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Black Tie

Baran Al-Hashimi x wife!reader

Summary: Baran has always kept her personal life separate from work, life is easier that way. Unfortunately for her, PTMC’s annual gala requires an exception and you’re all-too eager to participate.

CW: fluff, established relationship, traditionally fem reader (reader wears makeup and a dress), possessive!Baran, insecure!Baran, kinda pervy!Baran, obsessed wives, coworkers meet the wife, reader is loved by all, smut (explicit sexual content), top!Baran, semi-public sex, fingering (r!receiving), little bit of a praise kink

WC: 4.3k

A/N: celebrating hitting 1k followers last night with this! My first real Baran piece that isn’t just headcanons 💛 Hope you enjoy!

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“You’re going to make us late if you don’t stop.”

The scold lacks heat, and you can’t even stop yourself from laughing when Baran’s lips find the side of your neck again, your hand pausing hallway through sliding the last pin into your hair.

“Maybe I don’t want to go anymore,” she murmurs against your skin as her hands settle on your waist.

“You can’t skip,” you snort. “You’re an attending, it looks bad.”

“I’ll call in sick.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“And yet I suddenly feel very unwell.”

That pulls a warm laugh out of you and Baran swears under her breath in Farsi like the sound of it does something to her. Because this right here is why she’s kept you away from the hospital for so long. It’s not because she’s ashamed of you, never that, but rather because she knows what happens to people when they meet you.

You finally finish with your hair, setting your products down before turning in her arms to face her. “You’re being so weird tonight, what gives?”

Baran sighs through her nose, just a hint of annoyance settling on her face as she looks at you. “I do not want to share you with them tonight, azizam.”

“Your coworkers?”

She nods in confirmation.

“You don’t want them to meet me?”

Her eyes narrow as her grip on your waist tightens possessively. “I do not want my coworkers looking at my wife.”

The way she says my wife sends heat blooming into your face, and though you try to hide it, you fail miserably. Baran notices immediately and her lips curve up into a smirk, obviously pleased with herself as the tips of your ears tinge.

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

The drive over is quiet in a comfortable way. The city glows outside the windows of the uber, streaks of gold and white sliding across the glass while music plays through the speakers. Your heels rest against the floorboard, one ankle crossed over the other, and Baran’s hand hasn’t left your thigh since the moment the two of you climbed into the backseat together. Not that you’re complaining, of course.

Downtown is alive tonight. Restaurants are crowded and the sidewalks are busy. And somewhere ahead, towering above the traffic, the convention center comes into view.

You can’t believe hospitals even have galas.

“You know,” you say, “when you first told me about this, I thought it was going to be in, like, a hotel ballroom or something.”

“It usually is,” Baran replies casually.

“Wait, really?”

“The hospital is celebrating some anniversary this year.” Her fingers squish the skin of your thigh beneath your dress. “Apparently they decided to go all out because of it.”

“That explains why the invitation looked like a wedding invite.”

The uber eases to a stop beneath the overhang of the convention center, and the driver bids you both a polite goodnight while Baran helps you out onto the curb with a hand at your waist. The night air is cool on your skin, and you’re suddenly jealous of the long sleeves on Baran’s pantsuit keeping her warm.

People crowd the entrance to the building in clusters of black-tie gowns and tailored suits, and you can hear laughter echoing off marble and glass as the hospital staff filter inside. You recognize a few faces from pictures on Baran’s phone or stories over dinner, but most are strangers in a sea of faces.

Baran stays close to you, her hand on the small of your back as the two of you navigate through the lobby together toward a bank of elevators down a small hallway.

“You okay?” she asks quietly as you wait for an available one.

You turn toward her, your face scrunching in confusion. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because this is a lot of people in one place and I know how you feel about crowds.”

You purse your lips, but in thoughtfulness rather than upset. “I’m okay. It’ll be better once we’re upstairs, I’m sure.”

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, the doors sliding open. Several other attendees step inside with you, conversations between coworkers overlapping. The fifth floor lights up as you reach it and the doors open to spill the gala out before you in gold.

Chandelier light glitters across floral arrangements and linin-draped cocktail tables. Warm jazz music drift through the massive ballroom beneath towering ceilings, and full-length windows overlook the Pittsburgh skyline. It’s elegant and expensive in a way that only a for-profit hospital could be.

You’re busy taking it all in when a voice catches your attention, even though it isn’t aimed directly at you.

“Dr. Al-Hashimi.”

You can feel Baran sigh next to you.

A woman in an ivory suit approaches with a comfortability that most people don’t have when approaching your wife. She’s older and polished, with nails manicured and decorated in a way that tells you this is not an emergency room doctor, but likely some sort of administrator.

“Gloria,” Baran says politely.

Gloria Underwood, you know that name. Some sort of big wig for the hospital, she interviewed Baran before your wife took the attending position, and you’ve heard Baran complain about her at least once a week ever since.

“It’s good to finally see you outside the emergency department,” Gloria says, smiling before her attention turns on you. “And you must be the elusive wife.”

Baran’s hand is on your back again, but she isn’t urging you forward and you can’t tell if it’s to ground you or herself. “My wife,” she repeats, and you can hear the undertone of pride in her voice.

You offer your hand with a smile, introducing yourself while Gloria shakes it warmly.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says. “I was beginning to think Baran had made you up.”

“Probably because she never lets me come to work with her,” you laugh.

“Smart woman,” Gloria says with a knowing look at your wife. “The ER would probably stop functioning.”

You don’t have time to ask what that means before Gloria turns her attention back toward Baran and the conversation drifts into hospital territory. You let yourself fade beside them, listening without really listening as your attention begins to wander.

There’s gold ribbon curled around centerpieces and champagne glasses in everyone’s hands. People are laughing too loudly near the bar already even though it’s barely dark outside, and there’s a string quartet setting up in a corner of the ballroom.

Eventually, during your trip to outer space, Baran gives Gloria one of those polite smiles you’ve only ever seen her use at work during her time at the VA.

“Well,” she says smoothly, “before you trap me into discussing staffing ratios for the rest of the evening, I should probably make the rounds.”

Gloria laughs at that. “Go socialize, Doctor. You’ve earned at least one night off.”

Baran nods in farewell before guiding you deeper into the ballroom with a slide of her hand into your own.

“Staffing ratios?” you giggle.

“This job is as much politics as it is medicine, azizam,” Baran sighs, scanning the room. She snags two flutes of champagne off the tray of a passing waitstaff, handing one to you.

You smile into the glass just another voice cuts through the crowd.

“Baran!”

A group standing around one of the cocktail tables waves her over and you can feel the change in her posture immediately. It’s not tense, exactly, but you feel the way she straightens up next to you.

These must be the coworkers.

“This,” she says quietly to you, “is the part I was worried about.”

Still, she leads you over to the table.

The group is an interesting mix, that’s for sure.

One man stands slightly apart from the others, older than the rest with tired but intelligent eyes and an air of authority about him that’s hard to deny. Beside him is another man with easier posture and a warm smile, with a drink balanced loosely in one hand. A younger man than the other two lounges against the edge of the table with the restless energy of someone who’s incapable of standing still, and the redheaded woman standing beside him looks far more composed than he does. And then there’s another woman watching the room over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip, the look in her eye almost seeming like she’s above this entire get-together.

Baran stops at the table, her eyes scanning over each of them as she greets everyone. “Dr. Robinovich,” she says first, inclining her head towards the older man. “Dr. Abbot. And Dr.’s Langdon, McKay, and Garcia.”

You know she isn’t greeting them by name because she needs to, but rather for your sake.

The older man immediately tilts his head toward the ceiling and waves a dismissive hand. “Absolutely not, Baran. If you introduce me like that, I sound old.”

Baran deadpans, “Maybe that was my intention.”

He smiles tightly at that before turning toward you and offering his hand. “Michael Robinovich. You can call me Robby.”

You shake his hand politely, but immediately dislike him. Not because he’s rude, he actually seems very nice. But because this is the man who made your wife cry after her first shift at the hospital.

You remember it vividly, Baran’s tear-streaked makeup and exhausted fury as she returned home to you hours later than she was supposed to be off, insisting she was fine while also admitting that she’d not only had her first seizure in over a year, but two. You’d held her all night, staying up long after she’d fallen asleep, both for her comfort and out of fear of a third focal seizure.

So really, you think your dislike of him is justified.

“Wow,” the one your wife called Langdon says suddenly as he blinks at you. “You weren’t kidding.”

Baran’s eyes narrow. “That sentence already concerns me.”

Langdon ignores her completely, looking at you with intrigue. “Hi, Frank Langdon. I was beginning to think she made you up.”

“Frank,” three different people say at once.

“What? I’m being respectful!”

You laugh warmly, and the small group seems to relax around you as conversations break into groups. You smile at McKay when she compliments your dress, ask Abbot about the drink he’s holding, you even laugh at one of Langdon’s dumb jokes despite Baran muttering at you to quit encouraging him. And every time you laugh, every time someone’s attention lingers on you a little too long for her liking, Baran’s hand settles lower against your back. You can’t tell if she’s grounding herself or if she’s trying to stake claim.

Whichever it is, Robby takes notice right away. The smile he hides behind his glass is downright evil.

“So, he says to her as your attention is taken by a story McKay is telling. “This is why you’ve kept her hidden for so long.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Baran says dismissively.

“Sure you don’t.” He gestures between her and you. “After refusing to introduce her to us, you brought your stunning and charming wife to a party, dressed up to the nines and looking like a walking sin. Pretty irresponsible, don’t you think?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Langdon blurts from Robby’s other side.

“You weren’t invited into this conversation,” Baran says flatly.

You laugh at something Garcia says, attracting your wife’s attention once more as you lean into her side. Her chin rests on your shoulder as she turns toward you, her eyes scanning around the ballroom.

“Where are the baby ducks?”

McKay laughs.

“At the bar,” Abbot says.

“All four of them?” Baran asks.

“Unfortunately,” Garcia says. “Someone spilled the beans to Trinity that they have tequila. We haven’t seen them since.”

Baran closes her eyes like she’s in physical pain. “And you left her unattended?” But before she can continue mourning the fate of her unsupervised residents, a burst of loud laughter sounds out from somewhere nearby.

You turn in time to see four younger people approaching the table carrying drinks, all of them mid-conversation as they reach the group.

The woman in front stops as she reaches the table, squeezing between Garcia and McKay and setting down the second drink in her hand in front of the surgeon before turning her eyes on you.

“What the hell?”

Baran sighs like this is exactly the reaction she expected. “Behave, Dr. Santos.”

“What?” Santos says, looking mildly offended. “Your wife is hot, you didn’t say she was hot.”

Dr. Abbot coughs into his drink to hide a laugh, and the only man in this group of baby ducks (as your wife had so eloquently called them) loses the battle and snorts.

Your cheeks heat as you laugh, and you aren’t sure if it’s from blood rushing or the alcohol. Or both. “Thank you.”

“Trinity,” Santos introduces herself with a hand extended to you over the table, which you take. She then turns to Baran. “I get it now.”

“Stop that,” Baran scolds her.

“Okay, mom.”

Baran turns to Garcia then, her tone accusatory. “Just how many has she had?”

“This would be her third,” Garcia replies with a roll of her eyes.

Questions fly from the group collectively known as ducklings. How did you meet? How long have you been married? Is Dr. Al this intense at home too? And with each question, your wife looks increasingly perturbed.

She knows you don’t do this on purpose, and it’s almost never bothered her before, but…you fit too well. Don’t get her wrong, she loves your charm. It’s one of the things that drew her to you first, your ability to get along with everyone, the way you naturally convince people into loving you. And at the VA, it didn’t bother her. Maybe that’s because her coworkers there were older, older than her even, and they weren’t -

They weren’t a threat.

Does Baran feel threatened by her ER coworkers? She wants to say no, of course not, but as she watches you talk to Trinity, watches you smile at Javadi, laugh at something that Langdon does, or Abbot, or Whitaker -

With every word, your wife looks one compliment away from spontaneously combusting, and you can’t help but laugh. And unfortunately for her, you’ve become the most interesting person in the ballroom. And through it all, you notice something. Every single time someone else has your attention for too long, Baran touches you. Her hand on your waist, or your elbow. Her lips on your bare shoulder. It’s not enough for anyone to comment on, but it is constant enough that you take notice.

Especially when Langdon talks to you. It’s harmless; he’s charming in a sort of cocky way that probably works very well on patients, and he clearly finds you attractive. And at one point you laugh at something he says and Frank grins, a sparkle in his eye at the sound of your laugh.

You can feel Baran tense up next to you and it cuts your laugh short as you turn to her. “Are you okay?”

The concern in your voice makes guilt flicker through her. Because she knows you haven’t done anything wrong, you’re just being yourself. Which is, unfortunately for her, the entire problem.

She lets out a heavy sigh and then presses a quick kiss to your temple. “I’m going to get us another drink,” she murmurs in your ear.

You smile at that, tapping your empty champagne flute. “Okay.”

Baran’s hand leaves your back as she makes her way toward the bar at the far side of the room, loosening the tension in her shoulders only once the crowd thins out around her.

“Another champagne?” the bartender asks, nodding toward the flute still in her hand.

“And a whiskey,” Baran says.

She leans one forearm against the edge of the bar while he works, her eyesight drifting back toward your table.

Bad idea.

McKay is talking to you now while Santos is gesturing animatedly beside her, and somehow the entire group has subtly turned towards you like flowers turning towards sunlight. Even from across the room, Baran can tell you’re glowing, beautiful and open, charming in a way she’s never been immune to herself.

“Rough night?”

She recognizes Jack’s voice without even having to turn to look at him. Nevertheless, she does as he settles against the bar at her side.

“You followed me,” she says.

Jack shrugs as he flags the bartender down with two raised fingers, nodding toward his empty glass in wordless communication.

Neither of them speak for a moment, but as Jack glances back toward the table, following Baran’s line of sight, he smiles a little. “You’ve got a beautiful wife, Baran.” His tone stays easy and casual even as she tenses at his words. “You had to know this was going to happen eventually.”

Her tongue presses against the inside of her cheek. “I did know.”

“She seems nice.”

“She is.”

“And everyone likes her.”

She turns to look at him then, but only halfway, like she can’t really afford to lose sight of you. “And that’s a problem?”

“You’re sure acting like it is.”

Baran turns fully back toward the table just in time to catch you throwing your head back laughing at something Santos says, and her expression tightens.

Jack notices. “You know,” he says, “most people would kill for a marriage where their biggest problem is their wife is too perfect.”

Baran tsks as she glances at him out of her peripheral. “You’re being very annoying right now.”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Hey, I’m just saying, it seems like the obsession goes both ways.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She keeps looking for you.” Jack nods subtly toward the table, and he’s right.

Even while smiling at everyone else, even as you carry on conversation with her coworkers, your eyes are drawn to the crowd in the direction toward the bar. Looking for her.

By the time Baran and Jack make their way back across the room to the table, crowds have thickened around tables, conversation louder now beneath the swell of music and alcohol.

Your face softens when your eyes land on your wife again. “There you are,” you say, reaching for her as she sets the drinks down in front of the two of you.

Baran’s arm wraps around your waist as she reaches you. “Miss me, eshgham?”

Your own arms settle over her shoulders, fingers tangling together behind her head. “Of course I did.”

The group falls back into casual conversation around you as you sip your drink, half-listening and half paying attention to the knowing looks Dr. Abbot seems to be sending your wife, which she’s pointedly ignoring.

After a while, the ballroom lights dim and the sound of microphone feedback echoes from the speakers overhead, drawing attention towards the stage at the front of the room where a podium now waits beneath a spotlight.

“Oh no,” someone mutters from the opposite side of the table. “Politics.”

“Too late to fake an emergency?” Langdon asks.

“We work in an emergency department,” Robby says. “That excuse won’t hold much weight.”

Gloria steps out onto the stage a second later to polite applause from the crowd. The room settles as she begins speaking, her voice echoing through the ballroom as she talks about the hospital’s anniversary, community outreach, budget expansions, new wings, and a variety of other hospital-speak that sounds like a language you don’t know.

That’s when you feel Baran’s hand close around your wrist.

Around the room, people nod along politely to Gloria’s speech while waitstaff weave between tables collecting empty glasses and plates.

“And finally,” Gloria says after about twenty minutes, “I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge one department in particular.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the table that houses most of your wife’s department. “The emergency department has seen one of the most significant increases in patient satisfaction scores in the hospital over the last year. The Press Ganey scores alone have risen dramatically, and while every member of the department deserves recognition for their hard work, there’s one whose compassion, leadership, and dedication to patient care has had remarkable impact.”

Robby groans quietly under his breath. Individual callouts are always a nightmare.

“Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi.”

Applause starts up, people turning toward your table, searching for Baran among the cluster of emergency department staff.

Except Baran isn’t there, and neither are you.

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“Shh,” Baran whispers hotly against your ear. “Not a sound, azizam, you don’t want anyone to hear you, do you?”

Her hands are up your dress, which is bunched up against your hips by her impatient hands, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your lace panties. She yanks them down your thighs in one swift motion and you step out of them obediently, the cool air hitting your soaked core and making you shiver. She brings them to her nose for a brief second, inhaling deeply before stuffing the damp lace into the pocket of her pantsuit with a satisfied smirk.

Her fingers immediately return between your legs, sliding through your slick folds with firm pressure that has you whimpering enough for her to press her lips against yours to keep you quiet.

“So wet already,” she murmurs against your lips.

She slips a finger inside you without warning, her middle finger sliding in to the knuckle easily. A whine catches in your throat, muffled by Baran’s mouth. Her free hand roams, squeezing your ass, pulling you harder onto her hand as a second finger pushes inside you, stretching and curling deep while her thumb finds your clit with delicious pressure.

The web, lewd sounds of her fingers pumping into your soaked pussy are the only sounds in the empty coatroom, loud to your heightened senses, and your hips rut to meet her hand.

Baran grinds her thigh between your legs for leverage, her own arousal evident in the way she rocks against you. Her breath comes in hot and shaky pants against your lips, more breathing into each other’s mouths than actually kissing.

Her hand trails up your back to your hair, gripping at the base of your head to try and not mess up the pins in your hair (lest she feel your wrath) as she tilts your head back. You break from her mouth and she immediately begins kissing down your neck, stopping to suck a mark just below your ear. You feel the faint sting of her teeth and the heat of her mouth almost makes your knees buckle.

“B-ah!-Baran, you couldn’t wait?”

“Need to feel you cum on my fingers,” she pants against your neck. “Need to know this pretty cunt is only for me.”

The pace of her fingers turns frantic. Her fingers fuck into you faster, deeper, her thumb abandoning your clit in favor of her palm grinding against you with every stroke. You clutch at her shoulders, nails digging into the fabric as the fire in your belly builds, pressure coiling tightly inside of you. The risk, the possessiveness, the whines you’re doing your best to muffle - it’s all overwhelming.

Baran leans in closer, her forehead pressing against yours as her eyes lock onto your own. “Cum for me,” she demands. “Cum on my fingers, show me who you belong to.”

The orgasm rolls over you like a wave, crashing through your body and Baran has to shove a hand over your mouth in an effort to contain the loud moan you let out. Your walls clench around her thrusting fingers, slick coating her hand as pleasure floods you. You shake against her, whining into her hand while she keeps fucking you through it, drawing out the feeling until you’re boneless and gasping for air against her palm.

Slowly, she withdraws her fingers and brings them to her lips, licking them clean with a low and satisfied moan, her eyes locked on yours the entire time. Then she kisses you deeply, her tongue sliding inside your mouth and over your own, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

You whimper at the taste, fingers bunched in the top of her pantsuit.

“Good girl,” she whispers against your mouth as she smooths your dress back down with hands that are too tender for what they’ve just done to you.

With one final possessive kiss, she straightens, offering you a hand. You take it, allowing her to pull you off the coatroom wall, leading you back toward the gala like nothing happened, though your slick thighs are evidence of your escapades, as are your panties tucked safely in her pocket.

You barely have a second to breathe as you step back into the ballroom, because one of the younger doctors - Javadi,you think you heard someone call her - is the first to spot you.

“There you are,” she says immediately, both relief and confusion mixing together as she looks between you and Baran. “You missed it, Gloria just called you out during her speech. Like, publicly. In front of everyone.”

Baran’s expression sharpens. “She did what?”

“Yeah,” Javadi says with a roll of her eyes. “It was…very flattering. Awkward timing, though, because you weren’t here.”

There’s a pause then, enough for the group to really take the two of you in.

“No fucking way,” Trinity says with a smirk, arms crossing in front of her chest as she appraises you. The slightly disheveled state of Baran’s hair, the smudge of your lipstick, the trace of redness at your throat. “Oh my god.”

“Trinity,” Garcia warns, but the warning goes ignored.

“We - we were getting drinks,” you stammer, even as your cheeks heat with the lie.

Trinity looks unconvinced, and your head swivels to your wife, desperately looking for backup.

You catch Langdon leaning toward Robby in your peripheral, whispering, “They weren’t getting drinks.”

Baran, on the other hand, looks totally unbothered, a stark contrast to the tense woman she was before the two of you disappeared. In fact, you’d dare to say she looks pleased with herself as her fingers wrap around the untouched whiskey glass and she takes a small sip.

“Anyways,” she says calmly, as if the last ten minutes haven’t fundamentally changed the light her coworkers see her in. “What did I miss?”

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