certainly wasn’t this. Wasn’t Yolanda sitting on the couch with a crying Trinity next to her, head in her lap.
“I was just about to call you,” Yolanda says when she sees Baran, focused eyes following as Baran drops her bag and keys by the door, brings the food to the kitchen, and comes to join the pair on the couch. Baran curls into Yolanda’s side, rests her head on her shoulder. “Seems like we have some talking to do.” Yolanda inclines her head slightly toward Trinity.
“This is about me?” Baran asks incredulously as she pulls back and sits up straighter, one hand coming to rest gently in Trinity’s hair.
“No,” Trinity says at the same moment Yolanda rolls her eyes and says “Yes.”
“No,” Trinity tries again, fixing Yolanda with a look that says don’t speak for me. She sits up. “It’s about all of this. Us.”
Yolanda sighs like she’s bracing for impact, so Baran tries to enter softly. She takes Trinity’s hand. “Love, what brought this on?” she asks softly.
“Abbot,” Trinity replies.
“Abbot?” Yolanda asks, surprised. Baran drops Trinity’s hand, scoots a little farther away on the couch.
“Yes. Did you know–” Trinity starts and turns to Yolanda. “That Dr. Abbot has been trying to set our girlfriend up on dates for weeks now?”
“It has not been weeks–”
“Weeks,” Trinity interrupts. “And on Wednesday, Abbot got the bright idea that actually Baran might be gay so he started pitching this poor woman and Baran actually seemed a little bit interested.”
“Is that true?” Yolanda turns to her, eyes wide.
“I was not interested.” Baran fights the urge to roll her eyes. “I was never going to take him up on his offer– no matter the gender.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Trinity asserts.
“Well if it doesn’t matter, then what’s the problem?” Baran is trying to see the issue here, she really is. But she’s been practically ghosted for three days. She’s tired. And Trinity has apparently been ruminating on what Baran thought was a fairly inconsequential conversation with a coworker. She feels like a feral dog backed into a corner.
“The problem,” Trinity huffs, “is that you couldn’t even tell him you’re in a relationship.”
“Of course I couldn’t tell him I’m in a relationship,” she practically shouts. The feral dog barks. “HR doesn’t even know I’m in a relationship. Can you imagine the shit–”
“I’m not saying you had to tell him you’re dating us. I’m just saying you could have told him you’re dating someone.” Trinity is breathing hard. There’s a moment of quiet, heavy with all that’s been said and all that’s about to be.
Baran has pushed herself to the far end of the couch, knees tucked up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “I couldn’t,” she says quietly. Dog in the corner, too visible, people too close.
“Why not?” Trinity asks.
“I just,” Baran says, simply, “couldn’t.” She shrugs a little. They’ve had this conversation before. She doesn’t know why Trinity is expecting something different.
Trinity reels back, renewed frustration surging through her, opens her mouth to speak before Yolanda cuts her off with a look. Yolanda turns to face Baran more fully then, her shoulders creating a semblance of a barrier between Baran and Trinity. “No, actually, B, why not?” Yolanda asks. “Why can’t our coworkers know you’re dating someone?”
“Because…” she, or maybe the feral dog, tries for deflection. “That always comes with follow up questions. People find out you’re dating someone and then it’s all ‘who’s the lucky guy,’ and ‘oh how come we never hear about him?’ or even worse, ‘how come we haven’t met him yet?’ I just… I’m already lying enough. I don’t want to lie like that, too.”
“That’s just–” Trinity starts, but is silenced when Yolanda raises a hand to stop her.
“Baby,” Yolanda says, reaching a hand out to rest gently on Baran’s knee. “Do people at work not know you’re gay?”
“What?” Trinity and Baran ask in unison.
“All of those examples about your hypothetical fake partner were men. Do people not know you’re gay?”
Baran can’t take the eye contact Yolanda levels at her. Can’t take Trinity’s gaze just over the surgeon’s shoulder, either. She feels raw, exposed, too known. Too seen. “Not in so many words,” she says into her lap, tucking her face away, trying to create just a little bit more distance.
“Baran,” Yolanda sighs, weaving her fingers into the hair at the top of Baran’s head, moving back and forth soothingly until she picks herself back up to look at them both.
“That conversation with Abbot was truly the first time it’s come up,” she explains. “I don’t like bringing my personal life into work with me, you know that.”
“That’s not true,” Trinity says.
“What’s not true?”
“You talk about your personal life all the time.” Trinity’s frustration, or maybe anger, is back. “You talk about Jasper, you talk about pilates, hell, you talk about your ex-husband! You just don’t talk about us.”
“That’s because no one knows about us.” Baran hugs her legs tighter.
“And why is that?”
“Because they can’t know about us,” Baran seethes. They’ve been over this a thousand times.
“Can’t they?” Trinity is not going to drop it.
“Trinity,” Yolanda sighs, hand still firm on Baran’s knee, thumb tracing ceaseless circles against her jeans.
“No, let me finish,” Trinity gets up from the couch then, begins pacing around the living room. “Why can’t people know about us? What is there for HR to pick apart, really? I understand it would have been an issue two years ago, but now? We’re three consenting adults who have all consented to be in relationships with each other. I’m not your subordinate anymore, not really. Yola certainly isn’t. You’ve proven that you don’t play favorites, in fact, you probably talk to me less than other doctors because of our relationship. So why can’t people know?”
“Because Jasper doesn’t know,” she says. It’s not the whole truth, she doesn’t think. But she feels too exposed right now to examine the other parts. Has to settle for what she knows.
“Great!” Trinity throws up her hands. “Our coworkers don’t know Jasper, so no one will tell him.”
“McKay knows Jasper,” Yolanda points out.
“McKay knows how to keep a secret,” Trinity says. She looks back at Baran expectantly.
“I’m not ready to tell Jasper,” Baran says. That had been a rule since day one. Don’t tell Jasper his mom has two girlfriends. Trinity and Yolanda had agreed immediately.
“I’m not asking you to tell him.” Trinity comes closer now, drops to her knees in front of the couch so they’re eye to eye. “But why can’t you tell other people?”
Baran looks at her for a long time. Why can’t she tell other people? What was she so afraid of, really? Two and a half years ago, her biggest fear would have been people finding out about her seizures. But that ship had well and truly sailed, and there were moments– brief ones– where Baran found herself almost grateful for it. The ED functioned better with two attendings. In some ways it had opened her up enough to find this space with Trinity and Yolanda. Her co-parenting relationship with David was better. It had been hard to be honest, but eventually she recognized the weight that had come off her shoulders. Realized she could breathe deeper.
For a moment she lets herself believe that being open about her love life might bring the same relief too. Wonders what it might be like to have no secrets at all.
She can’t picture that version of herself, not really. For as long as she can remember, she’s always had something to hide. Or conceal. To not let others see.
The feral dog in her chest whines. It doesn’t know how to be loved.
“I’m not ready,” Baran answers for it.
“Jesus Christ, Baran,” Trinity heaves, standing back up. “I feel like I’m back in the fucking closet.”
“Trinity!” Yolanda’s cry is sharper now.
The dog finds its bark, and Baran finds herself standing to face Trinity. “Back in the closet? Back in the closet?” She shouts, waves her hands at the room around them. “Yeah, the apartment you share with your girlfriend sure looks like a really cramped closet.”
“Okay,” Yolanda says, standing up to put herself between the two. It doesn’t matter though, Baran is already backing away and gathering her things. “I think we’ve found our way into a bigger thing that needs to be talked out.”
“You two go ahead and talk all you want,” Baran says, putting on her shoes. “I’m going home.”
“Don’t leave,” Trinity begs. “There’s still more we need to–”
“What more is there to talk about?” Baran cuts her off. “You’ve said you don’t want to be a secret anymore, I’ve said I’m not ready. So I’m going home. Enjoy your fucking dinner.” The door slams behind her as she goes.
Just got to the episode with Santos and Langdon and the seizure patient. First, Langdon’s recommended is wrong. They’re at four minutes of seizure activity and have already given eight of lorazepam. Santos is right that at five minutes when you call this status epilepticus you need to give the anti-seizure medication. She suggests levetiracetam which is one of the first line options. She is completely correct in her knowledge of how to manage status, which is impressive for a new intern.
Langdon wants to keep giving benzos we assume because he knows that what the patient got was actually saline. Putting that horror aside for one second, his suggestion that they repeatedly give benzos and even intubate a patient in status prior to giving an anti-seizure medication is just wildly incorrect management.
Robby lets Langdon get away with continuing this incorrect management but another attending might not have and then the patient what, would never have gotten benzos at all? That’s insane to think about.
Which brings me to how shocking this is on a rewatch. Langdon is taking an action that could have killed or caused serious permanent cognitive impairment to this patient. Who knows how many patients have been harmed. The ED treats a whole lot of alcohol withdrawal which is treated with benzos and is potentially lethal if not treated correctly.
It’s completely understandable that Santos feels like she’s being gaslit when he’s welcomed back warmly. The problem isn’t the substance use disorder. The problem is his utter disregard for taking an action that might have killed patients. Robby too gets a lot of pushback for not welcoming Langdon warmly, but again he knows that Langdon stole drugs and could have harmed patients. And Langdon’s many apologies seem never to wrestle with the real moral failing of his, forever hiding behind addiction to not take responsibility for having possibly done real harm to numerous patients.
Side note that what happens to Langdon after season one wasn’t up to Robby but up to the residency program. And having seen many residents be allowed to graduate who truly should not practice medicine, it’s unsurprising that no serious action was taken.
Maintaining eye contact is something Baran Al-Hashimi prefers - it tells her the person is actively engaged in the conversation, makes it easier for her to clock if someone is lying and... ok, sure, maybe she uses it as an intimidation tactic in the M.D. boys club. After all, it was still a 60/40 split even in 2026.
So when a certain pricklepear of an R2 can't maintain eye contact (she has definitely noted that Trinity's eyes lock on anywhere but her eyes) she aims to correct the issue.
Until she overhears Dr. Santos and Dr. King discussing the similarities between ADHD and Autism, both expressing that eye contact is distracting, exhausting, and incredibly overstimulating.
... or in Dr. Santos' words "the last patient demanded I look her in the eye and I wanted to tear my eyeballs out and put them in a blender with bleach."
