"can you eat my skittles? it's the sweetest in the middle"
⭑ hi, i'm dee! ⭑ 20 ⭑ black+mexican ⭑ gemini ⭑ she/her ⭑ queer ⭑ ex-wattpad writer ⭑ beyhive ⭑ arianator ⭑ the pitt ⭑ age gap advocate ⭑ poly enthusiast ⭑ baran al-hashimi's controversially younger gf ⭑
dni: minors, racists, zionists, xenophobes and homophobes - mostly importantly NO magas allowed!!!!
i do not use ai nor do i support the use of ai, ever!!!!
⭑ my requests & asks are open. my rules are linked here ⭑
⭑ just know that most of what i write is for black readers, but anyone can read. also most of my works are not suitable for minors so i really mean it when i say minors dni. another thing, if you don't like what i post, don't complain in my inbox. just block me and move on, it takes less time to block me instead of typing in an anonymous ask. i do not have time for mean or entitled people when i'm genuinely such a nice person and i do not deserve any hate. if it continues, i will close my inbox and i'd hate to do that to everyone else who's actually been so kind to me ⭑
my works
⤷ the pitt masterlist
⤷ ballerina!reader
⤷ most recent - welcome to hollywood: the pitt hollywood au
jack abbot talks to your cunt as if it’s sentient. coos a “hi pretty girl” towards her when he spreads your legs, compliments her for tasting so good, for being so wet. spanks her when she’s being naughty. if you try to chime in, he just shoves his fingers, or your panties, or a gag in your mouth. he’s not interested in what you have to say. he’s talking to his favorite girl.
ava pulls over by the street, your hand filled with bags that she paid for, clothes that you bought to impress her. only for her to be mad that you didn't let her know. and that your friend dropped you off. okay, maybe the boy tried to flirt with you once. and ava happened to be there. but there wasn't anything you could exactly do about it. and it certainly didn't give ava the right to be straight up rude.
you open up the car door, throwing the bags at the backseat and closing the door with more force than necessary.
"lose the attitude princess. or else."
"or else what?"
"you don't want to know." ava starts up the car and her hand immediately lands on your left thigh, skin meeting skin just under your skirt. she grips and you yank her fingers away.
"i said loose the attitude."
"i will if you stop being so fucking mean to me. what did i do?"
"oh so you wanna go there?" ava grips the steering wheel, eyes on the road and not returning her hand back on your thigh.
"yeah. tell me. and don't bring up the 'you didn't bring me to shopping' bullshit." your eyes fixed on her.
"okay." she sighs, "what were you thinking letting that dude drive you here? does he need another talking? is it that? cause you know i can make sure-"
"no ava." you cut her words, she gives you a look that signs danger. "i let him because he wouldn't shut up and i didn't have anyone to bring me over anyway. i didn't want to take the bus and playing him was easier."
ava smirks, her teeth showing and her jaw setting. she looks at you at the red light, just momentarily before hitting the road once more. "oh so that's it." she laughs lightly, it tingles your bones. "i get it. mommy's little girl gets to play around, let on some other boy. come back home to me and pretend like she gets a pass."
you remain silent, breathing rather loudly. the radio is too low to conceal the sounds of it.
"i should teach you a lesson really."
that makes you turn, because deep down you know that was the awaited reaction. to get ava jealous for a bit, get that switch on. you didn't even talk with the guy at all, he offered, you accepted and didn't interact through the whole way. ava doesn't need to know that.
"yeah?" you ask, trying to not show the excitement too much. ava's smirk grows.
"did you do it to piss me off?" the quiet anger doesn't leave though, still evident in the way she drives.
"maybe." that's all you say, and ava mumbles something that sounds awfully like bitch underneath her voice. she just grabs your thigh once again. the grip harder this time.
"spread your legs. we're almost there anyway." she keeps on driving, doesn't spare you a glance. her fingers are not as rough as they're supposed to be when she reaches your underwear.
"fuck baby." she breaths, "you're so wet." she licks her lips and puts some pressure right on your clit. your vision whitening on the edges, head dizzy in the way you lean back against the seat and spread your legs as wide as the seat lets. ava starts circling, parking the car with one hand. "did you think of me while buying those slutty shit baby?"
"yes." you pant, "yes i did ava, please." she stops the car and halts her movement at the same time. you realize it's her place and not yours when your eyes open.
ava slaps your pussy, sudden as the feeling jolts through you. "common princess. we gotta get going. or are you gonna stay in the car and wait for your boyfriend?"
"he's not my boyfrie-" ava spanks your pussy once more, harder this time. you gasp even louder. "not a word from you until i say so. understood?"
you nod and get up from your seat on the instant. picking up your bags and hurrying to the front door.
ava's chest to your back as she pushes you inside, even more hurried than you. her fingers stick to your waist the second the door is locked. she makes you throw the bags on the floor, walking you to the living room and bending you over the couch.
"drop the panties." she commands, "common, quickly baby. don't you wanna be good for me?" you slip them down your legs and hand them over to ava. she stuffs the fabric into her bra, through her shirt. her attention never leaving you. she bends you further, you holding onto the cushions and rising up your ass.
ava lifts your skirt, a nimble finger and she lets her sharper nails rake against your skin, raising goosebumps in her wake. making you squirm. "now i want you to listen real close to me princess." she touches your wetness, two fingers sliding against it, your legs parting, ass lifting further into the air. your breath hitches when she ghosts her fingertips against your hollow entrance, your clit perking up.
"you're mine." her fingers plunge into you, furious, unkempt. "got it? mine." she brings her other hand to your jaw, tilting it so you look at her face. "mine to love, to ruin, to fuck. mine to toy with, mine." her fingers are pumping in and out furiously, making you gasp out her name. "mine to show off. mine to have. say it. say my name baby."
"ava. ava, fuck please." she brings her hand up to your neck, burying your face into the couch and choking lightly. "keep on baby. i can't hear you."
you moan louder, saying her name. "i won't stop till i'm sure you can't think of anything else. till you can't think at all. common doll, you sound soo good. moan louder for mommy."
"mommy please please oh please." you groan, letting your head fall as ava blocks your airway for a little longer, her nails scratching your neck as she pushes in a third finger. she keeps them moving, harder with each thrust, the wet sounds echoing in the living space. "please ava, harder."
"yeah?" you can her the smirk in her voice as she shifts the angle and fingers you with even more force in each movement. you're so close, so so close as she praises you. "soo good baby. so good for me. so pretty. yeah, keep saying my name just like that. i'm gonna give you what you want. such a pretty pussy for mommy. all mine."
"only yours ava. please i'm so close." you groan and it takes only three more flicks of ava's hand till you're coming with her name loud on your lips. she keeps her fingers there, pumping them leisurely and leaning over to place a kiss on your forehead.
she pulls you up, back to her body using the hold on your neck, still gripping ever lightly. "you did so good princess. maybe i should reward you for your well behaving."
you look at her, eyes pleading. she has to give in. "go upstairs and put on that new set.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
missing ava coleman like a bitch that i made some bullshit.. also hello @simsimmahh this is to say i saw your + one other anon request !! and im combining them to do something for ava (hopefully posted soon) but this was also jealous ava so hope you enjoy :p
i know i'm 2 years late, but i finally watched challengers and i don't think tashi was wrong at all. she was definitely doing way too much for those little white boys, and i don't think they deserved it. i think art idolized tashi and wasn't actually in love with her. tashi wasn't in love with art either. i think patrick was a bum, and he was definitely one of those guys who didn't know when it was time to quit. 😩
also, i'm thinking of writing a challengers-ish au with characters from the pitt in the future. 🫦
tags: ex-wives; dayshift attending!baran al-hashimi x nurse practitioner f!reader. you’re fooling around with cassie mckay. jealous baran al-hashimi. pittlings crack. cassie mcstrap. crashtos friendship. minor mcvadi. minor garsantos.
a/n: req from ask. crosspost! forgot i have an old ipad lol. @ ao3 🔒 (unlock once i fully crosspost :] i like the 69 kudos).
╰⋆˚꩜｡ ex!jack abbot is not fond of the new resident
cw: mentions of blood! proofread a lil
“i swear i’m fine!” you repeat, angling your hand upwards so the blood from your palm pools on your hand and not let any of it drip on the floor.
the laceration on your palm was an unfortunate consequence after naively giving your absolute trust to the MS4 you dragged with you to perform an escharotomy.
he was just handing you a scalpel, how did that ended so badly?
now, you’re rushing to find a room with a suture kit on your non-dominant hand. the new and awfully stubborn r3 named stan, who started 2 weeks ago, is following behind you.
“oh come on. i swear i’m good with sutures! let me at least show my skills,” stan swears by his heart.
you enter an empty treatment room, and turn around to the guy who’s so eager to help you with your injury.
“you’re telling me you just wanna show off?”
“to be fair, my main reason is to help you. the other part is secondary,” he says with a sincere look.
you sigh, sitting on the bed. you might as well let him. it would be quite a pain in the ass if you treat your dominant hand by yourself.
“just live up to your word, okay?”
his face practically beams! oh, he feels like its his lucky day to help the pretty resident.
“i won’t disappoint,” he smiles with full teeth, grabbing the suture kit from you and pulls a chair facing the bed.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
stan’s hands are gentler than you thought. head bent close, and brows furrowed in concentration. he grips your hand carefully, “deep breaths and relax your arm for me, yeah?”
you nod, “yeah… yeah, sorry.”
“don’t apologize. you’re doing great.”
you take your gaze away from your palm, immediately meeting his. you didn’t realize that he was already looking at you.
“yeah yeah, okay,” you give him a small smile, hoping that it seals how grateful you are for the help.
outside the small bubble you share with stan, jack abbot watches you through the glass behind the counter by the nurse’s station. his eyes fixate on stan’s hand cradling yours, and to your shy smile as the man tends to your wound.
jack knows that smile. hell, he misses it. he knows what it costs to earn it, because he used to be good at it—
“what’cha watching there?” robby nudges his shoulder, putting the chart he was just reading on the counter.
jack doesn’t look away.
“that new resident of yours… he knows what he’s doing right?” jack asks, hiding the grumble in his voice or else it’ll give him away.
robby follows his eyes, “ah that. our overeager intern lacerated her palm earlier. so, stan’s just fixing it up.”
“fuck” you hiss, teeth digging on your lower lip.
“i’m almost done, okay? you’re a big girl,” stan smiles
oh, the usual level-minded attending seethes. who the fuck does he think he is? calling you big girl like that, voice all soft and sweet? a suture on the palm shouldn’t even take this long too, that’s a quick job for a good resident, and not whatever slow, deliberate thing happening behind the glass like there’s no one else in the department.
“he’s taking his time about it,” jack points out. is stan not aware of the awfully busy nature of PTMC? for a woman who values efficiency in the workplace, why are you letting this man be inefficient with time—
“abbot,” robby’s voice firm and stern voice cuts him off. that doesn’t faze his friend away though.
“what?” jack finally takes his gaze away to look at his friend, like robby is the one being insufferable. “what now?”
“just leave them be, alright? leave her be. it’s been like what—a year?” he says with a serious face, the friendly grin no longer there.
“how is that relevant? have you seen the number of people waiting out there, we can’t have our residents fucking aro—?”
robby doesn’t let him finish and lets out an exasperated sigh. he grabs his shoulders, forcefully steering jack to push him out of the nurse’s station, and drag his ass with him to the ambulance bay area.
“ooookay, let’s get some air, shall we?” robby squeezes his shoulders, a surprising reminder that jack is menacingly built and yet he just lets robby manhandle him towards the exit.
through the glass, right as robby’s turning him towards where they’re going, your head tips up.
you’re not sure why, but its like your instincts sensed that you’re being watched and you just had to look who it is.
you make eye contact with jack, being escorted out by your attending.
there’s that annoying little thing prickling in your chest once again. you hold your gaze on his, and your ex boyfriend does too—
“and we’re done!” stan pulls your attention back to him. “look at my beautiful work.”
you turn to stan, and okay, you can’t deny that he is quite good with sutures. he has that precision that you struggle with.
“humble, are we?” you tease.
“i’m allowed. i did good work,” the corner of his mouth tips up.
you playfully roll your eyes, letting stan hold your hand and look at his work from different angles under the harsh hospital light.
your mind starts to wander to why is jack here in the hospital two hours before his shift?
a/n: aaaaaand i guess this is the start of my blurb series hehe can’t you tell my favorite jack trope is ex!jack 😋
Summary: Your nickname is Brat, a shortened version of spoiled brat. You’re used to getting your way, including having the entire Pitt staff wrapped around your pretty fingers. However, you’re about to learn soon that a certain night shift attending is great at handling brats.
Lovergirlnote: Hello my little lovergirls, here’s an idea that recently came to mind and I wanted to share it with you all. There will be one more part to this. In the meantime, there will be new updates, but I figured this should hold you little freaks over for now. As always, thanks for the love and support. Let me know what you think!☺️♥️
Warning(s): SMUT (18+), brat!reader, brat tamer!Jack Abbot, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, dirty talk, a bit of medical racism but nothing too crazy.
For as long as you could remember, you’d always had a certain knack for getting what you wanted from others. Whether it was from pouting at your parents to get you all of the Bratz doll, including a custom doll house for them all to live in.
Or the fact that you were successful at collecting money from even the stingiest members of your family.
You’d even used your powers of persuasion to get out of multiple situations like the time where you were for sure speeding, but you had talked your way out of the ticket by flashing your prettiest smile at the officer. You’d even left him with number, which you didn’t use.
With all of this knowledge to your arsenal, you used it to your advantage each time. Why should you feel bad because people liked to give you stuff? Wasn’t that the whole point of living a soft life?
Even in relationships, you naturally attracted men who just wanted to buy you nice things. You didn’t even have to put it much effort. It was either a pretty smile, a slow flutter of your eyelashes, or your personal favorite, a pout. Your partners fell in line with buying you whatever you wanted without qualms.
Sure, some may call you a bit materialistic, but what was the difference between you liking nice things and some bleach blonde using her daddy’s debit card?
You wouldn’t apologize for getting what you wanted.
As your mother often liked to say, “It’s your world, babygirl. We’re just living in it.”
You were known to throw a little tantrum here and there when things didn’t go your way, but never anything too serious. At the slightest inconvenience, you always had people who were willing to rush to fix it for you.
Some people would describe you as charismatic. Others would describe you best a spoiled brat.
Most normal people would be offended by the phrase, but you took it in full stride. You’d even gotten the delicate gold necklace to match.
When you first started at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for your residency, all eyes were on you. The cute new doctor who showed up in her black scrubs with her makeup done. Your makeup wasn’t anything too flashy, but it definitely brought attention to yourself.
“Check out the Barbie,” Trinity Santos quips, her eyes trailing up and down your form. She quickly clocks the diamond studs in your ear that would probably cost her a month of rent.
You ignore the girl’s condescending jab and pull your attention to Dr. Robby. Once he debriefs everyone for the day, he pulls his attention to you.
“We have a new first year resident here with us. Everyone say hello to Dr. Yln. I expect that you’ll all make her feel very welcome,” Robby states, his gaze continuously flickering to your face.
‘A pretty face,’ he thinks to himself.
A few others pull their attention to you before offering polite smiles. However, you can see the misconceptions already forming in their mind before they even get a chance to speak with you.
Unsurprisingly, you’re immediately pulled to assist in cases. It’s clear to you from the jump that all of the others doctors are challenging you to see if you’ll meet their standards or fail horribly.
Robby has you and another man whose name that you learned was Chet together on a case.
Your heart clenches at the sight of the woman in the bed, her dark skin clamming up with sweat as she holds her stomach.
“Hi, Mrs. Young, I’m Dr. Yln, could you tell me where you’re hurting?” You ask, keeping your voice calm for the woman.
“In my lower stomach. It just came out of nowhere. I don’t know what’s wrong,” Mrs. Young tells you, silent tears falling down her face.
“What would you rate the pain?” You ask.
“10.”
Chet scoffs from the corner, “There’s no way her pain’s at 10 in her lower abdomen.”
You whip your head around to face him. “I would say that Mrs. Young is the expert of her own body.”
You turn to face the woman. “It’s okay, we’re gonna do what we can. I’m gonna press down gently on your abdomen, and you tell me where the pain is, okay.”
Mrs. Young nods. You begin gently pressing at her abdomen, while subtly checking her expressions. You press on the lower right side of the abdomen and the woman cries harder.
“Have you been bleeding recently?”
“Yes, it started yesterday, but my period’s not supposed to start now.”
“Sounds like appendicitis,” Chet announces.
“Appendicitis isn’t bleeding from the vagina. Mrs. Young, is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
Mrs. Young frowns, “I don’t know. I haven’t gotten my period in a while, but they’re usually very irregular.”
Before you can ask the next question, Robby walks into the room. “What do we have?”
“Appendicitis,” Chet said.
Robby clocks the clear anger and frustration on your face before you can voice it. “Dr. Yln, is that correct?”
“No, I think she’s experiencing an ectopic pregnancy. I checked her abdomen and she’s experiencing heavy bleeding and no period noted in a while. I suggest we conduct a laparoscopy to check,” you explain.
Chet frowns, “We’re doing that for abdomen pain. Seems excessive.”
You and Robby frown at the same time. Before you can tear the other man a new one, Robby holds a hand up. “Dr. Baker, step out of the room and take a seat in the break room. We’ll have a conversation soon.”
It’s only at this point that Chet seems to catch onto the error of his ways. He opens his mouth to make up an excuse before Robby shoots him a deadly glare. You turn back to face Mrs. Young. The woman looks at you with fear coloring her face.
“Am I gonna be okay?” She asks, her voice small.
“Yes, we’ll do our best to take care of you. I’ll be here every step of the way, okay?” You grab the woman’s hand in yours and squeeze gently. This isn’t just two women connecting with each other. It’s one black woman assuring another that she has her back in a system that doesn’t typically take care of black women.
A look of understanding passes between the two of you. She smiles, “Thank you, doctor.”
You look over to Robby.
“Mrs. Young, we’re gonna get you moved up to general surgery. They’ll take care of you there. I’ll make sure of it,” Robby states.
A few minutes pass by before Mrs. Young is taken to surgery. You smile and squeeze her hand one last time. “I’ll come check on you once you’re done.”
She gives you a thanks, and then she’s out of sight. Robby moves to stand beside you and stares down at you. “That was a good catch in there, kid. Also good on you for advocating for your patient. You mind walking me through what else Dr. Baker said?”
“He was dismissing her pain and belittling it. There were snide comments about her pain not being as severe, along with him trying to slap the label on that she has appendicitis. I know it’s only my first day here, but I didn’t come here to watch any women of color much less black women be treated like they’re less than priority,” You said, giving Robby a hard stare.
“You’re right. That’s not how we do things around here. I’ll talk to Baker and HR. I don’t want any doctors in my hospital who don’t respect the well-being of our patients, especially when it comes to their pain.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now get to charting,” Robby said before walking off to the break room.
You walk over to the computers and begin charting. As you lean over, your necklace hangs down, glinting distinctly under the fluorescent lights.
Santos tilts her head and chuckles. “Brat? That’s your nickname?”
You look up from the computer with a soft smirk. “Yeah, it stands for spoiled brat, which means that I get whatever I want, no matter the cost. You know how us Barbies like to have our way. I could teach you how to do it sometimes. Maybe, even get you some real gold earrings instead of those tarnished ones that you have on.”
You see her expression shift. You give her another smile before going back to typing your work. Santos looks around awkwardly before muttering about going to check on a case.
Dana chuckles, “That was pretty brutal, kid. The nickname matches because only brats would come up insults like that. You’re gonna get on just fine here.”
“Thanks Dana,” you said.
You’d known many girls like Trinity Santos in your lifetime. The ones who made snide quips at the expense of others because they were too scared to be rejected.
You’d nip all of that in the bud before it advanced.
However, there was one thing you wouldn’t be getting rid of anytime soon. Your nickname.
Brat.
Word travels fast of your little moniker and the gold platted necklace does nothing but solidify it. It’s not long before the usual pattern of people giving you whatever you want starts to follow through.
However you’re about to learn that there’s one man in the hospital who doesn’t give into brats so easily.
There’s a lot of realities that hit Jack Abbot as he gets older. He realizes very soon that at forty-seven, fifty is creeping right around the corner for him. His back reminds him of that same fact as well, along with the distinct aching that goes through his leg in the morning.
Jack Abbot also realizes that he’s beginning to lose his patience with people. He’s always been able to hide it with dry humor, but genuinely, people are starting to annoy the man more and more.
He’s keeps said annoyance at bay as much as he can when it comes to the residents. He always does the little counting exercises in his head, but the annoyance still persists.
And let’s not even get started on the nasty side-eye that he’d perfected over the years.
Ellis has to continuously remind him to fix his face over the course of their shift.
After listening in on the police scanner, he grabs his go-bag to go assist with the pile up. Never mind the fact that his therapist would be vehemently against him going in. Something about setting boundaries between work and life.
But what life does Jack have?
He comes home to an empty two-story house that rarely feels like his anymore without his wife. Along with the fact that he still wakes up frantic in the night, reaching for her side of the bed.
So if it was between choosing to stay home or throwing himself into an active line of fire, he’d choose the latter each time.
As soon as Jack steps through the door, Robby breathes a sigh of relief upon seeing him. He pulls Jack into a side hug. “It’s so fucking good to see you here, Jack.”
“Yeah? Sounds like you’re about ten seconds from jizzing your pants at the sight of me.”
Robby rolls his eyes, “Sounds like you’re in a mood, old man.”
Before Jack can quip back, Robby rounds up all of the residents and nurses to place everyone.
“King and Langdon, I need you here. Javadi and Mohan, you take rooms 5-8. Brat and Santos, you take 9-11,” Robby delegates.
Jack frowns at the man’s use of the name, “Brat.” He’d heard everyone gushing over a “Brat,” but he’d yet to actually meet the young woman who had everyone falling at her feet.
He scans his eyes across the herd of people and tries to decipher any unfamiliar faces. It isn’t long before his eyes land on you. You casually chew on a piece of gum with a bored expression on your pretty face. You look a lot less drained than any of the other doctors.
His eyes trail down your form before it stops at the sight of the delicate necklace resting neatly on your scrubs.
Brat.
He’s impressed with the pretty cursive font, and he figures from the look of the necklace that it isn’t cheap.
Ah, so you were the one.
You were the notorious Brat.
He has to admit to himself that when he heard people gushing over how gorgeous you are, he had the strange desire to see for himself. Now as you stand before him, he has to admit that people’s descriptions of you didn’t hold a candle to how beautiful you actually are.
Sending his stare, your eyes finally catch his. You give him a once over before your eyes go back to Robby. Robby claps his hands and everyone goes to their assigned positions. Well everyone except you.
You walk over to stand in front of Jack and Robby. You look up at the taller man, “Dr. Robby, can I switch and take the other rooms with Javadi?”
Jack frowns. Robby’s eyes flicker down to you. “And pray tell, why should I swap you two?”
You shrug, “I have experience working with burn victims that Javadi doesn’t. Could be a good learning opportunity.”
Jack expects Robby to grow annoyed and send you to go work with Santos, but he catches the decision crossing the man’s face. Robby sighs and gives you a small smile, “Sure kid. Tell Whitaker he’s with Santos. Mohan can handle the patient in room 12.”
“Thanks Robby,” You said, flashing the man your best and prettiest smile.
He blushes and nods his head before ushering you along. Robby feels Jack’s stare burning on the side of his face, so he turns to look at his friend. “What?”
“So she flashes you a pretty smile, and you give in. You’re going soft, brother,” Jack quips, glancing over at you while you’re having a conversation with Whitaker.
He can see the beginnings of rebuttal on the younger man’s lips, but you pout and Dennis redirects his whole approach to please him. You bestow him with the same pretty smile that you’d given Robby before leaving.
Jack snaps his head in Robby’s direction. He lowers his voice, “You aren’t sleeping with her, are you?”
He ignores the rising feelings of jealousy that start to course through his veins at the thought of Robby touching you.
“What? No! Listen, she’s a great doctor and she’s proven herself plenty of times here. Plus, she can be really persuasive at getting her way when she wants it,” Robby explains.
Jack nod. Yeah, he’d have to see about that.
Throughout the course of the shift, Jack can’t help but watch you. He watches the way that you move along the hospital like you owned the place. Most of all, he watches the way that others interact around you and give into your whims.
It was always usually followed by a pretty smile, a flutter of lashes, or a pout. God, that pretty little pout was absolute torture to witness. It was clear that you’d mastered the skill over the course of many years. He can vividly picture a much younger you pouting up at your parents and them immediately giving you what you wanted.
There’s a sudden other reality that comes over Jack. A sudden urge if you can call it that. He has this little devil whispering on his shoulder about being mean to you and turning down your pout to show you who’s really in control.
It’s been quite a long time since he’s had the pleasure of taming a brat.
You’re angry. No angry doesn’t feel like the right word. You’re furious. No, that still doesn’t give the same itch that you’re yearning for.
You’re irate.
Yeah, that’s it. That feels a lot better. The object of your disdain is currently across the room, smiling at Robby, and pretending that he doesn’t feel you glowering at him.
It may have been a little childish on your part, but you didn’t get your nickname for no reason. Jack was witnessing first hand why the name suited you.
It started after an incoming case involving a metal rod being stuck out of an abdomen. By now, everyone knows that you were interested in taking the more gruesome cases. Call it general curiosity or depravity, but everyone knew to assign those cases to you.
You immediately volunteer only to be stopped by Jack.
The silver-haired man looks you squarely in the eye, a challenge swirling in his hazel eyes. His eyes flicker past you, “Dr. King, you’re with me.”
You open your mouth to protest but quickly close it at the challenging look that Jack gives you. He wants you to make a scene, so he can put you back into place. For some reason, the thought of him putting you back into place excites you.
You and the older man stare at each other. It’s only for a few seconds but for you and Jack, it feels like an eternity. On instinct, you bottom lip starts to jut out and you give Jack that look. He has to admit that seeing the look up close is a whole other ball game. He can see why people give into you so easily.
Despite his heart and other parts telling him to give into you, he stands firm. A stern expression covers his face, and he lowers his head in challenge to you. You huff and walk back over to the computers to finish charting.
Jack chuckles lowly, but he definitely doesn’t miss the glare you throw his way.
Jack-1
Brat-0
Even as Jack stands across you, it makes you even angrier because the man looks so good. From the silver curls that sit perfectly atop of his head to the way that the scrubs tighten around his biceps. And let’s not even get into the way that the man stands with his legs apart.
It may just be the fact that he’s bowlegged. However, you know for a fact that it’s because the man is slinging some serious pressure between his legs. You hate that way that your mind goes to thinking about what it’d be like to have the older man’s hands all over you.
Or even his tongue…nope! You’re not allowing your thoughts to venture into that territory, especially when you’re supposed to be angry.
Feeling your eyes on him, Jack looks over and catches the death stare that you’re giving him. He laughs at the look on your face because he knows that it’s supposed to be your best evil stare, but you only look cute to you. He even has the sudden urge to cuddle you into his side.
He winks at you, to which you scoff and roll your eyes before looking down at the computer. Yeah, he was gonna enjoy putting you in your place.
It’s been a week since your one-sided beef with Jack Abbot, and let’s just say the beef is still ongoing. During the shifts that Jack would show up, you’d immediately jump to be the biggest brat known to man.
You’d completely bypass asking him for help and immediately turning to Robby. If he asked you to do something, you’d pretend not to see him and feign surprise at seeing him standing in front of you. The small antics continued between the two of you with Jack teetering the line between annoyed and amused with your actions.
At this point, he’s purposefully doing things to see you act out. Yet, he still feels that tinge of jealousy peeking through at seeing you bat your eyelashes at other people.
Such as now.
One of the other night shift residents was out with the flu, so you volunteered to help out. Partially so you could be close to Jack to annoy him.
It’s your third night on this shift, and you’ve already managed to wrap everyone around your fingers.
Shen walks up to the desk where you’re standing and hands you an iced coffee. Jack has no doubts in his mind that the drink has enough sugar to send a diabetic into shock.
“Here you go, Brat,” Shen said, giving you a small smile.
“Awwww, thanks Dr. Shen. You didn’t have to. How much do I owe you?”
Shen shakes his head, “Nothing at all. Plus, you’re the only one that appreciates Dunkin’ as much as I do.”
“It’s the best. I know a killer dupe for some of their fall syrups. I’ll make us coffees for tomorrow,” you said. Jack watches as you stab the pink straw into the drink before wrapping your glossed lips around the straw.
He follows the liquid as it travels up the straw, and a low moan escapes your lips at the drink hitting your tongue. Your eyes lock onto Shen. “You added cinnamon this time, didn’t you?”
“Yeah! It’s great, right?”
“So good,” you said, sipping at the coffee.
Jack rolls his eyes. “If you two are done playing baristas, then I think our patients would appreciate a little quality care.”
You and Shen mutually roll your eyes at the man. Shen sips from his drink. “Chill, Jack. Are you mad that I didn’t buy you a drink?”
“No, if I wanted to go into a sugar coma, I’d pick a better vice,” Jack states dryly.
“He’s definitely jealous. Totally green jello,” You comment, smirking at Jack’s obvious annoyance. Shen laughs before walking off to go assist on any cases.
You and Jack continue your stare off. “You know if you’re really jealous, you’re more than welcome to have some of my drink, Dr. Abbot.”
You hold the sweaty cup out to Jack. A wide smile covers your lips. Truthfully, you expect the man to back off. You hide your surprise somewhat well when he steps forward and bends his neck down to come close to the drink.
Jack looks at you the entire time as he places his lips on the straw just as you did. He can taste the faint remnants of your lip gloss on the straw. He fights the heat that blooms through his chest at the needy way that you’re looking at him.
The immediate rush of sugar hits him as he sips from your drink. He pulls back and swallows the liquid. He smirks, “Thanks for the drink, Brat.”
He places stressed emphasis on the nickname. You look down at the drink where his lips had just been. Jack almost looks like he’s challenging you to see if you’ll take another sip from the drink.
You bring the cup up to your lips and take a long drag of the liquid into your mouth. You smile, “You’re welcome, Dr. Abbot. I’m always open to helping the elderly.”
He frowns. You smile sweetly before stalking off down the hallway.
Brat-1
Jack-1
Throughout the course of the night, you and Jack egg each other on. If you’re working a case together, he can count on you saying some condescending, sarcastic remark in response to his questions. In response, he puts you on multiple cases.
Towards the end of the shift, you find yourself walking to the stairwell for a break. Jack finds you standing on the roof, the beginnings of the sun peeking over the horizon.
“You know I wouldn’t stand so close to the edge. You might slip,” Jack calls out.
You roll your eyes in response. “Don’t worry, Dr. Abbot. I wouldn’t want your old heart to give out.”
Jack chuckles. He walks closer to stand next to you. “You’re still mad at me for the other week.”
“Gee, what brought you to that bright conclusion?” You ask sarcastically.
“I don’t know, maybe the fact that you act like the world is ending if I’m around you, or the fact that you’ve been giving me attitude the whole time you’ve been here. Must be the nickname.”
“You knew that I wanted that case, and you took it away from me,” you said.
“I did because I hate to burst your bubble, Princess, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. This is a teaching hospital, which means that everyone here gets equal opportunities to learn,” Jack states, his eyes growing darker.
You scoff, “You think I don’t know that? I get what this is, but I deserved to be on that case. You’re too busy being a dick to see my potential.”
You turn to stalk away from the roof. You enter the stairway before you feel a tug on your arm. Your body is whipped around to face Jack again. That same stern look from before covers his face as he looks down at you.
“You’re a fucking spoiled brat. I know how pretty girls like you operate. You think that if you bat your eyelashes or pout all pretty, then people are supposed to give you what you want. New flash, sweetheart, this is the adult world. You don’t always get what you want.”
Jack watches as your nostrils flare in anger. You snatch your arm away from him and push at his chest. It only makes you angrier once you notice that Jack barely moves.
“You listen, you old fuck! I worked my ass off to get to where I am. I can’t help it if people naturally want to give into me. If you have a problem with, then you can take it up with the stick in your ass,” you yell.
You’re about to walk down the stairs when you feel Jack grab you again. This time, however, he backs you into the closest wall. You’re surprised when he moves his hand to squish your cheeks together.
He moves his face closer to yours.
You can feel the heat radiating from his body. You subtly push your thighs together, which Jack catches. Of course he catches it.
He smirks and looks down at you. “Oh, I see what it is now. You want my attention, don’t you? You’ve always had my attention, sweetheart. From the moment that you pouted those pretty lips. You walk around here, smiling at everyone and expecting to get your way. You’ve never had anyone to tell you no, have you sweetheart?”
You shake your head. You can already feel the heat blossoming through your body.
“You wanna know what I think? I think you want me to put you in your place. That’s why you keep acting like this. But I wonder how I can do that?” Jack raises an eyebrow, as though he’s thinking. He moves his face closer to yours. His lips ghost over yours and when you move forward, he pulls back with a smirk.
You’re about to protest when he surges forward to claim your lips in a passionate kiss. You and Jack breathe heavily against each other. You try to dominate the kiss, only to gasp in surprise when Jack slides his hand around your throat. He feels you trying to take control, so he squeeze gently.
“Be good for me, baby,” He orders softly.
In some distinct more animalistic part of your brain, you find yourself becoming mushy at the man’s words. There’s a part of you that clicks and wants to genuinely be good for him.
Jack feels your body relax in his hold. “That’s right, sweetheart. Be a good girl for me. I know you want to.”
A low whimper leaves your lips before you’re silenced by him sliding his tongue into your mouth. As he curls his tongue around yours, you can taste the distinct mint gum that he’d be chewing earlier. Jack sucks your bottom lip into his mouth before releasing it with a soft pop.
His freckled hand travels down until his reaches the tie of your scrub bottoms. The knot loosens easily, and he teases his fingers on the band of your pants.
You buck into his hold, your body growing desperate for some form of relief.
Jack pulls back to look at you. He pouts, “You want my fingers? You gotta ask nicely for me, Brat.”
A flare of indignation overcomes your body. You can feel the brattiness taking control of your body. Jack spots the demeanor as it rises.
“I’m not begging you,” You state.
Jack lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, you’re not? That’s too bad, sweetheart.” He moves his head to your ear. “I was planning on making you feel really good. Been thinking about sliding my hands into your panties…I know you’re wet by now. Just imagine how good I’d make you feel when you cum on my fingers.”
As he says the words, he emphasizes his point by trailing his hand over the top of your pants and pressing his palm against your pussy.
“But if you don’t want to be a good girl and ask me, then I can’t help you,” He states, already beginning to move his hand. In a moment of weakness, you grab his arm before he can remove it. That look comes over your face. Your pretty big eyes filling with desperate tears and your bottom lip sticking out. Jack stores the image to his memory for later use.
“Please…”
“What’s that, honey? I don’t think I heard you too well.”
Normally, you’d push one of your other partners off you if they pulled something like this. But with Jack, it’s different. You want him to touch you.
No, that’s not right.
You need him to touch you.
“Please make me feel good, Jack,” you beg.
He smiles, “Good girl.”
Jack wastes no time with sliding his hand beneath your pants and panties. He groans at feeling your slick folds against his digits. “Is this all for me, sweetheart?”
“Yes Jack. Only for you,” You said.
You whine and buck your fingers to meet Jack’s touch. The man slides his calloused fingers along your throbbing pearl. He expertly rubs circles around your clit as if he’s known your body for years. He can only watch as your face scrunches in pleasure.
He’s sure that you’re the most beautiful woman that he’s seen in a while. Your moans start to increase in volume, so Jack does the only reasonable thing that he can think of.
He sticks his fingers in your mouth.
His fingers muffle the sound of your needy moans. You surprise him when you clamp your lips around his fingers and start to suckle at them. In response, he slides his fingers down to your entrance and pushes them in. Your eyes roll back in pleasure at the feeling of Jack curling his fingers upwards. The heel of his palm grinds carefully against your sensitive clit.
“So that’s all I needed to do to shut you up. Stick my fingers down your throat and into your needy little pussy, and you become a good girl for me? No more brat,” Jack states.
He feels your walls clench around his fingers in response.
“Oh, you like that? You like me being in control. S’all you needed was for someone to take charge.”
You nod helplessly. He pushes his fingers further down your throat, which makes you gag softly. “Relax for me, sweetheart.”
You breathe through your nose and relax your throat. In response, the older man pushes his fingers down your throat again. This time, he isn’t met with any resistance.
Jack continues thrusting his fingers and hitting that sacred spot that makes your eyes roll back further. By now, his hand is soaked with you.
Jack knows that you’re close. He can tell by the way that you’re clenching and grinding down onto his fingers.
You’re preparing yourself for the orgasm to hit, but you almost scream when Jack removes his hands from your center. He slides the wet digits out of your pants following by removing his fingers from your throat. A string of saliva follows before breaking.
You look at the older man in disbelief.
He slides his stained fingers in his mouth, licking any evidence of you from his hand.
Once he’s done, he stares at you.
“Don’t look so sad, honey. Only good girls get to cum.”
With that, he walks down the stairwell before opening the door and leaving you standing there. Wet. On the cusp of an orgasm. And in compete and utter disbelief.
contains: nsfw! 18+ mdni, a little self indulgent, big titty!reader, nipple play, nipple sucking, strap-on usage, strap sucking.
| the pitt masterlist |
baran loves laying her head on your chest after a long day of work, and quickly falling asleep right on the plush fat there. when she wakes up, she tells you she gets the best sleep from laying on your chest.
or some nights baran will lay next to you in bed and start slowly kissing you from your neck down to your chest, her mouth watering each second she kisses closer to your breasts, then she starts tugging at your shirt, signaling she wants it off of you.
once your shirt is off, her mouth instantly attacks your breasts, roughly kissing and sucking on your soft skin, leaving red marks with each kiss, as she listens to your soft whimpers. then she wraps her lips around one of your nipples gently sucking and swirling her tongue around the sensitive bud. her fingers occupy your other nipple, pinching and rolling it between them, your soft whimpers quickly turn into loud moans from the sensation.
after a while, you're a moaning mess next to her, but she doesn't let up, she's in heaven. but it's too much for you, your fingers softly tug at her hair, attempting to pull her from your nipple.
"just need a few more minutes," baran says, looking up at you through her lashes, soft pout forming on her lips. "can you do that for me, baby?"
and you softly nod, giving your girlfriend what she wants.
there are nights where baran will fall asleep, her mouth still latched to one of your nipples and one of her hands cupping your other breast, all while she's sound asleep.
sometimes baran will drag you along with her on her morning run just to see your tits bounce as you run next to her. she has to slow herself down to match your pace, but it's so worth it to her to have you by her side, not only to have a little show in the morning, but she also enjoys your company and the jokes you make about being out of shape.
baran who buys you the cutest bras from your favorite lingerie stores just to see the pretty patterns clinging to your tits. her favorites are the see through lace bras that show your hardened nipples underneath, they make her mouth water and her cunt drool, soaking her panties.
"so so pretty f'me, azizam." she mumbles, looking over your body as you stand in front of her, showcasing the new bras she bought you, and making you smile at her compliment.
baran who strips you naked and makes you get onto your knees in front of her to suck her strap as she sits back on the couch, watching the faux cock fill up your pretty mouth, with her hand lazily gripping one of her own breasts. then she has the best idea pop into her head.
she laces her fingers into your hair and gently pulls you from her strap, admiring your wrecked face for a moment before speaking up.
"i want you to try sliding it between your tits," baran gestures towards the strap on you just had buried in your mouth.
she guides you in what she wants you to do, telling you to squeeze your breasts around the dildo between her legs, and slide them up and down the length. you do as she instructed fucking her strap between your plump breasts as she watches in awe, groaning slightly.
part of baran wishes the cock were real so she could feel the pretty tits fucking it, and so she could reward you afterwards by painting your pretty tits, and even prettier face, with her cum.
sometimes when you're both lounging on the couch together, watching a movie or something, baran will slip one of her hands underneath your shirt, cupping one of your breasts, and resting her hand there.
whenever you're bored at home while baran is working, you send her pictures of yourself and what you do throughout the day. sometimes you "accidentally" send her a picture of you in one of her favorite bras, your breasts sitting perfectly and your face in the frame, giving her the cute little pout she loves so much.
you know the picture is driving your girlfriend insane, and that she's barely making it through her shift after you sent her that picture. but you also know that as soon as she gets home, she'll be giving you and your tits the attention they deserve from her.
a/n: i hope you all liked it, and thank you for reading!!
— ✦ TIME CASTS A SPELL ON YOU, BUT YOU WON'T FORGET ME
tags: no use of Y/n, femme!reader, younger!reader, ex-situationship!Baran, older!Baran, age-gap (legal), swearing, mentions of sex, yearning, reader is written as a lesbian, shared history, unresolved mommy issues resurfacing
w/c: 2.3k
a/n: Siri play Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac
I know this is short and kind of a filler chapter but this is definitely becoming a mini-series because I can’t get enough of Sugarbaby!reader. She’s so bitchy I love her ❤️ Anyways, lmk your thoughts in my inbox and the comments because I thrive off attention.
PS: Yes I chose Barcelona because I’m a lesbian who loves the women’s Spanish league and if you guys are interested I might start writing for them. 🥱🥱 (Visca el Barça ❤️💙)
part 1 / part 2
“Are you sure that’s the only hospital available?.. Not even in Washington?.. Please there has to be anywhere else besides Pittsburgh.. I know, I- Hello?.. Hello?” The line beeps, ‘Your call has been disconnected. If you would like to redial press-’ You slam the phone on the table. “God fucking dammit!” you huff out in frustration; fingers massaging your temple as you feel the rising anger bubbling in your head.
Two years away from home can change a lot about a person, especially out of the country. Your grades were shit and your life leading up to the departure can only be described as, well, shittier. It was a miracle that you graduated. Given your track record, finding a slot for a med student internship was proven more difficult than all of your years of studying combined, so when your college opened an exchange program for job experience, you jumped ship.
Barcelona was everything you needed—warm, vibrant, a fresh start. It was a chance to put your life back together without the fear of judgement. Back home, you were a nobody. Just another post-grad trying to claw their way up to a job that doesn’t even pay a salary. Here, you were the charming foreigner that couldn’t speak a lick of Spanish but still opted to work at a busy café where communication was needed the most. The first few months consisted of nodding your head and smiling at the right time then immediately pulling up google translate to understand whatever the fuck they said but slowly, you adjusted.
The routine stayed consistent: school, work, study, repeat. As if ‘finding yourself’ was a requirement programmed in every lesbian’s brain after experiencing that one specific heartbreak. Keeping busy was the only thing distracting you from any of the lingering thoughts roaming about; drowned out by alcohol and a series of very attractive, tanned, Spanish women that you just couldn’t keep your hands off of. Nothing serious, of course. The longest fling you had lasted two months which you counted by technicality because the girl thought you were already dating and wanted to surprise you with a two-month anniversary celebration.
Only to find you face down on the mattress getting strapped from behind.
Though sadly, all good things must come to an end, which brings you to the present. Here, in your one hundred and twenty square foot apartment on the verge of a breakdown after a somewhat heated call with your visa agent you’re sure is currently jumping for joy knowing your contract with him is almost over.
The ripping of packaging tape makes your head turn towards the side and stare at your roommate. “Can’t I just stay here?” you ask Claudia as you watch her secure a box full of your clothes. “No.” You groan at her one-worded answers and lay your head down on the table. ‘Why?” you ask. Claudia uncaps a marker and writes a label on the cardboard.
“Because,” she says.
“Because what?” You reply
“Just because.” Her hands find the bottom of the box and lifts it with ease as she walks outside the door ignoring your whines. The reasoning you have chosen to believe is that Claudia is sick of your incessant moping when there is nothing to distract you and that she also just wants her girlfriend to move in with her the moment you leave the city. Which is partly a figment of your imagination. Between the language barrier and her permanent resting bitch face, you’re still not entirely certain if she likes you or tolerates your existence in the two years you have been living together.
The actual cause for you moving back to the United States is simple. The program ended, your visa expired, and you are now officially a third-year medical student the moment you step back onto American soil. Which has been difficult because out of the fifty fucking states in the country, your agent chose Pittsburgh. The real kicker? There are forty-two hospitals in Pittsburgh. Roughly a dozen are teaching hospitals, what are the odds you would draw the short end of the lot and get PTMC?
Apparently, a hundred percent.
The airport is suffocating.
The lights are too bright, the people are too loud, and you have been standing by the conveyor belt for eleven minutes waiting for your luggage to mosey out. A child a few meters away has been screaming at the top of his lungs longer than you have been standing. You watch as he tugs on his sleeping father’s shirt, ceaselessly crying about something unintelligible you are too tired to decipher. Combined with the three-hour layover and fifteen-hour flight, you might as well join him.
You want to look at the bright side, you really do, but God, is it hard especially when you start work in the hospital tomorrow at seven. Your luggage emerges and you haul it onto the floor. You calculate the math in your head as you walk through the baggage claim and have come up with a result that totals of three hours of sleep before having to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn, but then again, that’s if you sleep.
The need to distract yourself, to contemplate about anything and everything has become a welcomed stimulant from the moment you left Spain, because you don’t want to think about what will happen when you step foot into that emergency room tomorrow. You don’t want to think about the dread that has been steadily forming in your stomach—the fear of messing up from even breathing too loud.
And you most certainly do not want to think about her.
You feel like a lost lamb as you stand in front of the charge station, hands clasped on the desk. The charge nurse, who you come to know as Dana, stands across from you. “Lets see here..” Dana mutters while flipping through your file. “You weren’t present for the orientation yesterday?” She peers above her glasses, eyebrows raised. “Yes, I was just on my flight to Pittsburgh.” She puts down the papers and turns to you in surprise, “Jesus, and you’re still standin’, kid? I would have checked into a spa the moment the wheels touched the ground.” You smile and relax at her casual quip; it breaks the rigid tension in your shoulders.
“So does that mean I fend for myself today?” Dana shakes her head and takes off her glasses, “Of course not, sweetheart. You’ll be shadowing one of our chief attendings who has yet to arrive.” She raises her hand and looks at the watch strapped on her wrist. Dana turns her head towards one of the nurses behind her. “Hey, Princess, is the boss here?” Princess replies, “I think she just arrived.” Dana nods in response.
“There you have it. Sit tight, kid, I’ll go find her.” Dana walks away, leaving you alone at the station. Your hands pull and tug at the ID card clipped on the bottom left of your scrubs. A nervous tick that has slowly grown into a habit as the short elastic band stretches and shrinks between your fingers. You haven’t felt this off-kilter for months. You knew she worked at PTMC when you both were still a thing, but times change. Surely she has moved on to something better than this.
Even if she’s still here, it's not supposed to matter anymore. She shouldn’t matter anymore. You chose to work at The Pitt for your future! (you didn’t, your agent did) There was no way you would have worked at Presby or Allegheny just to avoid an ex-situationship that happened two years ago. You can be professional about it. Mature. Composed— Look her straight in the eyes and pretend she’s a stranger.
A voice breaks the stillness behind you and your chest tightens. “Sweetheart, this is our Chief Attending who you’ll be following around like a puppy dog today’s shift.” You turn. Your eye’s meeting Dana’s, then hers. You see it: a flicker of something you can’t quite name behind her gaze, the sudden tightness in her jaw. For a moment, neither of you move and the room blurs.
Dana looks between the both of you, the string-taut tension triggering her sixth sense. She doesn’t comment on it. Dana clears her throat, “Doc?”
You watch her blink a few times, her expression quickly changes as she takes a deep breath and steadies herself. She shifts her weight slightly and extends a hand towards you.
“Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi.”
The words fall from her lips, dangling in front of you like a challenge. A test to see if her presence still has an affect on you. You shake her hand and introduce yourself with an easy smile, your tone of voice almost too polite. You were never one to back down.
Dana’s name echoes from the charging station. “Sorry to interrupt, but duty calls. I’ll leave you both to get acquainted, yeah?” She pats Baran’s back before turning to you. “You know where to find me sweetheart if you need anything.” You watch her walk away and mentally beg for her to always be in a two-foot radius of Baran’s presence. A futile plea as her retreating figure disappears into a trauma room. The lack of a neutral party makes you deathly aware that it's now just the both of you standing in the middle of the ED.
You feel Baran’s eyes lingering on you, assessing your every move. Every breath. “I thought you disappeared.” Her tone laced with subtle sarcasm but still calm.
“I did,” you reply brusquely.
She raises an eyebrow at your attitude. A flicker of familiarity prickles at the back of her mind. “Yet you’re here.”
You tilt your head, feigning innocence, and let the short pause stretch out. “Is that going to be a problem?” A faux pout plays on your lips, subtle, but obvious enough for Baran to narrow her eyes at you. A crack in her facade.
Baran opens her mouth to reply before being interrupted by a shout from one of the trauma bays. “Need an attending in here!” You both look towards the direction of the interruption simultaneously. She looks back at you with a stare that translates to ‘this isn’t over’ but nonetheless, relents. “Let’s go.”
One point to you.
You follow Baran through the doors of the trauma bay. “Status report.” The switch to professionalism is automatic the moment she steps inside. “Thirty-three year old female fell down a flight of stairs rushing to work and hit her head on one of the steps. CT has been backed up since last night but her vitals have been stable until now.” One of the doctors replied.
“Glove up, you’re intubating.” You catch a hint of smugness in her tone and you roll your eyes. She puts on a pair of gloves and you follow suit not because you’re listening to her, but because you’re listening to your boss. Big difference. “Who’s the new duckling?” a voice questions from the sidelines, you glance at the source. A woman in her mid-thirties stares at you, arms crossed as if she’s estimating your worth. “New med student, Dr. Garcia.”
Dr. Garcia nods at you, “Warm welcome to The Pitt.” You nod back, holding her gaze for just a second too long before Baran calls for you. “The patient is waiting,” she says your name sternly and you break eye contact first while moving across the room.
A nurse hands you the laryngoscope and you guide it inside the patient's mouth. The coldness of the metal seeping through the blue latex covering your hands. “Can you see the opening?” Baran peers over your shoulder. The front of her body pressing onto your back. “Yes.” You swallow, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. “Feed the tube inside until you hit the mid-trachea,” Baran says behind you. She’s close enough that you feel every enunciation of her words hit your ear and an involuntary shiver runs down the middle of your spine.
“I know,” you snap with a tone of voice you didn’t mean to be let on so thick. Some eyebrows raise around you and you mentally curse yourself, embarrassment flooding into your stomach. Baran stays silent, though you feel her eyes burning holes on the side of your head. The plastic hose slides in smoothly into the patient's throat. You let out a small sigh of relief and move away to the side.
“Good job,” Baran praises you and it makes your heart twinge. A familiar pull towards her reverberates around the trauma bay and suddenly you're back in that hotel room with her.
Skin against skin. She’s smiling at something you said. Morning light bleeding through the cream-colored curtains while both of your bodies tangle together under the white pristine sheets. Baran reaches out towards your cheek, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.
Then she’s gone. Replaced by a feeling of loneliness that straggles you by the neck. You’re still in the same room, same bed, but the rain patters against the windows so aggressively you fear they might break.
You swallow hard. “Thank you.” Baran glances at you and you find her brown eyes through the weave of doctors, a single look that holds something unspoken. Then her attention is called back towards the patient who currently has her chest open and you stand there. Assisting when needed, handing tools, answering questions, but your mind is elsewhere. In between the past and the present.
You wonder how Baran hides it so well. She always had a knack for it. That carefully crafted armor always made you feel small, akin to a child throwing a tantrum whenever they were ignored. You thought you got over it—left it somewhere in a Catalonian club or the morning after a one night stand, but it sits there on top of your chest. A weighted plate pressing down onto your body, because one thing is certain.
can i have literally anything with baran being mommy coded, you have all the creative freedom in the world, reader hopefully works in the ptmc though🫶🏼
Summary: After skipping meals during a hectic shift at PTMC, the reader is caught by Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, who discreetly observes that they’ve only managed to survive on coffee and half a granola bar.
Pairings: Dr. Baran Al Hashimi and a female reader.
Content warnings: nothing other than Baran’s usual sexy self.
Note: Why did it take me approximately 500 years to comprehend your meaning of being stoned? Haha, I had completely forgotten about that post, but yes, thank goodness my sister didn’t stone the lesbian!
The emergency department had been relentless since seven that morning. By three in the afternoon, you had completely forgotten what hunger felt like.
You were halfway through updating a chart when a paper bag unexpectedly landed beside your keyboard. You looked up.
Dr. Al-Hashimi stood over you, still wearing her lavender Lululemon jacket, with a tablet tucked under one arm.
“What on earth is this?” you asked her.
“Lunch,” she replied calmly.
“I already—” you started to say.
Baran interrupted you, saying, “You had coffee.”
You defensively said, “I had a granola bar.”
“You had half of one,” she argued.
Your mouth snapped shut.
Baran simply raised an eyebrow and slid the bag closer. Inside, there was turkey on rye, an apple, and a bottle of water.
“You’ve been watching me?” you asked, a hint of embarrassment in your voice.
“I supervise this department,” she replied calmly. “Observing people is an integral part of my job.”
She waited patiently, not impatiently. She expected you to move. When you didn’t, she sighed, pulled the sandwich from the bag, peeled back the wrapper, and held it out to you. “Eat,” she instructed.
There was something about her tone; calm, firm, and utterly unassailable. You took the sandwich.
“Good.” She cooed.
Only then did she glance back down at her tablet, continuing to review patient notes as though hand-feeding an overworked employee was the most ordinary thing in the world.
A few bites into your meal, she discreetly nudged the water bottle toward you without even glancing at you.
“Finish that too,” she said, her voice carrying a slight demanding tone.
You chuckled softly. “Yes, doctor.”
A subtle smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“I know you think you can survive on caffeine and stubbornness,” she murmured. “Unfortunately for you, I’ve decided otherwise.”
For the first time all day, you paused your work and were taken care of by someone.
notes : this has been rotting in my drafts, hopefully they’ll let me post it
wc : 5.1k
you’ve been thinking about this for weeks. the gloves specifically. you saw her wearing them when picking her up from the hospital last tuesday, standing in the waiting room under that ugly fluorescent light, blue nitrile still on while she finishes talking to someone at the nurses station. she peels them off right before coming over towards you with a big smile, one then the other, and the soft snap of the latex makes something low in your stomach pull tight. you’ve been stuck on it ever since. the way the material stretches over her knuckles. how careful her hands always are.
so when you brought it up last night, quiet and a little embarrassed while you were both getting ready for bed, it came out awkward.
you were standing by the sink brushing your teeth. baran was already in the bedroom, finishing her hair routine. you washed with mouthwash, spit, wiped your mouth on the hand towel, and stood there for a second longer than necessary staring at your own reflection like it might help you find better ways to bring this up.
then you walked in and just said it.
“hey. so- i’ve been thinking about something.”
baran glanced over, one eyebrow lifting a fraction. she was in an old soft t-shirt and underwear. “okay… anything serious, azizam?”
you sat on the edge of the bed, picked at a loose thread on the duvet. “no! no… i don’t think… so? just… maybe don’t laugh.”
she turned fully toward you then, leaning against the dresser with her arms loosely crossed. the corner of her mouth already twitched like she could sense where this was going. “depends. go on.”
you exhaled through your nose. “the gloves. the blue ones you wear at work. i keep thinking about them, i guess.”
there was a short pause. baran’s expression didn’t change much, but something amused flickered behind her eyes.
“the gloves,” she repeated, slow while tilting her head. “you mean the nitrile ones that smell like hospital and make my hands gross and sweaty if i leave them on too long?”
“yes. those.” your face was already warm. “don’t make it weird.” you groan, giving her a small glare.
“i’m not making it weird!” she exclaimed, softly chuckling. “you’re the one who’s talking about a glove kink while i’m standing here in my underwear.” she pushed off the dresser and walked closer, stopping in front of you, looking down at you. “how long have you been sitting on this.”
“a week,” you admitted. “since that day i picked you up and you still had them on.”
baran made a quiet sound that was almost a laugh. she reached out and brushed a bit of hair behind your ear, fingers warm. “so you’ve been walking around all this time thinking about my work gloves?”
“mhm,” you hum, too embarrassed to look up at her.
“and you’re telling me now because…?”
you shrugged, still not quite meeting her eyes. “because- you know, i keep thinking about it. and i trust you. and maybe it would be hot. if you wanted to… you in the gloves. examining me or whatever. i don’t know. it’s probably so stupid. it sounds stupid now that i’m saying-”
“it’s not stupid,” she cut off your rambling. her voice stayed even, but there was a dry edge of humor underneath. she sat down next to you on the bed, close enough that her thigh pressed against yours. “you want me to put on the gloves and play doctor with you. that’s the short version.”
you groaned and dropped your face into your hands. “you’re making fun of me. and when you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”
“i’m not making fun of you, baby. i’m having fun,” she grinned, looking proud of herself. “it is a little ridiculous.” she nudged your knee with hers. “but i’m not saying no. look at me.”
you did. her expression was calm, focused, nothing but love and trust for you in her eyes. the teasing was still there in the slight lift of her mouth, but softer.
“you’ve thought about the details,” she said. “the gloves on. me asking questions. touching you like i’m checking for something. that’s what you want?”
your face burned hotter. “yeah.”
baran was quiet for a few seconds, just watching you. then she reached over and took one of your hands, turning it palm-up in her lap like she was inspecting it. her thumb traced the lines there, slow.
“alright,” she said finally. “we can do that. but i get to decide how thorough the exam is.”
you looked up. “yeah?”
“yeah.” she gave your hand a small squeeze, then brought it up to her lips and kissed you fingers before letting go. “and you’re going to have to use my full title when we’re doing it. i’m ‘dr. al-hashimi’ to you, understand?” a small smirk made its way on her face.
something fluttered hard in your chest, you got more flustered at her words. “yes.”
“good.” she stood up again, stretching her arms over her head. “now get your ass to bed,” she said with humor in her voice, making you quickly nod and grin. “we’re not starting this at eleven at night when we both have to be up early. but tomorrow… we’ll see.” she added before turning around to wash her hands in the bathroom.
you watched her walk toward the bathroom, the easy set of her shoulders, and the whole thing didn’t feel that embarrassing anymore. she paused in the doorway and glanced back, with a smile.
“and for the record,” she added, voice dry, “i’m taking mental notes on how red your face gets when you talk about this. you know, clinical observation.”
you threw a pillow at her. she caught it one-handed, laughed under her breath, and threw it back before disappearing into the bathroom.
now she’s sitting on the edge of the bed in your bedroom. the overhead light is off. only the lamp on the nightstand is on, warm and low, throwing a soft circle of light that leaves the corners of the room dim. she’s wearing a plain white tank top. black pants that sit neat on her hips. her hair is pulled back neat to stay focused, a few loose curls already soft near her temples.
she reaches into the small bag she brought and pulls out a pair of blue nitrile gloves. the same kind she uses at the hospital. the packet crinkles quiet in the still room. she doesn’t look at you while she opens it. just slides one on, then the other, flexing her fingers once to settle them. the latex stretches tight over her knuckles, thin and smooth. you watch the way it hugs the shape of her hands and your stomach pulls tight all over again.
“hop up,” she says. voice even. “sit on the edge for me.”
the mattress dips under you as you do so. your bare legs hang over the side. you’re only in underwear and an old oversized t-shirt that suddenly feels too thin, the hem barely covering anything. baran stands up in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint clean scent of her coconut soap she uses in the shower, mixed with her lotion. she doesn’t rush. just looks at you like she would with any other patient, head tilted a fraction, eyes steady and calm.
“tell me what’s going on,” she says. “start from the beginning.”
your mouth is dry already. you have to swallow before the words come out. “i’ve been… uncomfortable. lower. and my mouth feels weird sometimes. it’s like dry and kind of tight.”
she nods slow. her gloved hands stay at her sides for now. “how long?”
“a few days. maybe a week.” your voice comes out quieter than you meant. you can feel your pulse starting to pick up in your throat.
“any fever? nausea?” she questions.
you shake your head. the motion feels too big in the quiet room. “no. just restlessness. and… sensitivity.”
she hums, quiet, the sound low in her chest. then she steps closer. one gloved hand lifts. the latex shiny under the lamp light. “open.”
you part your lips. her fingers are cool at first against your bottom lip, then warmer as the material starts to take your heat. she presses gently, tilting your chin up a little with her other hand. her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth while two fingers slide inside, slow. she checks the inside of your cheek first, pressing lightly, then the soft underside of your tongue, then the roof of your mouth. thorough and methodical. you can feel every ridge of the glove, every small shift of her fingertips against the sensitive skin.
your breathing changes without you meaning it to and she notices. her eyes stay on your mouth the whole time, focused, calm, but there’s a faint flush starting at the base of her throat.
“swallow for me,” she says, voice still even.
you do. her fingers stay right where they are. the latex is already a little slick from your saliva. your pulse is loud in your ears now. she presses a little firmer against the inside of your lower lip, testing, then slides her fingers deeper for a second before pulling back just enough to let you speak.
“any pain when i do this?” she press her fingers again.
“no,” you manage. your voice sounds rough already. “just… sensitive.”
she nods again, taking notes, that doesn’t really need to be noted. her fingers leave your mouth with a soft wet sound. a thin string of saliva stretches between the blue latex and your lip before it breaks. she doesn’t wipe it off, just lets it sit there on her glove while she looks at you, something quiet and focused in her expression.
“good,” she murmurs. then, softer, almost to herself: “you’re reacting.”
she steps back half a pace, still studying your face. her gloved hand stays raised between you, the shine of saliva catching the light. “tell me more about the restlessness. where exactly do you feel it most?”
you shift on the edge of the mattress, thighs pressing together for a second before you force them to stay open. “low. like… right under my stomach. and lower. it gets worse when i’m still. or when i think about…” you trail off, face burning.
“when you think about what?” her voice is calm but there’s a dry edge under it now, the same humor from last night. she waits, patient, eyes on yours.
“when i think about the gloves,” you admit, quiet. “or you, your hands.”
she makes a soft sound of acknowledgment. then she steps in close again, close enough that the front of her thighs almost brush your knees. her free hand settles lightly on your shoulder, grounding. the other, still gloved and damp, lifts back toward your mouth.
“open again,” she says. “i want to check something else.”
this time her fingers slide in slower, deeper. she presses against the soft inside of your cheek, then runs the pad of one finger along the edge of your tongue, and you can taste the faint clean chemical of it. your eyes want to close but you keep them open, watching her face.
she watches you right back, her breathing gone a little deeper. when your tongue twitches against her finger she doesn’t pull away. she just stays there, feeling it, the corner of her mouth lifting the smallest bit.
“very responsive,” she says, quiet. “keep still for me.”
her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth again while two fingers move carefully inside, pressing, exploring. every small movement only makes you more restless. you make a soft sound you can’t stop. her eyes flick up to yours for a second, then back down to your mouth.
“talk to me,” she says, pulling her fingers almost all the way out. “what does this feel like right now.”
you have to work for the words. “i don’t know,” you say sheepishly. “i feel restless,” you add, almost bratty from how long she keeps you waiting.
she only hums, low while the corner of her mouth lifts even more this time from your tone. her fingers press a little firmer against the soft underside of your tongue, then slide back toward your cheek. saliva gathers and slips past the corner of your mouth. she catches it with her thumb, slow, and the simple touch makes your thighs tense.
“good,” she murmurs. “that’s good information.” she pulls her fingers free again, slower this time. another thin string of saliva follows before it breaks. she looks at the shine on the blue latex for a second, then at you.
“lie back for me,” she says. voice still even, but lower now. “we’re going to continue the exam.”
you nod, already shifting further onto the bed, heart pounding hard against your ribs. the pillow is cool against your neck. baran pulls the chair closer so she’s sitting right between your knees, gloved hands resting light on your bare thighs. the latex is still damp from your mouth. she looks at you the same way she did a minute ago, calm and focused and a little flushed, and waits until you meet her eyes again before she speaks.
“so. start from the beginning one more time,” she says. “tell me everything you’re feeling as we go. and don’t leave anything out. the more specific the better.” she says, hands loosely clasped in her lap. she’s trying to stay professional. you can tell, but she so clearly wants to pounce on you at the same time.
you start talking. how the restlessness sits low in your belly, constant and heavy. how it gets worse when you’re still for too long, like something is winding tighter and tighter with nothing to do with it. how certain touches make it spike sharp and sudden, especially anything near the insides of your thighs or lower. your voice is already a little unsteady. the words come out slower than usual because baran’s hands are moving over your stomach through the thin shirt, pressing in careful patterns, mapping the soft give of your skin under the fabric.
she asks about the intensity without looking up. “scale of one to ten. how bad does it get when you’re just sitting still?”
you answer, voice thinner than before, looking up at her as you speak. “six. maybe seven when it builds. it doesn’t hurt. it just… needs something.”
her hands keep moving, lower. the latex is warm from your body heat. she skims the waistband of your underwear with both thumbs, slow, deliberate. you feel the slight catch of the material against the elastic and your hips want to lift without permission.
“these need to come off,” she says, like it’s obvious. you can her the impatience in her tone, though.
you lift your hips and she works them down, slow, the fabric sliding over your skin. she sets them aside on the bed. the air feels cooler against your wet heat. you know she can see how wet you already are, the way the light hits the shine between your legs. your face burns but you don’t close your thighs.
she doesn’t comment right away. just places both gloved hands on the insides of your thighs and guides them open a little wider. her thumbs brush the soft crease where your leg meets your hip, lingering. then she leans in slightly, studying you. her breathing is steady but you can see the rise of her chest under the tank top.
“tell me again,” she says. voice still even. “the sensitivity. where exactly.”
you try but your voice comes out thinner. “right… right here.” you gesture vaguely. “and lower than that. it throbs sometimes. like it needs pressure, dr. al-hashimi...”
baran briefly closes her eyes and hums at the title, pleased. something about how it’s coming from your mouth does something to her. her right hand moves. one finger traces the outer edge of your folds, so light it’s almost nothing. you immediately twitch. she pauses, eyes flicking up to your face, watching your reaction.
“there?” she softly asks, mock sympathy in her voice. but still so sweet.
“yeah.” the word comes out soft and a little shaky.
there’s a small mock pout on her face and she does it again, firmer this time. “poor girl, you really are sensitive,” she coos, making you whine. the latex is smooth and already tacky from how wet you are. she parts you carefully with two fingers and looks.
your face burns hotter while you attempt to close your legs, needing relief. baran is quick to stop you, not rough but certain enough. “you need to keep them open, mhm?”
you quickly nod at her words. she asked you to keep talking so you do, describing the ache, the way it builds when she doesn’t move. your voice keeps catching on the edges of the words.
“i’m so wet… more than usual. every time you touch it just gets worse.” you say, trying to be professional but her gloved hands feels so good, it’s only turning you on more.
she listens without interrupting, eyes still on what she’s doing. her free hand rests light on your inner thigh, thumb stroking once in a way that feels almost absent-minded. then her finger slides a little lower, tracing through the slickness that’s already coating the latex in a thin shine.
“baran-“ the name slips out before you can catch it. soft, automatic. your eyes go wide the second it leaves your mouth.
she stills completely. her fingers stay where they are, holding you open. her eyes lift to yours and the corner of her mouth quirks again, barely there, amused.
“ah ah,” she says, quiet but firm. “dr. al-hashimi. we agreed. try again.”
heat floods your face so fast you feel it in your ears. you have to look away for a second before you can answer. “sorry… dr. al-hashimi.”
“better.” her finger resumes its path, sliding through the slickness that’s already coating the glove. “keep going. be more specific for me.”
you talk about the pulse between your legs, steady and deep. about how empty you feel, about how the latex feels so good. her finger circles your entrance without pressing in, teasing and testing. the tip of it dips just barely into the wet heat and then pulls back again. your thighs tremble under her other hand. she notices, her thumb strokes once along the inside of your thigh, she’s settling you.
“you’re very responsive,” she murmurs. almost to herself. then louder, eyes still on what she’s doing: “i need to examine internally, okay? breathe for me.”
you try to steady your breathing but it doesn’t really work. her finger presses against your entrance again, firmer this time, and the wet sound of it is so clear in the quiet room. she looks up at your face one more time, checking, waiting.
“talk to me,” she says. her voice is still even but there’s a tightness underneath it now. “what are you feeling?”
you force the words out between breaths. the fullness. the way the glove feels against your walls, every ridge of the latex clear and smooth. how easy it was for her to slide in. she adds a second finger without asking, stretching you further. the extra width makes you gasp. your hips lift off the mattress before you can stop them, chasing the pressure. she uses the hand on your belly to press you back down, firm but not hard, the latex warm against your skin.
“stay still for me,” she says. “i need a clear sense of things.”
you try but it’s so hard with the way she’s moving so slow and deliberate, long thrusts that drag the latex along every sensitive place inside you. every time she pulls back almost all the way and then presses in again you feel the stretch anew. her thumb finds your clit and presses in small, precise circles. not rushed. not messy. the dual sensation makes your breath keep catching in your throat, occasionally whimpering.
she watches your face the whole time. her own expression stays mostly composed, but her cheeks are even more flushed, a soft pink that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. her breathing has gone deeper. when you clench around her fingers she exhales through her nose, quiet, like she’s holding something back. you feel the way her free hand flexes against your belly before she stills it again.
“good,” she says. voice lower and almost shaky. “that’s good. you’re showing great signs.”
you tell her how close you feel already. how good the glove feels. how you can feel every small shift of her hand, every slight twist of her wrist, the way the latex catches just enough on the way out to make your thighs tremble. your voice breaks on the last part. she doesn’t stop the motion of her fingers. if anything she presses a little deeper, a little more deliberate, angling them so the tips brush against your g-spot on every slow thrust.
“you’re doing well,” she murmurs. the professional tone is fraying at the edges now. there’s a roughness underneath it she can’t quite hide. “just a little longer. i want to be thorough, okay?”
her fingers curl again and find the spot that makes your vision blur at the edges. she stays there, working it in steady rhythm while her thumb keeps those small circles on your clit. the wet sounds fill the quiet room, soft and slick and constant. your legs are shaking, your hands fist in the sheets hard enough that your knuckles ache. she leans in closer, free hand sliding up under your shirt. her palm settles on your breast, warm even through the latex, and she squeezes occasionally, feeling the way your breath is uneven.
you can see it in her face. the way her eyes keep dropping to where her fingers disappear inside you and then lifting back to your face. the faint shine of sweat at her temple. the way her own thighs are pressed together in the chair. her breathing isn’t steady anymore. every time you clench around her she makes a small sound in the back of her throat that she tries to swallow.
“keep talking,” she says again. her voice cracks just slightly on the last word. she clears her throat and tries again, softer. “be specific.”
you force the words out between broken breaths and whimpers. how good you feel. how you just want to feel her skin against yours. your lips against hers. how wet you are. how close you are, how the pressure keeps building and building with nowhere to go yet. how you need more, more.
she listens, eyes dark, cheeks flushed deeper now. her free hand squeezes your breast again, thumb brushing over your nipple. the simple touch makes you moan. she exhales hard through her nose and her fingers inside you press deeper, like she can’t help it.
“good,” she manages. “that’s… good information.” her professional tone is slipping more with every second. you can hear the want under it now, low and rough. “keep talking, baby. don’t stop.”
you tell her how the latex feels against your walls, how you can feel the exact shape of her fingers, how your clit is throbbing under her thumb. how you need her to keep going exactly like this. your voice keeps breaking. your hips keeps lifting, meeting her hand. and she’s not stopping you this time.
baran’s breathing turns more audible. the hand on your breast squeezes a little harder than before, not quite careful anymore. when you clench hard around her fingers she lets out a quiet, almost pained sound and has to pause for half a second with her eyes briefly closed, trying to steady her breathing before she can keep moving.
“you’re so wet,” she says, and it doesn’t sound clinical at all. the words come out low and a little unsteady. she seems to catch herself, swallows, tries to pull the professional tone back. “i mean… significant arousal response. that’s- good.” but the attempt is weak. her fingers keep working inside you, curling, pressing, the rhythm a little less precise than it started. her thumb on your clit has lost some of its careful control too. the circles are firmer now, a little faster.
you can tell how turned on she is. the way her thighs stay pressed together. the way her free hand keeps flexing against your breast like she wants to do more. the way her voice keeps dropping every time you make a sound. she’s trying so hard to stay in character and it’s starting to cost her.
“almost done,” she says, softer than before. like she’s reminding both of you. her fingers curl hard against that spot inside you and stay there, working it in steady, relentless rhythm while her thumb keeps those circles on your clit. the wet sounds are louder now. you’re shaking harder. your hands fist in the sheets and then reach for her without thinking, fingers catching on the edge of her tank top.
she doesn’t stop you. she just leans in closer, breathing uneven, eyes fogged over but locked on your face. she keeps moving her hand exactly where you need it.
“use your words,” she says, voice low and rough but sweet. “tell me when.”
you manage something close to her title and then the rest spills out in broken pieces. the pressure building, heavy and low and impossible to hold back anymore. how you’re so close it almost hurts. your voice keeps breaking into soft, desperate sounds.
she keeps moving, precise and relentless, fingers curled against your g-spot while her thumb works your clit in firmer circles. the wet sounds are loud in the quiet room. when you clench hard around her she lets out a soft moan of her own, low and involuntary, like she couldn’t stop it.
“that’s it,” she manages, voice cracking. “just like that. you’re doing so well for me.”
the tension snaps. you come hard around her fingers, thighs trembling, a low broken sound caught in your throat that turns into her name before you can stop it. your whole body tightens and then releases in waves. she works you through it, still moving, still pressing, and every time another aftershock hits she makes another quiet sound of her own, like she’s getting off on seeing you like this. her free hand squeezes your breast harder, thumb brushing your nipple, and she moans again when you clench around her fingers one more time.
she doesn’t pull out right away. just slows, gentling the motion until the aftershocks ease and your breathing starts to even out. her fingers stay inside you a few seconds longer, soft and still, like she’s reluctant to leave. then she carefully withdraws. the gloves are shiny with you, a thin string of slick following before it breaks and lands on the sheet. she sits there for a second looking at her hand, then at you. the professional mask is gone completely. her eyes are darker, cheeks flushed deep, mouth soft and a little open. her breathing still uneven.
she peels the gloves off slowly, one then the other, the latex snapping quiet as it leaves her skin. she drops them in the small bin by the chair without looking away from you. then she climbs onto the bed beside you, and pulls you in against her chest. her bare fingers stroke through your hair, careful and grounding.
“was that okay?” she asks, looking for reassurance. voice low and a little rough around the edges. you can feel her heart still beating faster than usual under your cheek.
you nod against her collarbone. the fabric of her tank top is soft and a little damp from sweat. “it was perfect. thank you for indulging.”
she presses a kiss to the top of your head and stays there, breathing with you. her hand keeps moving slowly through your hair. after a minute you shift a little so you can look up at her face. she’s still flushed. her thighs are still pressed together. you can feel the tension in her body even as she tries to stay calm for you.
“you’re still wound up,” you note quietly. your voice is soft, a little hoarse. “let me take care of you too.”
she huffs a small breath that is almost a laugh. “you don’t have to. this was about you.”
“i want to.” you reach up and brush your fingers along her jaw. “please? you’ve been so good. let me return the favor.”
she looks at you for a long second, eyes still dark. then she nods, small. “okay.”
you sit up a little more, still shaky, and guide her to lie back against the pillows. her body is warm and tense under your hands. you kiss her first, slow and deep, tasting the soft sound she makes when your tongue meets hers. then you work your way down, peeling her tank top up so you can put your mouth on her skin. she arches into it, one hand coming up to rest in your hair.
you take your time. kissing down her stomach, untying her pants, sliding them down along with her underwear. she’s so wet, slick sticking to her underwear when you peel it off. when you finally put your mouth on her she moans, low and open. her hips lift to meet you. you use your fingers and your tongue the way you know she likes, slow at first and then firmer when her breathing gets more desperate. she comes with your name on her lips, thighs trembling around your shoulders, one hand still buried in your hair.
afterward you both end up tangled together under the sheet, sweaty and quiet. she pulls you close again, forehead against your head, and just breathes for a while. her fingers trace slow patterns on your back.
“thank god i’m not actually your doctor.” she says under her breath, then huffs another soft laugh. “i almost broke character completely toward the end.”
you laugh with her and smile against her skin. “i noticed. it was hot.”
she kisses your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “next time we do this i’m making you wait longer. clinical thoroughness.”
you laugh, quiet, and press closer. she holds you tighter in answer, the last of the tension finally leaving both of you.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who does not plead or beg for you to take her back she slowly integrates herself back into your life.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who brings you flowers when she comes to pick up the kids.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who visits your home often. She tells you it's just to help with the kids but does everything she possibly can to stay even after tucking your children into bed.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who helps you with the dishes in your kitchen, loving pet names and gentle touches on your back. And if she's feeling lucky kisses on your cheek or shoulder. It takes all of your being to push her away reminding her that you're not married anymore.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who intentionally does this type of loving behavior in front of your children so it's harder to tell her no.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who intentionally still wears her wedding ring even after your several requests for her to take it off.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who still refers to you as her wife to her co workers, friends and family.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who sabotages your dates. She starts fights before you're supposed to go out so you feel like you're no longer in the mood to go out. Or guilt trips you into believing you're not spending enough time with the kids.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who revels in the times where you end up in her bed at night because no one you've slept with after your divorce has made you feel(and cum) the way she does.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who knows that every time you tell her it's the last time you'll end up in bed together that you're just lying to yourself.
Toxic Exwife!Baran who is there for you when you feel like you can't keep a romantic partner around for long, lending you a shoulder to cry on(and fingers to cum around).
