#Surgeon John Price

[elysianightsss]

ANAESTHESIA | MASTERLIST

Pairings | Surgeon Simon Riley x Clinical Fellow Reader, Surgeon Price x Clinical Fellow Reader, Clinical Fellow Soap x Clinical Fellow Reader, Nurse Gaz x Clinical Fellow Reader, Doctor!141 x reader.

Summary | Simon was your high school sweetheart, Kyle was your rebound from Simon, Johnny was your friend with benefits for your first year at med school and John was the one night stand you couldn’t remember. Five years later they’re all working at the same hospital you’d just been transferred to.

Tags | Smut, Fluff, Angst, medical stuff I had to google to make sure it was accurate, awkwardness, mentions of blood, mentions of surgery and wounds, the hospital is massive, the guys pining for you while you try to ignore them, Simon being a dick, comedy gold, a written soap opera if there ever was one.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Fin

Divider credit | @cafekitsune

[gomzdrawfr]

toy

ps: sniper was traced

disclaimer: do NOT buy a weapon for your pets to play with

[brokenpieces-72]

The 627th MASH Unit

Okay so this came to me yesterday and just kept going. Thought I would post it. For people who sonnt know MASH is an old series about the war in Korea, focusing on the MASH unit. I altered a few of the names and couple of other details to make it fit. Hope you enjoy.

“Fuck the paperwork it will be filled out later, this woman needs medical attention now!” Price barked.

“Paperwork first, I can’t do anything about it!” The Major said, daring to stand up to a very pissed Captain Price. Apparently because Farah wasn’t an American Soldier and was associated with Alex, a defected soldier there needed to be paperwork for her to be operated on.

“Major-“ a soldier came up next to Price.

“Captain, stay out of this!” The Major barked at her. Price looked at the smaller female captain who simply responded to her superior with a smile.

“Is that an order sir?” She asked, giving a big mischievous grin.

“That’s an order! Stay out of this and get to work.” He ordered. The captain smiled, straightened and turned to Price.

“The hand of Union Jacks with you?” She asked him. Price nodded. “Are you about to hand me paperwork?”

“I’ve been ordered to stay out of this. Sorry sir.” She said. Then she gave him a wink and a salute before leaving the conversation as quickly as she came in.

………

“Bring her this way.” The young captain told Gaz, Soap, Alex and Ghost. They brought Farah in on a gurney before helping her on to an operating table. The captain fled the room, ushering the rest of the men out, as if they were mice.

“Shoo shoo, no contamination!” She said, before getting another doctor to help her wash and clean up. The surgery would take some time, but for now it was best to focus on getting the shrapnel out.

“Do you need anything else from us?” Kyle asked her once they were outside.

“Not at the moment but if you pop over to the mess tent there’s a two for one pint of blood special on juice boxes and cookies.”

The two men exchanged a look once she disappeared back into the operating room. Now all they could do was pray. Alex was pacing already, worried about his friend. Soap and Gaz convinced him to pull back from the operating room, knowing his mind needed to be cleared. The best thing they could do now was take up the offer at the mess tent. Ghost decided to stay behind, able to still hear Price and Major of the MASH unit discussing the paperwork issue.

The captain got to work immediately, getting Farah under anesthesia. She worked carefully and quickly. The doctor wasn’t about to let something as ridiculous as paperwork get in the way of helping someone. She’d heard about Farah Karim’s exploits. Violent and bold they were, but respectable all the same. The Major was an idiotic teachers pet.

………

Gaz, Soap and Alex stepped in and greeted the chaplain who welcomed them with surprising warmth.

“Take a seat gentleman. We’ll be right with you.” They take seats at the benches. Alex’s leg kept bouncing nervously.

“Are you alright my son?” The father asked him.

“My friend is in the or. Worried about her.” Alex said.

“May I ask, who is your friend?” The father asked.

“Can’t really say father. But she means a lot to me and to a lot of other people.” Alex explained. Not all of his fellow soldiers in the MASH unit would be very pleased to know they had Farah Karim in their camp. The Major made that very clear.

“Saved our lives today.” Kyle added.

“Almost wouldn’t take her.” Soap mentioned.

“Oh I see. Is that what the commotion was with Major Borne?” The father asked innocently. They all nodded. “I see. Well the best I can do is pray for her, and hopefully get this blood to her to help.”

With that, they all willingly rolled up their sleeves.

………

Price had nearly lost his voice trying to get something done about Farah when he realized his men were missing. Giving up on trying to go through the Major, he decided to either find a doctor willing to go around him, or someone higher up.

He spotted the looming presence of his lieutenant outside the OR. Price made his way over to him.

“Captain.” Ghost said, addressing his captain.

“Lieutenant. We need to find some-“

“Farah’s in the OR sir.” Ghost said quietly. Price’s thoughts halted in their tracks. Did he hear that right?

“…how is she?”

“Unknown sir. But she’s being taken care of. The rest of the men are at the mess tent, donating blood. Figured the Major would try to stop the operation, so I’m keep watching unless you need me.”

Price nodded absently. They were doing it without paperwork. He needed to fill it out otherwise he would have that irritating rank pulling asswipe on his neck.

“Mess tent?” He asked. Ghost nodded. Price headed off but not before calling back, “Don’t scare off the nice nurses.”

………

The captain finished up, closing up her patient. The Major would come in at anytime and give the poor woman hell but it didn’t matter to her. Taking a few deep breaths under her mask she ordered the nurses to get her to post-op, giving them a routine to follow. At the moment she was too low on blood, and there were still a few more things needed to be done. Her pulse was poor, and any more operating might put her at higher risk.

The doctor took the time, to slowly remove her gloves and gown, tossing them in a hamper. Her bunkmate, came to see her.

“How is she?” Captain Tracker asked while Captain Bird-eye sat down on a bench, leaning against the wall.

“She’s in post-op, and needs to rest. Got her a pint of blood and to check up every half hour or so.” She said, arching her back to get some cracks out.

“Want to tell me we got some guy who doesn’t know when Halloween is over posted up at post-op?” He asked.

“Came with the Urzikstan conflict.” Bird-eye said with a tired smile. “How’s the vampire convention at the mess tent?”

“The three cosplaying soldiers are willing to get sucked dry for that woman.” Tracker replied.

“Well let’s go join them.” Bird said, standing up and shoving her hands in her pockets.

The two captain’s made their way to the mess tent, and once inside, they were greeted by Price, and the rest of his men.

“How is she?” Alex asked.

“She’s in post-op, and is slowly getting blood. I can continue operating once her pulse is normal and blood levels are higher. I have a nurse reporting to me every half hour. She’ll make it.” Bird explained.

Alex relaxes a little, while he is handed some food to keep from passing out, as are the rest of the 141 in the tent.

“Your major is a pain in the arse.” Price commented as Bird sat down next to him.

“The only major he isn’t is reasonable.” Bird replied in agreement. “Captain Birdeye at your service captain. Just call me bird.”

“Captain Price.” Price said, offering a hand. Bird shook it, while Price introduced the rest of his team. “My sergeants, Kyle Gaz Garrick and John Soap MacTavish. Alex Keller.”

“What about the Halloween prankster?” Tracker asked from his seat with Soap and Gaz.

“My fellow captain and partner in crime, Captain Tracker.” Bird said.

“That’s my Lieutenant, Simon Ghost Riley.” Price explained to them.

“The guy could scare away shadows.” Bird commented.

“Have him haunt the Major, convince him to believe in Christmas again.” Tracker added on.

“When will you be finished operating on her?” Price asked, breaking up their banter. Bird checked her wrist for the time, thoroughly.

“Would say quarter to freckle.” She responded sarcastically, before Price offered his own watch. “Ah much more accurate. Right now we need to wait until her vitals are a little more stable. If I go in now, then I’ll be operating quick and sloppy. It will be a few hours, so probably 0300. If there’s no positive change in her vitals, I’ll have to start sooner.”

“Seven hours…” Price sighed, taking a bite of the food to keep his blood sugar up.

“We have to wait for seven fucking hours?” Soap griped from the other table. The chaplain, straightened and cleared his throat. Soap raised a hand and politely apologized.

“Yeah, welcome to the health care system.” Tracker said to him, doing a quick check of Soap’s pulse.

“Welcome to the MASH unit, the drive thru for shrapnel, plasma and blood.” Bird added.

“What about the Major?” Kyle asked, thanking a nurse for another glass of juice. She gave him a sweet smile before going off to help the other donars.

“I think he’s just as scared of Skeletor as everyone else.” Bird said. “Not like he’d do anything, probably thinks the same way he thinks of everyone else from Urzikstan that ends up in post-op.”

“I don’t think I want to know what that is.” Alex said.

“No one in their right mind thinks like Borne, hell anyone who does is in a mental institution.” Bird commented, already noticing the major coming over. “Honestly how he’s escaped discharge is beyond me.”

The Major stormed into the mess tent. Price was about to stand to address him, but Bird kept an arm on his shoulder. Last thing she wanted was boiling blood. Tracker had to keep Alex from standing as well, reminding him to keep drinking.

“Captain, would you care to explain to me why there’s a high ranking Urzikstan officer taking up one our beds?” The Major asked. Bird blinked and let his statement register with everyone in the tent.

“You’re better off speaking to me, the other captain is a little busy.” Bird said jerking her head to Price and taking another glass of juice.

“I am talking to you.” Borne snapped at her.

“I’m sorry but the doctor can’t see you right now, any inquiries about patients can be directed to the pentagon. Please leave a message after the conflict.” Bird said. Soap and Gaz sat there stunned to see a Captain mocking their superior. Gaz had seen Price threaten one, sure but he had the skills to make good on that threat.

“Cut that out Bailey. I ought to report you for this misconduct.”

“What fucking misconduct?” Bird questioned, her face changing smug to irritated. She softened for a moment to address the chaplain. “Sorry father.”

“Going over my head for one, neglecting proper procedure and protocol, and aiding the enemy.”

“What enemy? The woman in there is with the Brits you see in this tent. What’s the problem, she ain’t decorated like a Christmas tree?”

“She’s a terrorist-“ before the last word could finish out of the major’s mouth, there was a loud slap. The Major nearly fell to the ground from the impact. The whole tent went silent, turning their attention to the scene. Even Price went quiet seeing the younger captain stand and glaring daggers into her commanding officer.

“If she was a terrorist, then why would these men care so much about her?! Try racking your head around that, the common human decency of giving a damn. All that woman has ever done is defend herself and her people, and never asked for anything else except a bit of help! All she wants is her home and everyone else is trying to evict her out of her own country! Now either get the paperwork for Captain Price, roll up your sleeve, or go cry to the general who’s got the hots for your favourite head nurse!” She yelled at him. The Major looked around for anyone to side with him. He ended up turning and leaving and honestly Bird didn’t care where he went. A patient is still a patient. Don’t matter who it is, she would operate on a bomber.

Once the Major left, she glanced around the room sighing. “As you were.”

She sat down getting a few last moments of people’s reactions. The sergeants were wide eyed and avoiding eye contact. Alex just looked incredulous, not hearing many outside of Farah’s own forces stand up for her. The captain simply shifted over letting her return to her seat. Bird straightened in the seat, clearing her throat.

“And that was her being nice.” Tracker mentioned to Gaz and Soap. Soap couldn’t help but laugh, maybe it was partially the blood loss but he had to admit that was bloody brilliant.

“Sincerest apologies captain.” Bird said.

“I appreciate you taking over for me, while I was occupied.” He said, still reeling from seeing someone so short, and lower rank give their major an earful.

“I’ll drink to that.” She said holding her glass of juice. Price obliged her with his own, and they toasted.

“You have anywhere to be for the next seven hours?” She asked.

“Nope.” Soap answered for the captain.

“Care for some poker or uno at our tent? Nurse knows to find me there later, you can get updates in real time.” Bird offered.

“You smoke?” Price asked.

“On occasion.” Bird replied.

I may continue but I would love to have some suggestions for what happens next.

@yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @H0n3y_L3m0n @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129

[batboyblog]

Things the Biden-Harris Administration Did This Week #31

August 9-16 2024

President Biden and Vice-President Harris announced together the successful conclusion of the first negotiations between Medicare and pharmaceutical companies over drug prices. For years Medicare was not allow to directly negotiate princes with drug companies leaving seniors to pay high prices. It has been a Democratic goal for many years to change this. President Biden noted he first introduced a bill to allow these negotiations as a Senator back in 1973. Thanks to Inflation Reduction Act, passed with no Republican support using Vice-President Harris' tie breaking vote, this long time Democratic goal is now a reality. Savings on these first ten drugs are between 38% and 79% and will collectively save seniors $1.8 billion dollars in out of pocket costs. This comes on top of the Biden-Harris Administration already having capped the price of insulin for Medicare's 3.5 million diabetics at $35 a month, as well as the Administration's plan to cap Medicare out of pocket drug costs at $2,000 a year starting January 2025.

President Biden and Vice President Harris have launched a wide ranging all of government effort to crack down on companies wasting customers time with excessive paperwork, hold times, and robots rather than real people. Some of the actions from the "Time is Money" effort include: The FTC and FCC putting forward rules that require companies to make canceling a subscription or service as easy as signing up for it. The Department of Transportation has required automatic refunds for canceled flights. The CFPB is working on rules to require companies to have to allow customers to speak to a real person with just one button click ending endless "doom loops" of recored messages. The CFPB is also working on rules around chatbots, particularly their use from banks. The FTC is working on rules to ban companies from posting fake reviews, suppressing honest negative reviews, or paying for  positive reviews. HHS and the Department of Labor are taking steps to require insurance companies to allow health claims to be submitted online. All these actions come on top of the Biden Administration's efforts to get rid of junk fees.

President Biden and First Lady Jill Biden announced further funding as part of the President's Cancer Moonshot. The Cancer Moonshot was launched by then Vice-President Biden in 2016 in the aftermath of his son Beau Biden's death from brain cancer in late 2015. It was scrapped by Trump as political retaliation against the Obama-Biden Administration. Revived by President Biden in 2022 it has the goal of cutting the number of cancer deaths in half over the next 25 years, saving 4 million lives. Part of the Moonshot is Advanced Research Projects Agency for Health (ARPA-H), grants to help develop cutting edge technology to prevent, detect, and treat cancer. The President and First Lady announced $150 million in ARPA-H grants this week focused on more successful cancer surgeries. With grants to Tulane, Rice, Johns Hopkins, and Dartmouth, among others, they'll help fund imaging and microscope technology that will allow surgeons to more successfully determine if all cancer has been remove, as well as medical imaging focused on preventing damage to healthy tissues during surgeries.

Vice-President Harris announced a 4-year plan to lower housing costs. The Vice-President plans on offering $25,000 to first time home buyers in down-payment support. It's believed this will help support 1 million first time buyers a year. She also called for the building of 3 million more housing units, and a $40 billion innovation fund to spur innovative housing construction. This adds to President Biden's call for a $10,000 tax credit for first time buyers and calls by the President to punish landlords who raise the rent by over 5%.

President Biden Designates the site of the 1908 Springfield Race Riot a National Monument. The two day riot in Illinois capital took place just blocks away from Abraham Lincoln's Springfield home. In August 1908, 17 people die, including a black infant, and 2,000 black refugees were forced to flee the city. As a direct result of the riot, black community leaders and white allies met a few months later in New York and founded the NAACP. The new National Monument will seek to preserve the history and educate the public both on the horrible race riot as well as the foundation of the NAACP. This is the second time President Biden has used his authority to set up a National Monument protecting black history, after setting up the Emmett Till and Mamie Till-Mobley National Monument on Emmett Till's 82nd birthday July 25th 2023.

The Department of The Interior announced $775 million to help cap and clean up orphaned oil and gas wells. The money will help cap wells in 21 states. The Biden-Harris Administration has allocated $4.7 billion to plug orphaned wells, a billion of which has already been distributed. More than 8,200 such wells have been capped since the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law passed in 2022. Orphaned wells leak toxins into communities and are leaking the super greenhouse gas methane. Plugging them will not only improve the health of nearby communities but help fight climate change on a global level.

Vice-President Harris announced plans to ban price-gouging in the food and grocery industries. This would be a first ever federal ban on price gouging and Harris called for clear "rules of the road" on price rises in food, and strong penalties from the FTC for those who break them. This is in line with President Biden's launching of a federal Strike Force on Unfair and Illegal Pricing in March, and Democratic Senator Bob Casey's bill to ban "shrinkflation". In response to this pressure from Democrats on price gouging and after aggressive questions by Senator Casey and Senator Elizabeth Warren, the supermarket giant Kroger proposed dropping prices by a billion dollars

[7s3ven]

SINGLE DAD! X BABYSITTER! READER HAS ME FROTHING OMGG. Even better when the rest of TF 141 is involved

part 1 | part 2 (coming soon - rest of tf 141 introduced)

master list

MDNI 18+

Warnings: big age gap, babysitter! reader, reader is in medical school (but still legal guys)

You told yourself it was just a temporary summer job, something to fill your pockets over the Summer break as you moved into another year of university. Medical bills were not easy to pay off and your old job that paid the bare minimum did not help you in the least. All it taught you was that you had a nasty uppercut (from the time you actually hit someone and got fired).

So, you found yourself standing in front of John Price’s house. You stared up at the tall building, brows raised in surprise. He had understated how big his house was… it even had a garden and a pool. You may as well consider it a mansion.

You quickly rang the doorbell, smoothening out your tight blouse. Your much more appropriate one was in the wash so you prayed whoever answered the door did not notice.

It was a tall middle-aged who greeted you, beard cleanly trimmed and… a hat on his head. “Y/N L/N?” He asked you. You swiftly nodded, softly smiling when he stepped aside.

“So, medical school, huh? Training to become a doctor?” He asks as he brews you a cup of tea while you read over his terms and conditions.

“A surgeon, sir. Not much better, though.” You offer him another smile, hoping to ease the awkward tension.

“Right. Next time I need surgery, I’ll call you up.” He takes a sip from your tea, which you notice but you say nothing. “Just checkin’ the temperature. Wouldn’t want ya to burn yourself.” He hands you the mug, his fingers lingering on your skin for a moment too long.

“I assume this is only a quick job for you? Just away to gain a bit of money to pay those student fees off?”

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you nod. “Yes, sir. I know I should have clarified it but I’m a little desperate at this point. Besides, no retail places want to hire me… after I hit someone.”

Your words intrigued him. He let out a low chuckle as he sat across from you. “Now I’m interested.”

“Well… there’s not much to it… a guy kept staring at my chest. He said some vulgar stuff and next thing I knew, I was punching him.”

Price shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “The lad was askin’ for it. So, what do you think about the job? You’ll honestly be a glorified babysitter. Just do some cleaning and cookin’ here and there and make my baby happy and you’ll get a nice pay check every week.”

It all happened in a blur. You agreed to the job and weeks later, you found yourself at Price’s house more than your apartment. You hadn’t stepped foot into your apartment since two days ago, Price generously allowing you to use one of the guest rooms.

“Lila has a sleepover tomorrow.” Price mentions as you’re reading the instructions on how to make cookies for Lila’s bake sale.

Based on the cooking skills you had seen from Price, you doubted he could bake very well. In fact, all he could cook was steak, which was general knowledge for dads.

“I can drop her off if needed.” You offer while opening the packet of flour only for it to explode in your face. You smacked your lips together, grimacing. “Not a word.” You mutter to Price who’s chuckling under his breath.

“Wasn’t gon’ a say anything, love.” He helps wipe the flour dust off your face, still grinning in amusement.

In all honesty, your relationship with Price felt a little too domesticated, especially right now as you wore a frilly apron he had bought just for you.

“Your skirt’s too short, by the way.” Price grumbles, attempting to tug it down. “You sure no creeps stared at you on your way ‘ere? Wouldn’t want ya in danger.”

You push his hands away from your hips. “Even if people were staring, I’ll just punch them.”

You had tried to maintain a professional relationship with your boss but it was hard when he carelessly manhandled you and treated you like his wife rather than his daughter’s babysitter.

And all professional behaviour came crashing down when he unexpectedly stood behind you as you whisked the cookie batter.

“You look like a coke addict.” Price jokes, referring to the flour that still stained your face. “Like you got it everywhere but up your nose.”

“I can assure you, sir, I have never tried coke unless my friend daring me to snort sherbet counts.”

Price grins at your biting remark, his heavy hands falling to your waist. “Yeah? Heard it doesn’t feel too good with sherbet.”

“Not in the slightest.”

His hands trail dangerously low but you don’t have the courage to ask him to stop… nor do you really want him too. He seems to sense your willingness as he rests his face in the crook of your neck, body pressed up tightly against yours.

You feel more like his spoiled wife than a medical student just trying to pay her bills.

“You’re pretty, ya know that? Surprised you don’ have a boyfriend… or girlfriend. Or partner. Dunno what your label is.”

With shaking hands, you place the bowl filled with cookie batter to the side, afraid you’ll only spill it.

“Never met a woman as soft as you… most think I chased Lila’s mother away. But nah. Her mother ran off, leavin’ me with a baby. Not that I’m complaining, I love Lila… and without her, I wouldn’ have met you.”

You’re reduced to listening to Price’s words, stuck between his larger frame and the marbled kitchen counter.

“Sir.” You whisper but it reaches his keen ears. Everything after that is a distorted blur and you find yourself bent over the counter, clad in nothing but the apron, with Price right behind you.

Price was a mystery to you. How could a man be turned on by something as simple as an apron? Though, he was a single dad so it made sense.

Price is muttering praises in your ears as your knees tremble, threatening to buckle. You never imagined you’d be in your employer’s kitchen, having your back blown out by the man himself.

His hands were hungrily climbing your body, gripping every bit of exposed skin he could find. If it wasn’t for him holding you upright, you would have toppled to the ground in a heartbeat.

You feel Price lift a hand to grip your hair, tugging at your locks. He’s in a desperate stupor but you’re not any better, pushing back your hips to meet his harsh thrusts.

“Gon’ a fill ya up. Give you a baby of yer own. Fuck… be so pretty just like you. My perfect little wife.” He grunts in your ear. You have no energy to correct him; that you’re not actually his wife but you’d have no complaints if he bought you a ring.

If anything, his words spur you on more.

Your chest is heaving by the time you near your release. You’re whining like a damn dog, high pitched noises slipping past your saliva-slicked lips. And you only grow in volume as Price speeds up, pressing his body against your back.

He’s older than you, that’s a fact you knew from the start, but he’s definitely more experienced as well. His well thought out words have the desired effect on you as the coil in your stomach snaps.

Your fluids drip down your exposed legs, hitting the tiles kitchen ground in thick droplets. You hear Price swear under his breath, quickly pulling out and staining your back white.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment as he rests his forehead on your shoulder. Then he leads you towards his bathroom, ushering you inside and handing you a spare set of clothes.

“Imma place your old ones in the washing, yeah?” He mutters, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before leaving you to wash off.

You sit on the shower floor for a good five minutes, replaying the moment in your head. When you finally cleanse yourself of sweat, you slip Price’s shirt over your head, inhaling the intoxicating smell of his cologne. It was the one you liked too.

His clothes engulfed you as you stumbled back into the kitchen, hobbling a little.

“I guess I’ll… get going then.” You murmur, fidgeting with your hands.

Price reaches out a hand to brush a strand of hair away from your face. Then he nods. “See you tomorrow night, lovie.”

Right, you still had to finish those cookies and pick up your clothes.

[celenawrites]

Jaded and disillusioned from life, head surgeon John Price is used to the scenes of blood and death - just hoping that his skills and expertise as a doctor can help him save lives now that he's no longer on the front lines anymore. He couldn't handle seeing his comrades and juniors dying because of his decisions, and there's an air of detachment now that he's a surgeon treating strangers coming in on gurneys, makes it easier for him to treat them as a doctor.

At least that's what he tells himself, even though he drinks himself to a stupor every night he's not on duty.

In comes you, a new resident surgeon - full of life and zeal and everything he has lost along the way, and he's assigned as your mentor. He's almost envious of you.

You stick to him like a moth to a flame, constantly distracting him with your soft smiles and eager questions and possible ideas for treatments and he can see how much you love this, how much you want to be a doctor and heal people. How much you want to innovate and change the world.

But then you stick by his side, and he can see the light in your eyes dimming. He sees you depend on that Styrofoam cup filled to the brim with coffee as if it can give you the energy to tackle workplace politics. He sees you silently cry to yourself in an empty storage room after you see a 10 year-old boy lose his life. He sees you comfort the old lady as you hold her hand and whisper to her soothingly that everything will be fine as she slowly ceases her breathing.

Price holds you tight into his arms once he catches you - shaky hands and bloodshot eyes with a brain unable to comprehend death and the loss of innocent lives.

It comes with the job but he'd be damned if he lets you go through all of this alone.

Your eyes don't sparkle anymore. Your hair is just as dead.

You don't bother him as much, and your smiles hurt your face - you practice them in the mirror before your shift and it just makes you want to curl up and cry. You're spiraling and no one notices.

Price can see you losing it and he does not know what he can do to make yourself feel like human again.

listen i was casually watching grey's anatomy while writing price's fic and it hit me. the thought that in another universe he would be SO surgeon coded.

trauma surgeon suits him so much. like, his acting in stressful situations, a desire to save lives at whatever cost. to be here, when things are bad and most of people thinks there's nothing to be done.

he was sent in a field, but came back to hospital, tired. tired of war, of screaming, of blood, of dead corpses. wanting some peace.

and he quite literally got it, but he has to deal with all-bubbly plastics resident, full of hope that he lost. he's sort of a legend for her (she's younger, like 10 years ish?) and she's asking a lot of questions. a lot of questions that he rolls eyes at, but answers anyway.

grumpy x sunshine dynamic but he gets a bit smiley every time she asks something new

i need someone urgently to obsess over it with me bc i think i might go insane. with it, inbox is open

[pronoun-fucker]

IN 1986, Sophie Ottaway was born with a very rare condition which required immediate surgery.

Cloacal exstrophy happens when the organs in the abdomen do not form correctly in the womb, resulting in babies born with organs such as the bladder or intestines outside the body.

Doctors had to operate to save her life.

Sophie was actually a boy, with a tiny, damaged penis but healthy testes.

But doctors advised Sophie’s parents that their baby’s male ­genitalia should be removed to avoid further complications.

The baby had to be registered by the following day, which meant they had to decide whether to tick male or female on the form.

Sophie’s parents Karen and John followed the surgeons’ advice.

“They were told not to tell me,” says Sophie, a warm and friendly 37-year-old who has since fully forgiven her parents for their decision.

“We are very close,” she tells me, “despite going through some rocky times in the past.”

Life changed for Sophie, who grew up in Beverley, East Yorks, when she was 22 years old and visiting her GP surgery for tonsilitis.

She says: “I saw on the computer screen that I had XY chromosomes, had been castrated hours after birth, and an incision was made where a vagina would be.”

Although Sophie exploded at her parents in the moment, she buried her feelings about it all until 13 years later when, hospitalised during a Covid lockdown, it was discovered she had developed sepsis that had ended up in her intestines.

‘I went into 13 years of absolute denial’

This was what led her to decide to speak out.

Sophie was already aware that many children and young people were being groomed in gender ideology, persuaded to take puberty blockers, then set on a medical pathway for life.

She says: “At age 11, as I approached puberty, they put me on oestrogen because there’s no ovaries, and no testes to produce testosterone.

“This is what doctors are doing now to kids who wish to change gender — putting them on blockers.”

It was a lie when Sophie was told she had to take oestrogen for life because her ovaries had been removed at birth as a result of damage.

Sophie was born biologically male. “So obviously there were never any ovaries,” she says wryly.

She adds: “The time to tell me and try to get informed consent was at the point we introduced the endocrinologist. This is the time puberty blockers are being offered to kids, so I make that connection with what’s happening today.”

When feminists and others critical of the medicalisation of children with gender dysphoria have said that these drugs and interventions are harmful, we are often labelled bigots. But Sophie is speaking from personal experience, in the hope that she will be listened to rather than dismissed and vilified.

About five years ago, Sophie chose to stop taking the hormones, because “I was adamant that many problems in my life were being caused by them.

“I was about 4st heavier than I am now, and I wasn’t eating badly. I was having bladder pain beyond belief.

“I had fatigue and was quite angry a lot of the time.”

By then, Sophie had been taking oestrogen for 20 years, and decided enough was enough. She was told she should keep taking it because it was for bone density, to which she replied that she would have regular bone scans.

Sophie had no choice but to go on oestrogen, because the doctors prescribed it to her as a child — but surely she should be listened to when she warns of the effects cross-sex hormones have on the body?

Now that she no longer takes it, all her symptoms have improved.

She says: “We’re selling this idea of perfection in the guise of changing gender. You’ve got all of these problems and might be struggling because you don’t fit in at school, or because you like boys’ toys and you’re a girl, or vice versa. As someone who knows all about decisions made under time pressure and who has paid the price, Sophie’s understanding of the sales pitch being made to children before puberty is crystal clear.

She says: “You’ve got a sale based on a time pressure.

“We’re going to push you through this for the puberty blockers, we’re going to make that sale.”

Keen to stress that there is a big difference between a girl behaving “like a boy”, wearing boys’ clothes and haircuts, Sophie adds: “Puberty blockers are a different level to how we dress and which toys we favour.”

The idea being sold is that gender reassignment is the answer to all your problems, but Sophie says: “What you get is genital mutilation, castration, and a lifetime of dangerous hormones, which was my experience.”

As she points out: “Children can’t vote, they can’t drink, can’t drive.

���But you can choose to do something life-changing.”

Sophie hopes that by speaking out and telling her unvarnished truth, some children — and parents — might make a different choice.

She says that when she found out that she’d been born male, “I obviously knew I had urological problems, and I knew that I had no vagina because of the surgeries.

“I didn’t address it at that point. I was 22, in second year at university.

“I had a plan of my life. And dealing with this monstrosity was not in the plan. I got up the next day and went to university.

“I still had the same connection with my friends. I was still the ­person I was 24 hours ago.

“But I went into 13 years of ­absolute denial.”

She never told anyone about it, not even close friends.

‘When I came out of hospital I was raging’

Then, during the pandemic, Sophie found herself in hospital a couple of times, and it all came crashing down.

She recalls: “They thought it was a kidney infection, but they couldn’t get to the bottom of it.

“When I was born they had fashioned some female genitalia. Brown putrid fluid starting leaking out of the hole and it would not stop.

“I presented at the hospital and I had to tell them for the first time about what had happened to me.”

When doctors examined her, they saw that there was something very wrong.

It turned out there was a mass in her abdomen, which was the neovagina — inserted when she was a baby — and left to rot.

Sophie says: “I found out from my mum that they had inserted it when I was two days old, and that one day it popped out and was found in my nappy.”

Surgeons replaced it during a later operation, sealed it up, and left it, which is why it led to sepsis many years later.

“No one had been told it had been put back in,” says Sophie.

Up until this point she had thought that the surgeon had simply operated to save her life — “which he did, but he also did a hell of a lot of other stuff that was unnecessary.”

What’s more, the doctors failed to do something that was necessary — namely, address the complex urological problems that have plagued Sophie all her life.

She says this “is one of the things that has the biggest effect on having any kind of intimate relationship. And yet the one thing that they could have fixed is my incontinence.”

She tells me: “When I came out of hospital, I was raging at that point.”

And she thought that by speaking out, she might be able to help those who think they are in the wrong body.

Sophie says: “A lot of them are being groomed to feel that way or question those thoughts in the first place by the school and the system and the media. Those kids need help.”

A much better solution, she argues, would be to divert funding currently being used for puberty blockers, cross sex hormones and surgery and ­allocate it to children’s mental health services and counselling.

Sophie says: “We can work with that person to find out why they are feeling like this.

“Then, maybe when they become an adult, they might be mature enough to be properly informed and consent to any changes to the outer body.

“It is often assumed I am transgender, but I really don’t like labels. I am just Sophie.

Poised for a backlash from the more extreme trans activists, Sophie makes it clear that she respects any adult’s decision to choose that path — so long as they are properly informed.

But she is clear that this is never appropriate for children.

“I don’t want this to happen to any other baby born with this condition,” she says.

“We have to find better ways to support kids to live in the body they are born with.”

Link | Archived Link

[mistydeyes]

medically induced dream

GIF by sprout-fics

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summary: Your idiotic act of heroism ended with a gunshot to the sternum and an immediate surgery. That's the last thing you remembered as you woke up in a dream like state in a time period that is unfamiliar to you.

pairing: Task Force 141 x pharmacist!Reader

see her here counseling the 141

her story if she likes price

her story if she likes ghost

warnings: medical/pharmacy terminology, medical inaccuracies, swearing, depiction of wounds and violence

a/n: missed my favorite pharmacist girl! plz enjoy and peep the little easter eggs of other famous women in medicine :)

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Everyone knew you loved being a military pharmacist. It was shown through the way you interacted with patients and worked to brighten everyone's day. You loved the spontaneity of the job as well. For example, you were now on your 3rd tour and were considered a veteran in the medical department.

It wasn't all fun and games as you were running out of the medic tent, onto a helicopter, and into an active war zone. There had been an emergency call for medics and you were one of the ones to help. You were equipped with a small sidearm and a medic pack to help as many people as possible reach the evac point.

Your ears rang with gunfire as you jumped onto the solid ground. You looked around quickly and saw an injured soldier lying about 100 meters from you. You ran to them, your boots kicking up sand and dirt. As you reached them, you could hear a familiar voice yell, "Y/N get down!" before you were thrown backward and felt pain shooting from your abdomen. Your feet were dragged behind a turned-over car and you could see through your tears, Gaz, applying pressure to your wound. "Stay with me, Captain," he said as he held the now pooling wound down. Your eyes fluttered closed as you heard him continue to yell.

The next 12hrs were a living nightmare as once you had gotten shot, you were drifting in and out of consciousness. You vaguely remembered the feeling of someone lifting you and the sight of Price running with you in his arms. You also remembered some of your fellow medics rushing to stabilize you as your ears rang with the sound of the helicopter taking off. Finally, you thought you recognized the sterile appearance of a hospital operating room as a mask was affixed to your face and an anesthesiologist counted down from 10. Your eyes felt heavy as you saw the surgeon look over at you. You tried to lift your hand to reach out but soon the comfort of sleep overtook your consciousness.

You opened your eyes to the sounds of screams and explosions. You looked around frantically as the chaos permeated the environment. The air was hot and you felt stuffy in your long skirt and bonnet. "Y/N get up now! They're bringing in the Captain and we need help," a nurse yelled at you as you saw a cot being dragged in by wounded soldiers. You barely had time to take in your attire before you felt a rush of adrenaline. Your skirt swished around your ankles and you saw a signature Red Patch adorning your apron. As you ran towards the man, you recognized a familiar friend. A pained expression was plastered on his face as his blue eyes darted around the room. His facial hair was stained with dirt and droplets of blood and you noticed him gripping his leg.

"John," you breathed out as you examined his body. He gripped your arm as you tried to move his thigh. You realized he had a bullet lodged in his left thigh and it needed to be removed immediately. "Get me bandages, now!" you commanded and nurses ran to get you the supplies. You looked around and were surprised to see the tent was filled with rudimentary medical supplies, where were the defibrillators and crash carts? A nurse handed you a pristine white roll of gauze and it felt soft in your hands. Subconsciously, you didn't know what overtook you but your hands guided your actions. You motioned for the soldiers to hold the man down as you fished out a bullet from his thigh. He writhed in pain and blood spurted on your white skirt.

After what seemed like forever, you retrieved the bullet and did your best to disinfect the wound and apply the clean gauze. "Thank you, Doctor," Price said gently as they placed him on a bed. You held his hand as the doctors injected him with something to relieve the pain. From your apron, you fished out a cigar and lit it for him. "For you," you said and handed it to him. "Don't think Dr. Finley would appreciate her medics giving out cigars," he joked. You were about to ask who he was referring to and why you knew that name but the moment was gone. As you watched him puff the smoke into the sticky air, you suddenly heard another airstrike nearby and were blinded by the rubble.

Your eyes shot open and you fully were preparing to be lying on the floor in some World War I war zone. Instead, you were shaded by a large tree and felt the tickle of grass on your legs. You looked down to see a rich red silk dress adorning your body and a book in your hand. "De Curatio, The Cure of Wounds," you read aloud as you traced your hands on the leather cover. The author, Mercuriade, was inscribed at the bottom along with the author of the English translation. You flipped through the book and it seemed vaguely familiar, detailing herbal treatments and how to identify ailments such as fevers and typhoid.

"Y/N," a voice called from the distance and you shield your eyes from the sun to see who was approaching. A familiar man approached and his linen shirt blew gently in the summer wind. "Kyle, what art thou doing hither?" you asked in an unfamiliar tone. Your brain was confused as this was a foreign syntax to how you normally spoke. "What art thee reading?" he asked as he sat down at the base of the tree. You hesitated as you struggled to remember how you even got here. "A booketh from Italy, medicinal studies from the Distaff of Sal'rno," you responded. Wait no, it was the Women of Salerno, how were you speaking like this? You looked at the man sitting against the tree and blinked a few times. You couldn't fathom what was happening right now as you grew more confused about your current location.

"Art thee ill?" he asked as he looked concerned at the wild look in your eyes. "I wilt beest not restful," you lied as he held a hand to your cheek. "Thee seemeth did ghast!" he exclaimed as he rose to his feet. Suddenly, he tripped on the long roots and fell in pain. You rushed over to see he had skinned his knee. "T'is a scratch," he laughed as you examined him. "T'is a wound," you corrected and used part of your skirt to put pressure on the bleeding. He hissed in response as your scarlet dress began to seep with blood. After a short while, he tried to rise to his feet by grabbing your arm. You aided him as his grip confined your dress against your skin. "Wilt thou tell me the date of now?" you asked as you began to guide him from the tree. "Y/N, t'is Friday, year of 1587." As he spoke the last digit of the year, you felt faint and clattered against the stump of the tree.

"Y/N, it is time to round on the men," a gentle voice called to you as they gently shook your shoulders. You gasped as you felt the taut cotton you were laying on, a cot you assumed. You rose to your feet and the hem of a dark long wool dress followed. You looked at the nurse as she gestured to the door. "Mistress Nightingale has already checked on most of them, continue with the room across. Those are the ones who are going to be sent out tomorrow," she whispered and laid down in the same cot you were just in.

You followed her direction as you wondered where you were. The surname of Nightingale seemed familiar but you couldn't place where you had heard it. As you grabbed a candle from the corridor, you used it to illuminate the sleeping faces of the soldiers. They lay with bandages adoring their bodies and tucked with wool blankets. You shivered as you continued, finally reaching a man with a blanket half on his torso. You gently put the lamp on the ground and the soft metallic sound filled the air. You winced at the noise and quietly pulled the blanket up on the man's torso. You could feel his calm breathing as you brought the fabric to his chin, his stubble tickling your knuckles. As you turned and leaned down to pick up the lamp, he weakly held your wrist.

"Thank ye, Nurse," he spoke and his eyes fluttered open. He looked tired and appeared to wake due to your actions so you put your finger to your lips to quiet him. "Sleep now, tomorrow you will be returning to England," you whispered as you held your hand around the flame of the candle to dim the light. "Never thought Crimea would be so cold," he whispered back and pulled the blanket closer to his chest. You quickly rushed back to your quarters as your mind spun with unknown answers. You suddenly remembered where you knew Nightingale from. It was Florence Nightingale, the lady with the lamp during the Crimean War. As you crept into the room, the same nurse from earlier sat up, "Heard you were talking to Johnny, he's a good Scottish boy," she smiled. You didn't respond as you collapsed on a cot, why did his name sound so familiar?

You woke up with a start and anxiously looked around. Your white linen nightgown was soaked with sweat as you palmed the smooth duvet. Your clammy hands drew back the curtains to reveal a large room. Your eyes flickered around the teal wallpaper and the gold trimmings. The smell of rain and flowers met your nose as you saw the window cracked open. You rose to your feet and cautiously opened the door and began walking down the large hallway. Eventually, you came upon an open oak door where you could see Simon sitting with an open book and a candle. The illuminated walls contained a variety of titles and you saw that it was just as ornate as your room. "Y/N, what are you doing awake at this hour?" he asked as you sat across from him on a dark blue velvet chaise lounge. "Simon, what happened to your mask?" you spoke softly as you could see his blond hair and eyelashes illuminated by the soft flame. What interested you more was the book he was holding, Medicine as a Profession for Women by Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell. He closed the book and placed it on the table separating you two. "Changes are coming in medicine, thought I might read it before your entrance to the London School of Medicine for Women," he said.

Your hands shook as you struggled to respond. You gripped your nightgown as he stared at your intensely. "What did you say?" you whispered back. "But that isn't right, is it Y/N?" he countered, "because you already went to school and have been a pharmacist in the British Army" he chuckled. You were at a loss for words as he continued speaking. "You've been dreaming for a while now, do you think we would be in some Edwardian mansion in real life?" he said and grandly gestured to the library which slowly began to lose detail. "You have some weird dreams, Captain," he continued. As you looked intently at him, his long suede suit jacket and teal Jacquard vest began to melt into the attire you were familiar seeing him with. "Simon I-" you began to say but you suddenly felt faint and collapsed on the blue velvet chair. Your head spun as you stared at the ornate ceiling adorned with paintings and gold trimmings. "It's time to wake up, Y/N" you heard him softly say before you fell into darkness.

"I think she's awake" a voice excitedly exclaimed as you opened your eyes. You feared you were in another dream but the pain in your sternum and the sterility of the hospital room emphasized you were actually awake. You tried to get up before Price ran over to you and motioned for you to lie down. "Thought we lost you, lass," Soap spoke as he came closer to your bedside. You sighed as you looked around and saw them in modern-day civilian clothing. "Where am I?" you hoarsely asked as you looked at the IV drip. "Base hospital," Price answered, "You've been out for three days now since the surgery."

You were shocked as it hadn't felt that long. But he was right as the updated whiteboard chart had shown three days had passed. "How long have you been here?" you asked as Gaz handed you a small cup of water. "The whole time, we were with you on the helo," Soap responded and you could tell they looked tired. "You should go home and rest, I'm alright now," you smiled gently. "Ah we've been here long enough, we could wait until the doctor checks on you," Ghost said and you were relieved to see he still had his signature mask and wasn't in some ridiculous get-up.

"Suit yourself," you said and went back to chugging your water. There was a beat of silence before someone spoke up again. "By the way Captain, did you have any weird dreams?" Gaz asked as he propped up in his chair. "You were talking in your sleep, Captain," Ghost added and you silently cursed your sleeping habits. You would have to find out what you said. "Well, I guess I'll start by saying I've read too many books about the history of women in medicine," you started and they all gathered to hear about your morphine-induced dream world.

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[glossysoap]

ready to comply v - изоляция

изоляция or isolation is defined as;

the process or fact of isolating or being isolated.

tags/warnings: pov change from 141 to reader, phantom limb/pain, talk of human waste (sorry), uncleanliness, torture, hallucinations, fake death.

prev chapters here!

word count: 2,876

🏷️: @viylikescats @warenai @briacreations96 @fullmoon-94 @breadboyye @kiroshang @zvdvdlvr @lunitalloronaa @itzzjxlyn @lonely-ofc @m0rganit3 @badbishsblog @wolfyland07 @angelsdemonsmonsters @unkn0wnd3ad @itstokyo-cos @c1rice @venusianlustt @bugonawall @wakusbonkus @blackrose4242 @blackgaladriel @lilpothoscuttings @thvxr @tapioca-marzipan @undercover-smutlover @nickangel13 @luvmeijii @atjamesbbarnes @h-leigh @writingmybeloved @chloeforde @divine--serenity @hunterbunter3000 (if ur name is striked out, it means tumblr wouldn’t let me tag, sorry)

When you assumed that the 141 wouldn’t send out a search and rescue team for you, you were right.

When you assumed that by the time the 141 discovered you were missing, that it would be too late, you were right.

When you assumed that they would be too preoccupied with the next mission to look for you, you were right.

That much was proved to be true when Shepherd uttered the words, “You know I can’t let you do that, John.” The General couldn’t send out his best soldiers to go searching for some medic that was probably already long dead by now. The General wouldn’t.

John chuckled without humor, shaking his head in disbelief.

“So what then, General? Because they were the only surgeon I trusted with my team!” He shouted, nostrils flaring.

Shepherd chose his next words carefully, still paranoid after being ambushed in that conference room and almost assaulted by the Lieutenant.

“So, we’ll hope for the best and prepare for the worst. We will have a list of potential.. replacements as soon as possible.”

John’s throat tightened and tears pricked his eyes but he didn’t let them fall. No, not in front of the emotionless, insensitive General, who John knew never liked you that much anyway.

So the Captain pressed his lips together and nodded to himself, before walking out of the conference room. He walked the halls of his base with a clenched jaw and a feeling of barbed wire wrapped around his throat.

Soon, you were also right about being replaced.

Corporate quickly pulled your name from any employee record or planners. Your name was pulled from payroll and all of your previous medical cases were sealed forever. Any of your current patients were transferred to a different surgeon, along with the medical plan you had created. Your room was even cleared of all of your belongings and put into a box - down to every last post-it note, picture frame and candle. The gold plaque on your door that had your name printed on it was even scraped from the wood, leaving it blank for someone else’s name.

Worst of all, was when the interviews began. Way too soon in the Task Force’s opinion. Laswell, Price and Shepherd had formed a panel including themselves and your previous medical assistants in order to find the best replacement. Price tried to ignore the sullen looks on your assistants’ faces when they were trying to find a new surgeon. You were their friend and mentor, after all.

Once they had finally found someone suitable for the job, the new surgeon moved into your medbay the medbay. They put their grubby little hands on it. They rearranged all of the medical supplies into a different order, one that made no sense compared to the way you organized things. Even the way they triaged patients irked the Task Force, it was all way too busy and chaotic instead of the coordinated way you triaged.

When it came to being treated by your replacement, 141’s hackles rose. They would glare daggers at the surgeon, tempted to refuse treatment from anyone other than you. No one could administer injections like you could. No one could insert an IV like you, they would always end up losing a vein or leaving the patients arm with bruises. Your replacement took too long to come up with diagnoses, leaving the team out of commission for longer than necessary.

At every single turn, the entire Task Force knew that if you were here, you would’ve put that “replacement” to absolute shame.

But when you assumed that the team would be better off with you gone? You couldn’t have been more wrong.

The atmosphere at the base shifted immediately after you were announced missing in action, and presumably killed in action.

It was an unspoken grief that neither Simon or Johnny could swallow, no matter how hard they tried. Where the warmth usually resided in their chest, a piercing ache replaced it, leaving a hole where you should be. The hole in their chest was always there, digging deeper and deeper with each passing minute without you.

Their throats went raw and tight every time they found themselves looking for you, on pure instinct. They would search for you wearing your scrubs in the medbay, only to find your replacement standing in your place. They would listen for the pitter-patter of your feet as they worked out in the gym, so accustomed to you talking to them while they lifted weights. They would listen and listen, expecting you to pop up next to them — only for you to never appear. They would find themselves walking by your door and slowing to a stop. They would raise a fist to knock on your door, only to stop an inch from the door when they remembered that you weren’t there.

Everywhere they looked, they were reminded of you. They saw pieces of you everywhere on base, pieces you left behind.

(….)

For days or weeks on end, you were locked in that room as you slept on that uncomfortable cot.

Days passed, you weren’t sure how many, but you knew they were passing nonetheless. It could’ve been two days, five days, or even weeks. You had no idea.

You were kept in that room with no water. Your stomach was constantly growling and aching for even a sleeve of crackers. Your throat was dry and sore, even swallowing hurt because of how thirsty you were.

The only nourishment you were granted was two protein shakes a day, tossed into your cell first thing in the morning. They tasted of protein powder and synthetic nutrients, making you cringe whenever you sipped it - though you did savor it as the only ‘food’ you ever got.

The shakes were the only calories you could rely on so that you didn’t starve to death in that cell.

The effects of dehydration had already begun taking it’s toll on you. Your head was constantly pounding and you found yourself pressing against your eye socket to try and relieve the migraine. You had already emptied your stomach multiple times throughout your imprisonment because of the nausea, the smell wafting from the buckets only making it worse. You were only thankful that you hadn’t started experiencing hallucinations.

You had no way of knowing how much time had passed because there were no clocks or windows. There was no sunlight to illuminate the room or tell you when the sun was rising or setting. There was no dusk or dawn. Just a cold, grey concrete room.

The lighting panels on the ceiling was the only thing providing light to the dreary room. The light never turned off, not even for an hour. You were thoroughly convinced that your captors knew you might use the light schedule to measure time, so they just kept the lights on. Every minute of every day. Burning your corneas and making it impossible to get any rest.

The room was filled with a disgusting, nauseating odor that stemmed from two buckets in the corner of the room. You were forced to relieve yourself in those buckets, the smell of your waste making you gag with almost every breath.

The only way you could ever sleep during that time was to pull your shirt over your head. At least then you wouldn’t have to see that bright light or smell that putrid odor.

In all that time you were kept there, you sat in the same pair of cargo pants and muscle shirt that you woke up in, never granted a shower much less freedom from this room. For days or even weeks, you were stewing in your own dirt and sweat. Your body reeked and your greasy hair was tangled up in a rats nest in the back.

You could only imagine what you looked like.

You had no socks or shoes, so your feet were adorned in scrapes and bruises from being dragged around weeks prior. From not having any access to a bath, much less a moisturizer, your feet were becoming dry and cracked. There were also scabs decorating the heels of your feet due to pieces of glass and debris scattered on the floor of the room. You winced and limped with any step you took on your bloody, raw feet.

Your body was sore, no doubt holding wounds under your skin. Sore burning wrapped around your right wrist and elbow, serving as a reminder of when those soldiers tore you from that redhead and dragged you into that room. You knew that if your left arm was still there, your real left arm, you would feel the same burning soreness mirrored there.

Your stab wound was messily stitched shut and bandaged over, still leaving you with sharp pains if you twisted or turned a certain way. Your neck was sore and bloody due to all of the needle pricks from off market drugs, steroids and sedatives.

Throbbing, stabbing pain radiated from your left arm shoulder all the way throughout your body. It was pain you couldn’t place — pain that you knew didn’t truly come from your shoulder, but that was the last part of your arm that remained. Logically, that was the only place it should be coming from.

It wasn’t just surface level pain either. It dove deep into your nerves that ran all through your body, shocking each one with a jolt of electricity that made you wince and whimper in pain.

It consumed every cell in your body. Lighting every blood vessel on fire, flaying your muscles alive. It made the nerves in your back and arms tense up, rendering you immobile until your body finally relaxed.

Sooner or later though, delirium would begin setting in. Forcing you to crumble from the pain and surrender to exhaustion, and letting your eyelids flutter closed.

Even in your unconscious state, you were miserable. Your heartbeat pounded in your already aching head. Your throat scratched with every inhale and exhale. The skin that met metal on your left shoulder was still searing as if you were being branded like cattle.

In some ways you were.

With every labored wheeze, your chest screamed in white hot pain that was reminiscent of the knife piercing your abdomen. The stitches threatened to rip open with any sharp intake of breath or involuntary muscle twitch. Every single scrape, bruise and gash that littered your body still screamed in pain while you slept. Your face was still screwed up in agony, brows furrowed and eyes clenched shut.

Your dreams were filled with light and warmth, blossoming safety and protection. You dreamed of your safe haven that lied solely in Johnny and Simon. Your dreams were filled with Johnny's warmth. His tan skin and cerulean eyes, crinkling with his booming laughter at some stupid joke you told him. His big arms that were corded with muscle, wrapping around you in a comforting embrace. His husky, accented voice that sounded like pure honey as he complimented you. Your dreams were filled with Simon's instinctual protection. Flashes of him braking hard in the Hum-vee, making sure to lash out a tattooed arm in front of your stomach to shield you. Flashes of him gently taking your chin in his hand and tilting your face after an explosive goes off, ensuring that your ears weren’t bleeding and no debris had hit your face. Flashes of him sweeping you off your feet and carrying you in his arms the second he sees you sporting limp on a mission.

In the dream, you heard their voices as clear as day. You welcomed it, even in the dream, because you feared that would be the last time you ever heard their voices.

“Bonnie,” Johnny's accented voice echoed in your head, a bit cloudy from being submerged in the rest of the dream.

“Lovie,” Simon's usually commanding voice had softened remarkably, as if he wanted to comfort you and drag you further into slumber.

Their voices continued overlapping in your dream, acting as a tether to your unconscious state. You hung onto every last word, every last syllable, desperate to be out of this hell hole. Even if dreaming would be your only escape, you would gladly take it.

In your dream, they would cup your cheek and wipe away the fat tears that fall down your face. They would pull you into their chests and let you bury your face in their vests, soaking the fabric with your tears and snot.

“We got you,” they would murmur in your dream, pressing kisses to the crown of your head.

They kept repeating that phrase, turning into a mantra of sorts, becoming louder with each repetition.

They became so loud in fact, that it pulled you from your state of consciousness and made you gasp awake.

“We got you, Y/N!” They shouted as you took in your surroundings.

What you saw made tears pool in your eyes. Captain Price, Kyle, Johnny and Simon. They were all storming into your room, dressed in their usual combat gear and sporting their preferred assault rifles. Racing over to your cot with concern etched onto their faces as they took in your injured state, tear stained face and your new arm.

Before they could make even two steps toward you, gun shots rang out from Russian soldiers.

“No!” You wailed, vision blurring and lips trembling.

Blood spattered on the walls and onto the floor as the bullets tore apart the bodies of the four men in your life. Their corpses bodies fell limp on the dirty floor, blood pooling around them. Their guts and intestines were spilling out of their stomach. You could see their muscle and fat, covered in a sheen of crimson.

You could only sob as you watched the life drain from the four men’s eyes.

Captain Price was still just looking at you, his lips freezing in a sad smile as his eyes glazed over. His hat was knocked off during the shooting, revealing his hair bloodied and matted. Brain matter scattered the surrounding area.

Kyle was staring up at the ceiling, eyes looking but not actually seeing. In addition to taking multiple rounds in his chest, his carotid artery was shot, leaving him to quickly bleed to death.

You screamed into your hands when it came to your last two boys, to the loves of your life.

Johnny was smiling, somehow. Even as his mohawk was soaked in blood and brain matter. Even as his face was splattered in his own guts, and blood was leaking from his mouth. He was still fucking smiling at you, his pearly whites now tainted by the crimson liquid. His eyes drove a knife through your heart and twisted. His once vibrant cerulean eyes were now empty and drained of any life. There was no emotion, no warmth.

Looking at Simon is what took that same knife that was buried in your heart, and thrusted it back in. Over and over and over. His mask had fallen off from the hitting the ground so hard. His honeyed eyes that once entranced you, enthralled you, were now rolled back into his skull. His face was revealed for anyone to see. Only it was covered in blood, every single inch of it. His bleach blond hair was drenched in crimson, the strands sticking to his forehead. His eyelashes that used to be so white and pretty were now covered in the same liquid as it dripped down his face. His mouth was open in a silent scream, blood trickling out of his mouth. His neck was torn apart, allowing you to see every muscle and tendon and even some bone.

Both Johnny's hands were outstretched, reaching towards you. Even when they were dead. Murdered. Slaughtered. They were still reaching out for you.

No pain in the world could compare to this. You clutched your stomach and screamed, trying to get rid of the pain in your heart but you couldn’t. You just kept wailing and gasping for air.

They were all dead.

Dead because of you.

No matter where you looked, there was blood. On the walls, on the floor, on the cot. Some had even splattered onto you.

Fitting, considering their blood was on your hands. Literally and figuratively.

You tried to close your eyes but all you saw was dead eyes and gaping holes, skin torn apart and muscle shredded to pieces. You tried to convince yourself that it was all just a dream, conjured up by your state of delirium. But every time you peeked your eyes open, your worst fears were just confirmed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You sobbed.

“I’m so sorry. It should have been me.”

Suddenly, the door to your room creaked open and in the blink of an eye, everything changed. The scene before you completely disappeared. All of the bodies were gone, along with all of the intestines and guts piled around them. The pools of blood were gone, the floor wasn’t even stained from it.

The room was exactly the same as it had been for weeks.

It was all a hallucination. They never came for you. They were never murdered right in front of you. They were alive.

You were going insane, but they were alive.

The relief that flooded your chest was short lived once you saw who opened the door. It was the same doctor who wielded the bone saw.

The doctor that dismembered you.

next chapter

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[pfhwrittes]

look i said something about it in the tags of this post by @391780 but the ONLY way i can see price x laswell being a thing is in any universe is where price and laswell were married before john transitioned.

like john and kate were those married lesbians that made everyone supremely envious of how synchronised they were. neither of them played into the butch-femme thing but if you squinted you could maybe say that kate was the more femme of the two. john would keep his hair short, dress exclusively in masculine clothing, light up at being called “sir” by strangers.

let’s assume they had an active sex life, even if john straight up told kate that he was a stone butch and he didn’t want her to go down on him or fuck him with her clever fingers. it didn’t matter to kate that he didn’t want that, that he would bring himself to orgasm with his own hands after she was left sweaty and panting against the sheets of their shared bed.

but what mattered to kate was when five years into their marriage he sat her down at their kitchen table and told her in his stilted gruff way that he didn’t feel like a woman at all. that he was a man. he was john. it mattered to kate that her heart broke a little because yes, she loved he-him, but she wasn’t straight and didn’t want to be married to man.

through her own lump in her throat she told him that. not quite as bluntly, and with reassurances that she’d support him every step of the way in his transition. she’d move heaven and fucking earth for john just like she vowed on their wedding day.

it’s bittersweet for john. it’s simultaneously the most gut wrenching and gender affirming moment of his life.

but he moves into the spare room. she starts compiling files on reputable surgeons, testosterone hormone therapy, on whether her health insurance or his will cover his transition. they learn to share their home as two separate people, no longer kateandjohn but kate. and john.

kate loves and supports her husband john. she drives him to appointments. she picks him up when he’s discharged after top surgery. she signs endless “change of details” forms on his behalf.

and then three years later, at the same kitchen table where john had told her who he truly was, who he truly needed to be, they sign their divorce papers with minimal fuss and two matching tumblers of his favourite scotch to commiserate celebrate the occasion.

john, for what it is worth, loves and respects his ex-wife. he refuses to entertain any badmouthing. he also shuts down any whispers that he still loves her before they can reach her sharp ears because of course he does, he’ll always love her in a way. he’s thrilled when she tells him that she’s met someone new, that it’s serious. she’s delighted when her new fiancée suggests inviting him to the wedding, even if he does miss it because he’s chasing down a terrorist organisation on her intel, knowing that he’d never decline the invitation but he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to attend.

eventually, they fall into a comfortable routine where john pops over for shared dinners at kate’s and she teases him for surrounding himself with pretty young men in the task force.

so they may not be johnandkate or kateandjohn any more, but they are still kate and john. and heaven help anyone that tries to separate the two of them.

[writing-for-marvel]

Blunt Force Trauma

[He’s Hazardous To My Health Series]

Paramedic!Bucky Barnes x Resident!Fem!Reader

< < PART 6 | Series Masterlist | PART 8 > >

Summary: While out for an unusual date night, Bucky and you witness an emergency.

Warnings: strictly 18+, car accident in which cars plough into storefronts (not involving reader or Bucky), multiple injuries including the drivers of the cars, someone trapped under a car having trouble breathing, description of lacerations, blood, no casualties, Bucky doubting himself and being insecure, discussion of money/disparity in wages, John Walker because he is always a warning

Word count: 3.4k

A/N: a BIG thank you to @skittle479 who gave me the inspiration for this part, I hope I did your idea justice darling ❤️ I apologise if this is a little rusty, I haven’t been writing consistently for a little while. Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Main Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Taglist | Library

Bucky usually feels adept and influential sitting in the front seat of an ambulance, uniform proudly donned with the badge above his heart, perched higher than most of the traffic and capable of speeding past with sirens blaring whenever required.

But when John Walker sits beside him in the driver's seat, all he feels is agitation.

“You got any plans this weekend?” His annoyingly snarky voice fills the otherwise silent cabin as they pull up to a red light.

“Yeah, I’m taking my girlfriend to see the new Barbie movie on our mutual day off. And then probably just grab some food afterwards.” Bucky tries keeping his answer short and to the point, not wishing to divulge any more information than he needs to fundamentally answer the question without being rude, nor the giddy fluttering of his heart at referring to you as his girlfriend.

Not only does John Walker have a reputation of doing a rushed job in the field, with somehow thinking his skills are far superior to anyone else in the force, but he is also too nosy for his own good and incapable of keeping topics discussed in confidence to himself.

Steve’s learnt that lesson a few times.

“Dinner and a movie?” The inflection of John’s voice makes it seem like a query, but it’s muttered under his breath in what Bucky would classify as an almost disgusted tone.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Just that… she’s a doctor right?” The intonation of John’s question has doubt settling like led in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. That there is inherently something erroneous about a paramedic like him being with a doctor like you.

“Yes.” He confirms without questioning how John even knows that information given Bucky has never mentioned directly to him who you are or what you do for a living.

“Well don’t you think she’ll be after something a little more… upmarket than dinner and a movie? She’ll be friends with other doctors and surgeons at the hospital, they’ll be able to afford fancy dinners in the best part of town, seeing expensive shows, musicals, operas that cost a hell of a lot more than seeing a movie. Girls wanna be treated like princesses, not some commoner.”

Bucky’s heart drops. He specifically remembers you telling him about how for every date night Wanda and her new boyfriend, an anaesthesiologist, try out another lavishly expensive restaurant in the richest part of the city.

Was that you dropping hints that’s where you wanted him to take you for date night? Is he greatly disappointing you by instead taking you on such a generic date?

He hates to let anything John tells him get under his skin, but maybe he has a good point in this instance…

Of course you deserve far better than something so plain, but Bucky doesn’t have the savings to be able to take you to Michelin star restaurants that charge exorbitant prices for such small servings.

But if he doesn’t do this, at least once, will it be the reason you leave him? Will you want someone who earns more money than he does and can spoil you like the queen you are. He has no experience in this area, no real idea about what it takes to keep a partner happy in a relationship, and he knows John is, at least from the outside, happily married.

“I guess I could try something more upmarket.” Bucky suggests, though he’s not thoroughly convinced. You’ve never once expressed this is something you want, but perhaps it’s one of those parts of a relationship you want the other to take control of without needing to convey out loud. That directly telling him defeats the purpose all together.

He supposes that once you’ve spent a couple months with someone you need to shake things up to keep it interesting. Besides his bank account, there really is no downside to treating you both to an extravagant night out.

“I’m telling you man, you won’t regret it.”

They continue on with their shift in complete silence, Bucky’s mind churning with gears of insecurity and reservation.

He loves you and he sure as hell doesn’t want to fuck this up before he finally gains the courage to tell you.

* * *

“Can’t you give me a hint of where we’re going?”

Bucky’s fingers are interlocked with yours as you casually stroll down the sidewalk. You’re in a much fancier part of town than you’ve ever been to together before, and all of a sudden the informal pink dress you chose to wear to the earlier showing of Barbie Bucky treated you to makes you feel underdressed and completely out of place.

“We’re almost there, but I want it to be a surprise!” Bucky kisses the back of your intertwined hand, but you sense from the stiffness in his broad shoulders that even though he’s by your side, he doesn’t quite feel comfortable here either.

It’s only a short walk before Bucky stops outside a sleek restaurant where a group of smartly dressed patrons are queuing for entry. The waiters are dressed in black pants, white shirts with bow ties, and velvet vests - which gives away how high end the place is before you even have a chance to glance at the prices on the menus.

“I’m sorry I can’t take you anywhere fancier, I know Wanda and Vis keep trying all these upmarket restaurants…” His intentions for taking you to this part of town become as apparent as a lightbulb turning on in pitch darkness.

You place a delicate hand on his cheek to direct his uncertain gaze to your own. He looks like a nervous puppy.

“Bucky, it isn’t how expensive the restaurant is, it’s the fact that we’re together that’s important. You could take me to McDonalds and I wouldn’t care because I’d be with you.” You emphasise the end of your sentence, wiping your thumb across his cheek affectionately as his eyes brim with both hesitation and tenderness.

“Are you sure? Is this one of the things girls say but they actually mean the opposite?”

There have been a few fleeting occasions in your relationship with Bucky where you’ve seen glimpses of an inexperienced, naive and slightly insecure man who is navigating his first long term relationship. This is one of those moments and all you want is to eliminate all wavering doubt swirling in his mind.

It’s honestly endearing how sweet he is. You’re sure the only reason he is anxious is because he cares so much.

“Bucky, who’s gotten into your head?” You ask, shaking your own. You’re sure neither his best friend nor his mother is responsible for this line of thinking. “I promise you, I don’t need you to spend an entire paycheck on a single dinner at a restaurant where I can’t tell the difference between their cheapest and most expensive bottles of wine. And remember I’m only a couple years out of med school, I’m still drowning in years of student loans. All I care about is spending time with you.”

“You really mean that? You’re not just saying that to be nice cause I can’t afford pricey places like the anaesthesiologists and surgeons at the hospital can.” Your heart drops below your stomach. The concept that Bucky thinks you would ever want anyone other than him, simply because they happen to make more money, has the centre of your chest aching and makes the corners of your eyes prickle with tears.

“James, I care about you so much.” You declare, standing on your tiptoes and kissing him gently. “And that has absolutely nothing to do with the number that’s written on the bottom of your paycheck. One of the reasons I initially fell for you was seeing how you interacted with Sasha in the ER - no anaesthesiologist or surgeon I know has shown that kind of rapport with a patient.”

The smile tugging at the corners of his mouth abates the sting punching your chest.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. You’re one of a kind baby. Please don’t you ever doubt that you are the one for me.” You affirm as you thread your arms around his waist, placing a delicate kiss on the underside of his jaw.

There are tears in Bucky’s eyes he’s trying, and failing, to conceal. He looks in absolute disbelief, but as he gazes down at you, you could so easily be fooled into believing there is also so much love in his eyes.

“You are-, I am so-” You wait in anxious anticipation as he stutters.

Is this it?

Is Bucky finally about to say those three magical words you have been dying to hear for the past few weeks? That overwhelming feeling of pure love and adoration you feel for him and so desperately wish he reciprocates.

But before he is able to finish his sentence, you hear a vehicle’s tyres skidding along asphalt and two consecutive, deafening crashes sound close by, startling you.

You feel the ground shake violently and Bucky’s arms instinctively fly around your head and pull you into his chest in what you can only assume is an attempt to protect you from flying debris.

Before your mind can comprehend what on earth just happened and even look towards the origin of the booming impact, Bucky’s set off at a sprint, launching himself directly into action.

Once your brain is able to catch up to what your eyes are seeing - two cars, who potentially swerved to miss each other, ploughed through the shopfronts of two different restaurants only a couple stores away from where you are standing - you feel a surge of adrenaline in your chest and you begin a chase after Bucky, the screams of onlookers the soundtrack as you assess the scene.

You’ve seen some horrible and gory injuries during your time as an emergency medicine resident, but you’ve never seen it as raw and gruesome as you do right now in the field for the first time. It’s dedicated paramedics and EMTs like Bucky who do the initial triage, treatment and transport so that the patient arrives at the ER in the best possible condition. Seeing the carnage here, is confronting.

When you reach the incident, wails of pain fill the air, shattered glass covers the concrete ground and panic clenches tightly in your stomach. You first notice the driver of the car, dazed at the wheel, the airbag having cushioned his impact.

“You!” Calling out to a young man seemingly unharmed but immobilised with fear, you point to him and continue. “Call an ambulance.”

Seeing him fumble to pull his phone out of his pocket, your attention switches back to the inside of the car.

“Sir, try not to move. You’ve been in an accident.” You advise as your hands fly out to keep the man inside the car, groaning in pain as he turns to exit the vehicle. Reaching across him, careful not to move his position or cause him any pain, you put on the handbrake, shift the car into park and remove the keys from the ignition. “I’m a doctor, please try to keep your neck still.”

You do a quick assessment, his breathing is quick and shallow, but most of his impact seems to have been absorbed by the airbag. He has no signs of external bleeding, though you are concerned about internal bleeding as well as whiplash and other head and neck injuries.

“Can you help me?” You ask the man who you had instructed to call an ambulance. He rushes over despite his hesitation earlier. “I need you to keep this man’s head still, hand on either side of his face, just like this, making sure he doesn’t twist his neck. Keep him awake and talking, and scream out to me if he loses consciousness.”

In the chaos and mayhem of the scene you’ve lost sight of Bucky. He’s no doubt somewhere close by providing medical assistance, probably at the other restaurant doing exactly what you are here.

Inside the restaurant the air smells of engine fuel, powdered plaster and metallic blood. It’s encouraging to see those that are unharmed lend assistance to those injured and in pain.

Your eye catches a lady in a blue pantsuit lying on the ground, back against an overturned table, face contorting in excruciating pain as she grips both hands onto her trembling leg. Her suit has ripped open and you can see a long laceration through the muscle of her thigh weeping blood. A man beside her has a look of pure terror in his eye, wavering hands unsure of what to do in this situation.

“Wrap a tourniquet around her leg above the laceration, as tight as you can!” You direct as you notice a patient out of the corner of your eye, closer to the car in far greater need of your assistance, your heart squeezing in terror and the pool of blood growing slowly bigger each second before you get to him. When you see her friend's mouth open in question you continue. “Your jacket, the tablecloth, anything you can tie tightly!”

Rushing over to the underside of the front of the car, you observe a young man in a waiter's uniform trapped between the car, ground and the rubble of the shopfront displaced by the force of the car. Your hands fly to apply pressure on his chest wound, the source of the pool of blood surrounding him.

“Help me.” He wheezes, his eyes dilated, alarmed in a life threatening way you’re unfortunately used to seeing having worked in emergency medicine.

“I’m a doctor and I’m here to help. I know you're in pain but I have to put pressure to quell the bleeding. Try taking a deep breath for me.” He tries to do as you request but all he is capable of is panting in short, shallow breaths. The already terrified young man starts hyperventilating when he realises that he can’t use the full capacity of his lungs.

“What’s your name?” You ask, feigning a calm smile, trying to distract him in any way you can from his current predicament.

“Noah.” He can barely get the sound out, and you intuitively press down harder on his chest, feeling warm liquid trickle through your fingers.

“Noah, I am going to get you out of here. Just hang on for me.” You look around at the resources available to you, stomach churning knowing there’s nothing within reach which can assist.

Your gaze rises to those who still remain in the restaurant, but everyone else is tending to other victims, until a familiar face rushes into view.

“Bucky!” You call out and his eyes instantly meet yours, concern flooding out of those baby blues as he swivels to the sound of your voice. Having him beside you brings a buoyant relief to your chest, despite the gravity of the situation. “We need to get the car off him. He can’t breathe.”

As if Bucky hadn’t heard you, he rushes out of the restaurant. Fear replaces any alleviation you felt, believing you are now truly alone to do what you can for Noah.

You can’t lift a car by yourself.

Especially considering you’ve also got to keep pressure on his seeping wound to ensure he doesn’t bleed out in front of your eyes.

You don’t want to feel completely hopeless with this young man’s life literally in your hands. But unless you get some help soon, you know he doesn’t stand a chance.

“Paramedics will be here soon. Just hang on for me. Keep your eyes open. I’m sure you have someone in this world you love - your mom, dad, maybe a partner, your best friend. They’ll want you to fight so you can see them again. I know it hurts but you stay with me. You got someone in mind?” He nods in response to your question, a ghost of a smile appearing on his features and you know unequivocally this boy has experienced some form of love.

You think of Bucky, that if you were in a life threatening situation, he’d be the one you fought to stay alive for. To tell him you love him. To kiss him again, to hold him in your arms and revel in the solace he provides you.

Out of nowhere, as if your imagination of him conjured him next to you, Bucky appears by your side, sweat mixed with dirt on his forehead. He flashes you his signature smirk as he places a scissor car jack beneath the rocker panel near the front tyre.

He’s an absolute genius.

How did you ever doubt him?

Bucky carefully, yet quickly, starts turning the handle and jacking up the car. You immediately see the alleviation on Noah’s face as he takes a slightly deeper breath, but in turn you need to apply even more pressure to his wound, the force of the car on him having previously done part of your job for you.

“We need to move him, in case the jack slips.”

Bucky steadies Noah’s head as you both manoeuvre him away from under the car by placing a detached, flat tabletop beneath his back. As you perform the action, you hear sirens approaching.

Help has arrived.

“Bucky, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” It’s Steve’s voice behind you, and you sigh in relief at seeing Bucky’s best friend on scene.

“He was trapped under the car, a penetrating wound to the abdomen, crushing injuries to the chest, and a potential pneumothorax. Breathing is shallow and his pulse is weak.” You list off, maintaining pressure on Noah’s abdomen as Bucky, Steve and the other paramedic you’ve seen around the ER shift him onto a yellow spinal board.

You refuse to move from your position as they load Noah into the ambulance, knowing releasing your pressure even for a moment could result in catastrophic blood loss.

Bucky hops into the back of the ambulance behind you, placing a small kiss to the back of your shoulder when Steve isn’t looking. You flash him a sweet smile that makes his stomach somersault and forget for a moment that he’s in an ambulance on his day off.

“Bucky, not in front of a patient.” You bashfully protest, but he just can’t help himself. His chest burst with pride at seeing how natural you were out in the field, saving lives even on your day off.

“Y’all probably saved my life, you can do whatever you want.” The young man mutters breathlessly with a smile.

Though Bucky wants to kiss your shoulder again, you made a point of not wanting him to do so in this scenario, so he refrains. He’ll just wait until you’re alone tonight to show his awe of you, and maybe find the courage to finally tell you he loves you as he was attempting to outside of the restaurant before the incident.

Once inside the hospital, the additional staff ensure Noah can be transferred safely, Steve having radioed ahead so they could prepare for the severity of his injuries. Wanda is one of the faces who assist with the handover, starting a blood transfusion right away before Noah is whisked away towards the surgical wing.

“They’ve got it from here guys, thanks to you Noah should be okay after a fairly routine surgery. Go enjoy the rest of your date.” Wanda comments as she not so subtly shoots you a quick wink. It’s only then, when Bucky realises both your jobs are finally complete, does he recognise he is indeed exhausted.

You turn to him and flash an equally tired smile, which, even in the face of how your night ended up, makes him feel like he’s floating on a cloud.

“Let’s go home, yeah? I’m beat and have to be back here in like 9 hours.” You chuckle and the sound is music to Bucky's ears. He swears that sound alone sustains him.

How did he get so lucky?

“Yeah… home.” Bucky murmurs, placing a kiss to your hairline which Wanda notices out of the corner of her eye with a smile.

You don’t clarify where home is. Your place? His place? You simply take his hand in your own and walk out of the hospital. But it doesn’t matter where you’re going, because to Bucky, home is wherever you are.

Part 8 > >

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[elysianightsss]

ANAESTHESIA | PART ONE

Success comes with a lot of perks. The way people view you changes. I only found out after I succeeded that success is meaningless when you have no one to share it with.

I lost the only family I had. I lost the desire to make a family too. So, I traded a family home for a nice car. You smiled as you open the door to your black Volvo S90. The car smelled of cinnamon and pumpkin spice thanks to the new air freshener you had bought yesterday.

The light brow leather seats were what initially caught your eye when you bought this car. But then again with the money you had been offered in your hospital transfer, it didn’t matter what the colour of the seats were.

Placing your shopping bags on the seat behind you, you began to drive home. Home was an apartment above the restaurant Farah had bought. Your best friend had moved to the city with you to start her dream of opening the best restaurant slash bar slash karaoke joint in the city.

You were so happy when she told you, so happy that you weren’t going to lose her too. Still there are things you lose that you never forget. Simon comes to mind whenever you think about that. Your parents were both dead, that’s something you couldn’t have prevented, but loosing Simon. You could’ve stopped that.

You remember the first day you met him like it was yesterday; Both troubled. He owned a motorcycle and you wore short leather skirts. He’d punch guys for looking you up and down but never discouraged you wearing those outfits, it was almost like he was glad to have a reason to inflict pain. He was rough and immature. But you were so young back then, it almost seemed normal.

You know better now.

You parked and made your way up the back steps to your front door, “I’m home!” You had barely taken your shoes off and slipped into your fluffy slippers when Farah came rushing out with a ladle in her hand.

“Here! Here! Taste this!” She pushed it against your lips and watched eagerly as you slurped down the rich tomato sauce. “Good?” She waited with raised eyebrows, only seeming to relax a little with my nod. “Ah I knew it was good! The new sauce for our pasta, I’ll have Frank make a bigger batch tomorrow.” She squealed and basically skipped back to the kitchen.

You laughed at her, such a cutie. Dropping your shopping bags by the door, you shrugged off your coat and followed her to the kitchen. Looking around to find saucepans and jars upon jars of red tomato sauce.

“Um Farah? Honey? I don’t think Frank will need to make anything with the amount you’ve already made.” You looked at her like she was a little crazy and maybe she was with the way she whipped her head around to look at you, left eye twitching slightly.

“But it needs to be fresh for the customers.” She almost pouted, you felt bad. Or you would have done if she didn’t look like she wanted to become an axe murderer just to hunt you down.

“Of course.” You backed out of the kitchen, slowly. “I’m gonna take a shower.” You whispered then darted out the room, making a run for the bathroom.

A long hot shower to wash away your day was exactly what you needed. You hadn’t even started yet officially, but you wanted to get a feel for the place. The massive place. It was three times as large as the last hospital you worked at, it had north, south, east and west wings and fourteen floors.

Infinity hospital was one out of four overpriced hospitals created by the Queen long before she passed. They were the top four hospitals in the country and you’d been asked to join the biggest and best one.

It had four huge cafeterias, one in each corner, and even sleep rooms for the doctors and nurses on call. Rooms with three bunk beds in each, scattered around the hospital for doctors on extra long shifts to rest. Common areas for studying and even a library there.

It was amazing when you’d gone in to see the place. You’d wanted to look around at your own pace and see exactly what you wanted to see not what the tour guide wanted when she rushed you around a week ago.

Then after hearing the commotion that a mob boss had a head injury and his gang was making a fuss about the doctor on call not being there. You pulled on your white lab coat and made your way to the emergency area, but they were already pushing you out the way for not being a male doctor. To say you had to fight some of the gang members was an understatement.

Your years of women’s self defence classes and jujitsu classes paid off as you kicked the gang out just as the boss had a hemorrhagic stroke. You rushed him to an emergency MRI to see he had bleeding on the brain.

A nurse you couldn’t remember the name of now, had told you how you couldn’t do the surgery as the on call doctor was in charge of all surgeries today. To then find out he’d left the building you’d scoffed and rolled your eyes moving swiftly to change into scrubs and perform surgery on the mob boss.

After the successful procedure, you passed the man over to the nurses to keep on top of his health until your rounds tomorrow. You even got a Thankyou from him when he woke up. Who knew your first day at your new job would be so eventful….and stressful.

Shopping was always therapeutic for you, so filling those bags that still sat by the front door was your way of blowing off steam after a hard surgery and a team of staff that were loyal to a surgeon who hadn’t even stayed at the hospital for any emergencies that could have happened.

You dried your hair, and got into bed ready to snuggle down after a long day when your phone dinged.

Come to level 8. East wing to discuss your actions today.

- DR. Riley

No.

You replied straight away and without hesitation. This doctor Riley could wait until tomorrow. It was midnight and you had an early and very long shift tomorrow. There was no way you were going back to the hospital now. Especially not to ‘discuss your actions’.

Must be the doctor in charge of the surgeries yesterday, you thought as you slowly drifted to sleep.

“Farah! I don’t tell you how to do your job, you don’t tell me how to do mine!” Frank huffed, looking down at the annoyed woman in front of him. Frank woods, a true gem that Farah had met during a culinary class. He had just quit his last job when Farah had contacted him about becoming the chef for The 141 restaurant. He snapped the job up quick.

“My job is to tell you how to do your job!” Farah scoffed, and the bickering continued.

“Why didn’t you tell me it started already?” Joseph Allen, courier by day, bartender by night came into the kitchen eyes on the pair fighting.

“They started early.” You answered, handing him a cup of coffee.

“How long they been at it?” He pulled up a stool next to yours and sat down.

“Ten minutes already.” You sipping your own coffee as you watched the entertainment in the form of Frank and Farah arguing about how the onions are supposed to be sauté.

“Okay I gotta get to work, fill me in later please. I wanna know who wins this time.” You giggle at Joseph who shakes his head with a laugh of his own but ultimately agrees to your terms.

You leave with a bye to the kitchen staff and head on over to the hospital. It was like fate when Farah managed to buy the building practically next to the hospital you had just been moved to. You took one last glance as the lit up 141 sign above the doors before heading over to start your shift.

Simon’s head was about to explode if he had to hear how great this new fellow was one more time. It was only breakfast and the cafeteria was full of people who were talking about how amazing she was.

So amazing she couldn’t even meet him to discuss her performing surgery on a patient without his consent. “Well don’t you look happy this morning. Someone spit in your coffee?”

“Piss off John.” He cursed the man who had placed his food tray on the table and sat down in the chair opposite him. Kyle sitting down next to John with a fat grin plastered to his face.

“Seen Johnny this morning? Need to go over some things for surgeries today.” John had asked Simon who seemed to be in a particularly bad mood this morning. But if the news spreading around the hospital was anything to go by, he could guess why.

“No. Why don’t you use this miraculous thing invented. It’s called a phone.” Simon gave him a fake smile before a real smirk began. “Though since they were invent before you were even born I suppose I can let it slide you not knowing and all.”

“Oh shut up.” John barked but laughed non the less. He was a good sport like that, he wasn’t even that old but his friends just loved to poke fun, even with the small age gap between him and Simon.

Pulling out his phone and hitting the contact named ‘Scotland Yard’ he put the device to his ear. A few rings and Johnny answered, the two discussed matters of the day while Kyle continued to tease a very grumpy Simon.

“I know there’s a new fellow but we don’t know if she’s even fully trained yet——yes I did hear about yesterday but-“ Johnny continued to argue with John about his beauty sleep being majorly important. He’d been assisting with all of John and Simon’s surgeries while the hospital looked for a new fellow after the last one left. Now that she was here he could finally get some rest.

The murmuring that was already loud in the north cafeteria began to get even louder. It had all three men looking around confused to see where the outburst had come from. A huge crowd of people drew them in, all of their eyes landing on the one thing they never expected to see again, you.

“John? John!” Johnny’s voice came through the phone but John couldn’t look away from you, couldn’t even form a single thought. “Ah fuck this. I’m coming down there.” The beep beep beep from the call ending was ignored just as much as Johnny had been. John was star struck looking at you how gorgeous you were. You didn’t look that different from that night, so beautiful under him and so willing. The picture forever burned into his memory, but he never thought he’d see you again.

Kyle’s eyes were wide as he watched you smile and shake hands of the staff that were gushing over you and your actions yesterday. After your break up he did so much to try and get over you, some things he’s not so proud of. Going to medical school because of your determination to be a doctor was something he was very much proud of. He thought of your patience every time he dealt with a difficult patient, he thought of you. But he never thought he’d see you again.

Johnny arrived from one of the sleep rooms where he’d been napping to see a crowd of people, unusual for Infinity. His breath caught in his throat when one of the members of staff moved to the right a little to reveal you.

You, his friends with benefits buddy that had eventually had him wanting more. Had him wanting dinner and a movie. Had him asking you to come with him to Scotland so he could introduce you to his parents at Christmas. Then things had turned sour, you had never wanted any of that. You made that clear and so had he. Getting attached wasn’t supposed to happen and finding your things packed up and gone when he was went to apologise the next day after your fight was like a wound on his heart that still throbs every time it rains. It was throbbing now, he never thought he’d see you again.

Simon had short circuited. He was sure someone would need to rewire him to work again. He was frozen. You, his Bonnie. The Bonnie to his Clyde, stood there all made up like you had been born with a silver spoon in your mouth. You hadn’t. Was your hair always that colour? He’d pushed you so far into the back of his head to forget his precious Bonnie that he couldn’t remember. Fuck, how could he not remember? But then again, he didn’t think he needed to remember. He never thought he’d see you again.

Yet here you were.

To be continued…

[mellowswriting]

Yasssssssss!! Would love to see a jealous!reader x price moment.

Thank youuuuu so much for the fics you create always love to read em 🔥🔥🔥🔥

sinful sunday

John isn’t oblivious. He can feel the heat from your glare from across the room even though your eyes aren’t focused on him. No, your glare is firmly on the woman sitting next to him. He isn’t encouraging the woman’s flirtatious conversation, the warm appreciation in her eyes, but he isn’t stopping her, either. He wants to see what you’ll do. Maybe it’s the whiskey that burns in his veins encouraging this bout of mischief, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way your eyes narrow, your gaze sharp and dissecting with the cold precision of a surgeon. 

The woman is being rather bold, to give you credit. You had been at his side mere moments ago and the way you touched him would have left no doubts about the fact that he’s taken. Happily so, if the dopey grin on his face had anything to say about it. There was no way she didn’t see the two of you together or the way his soft gaze followed you as you made your way through the crowded bar. He’s so painfully taken with you that one glance should have been enough to clue in anyone. Yet here she was, trying her luck anyway. 

John looks over at you and a thrill shoots up his spine. There’s a certain curiosity that radiates from you, something burning hot and divine, and he has no idea how this is going to end. Soap leans close to you and murmurs something, shaking his head with that telltale look of discouragement. For a split second, you look like you might be considering Soap’s advice - but then the woman settles her hand over the back of his, and John can distinctively see you say “fuck that”. 

Part of him feels a little guilty for the whole thing, but that’s washed away the moment you draw close enough for him to see the intensity sparking in your eyes. The exhilaration is heady. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” John rasps, unable to fight an amused little smile. You pause just slightly and your eyes widen just so - and he knows you’re onto him. You give him that smile, the one that makes his chest feel all warm and achy. He’s so focused on you that he doesn’t even notice how uncomfortable the woman has become. 

“We have a bit of a situation that needs your attention, Captain,” You murmur as you saunter closer to stand between his thighs. The message should be entirely clear but the deal is sealed when you reach up to caress his cheek - and the engagement ring on your finger glints in the low lights. John can’t stop his hand from gravitating to your waist, pulling you even closer. “A very urgent situation.” 

You barely get the words out before John kisses you. He can’t help himself. You’re just too fucking intoxicating, even more than the whiskey that encouraged this whole thing. He lets you tug him off of the barstool and guide him toward the door, excitement burning through his veins. 

You cast the thoroughly embarrassed woman an unrepentant look as your fiance’s attention turns to sucking a mark into your neck. “Sorry, we’ve got - fuck! Very important military matter, we’ve gotta go.” 

John isn’t surprised when the two of you barely make it to his car. It’s pretty cramped but neither of you cares. Frantic hands undress each other just enough for you to sink onto his cock and John swears you’re going to be the death of him. This feeling is unmatched by anything. This notion of being desired so deeply, so viscerally that you would drag him out to his car and fuck him right there in the parking lot of a crowded bar… John is addicted. There’s a fire in your eyes, a possessiveness he hasn’t quite seen from you before. 

“You’re mine.” You whisper.

“All yours,” He whispers right back, his tone soaked in devotion. “Only yours.”

[ghosts-bandwagon]

Request: “Price/Soap/ or Alejandro X SurgeonReader

You’re a surgeon, you’ve studied and worked hard to be where you are. With surgery comes loss. You do your best but you can’t save everyone. You know the pain and helpless feeling of losing a patient. But today something is just different and you end up breaking down as soon as you step in the door and throw your scrub cap on the ground.”

tw: mentions of death, loss, mentions of violence, angst with comfort

You were in school for years, passed your MCATs with flying colors, scored excellent marks in each of your rotations with your mentors and the staff giving you glowing recommendations. And when it came time to apply your skills, you did it with ease. And John couldn’t be more proud of you. In fact, he bragged about you every chance he got. Anytime he was deployed, he talked about you to his team with a grin going from ear to ear. And honestly, they were in awe as well. Not just because you were a skilled surgeon, but because someone like Price managed to pull someone like you.

John always kept his phone with him when he was on base, always with his ringer on as well. You made a habit of texting him when you were brought in on call, when you were about to enter the OR, and you’d call him when you were done and the patient was in the recovery wing. That didn’t change when he was home. Sometimes you’d call him, voice thick with exhaustion and the inkling that you might break, he could hear fighting your tears when you’d tell him about the patient you’d just lost. He’d rub the sleep out of his eyes, make a fresh pot of coffee, get in his car, and drive straight over to you. The staff all knew him by this point and buzzed him in without question. He’d hand you your thermos full of coffee and pull you in for a hug. If there’s anything he can understand, it’s the sheer, gut-wrenching, agony of losing someone entrusted to your care.

“You did all you could, love. Crack on, yeah?” He kissed your cheeks and rested his forehead against yours, you nodded and took a deep breath. You weren’t crying but you were pretty damn close.

Over time, you managed to steel yourself against that loss. Against that unforgiving blow dealt by the pain of losing someone on your table, under your knife. You’ve since learned to compartmentalize the loss and keep pressing on. It didn’t mean that it didn’t whittle away at you any less every time it happened, try as you might to prevent it but has anyone been successful in preventing the inevitable?

You’ve been keeping an eye on the news, mortified at the violence among the citizens for things that aren’t worth it. But as you watched the news, you knew you’d be called in one of these nights. It’s fine. Business as usual. It’s what you did, it’s what you signed up for, you’d do everything in your power to save them. John knew too, he was worried about you but he also knew you were strong and capable.

To help take your mind off things, John invited you and the task force out for drinks. He knew how, unfortunately, fond of them you are and knew they could help keep your mind off the growing unrest gnawing at your stomach. Which is how you found yourself sandwiched between John and Simon, with Johnny and Kyle sitting across from you. As much as you wanted to join them, you were on call and had to be ready to go at a moment's notice. You were happily sipping your water as you listened to Johnny’s enthusiastic story telling accompanied by Simon’s occasional grunts and eye rolls. Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you knew.

“Alright, that’s me, boys. Catch you guys next time, yeah?” You sighed, scooting out of the booth after John gave you room. You gave him a quick peck on his lips, “I expect him back home at a reasonable time, got it?”

“Yes, mum.” Teased Johnny, you threw your crinkled napkin at him with a laugh before heading out. You took a deep breath as you sat in your car, mentally preparing yourself for whatever was coming your way.

You got to the hospital and changed into your scrubs as quickly as you could, scrubbing into the OR as the nurse rounded you off on the case. Seems like it was your turn to deal with the fallout of whatever the hell was going on out there, you breathed deeply, steeling your nerves as you made your way into the OR.

Thirteen hours.

You were in surgery for thirteen hours. And it didn’t. Fucking. Matter. After suffering critical injuries, bleeding profusely, spending all that time with you and your nurses trying to stem the bleeding and repair the damage at the same time, it didn’t fucking matter. The patient had coded and was pronounced dead. You were numb. You were numb when you stiffly walked over to the family to inform them, you were numb when the man’s wife fell to her knees, clutching at your buttoned-up white coat, her husband's blood drying on your scrubs. You were numb when she was sobbing into your legs, you were numb when the rest of her family tried comforting her and pulling her away from you.

You were numb.

You didn’t call John when you were finished. You didn’t change out of your scrubs, didn’t bother taking off your cap when you got in your car. You don’t remember driving home, you don’t remember how you got home honestly, you don’t remember the painfully stiff walk to the front door, you don’t remember seeing the extra car in the driveway. None of it registered. You opened your door and tossed your keys on the table at the entrance, you didn’t hear Simon greeting you from the dining room, didn’t hear John calling your name as you dragged your tired body to your room. That’s not true, you heard them but either it didn’t register or you were too cold to care.

You were numb.

John watched in horror as you walked right past him. He saw you were still wearing your scrubs, he saw the blood that stained your pants and a little bit of your top, you didn’t react when you saw Simon (who you’ve drunkenly told John was your favorite), you didn’t even blink when John called out your name.

“Fuck.” John sighed, dread settling in his gut like a lead balloon, he’s only felt this intensity a handful of times on the field and it never ended well.

“I’ve seen that same look on you before.” Simon quirked a brow, looking at John over the rim of his cup,

“Hang back, Simon, might need you.” His heart hammered in his throat as he stepped out from behind the kitchen counter and jogged to your shared room.

“Sweetheart, can I come in?” He knocked on the door, when he didn’t get an answer he tentatively stepped in, gently closing the door behind him. He didn’t have to look very hard, your scrub top was on the floor and you stood beside it, pants still on, eyes fixed on the ground below your feet. You don’t know how long you were standing there, it felt like an eternity, it felt like a minute.

“I’m goin’ to help you undress, alright?” John’s voice was low, a calming baritone, thawing the frozen walls of your defense mechanism. He took a slow step towards you, then another, then another, and he was right in front of you. He kneeled down and gently undid the tie on your scrub pants, sliding them down your legs, tenderly lifting one foot and then the other to get them off of you. The warm occasional brushes of his fingers thawing you out even more,

“I lost another one, John.” Your voice was hoarse from disuse, his head snapped up at you, almost shocked that you spoke.

“Oh sweetheart.” He sighed, standing upright with a pop from his knees. He ran his warm hands over your arms, rubbing them in an attempt to warm you up. He watched the tears build in your eyes, watched the quiver of your bottom lip,

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, John.” You sobbed with your head hung low, he sat on your bed and gently guided you to sit beside him. He took your legs and placed them over his lap, gently massaging your calves as you leaned against him and cried into his shoulder,

“Take some time off.” His voice was calm, hands working methodically on the tension in your legs,

“If I’m not there, then who’s going to do the surgeries?” You hiccuped, your tears soaked through his tshirt as your sobs wracked your body,

“The other surgeons that work there.” He reasoned, “All the time you’ve spent there, you haven’t taken time for yourself. You’ve done more than enough for them, they’ll understand.”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then find somewhere else that does.” He shrugged, he knew it wouldn’t be that simple but at the same time he wanted to believe,

“I’m here for another two months, love. Take the time. Recharge. Go back refreshed.” His hands worked his way up your calves, to your knees, fingers getting between the tendons that shifted and clicked under his touch,

“I do miss you.” You sniffled,

“And I miss you. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.” He nudged your head with his, resting his forehead against yours,

“Ok. I’ll text my supervisor.” You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, your breath hiccuping as you tried to calm yourself down.

“There we go.” He kissed your forehead and guided you to stand, he walked with you to the bathroom and helped you climb in the shower.

“You get cleaned up, I’ll fix you some breakfast, yeah?”

“Ok.” You smiled weakly at him as you turned the shower as hot as you could tolerate, “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” He gave you one last kiss before heading back out into the kitchen. As you stood under the spray of hot water, your sobs started up once more, you covered your mouth as you leaned against the cold tile wall.

Yes, you were tired of the stress and pain of your job. Yes, it was taking a toll on you mentally, much more than it did physically after standing for long periods of time. Yes, your heart ached with every loss, despite your attempts to compartmentalize, you remembered their faces, the various states they came to you in, their families. And you’ve told him as much over time.

But you wouldn’t tell him about this one. You wouldn’t tell him that the man on your table had succumbed to wounds he received trying to help those involved in the riots lately. You wouldn’t tell him that his wife was pregnant when she fell on her knees in front of you.

But most of all, you wouldn’t tell him that your patient looked like him. You wouldn’t tell him that you had to fight your own mind and keep it from projecting your John onto the man in front of you. You wouldn’t tell him that your nightmares consisted of working for the military and operating on him and losing him. You both knew of the risks of his job, it wasn’t a foreign concept that there was a possibility he wouldn’t come home to you one day. You’ve glossed over it but never actually talked about it, never wanted to. Both of you foolishly believed that if you didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t happen. It’s worked so far, so why fix what isn’t broken?

All of this was swimming in your head as you bit down on your knuckles to keep from sobbing loudly, like your body so desperately wanted you to do. But John knows you better than you dare to give him credit for, he knew you were still terribly broken up about it. Your John, your lighthouse beacon in the stormy sea of your heart, your gravity keeping you tethered to the ground you walk on. When you blinked the tears and the water from your eyes, you saw him standing under the spray of water with his tshirt and underwear still on. He held your face so lovingly, waiting for you to come back to him,

“Oh John.” You sobbed, throwing your arms around his neck, and burying your face in his shoulder, you cried and cried, your body shaking at the force of your wails. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, holding your head against his shoulder,

“It’s alright, love, I’ve got you.” He swayed gently under the spray of hot water, his broad shoulders shielding you, “I’ve got you.”

[thewhumpcaretaker]

In the JW world what do you think is the general attitude of assassins, the High Table and so on toward psychiatry? I feel like they would totally dismiss it…they’d consider it pseudoscience for ordinary sheeple. Because otherwise they’d have to admit that pretty much everyone under the Table has some kind of personality disorder, PTSD, family issues, sociopathy etc. And they’d much rather think of themselves as superior to the rest of humanity, rather than inferior or damaged. So they have surgeons and probably physical therapy and so on, they’d be fine with self-medicating with alcohol and recreational drugs…but no shrinks, and you’ll get scornfully laughed out of any Continental bar if it gets out that you’re seeing one. Wdyt???

I've thought about this quite a lot (not because I've imagined giving every single one of my JW blorbos therapy or anything hehehe) but I mostly agree. I do think it's probably considered very shameful and isn't something most of them would even consider. But I think it's not so much that they see it as pseudoscience, rather an admission of weakness. I can't imagine it's common to admit to any illness within the High Table (anything more chronic than a bullet wound at least), because there's such an effort to hold onto power. If you're ill, then you're not in top form and this is a good time for an assassination attempt or for others to question your fitness to rule and start massing a mutiny against you. In the case of emotional vulnerability, that would include an opening for emotional attacks. I don't think the Table members are above sending hate mail or intentionally triggering someone's phobia or substance abuse issues as a form of punishment/manipulation. Psychological vulnerability is just one more thing that can be used against you in a fight.

On top of that, there's the confidentiality issues. A therapist holds knowledge of all of those psychological pain points, and a lot of people would want to buy that knowledge for a handsome price or torture it out of them. Imagine knowing how to make John Wick or the Marquis de Gramont have a breakdown at exactly the right time. Their enemies would definitely want that info. I think all assassins and especially Table members are taught not to reveal that much about themselves to anyone, because it's a security risk. So if you talk to a therapist, it's seen as reckless and foolish.

And then finally, I agree that they pretty much all have issues, and were raised by people who have issues. So they were taught that their issues are normal, and would have to admit that the way they were raised was really messed up if they're going to change. That's hard to do. This quote really sums it up: "they’d much rather think of themselves as superior to the rest of humanity, rather than inferior or damaged." When seeking help feels impossibly dangerous, and it would mean condemning your entire way of life anyway, it's easier to just pretend that nothing is wrong and that the dysfunctional parts of one's life are actually the superior parts. Therapy is for other people. Weak people. People who don't have bigger concerns, like staying alive and ruling. That's the average High Table stance, I think.

[southernbluebellereader]

Hey bestie ☺️👋

Hope you’re having a good day/night

Can I request for younger price? Based off of this please 🥺

Personal Nurse

A/N: Hey Bestie! I'm just now getting to this, but I got you! This is so cute! I'm thinking a nurse that's on the base?

Master List (Tag List at the Bottom)

Younger Captain John Price x Nurse F! Reader

Warnings: None...? Don't take my word for it. May be a little angst but lots of fluff.

You and John Price ended up working together multiple times - the both of you rose in ranks in your respective fields, every so often getting a chance to work together in the field. Usually it was you and collection of other nurses who were at the base ready to collect injured soldiers - including John.

Over the years, your work relationship with John evolved to a proper friendship, and eventually into something more than that. Was is allowed, probably not - but with you in the medical field and him being a Lieutenant on the field, things could work out, right?

However, at the end of a particularly bad mission, a young Kyle Garrick and another soldier carried Lieutenant Price into the infirmary, shouting for nurses and doctors. You'd just patched up another soldier when they came in, the color in your face drained at the sight of John: pale, bleeding, and barely alive.

Kyle shouting your name brought you back. Trying your absolute best as you put on new gloves and a new apron, you were barely able to yell for more nurses as John, your friend and your lover, was put on a bed. Your eyes traveled all over his body as you tried to assess the situation, "John, w-what happened? Look at me."

Barely being able to turn his head, he smiled weakly up at you, "Hey, Y/N..."

"What the hell happened out there?" You swallowed hard and somehow pushed your emotions back down and away from your throat. You looked up at Kyle sternly.

"H-He went off on his own-"

"Why the hell would you do that, John?" You practically scolded the bleeding man in front of you. John hissed and cursed in pain as Y/N and another nurse shed his clothing and began to clean him up and dig out bullets from his torso.

---

About thirty-six hours had passed since you, your team of nurses, and one of the surgeons patched up Lieutenant Price and his men. John had gotten the most injuries. He slept most of the time, but you never left his side. You were practically glued on the chair beside the bed, just watching him, making sure he slept.

He'd always been a little reckless, but he always ended up coming back. Sometimes you wondered how he'd made it this far. He'd always talked about becoming a Captain one day, but he wasn't sure if he'd make it. You don't know to what extent the things he does once he leaves on missions, but clearly this last mission was bad. But again, he'd made it this far without dying.

You watched as he slept. He looked so peaceful. Finally getting more than a few hours of sleep. He'd have very limited access to a razor by the looks of the stubble on his face, you had to admit that he looked good with a little facial hair - you wondered what he'd look like with a beard-

"Y/N?"

You almost didn't hear your name, but you recognized that voice anywhere. You looked up at John and nearly jumped up to stand beside him as he sat up in bed, groaning at every movement.

Emotions flooded in your mind, making your heart race, chest tighten, and your eyes gloss over, tears threaten to spill at any given moment, "I'm here, John, don't make any sudden movements."

He looked at you, smiling weakly as he wrapped an arm around you, holding you closer to him, "How long was I out for?"

"You slept for almost a day and a half. But John-"

"Y/N-"

Unable to stop worrying, your hands trembled as you looked at John up close, "John, I was so scared. Kyle told me you'd run off on your own on the field- you were absolutely reckless, you know better than that John! Look at w-"

"Y/N." The way he said your name that time made stopped you in your tracks, "Y/N, it's ok. I'm fine. Please don't worry-"

"But you almost died! Kyle had to carry you in here a-and you were bleeding so much- John, you lost so much blood - We- I almost lost you."

"Oh Y/N," Price pulled you even closer so that your head rested on his chest as he held you close. You let out silent sobs as he shushed you and rubbed your back in an attempt to calm you down, "But you didn't lose me - I'm right here. And I'm not planning on going anywhere. Especially without you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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