#efficient medical scrubs

[kateally]

Selecting the appropriate surgical scrubs is not merely a matter of personal preference but a critical decision that directly affects the safety and functionality of healthcare professionals in the operating room. The right choice of surgical scrubs can significantly contribute to maintaining a sterile and hygienic environment, ensuring patient safety, and promoting efficient workflow during medical procedures.

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Six

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4k words - AO3 Warnings - tags: 18+ MDNI. No smut but this fic contains mature themes. Nurse reader, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies. Reference to past domestic violence. Angst. Alcohol. Crying, anxiety, panic. Johnny in distress. Johnny is still a menace. Soft dads. POV switches. Note: Safe sleep for infants always. I do not endorse sleeping with your baby in your bed. This is a fic not real life. Simon does some digging.

“Shhh now, ye’re alright.”

Johnny coos, Penny cradled up to his chest. He’s not wearing a shirt, eyes still half sealed shut with sleep, and she squalls in his arms, screaming as loud as her little lungs will allow. “What is it, mah wee lamb? Are ye hungry? Do ye need a change?” He checks her nappy, efficiently looking for a mess or something to clean up and is nearly disappointed when he finds her still dry. If it’s not her nappy, then maybe her stomach? Could she be hungry again? He thumbs through the notes on his phone to find Simon’s last entry: 23:20 – 50 ML. 

That was only an hour ago. 

He frowns, walking in a circle, bouncing her gently, trying to settle her back to sleep. She’s so tiny, and still has grown so much in just the short time since they brought her home. It amazes him. It terrifies him. 

“What is it, sweet bairn? What’s got ye all upset?” He touches his lips to softest skin he’s ever felt, his thumb trying to swipe away the tracks of tears on her cheeks. “Please dinnae cry. I-“ 

“You okay?” Simon clears his throat behind him, and Johnny tenses. 

“We’re fine. Ye’re supposed to be sleepin’.” 

“Heard the two of you in here fussing. Thought I could help.” Simon’s trying to be supportive, trying to be a good partner, Johnny knows, but all he can feel is irritation, a defensive reaction making his hackles rise. 

It’s not fair. He’s so good at it. He’s a natural. And Johnny… Johnny feels like he’s failing his own kid, when she’s not even a month old yet. 

“I dinnae need-“ 

“Hey.” Simon touches his elbow, and then his chin, tilting his face upwards. “I know you don’t, love. You’re doing a great job. It’s not your fault she’s having a rough go.” He soothes him, fingers kneading into the top of his spine, squeezing the nape of his neck and pulling him into his arms. Penny is still crying, but softer now, a low-pitched tone of misery that makes his heart ache, and he feels so overwhelmed, so helpless, staring down at her as she tries desperately to tell him what's wrong, the only way she knows how. He rests his cheek against Simon’s chest, melting into his hold, letting him wrap his arms all way around his waist. 

“She hates me.” Johnny grumbles, and Simon presses his mouth to Johnny’s temple in short, succinct kisses. 

“She doesn’t. She’s brand new. She can’t hate anything, yet, and certainly not her Da.” He strokes her cheek. “Let’s bring her to bed, see if we can get her down and then one of us can put her back in the crib, alright?” Johnny sighs. 

“Alright.” 

“What’re you doing after this?”

“Going to bed?” What else would you be doing?

“I’m thinking about going to Jackie’s for a drink… wanna come?” Nia untucks her scrubs, pulling the top up over her head.

“Jackie’s, huh?” You chew on your lip. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But… Jackie’s is a dive. It’s dark, and dingy, with black walls, black floors, no window in sight. And... it’s a hospital haunt. 

“It’s my birthday.” She whispers, casting a glance around the rest of the room. “I’m not… it’s not a thing, I just want to go, have a few to celebrate.” You take a deep breath. “Please?” She tacks on at the end, and your shoulders dip down in defeat.

“Okay. One. And then I gotta go.”

“Yes!” She cheers, excitement smashing her palms together.

Nothing like a seven am beer. 

Jackie’s is a distinct place. It’s one of the only twenty-four-hour liquor licenses left in the city, or so you’ve been told, and has been frequented by hospital staff for decades. It’s dart boards and dark wood floors, cheap beer and rail vodka, a worn to hell pool table, and an old, disabled juke box that someone broke intentionally, years ago. It’s an institution, and reminds you of some old places you used to frequent, when you weren’t… who you are now. Years ago, before, you used to love a good dive bar. Didn’t mind the way the floor stuck to your feet, and you considered yourself nearly tactical at darts. It was a source of pride, the accuracy, the rate at which you could make a bullseye, even when you were a few sheets to the wind.

“Coulda been a surgeon.” You’d tease, a smirk growing across your boyfriend’s face.

“If you were a surgeon, sugar, who’d be at home waitin’ for me after work?” He’d push back, coating the warning in an adoration, giving whoever was undoubtedly watching a slick smile before snaking an arm around your waist and tugging you close. “You don’t need to be surgeon. You don’t even need to work. You have me.” 

You thought you knew, then. Knew how to handle it, how to navigate the ever-present, ever-growing threat… but you were wrong.

You were so, so wrong.

“So, heard there’s a spot opening up on days.” Nia chucks her purse at the bar top, climbing onto the stool next to you. “You’ve got the seniority… you givin’ it any thought?” The bartender walks by with a hello, and you nod at him.

“Old Speck please. And no, I like nights.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know Americans liked Old Speck.”

“We have it in the states. I didn’t live under a rock.” You quip, and she laughs before ordering her own poison, a choice that makes your own eyebrows shoot up in question. “Vodka on the rocks?”

“I’m a straight to the point kind of girl.” She explains. “So, no days?”

“No days. You?”

“I might. Night shift is kicking my ass.” She complains. “Don’t even know what day it is half the time. My rhythm is off.”

“You need like, at least six months to fully adjust.” You put a note down in exchange for your beer, and then the bartender scuttles away, distracted by some insistent woman at the other end of the bar.

“Six months?!” You’re about to launch into your spiel about how it’s not that bad when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

>Make it home from work alright? 

>It’s Johnny, by the way :) 

The two texts are the start of a new group chat with your number, Johnny’s number and the number you put in your contacts just yesterday… Simon’s. Your head jerks back on instinct, confused.

“You okay?” Nia asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, fine just…uh-“ She peeks over your arm, and giggles.

“Is that your patient? Two sixty-eight?”

“What?”

“Your patient. The military hottie. The one that’s always lookin’ at your bum.” Your face burns, and she tsks. “Ah, don’t be embarrassed. He’s smokin’. Wish he looked at me the way he looks at you.” You’re surprised at the flare of irritation that starts up in your stomach at her, a hot streak of jealously simmering there, burning away indignantly. “Aren’t they… I mean… isn’t the scary mask guy his partner?” He’s not scary, you scowl inwardly. He’s just… protective. The butterflies in your stomach startle, and you drift back to last night, in the stairwell, in the car.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart.” 

“If you ever need anything, Johnny and I… we’re here.” 

Nia says your name, dragging you back to earth, and you shrug. “Yes… they… they’re together. It’s just been hard on them, so I think there’s a bit of an attachment growing there. You know, it’s not unusual.” She bites her lip, mouth pushing up into a smile.

“They’re quite fit. Wouldn’t mind if they formed an attachment to me.” She pauses, delicately sucking her gasoline on ice up through a straw. “Gonna text him back?”

“Nia.” You hiss, and she barks out a laugh.

“Oh, come on, just a bit of fun. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s not appropriate.” You remind her, and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re such a stick in the mud sometimes. Remember when Marshall was fucking his brain cancer girl? Now that, was not appropriate.” You do remember- Marshall’s sudden absence, the whispering, the HR investigation that spanned weeks, interviews with everyone on the floor.

Your beer goes sour in your stomach.

“I gotta get home.” You wrap an arm around her shoulder with a squeeze and a whisper. “Happy Birthday.” You feel bad for abandoning her, and maybe in another life you might even consider her a friend, but you’re already too exposed here as it is, and staying any longer would be too indulgent- not to mention, incredibly stupid.

You pass another nurse on the way out and him know that Nia’s at the bar, alleviating your guilt just a tad before you hike up your hood and make a beeline for the train.

By the time you get back to your hotel room, get showered, and collapse on top of the far too big bed, it’s nearly been an hour. You plug your phone in, unlocking the screen to flick on do not disturb, and realize the group message is still open, cursor blinking, waiting for your response.

It’s fine. You can tell you got home okay, that’s not crossing any lines. 

>Yeah, just got settled for bed. See you later!

A text from Simon chimes back within a minute, and you squint at it, one eye open.

>Get some rest.  

The floor is dead silent at the beginning of your shift.

Nothing beeps or whines or cries, no noise echoes around the corner to where you’re scrolling through Johnny’s chart, getting caught up on his day, triple checking that his levels and vitals are all within normal range. He passed his follow up for the liver procedure with flying colors, and the relief you feel is not unexpected, the weight of worry lifting free from your shoulders without another thought.

He’s fine, he’s better than fine, he’s… too healthy for the ICU.

Reality hits you like a truck, and you stop short, sneakers squeaking along the floor.

He won’t be your patient anymore. 

He won’t… be your patient anymore. 

The thought twists you into a mess of complicated emotions. A snarled, tangled viper's nest of unknowns, uncertainties, things you're desperately trying to tuck back behind your heart, hide them away so no one, not even yourself, can see them.

This is a good thing. This is what you want. Stable patients, on their way to recovery. 

So, you’ll miss them, that’s okay. There’s a little bit attachment, that’s alright. 

This is the best case scenario. You’re making a mess of things. You’re getting too involved with your patient and his family. You let Simon drive you home, for fucks sake. 

They’re getting confused, because you’re the caretaker. It happens all the time. As soon as Johnny steps down, they’ll forget all about you. 

You’re risking too much. You’re risking their safety, their child’s safety, your own. 

It’s for the best. 

You put your best work smile on when you approach his room, pulling as much air into your lungs as you can manage.

Focus on your job. Your patient. You’re a professional. 

Johnny is alone. No Simon, no visitors, nobody keeping him company. It’s a strange sight, and he looks almost uncomfortable, creased brow lowered down over his eyes. That’s… odd. Worse, there’s a heaviness in his gaze, sadness pulling his mouth downwards, usual playful demeanor nowhere in sight. Even sad, he’s a marvel, and every day, he gets stronger, he gets healthier, he gets closer to leaving this room, amazing you with his tenacity, his will. 

“Hey, you on your own tonight?” You casually knock on the door frame, and then pull it shut behind you, cocking your head.

“Aye.” He’s sullen, his despair tugging you closer to the bed, an urge to try to comfort him too strong to deny. 

“How are you feeling?” You try the subtle question, hoping he'll be forthcoming, and you keep yourself composed as you wait for his answer. 

“’m alright.” You tab through his chart, glancing it over once more, if only to assuage your own anxieties, and then tap into his vitals. Everything looks good, last labs look great… so what’s going on? 

“Just alright?” His fingers flex in the blanket, tanned skin against white linen, picking at fibers and threads, unable to hold himself still. He looks like he’s going to burst open at the seams, explode inside this room, a ticking time bomb, just waiting for the end of the countdown.

A tear tracks down his cheek. “Johnny?” You step closer, close enough so your fingers graze his, trying to delicately let him know, you’re here. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. What’s going on?” The monitor beeps steadily in the silence, his chest depresses with a gust of air.

“It’s… it’s nothin’ bun. I’m jus’… I’m havin’ a bad day.”

“Want to talk about it? I hear I’m a pretty good listener.” You encourage, and his face twists.

“No, I- Ach. Aye, alright.” He shifts in the bed, and you hover in case he needs help, but he waves you away. “It’s… bein’ in here. I want to be wi’ my family. Penny turned one, before I left for this assignment. Was only supposed to be two weeks tops, but then it turned into a month, then two. And now, I’m home… but ’m not really home, and I-“ His voice cracks, raw thread of agonized emotion separating his words, and he swallows it, forcing it back. “I’m blown to bits and cannae even see my own daughter. I’m missin’ out on everything.” Oh, Johnny. Your heart is heavy, and it hurts for him, bleeds as he wipes his face. 

“You’re not blown to bits, just a little banged up.” You give him a soft smile, and when he shakes his head, your fingers find his on instinct. You don’t even stop to second guess yourself, fully sinking into the contact with a gentle squeeze. “Hey, look at me.” His lashes are wet, sticky with tears, and he sniffles. “You’re making great progress, Johnny, going to be out of here in no time. You won’t even be in the ICU much longer, and then once you’re downstairs, Penny will be able to come visit all the time. After that, it won’t be too much longer until you’re back home with them.” He nods, and you stroke your thumb across his knuckles.

“Ye think so?”

“You’re the toughest patient I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a fair amount, you know. Traumatic injury recovery takes time, it takes patience, but you’re doing a great job of it so far. You just have to take it one day at a time. Before you know it, you’ll be at home on your own couch, bossin’ Simon around all day instead of me.” He laughs at that, a throaty chuckle capable of spreading heady warmth through your veins, and then gives you one of those stupidly stunning smiles.

“Shouldnae be cryin’ in front of ye.”

“You can cry in front of me any time you want. That’s what I’m here for. Besides, it’s not the first time.” You tease and he rolls his eyes.

“Doesnae count. I was high.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” The untouched dinner tray on his side table catches your eye, and chilling worry reappears in the back of your mind. “You didn’t eat?”

“Didnae have an appetite until ye showed up, pretty girl.” Okay. You can remedy this easily, if he's interested in eating. Lack of appetite is alarming, but if you can get him to eat now... 

“You hungry? I haven’t eaten yet. Want me to grab you something?” He brightens, indulging in a spectacular smile, and you take it as a yes with a small laugh. “Alright. Let me run down to the café, yeah?”

“What’s that saying, about how I hate to see ye go, but love to watch ye leav-“

“Okay!” you practically shout, cutting him off, fire racing across your skin, and he snickers, palm pressing against his heart like he’s wounded. “I’ll be right back.” You give him a serious look, and and he rubs his palm through his hair, mirth sparkling in his eyes. Holy hell. How is he so attractive? And how is it still so blinding, every time?  

You get two of the only option left this late in the evening, chicken soup and some sourdough, balancing the bowls carefully on their trays until you’re placing them down in the room, swinging the little table over Johnny’s lap and settling in beside him, perched on Simon’s recliner. The soup is warm, spiced with herbs and thick with noodles, and you're pleased that it's better than you were expecting, happy that Johnny seems to like it as well. 

"Wanted to take ye out properly for our first date, but this will have ta’ do. Simon’s gon’ be so bloody jealous.” He masterfully hums between your bites, and your eyes go wide, trying and failing to swallow your soup instead of choking on it.

“Johnny, we… this… I- this isn’t a date!” you squeak.

“Why not?” He asks, inflection innocent, and your brain rattles around inside your skull, splitting down the middle, falling apart in bewilderment. Why not? What does he mean?

“You… you have a partner. Simon? You know, your family that we were literally just talking about?” He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you with this look on his face, one you can’t interpret. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What did Simon tell ye, the other night. When he took ye home?”

“What? He… I don’t remember.” Does he know that Simon gave you his phone number? 

Of course, he knows, he started that group text. 

Does Simon know what Johnny said, about you coming into their lives? About-

“Didnae he tell ye, we’re here for ye?”

“Y-yeah.”

“We, bunny? We.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.” He sighs. What is he trying to say? What is going on?

“We like ye. Like I said, we think ye’re really special. Simon, and I. Together, bun.”

“Wh-what?” Puzzle pieces snap together and then break apart, like a landscape jigsaw that you spent days completing once before it was promptly ruined. Does he... does he mean... Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no. You have to squash this. Now. Just explain it, he’ll get it. He’s smart. “No… no, Johnny it’s just… it’s this thing, that happens. Patients get attached to their nurses or doctors sometimes, it’s normal. You d-don’t like me, I promise. There’s nothing even to like.” He blinks, jaw grinding under stubble. If Simon’s stare feels like he’s reading your mind, then Johnny’s is like being pinned down in one place, unable to move. You’re paralyzed, and powerless, lost in the icy blue sea of his eyes, drowning with a hand sticking out above the crest of the surf, reaching for him.

“Why would ye say that? That there’s nothin’ about ye to like? Nothin’ could be farther from the truth.”

“I don’t… there’s not. It’s… I’m your nurse, Johnny. That’s all.” Sweat glosses the small of your back, slicking upwards to cover your spine, and your heart hammers, it beats, beats, beats- so loudly you’re sure the pulse point in your wrist is visible. “Johnny.” His name shakes from your lips, and he relaxes, gentle concern replacing the relentless intensity in his gaze.

“Shhh, hey. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didnae mean to upset ye.” You're still frozen, a statue, and he reaches for you, trying to grab onto your hand. The heat of his skin breaks you from the spell, and you force a robotic, bedside smile onto your face, scooping up your half empty bowl.

"It's okay." You need to get out of this room. Now. The walls feel too close, Johnny feels too close, everything is compounding on top of you, threatening to derail your entire life, ruin your plan. They cannot like you. They cannot care about you. They cannot show interest in you. You can’t let this happen. “I’ve gotta check on some other patients, okay? I’ll swing back your way in a bit.” You promise him, guilt eating you alive about running away, and when he gives you a sad smile, you almost lose your resolve.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ll see ye later, then.” He murmurs, and you try not to trip over feet during your hasty exit.

Fuck. You’re so fucked. 

Simon and Johnny’s house is finally silent.  

Penny is down, safely tucked into dream world, her grainy grey-scale image flickering on the video monitor at Simon as he pours two fingers worth of bourbon into a glass.

Poor baby girl. His stomach twists. She put up such a fight tonight, hollering at the top of her lungs, standing up in her crib, working herself into an absolute state. He hates leaving her alone to cry, and on nights like this one, the only way she’ll close her eyes is if she’s being held, snuggled in Johnny's arms, or against Simon's chest. 

He’s a sucker, he knows. Doomed from the day she was born, but he can’t help it. Neither of them can. She’s their baby.

So, he doesn’t blame her for being so out of sorts. She always sleeps better when her Da is home. They both do.

His phone vibrates with a text, a short message from Johnny, and he scrolls through it, settling on the couch with his laptop, unopened email from Laswell blinking impatiently.

>She’s jumpy. Tired. Looks like she hasn’t gotten any sleep. Simon frowns.

> She manage to find a pair of panties for work today?

>Unfortunately. He can practically see the pout on Johnny’s lips, can hear the way he probably huffed and puffed when you first came into the room this evening, your hips swishing side to side, pretty smile on your face for him.

>I think I made her upset. Simon pinches the bridge of his nose. Johnny, love. Why can’t you listen? He takes a deep breath, trying to relax the worry that’s creeping up the back of his neck. 

Disagreements aren’t for text messages. They’ve learned that the hard way. 

>Take it easy for the rest of the night, then. She’s skittish. He shoots off the recommendation, and then pulls his laptop across his knee, clicking open the email from Kate.

Simon,  Your girl is a ghost. This kind of wipe work is professional level… are you sure she’s a nurse?  I’ve attached everything I could find, but it’s pretty scarce. The name you provided pulled a copy of her NHS nursing license, her taxes, an award she won at work last year, and a COVID vaccination record. No birth certificate, state identification, or public records of any kind, even after a global hand search. Nothing that even proves she exists or is an American except a sealed record from years ago in the states. It’s not accessible, even for me, which means it could be WITSEC, or a court ordered name change in relation to a domestic violence case. There are 18 states that seal those records to protect the victim, so she could be from anywhere. My gut says it’s probably the latter, which is why she doesn’t exist prior to.  You’ll notice on the vaccine record, she marked ‘unhoused’, and I couldn’t find any lease/rental agreements, sale records, or mortgages in her name.  I wish I had more for you, but she really is a bit of a puzzle. I’ll keep digging.  -K.L. 

There’s an unsettling rattle going off in the front of Simon’s skull. It’s a siren, a smattering of warning bells, and he swallows the rest of the bourbon in one go, embracing the burn that slides down the back of his throat.

Who are you, little bunny? And who are you running from? 

[unabashegirl]

Echo — Dr. Styles

Harry is a cardiothoracic surgeon and Aurora is just one of his students...

Author's note: Hello everyone, this one shot has been posted a long time on Patreon. I'm finally happy to release it for all of my Tumblr followers. I hope you enjoy it. It's quite long so happy reading!

check out my patreon and get access to more :)

word count: 7.5K

masterlist

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The operating room hummed with a symphony of beeping monitors and the steady rush of air from vents. He stood at the center, surrounded by a team of skilled medical professionals, each playing their part in the delicate dance of a heart transplant.

Dressed in his scrubs, His focus was unwavering as he gazed down at the patient lying before him. The heart monitor beeped steadily, a reassuring rhythm amidst the controlled chaos of the surgery.

"Scalpel," He called out, his voice calm yet commanding. A nurse placed the tool in his outstretched hand, and with practiced precision, he made the first incision.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Harry worked, his movements sure and steady. The transplant was a delicate procedure, requiring absolute precision and unwavering focus.

As he meticulously dissected the damaged heart from the surrounding tissues, Harry's mind was a whirlwind of calculations and decisions. Every cut, every stitch, held the patient's life in the balance.

"Alright, let me have a retractor," he requested, his eyes never leaving the task at hand. A nurse handed him the instrument, and he gently maneuvered the tissues aside, revealing the beating heart beneath.

The sight never failed to awe Harry, even after years of performing surgeries. The human heart, a marvel of nature, beating with the rhythm of life itself.

With a sense of reverence, he reached for the donor heart, carefully preserved in a chilled solution nearby. As he lifted it into place, a collective breath seemed to fill the room.

"Clamp," The doctor instructed, and the new heart was secured in its rightful place. With meticulous care, he began to stitch the arteries and veins, connecting the life-giving vessels of the new heart to those of the patient.

Time seemed to both stand still and fly by in the OR. Each stitch, each suture, brought the transplant closer to completion. The team around he moved with practiced efficiency, a well-oiled machine working in perfect harmony. After six hours of standing with no breaks, he stepped back. The heart transplant was a success.

The room seemed to exhale as the monitors beeped steadily, the sound a comforting reassurance of the patient's stable condition.

"Get him to the ICU and keep me updated every hour," the surgeon instructed his intern firmly. "Stitch him up," he commanded, swiftly removing his disposable gown and gloves.

"Dr. Styles? Should I inform his wife and family? What should I say to them?" the intern asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"No, I'll take care of it. Thank you, everyone," Dr. Harry Styles replied, his voice steady and reassuring, before exiting the operating room.

As Harry stepped out of the operating room, the weight of the surgery lingered in the air around him. The hushed tones of the hospital corridor offered a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of the OR.

With a purposeful stride, he made his way to the waiting area where the patient's family anxiously awaited news. The sense of anticipation was palpable, the air heavy with worry and hope.

The patient's wife sat on the edge of her seat, her eyes red-rimmed from hours of anxious waiting. As she caught sight of Harry approaching, her heart leaped into her throat.

"Dr. Styles," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "How is he? Is he going to be okay?”

Harry paused before her, his gaze gentle yet unwavering. "Your husband is out of surgery," he began, his voice steady. "The transplant was successful, but he's still in a critical condition. We'll be monitoring him closely in the ICU."

Tears welled up in the wife's eyes, a mix of relief and fear washing over her. "Can I see him? Can I be with him?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry nodded, "Of course. He's being prepared for transfer to the ICU now. You'll be able to see him soon. Now it's a matter of time and his body's response to the new heart. I’ll go check on him in a few hours. Excuse me” He gave her a small smile before disappearing down the corridor to complete charting and also get to a meeting with the attendings and the chief.

Morning," Harry greeted as he stepped into the conference room, juggling his charts and a cold brew he'd snagged from the coffee shop outside.

"How'd the surgery go?" Niall, the attending for emergencies, inquired as Harry settled in beside him.

"Alright," Harry shrugged, already engrossed in his notes. "What's this meeting about?"

Harry and Niall had struck up a friendship recently. Niall was a natural conversationalist, known for his boisterous laughter and infectious smiles. In contrast, Harry tended to keep to himself, often lost in his thoughts.

"It's about the new surgical interns starting today," the doctor seated across from Niall shared, catching Harry's attention. He frowned, already dreading the inevitable chaos that came with the arrival of new interns. Teaching was never his favorite part of the job, but he endured it for the greater good.

"Oh, I'm excited!" Niall beamed, a glimmer of enthusiasm in his eyes that Harry couldn't quite match. He knew Niall's fondness for charming the new interns, often leading to more than just professional relationships.

"Morning," the chief greeted as he entered the room, his presence commanding attention. In his mid-sixties, the chief had hired Harry, yet their interactions remained minimal. Harry preferred it that way; he kept his circle small, especially in a place where boundaries could easily blur.

"This will be a quick meeting about the incoming interns and the duties and expectations for the next few weeks," the chief explained, setting the tone for the discussion.

Harry listened attentively as the chief outlined the responsibilities and expectations for the upcoming weeks with the new surgical interns. His gaze wandered around the room, noting the varied reactions of his colleagues.

Niall seemed positively thrilled, nodding along eagerly and already making mental notes about which interns he would be taking under his wing. Harry couldn't help but shake his head at his friend's predictable enthusiasm for the new arrivals.

On the other side of the room, Dr. Patel sat with a look of quiet determination, her focus unwavering as she absorbed every detail of the chief's instructions. Harry respected her dedication and work ethic, knowing that she would undoubtedly excel in guiding the interns. She was one of the most famous gastroenterologist surgeons in the hospital.

As the meeting progressed, Harry found himself growing more apprehensive about the impending arrival of the interns. The first few weeks were always a whirlwind of orientation, training sessions, and long hours in the OR. He knew it would test his patience and ability to teach effectively.

"Any questions?" the chief asked, bringing Harry's attention back to the present.

Harry glanced around the room, noting the silence that followed. He cleared his throat, deciding to speak up. "Just to clarify, are we each assigned specific interns to mentor, or is it more of a collective effort?"

The chief nodded, addressing Harry's question. "We have a list of assigned mentors for each intern, but I encourage all attending physicians to participate in their training and offer guidance when needed."

he chief distributed the lists of mentors to each of the attending physicians. Harry glanced down at his list and noted that he had five interns assigned to him, the majority of whom were male. It brought a slight sense of relief, knowing he might have more common ground for discussion with them, than with the female ones.

"They should be up in a few hours. They are getting introduced to their residents and the program before they're sent your way," the chief informed the group. "That will be all. Have a good day."

With that, the meeting was adjourned, and the attendings began to gather their things and prepare for the arrival of the new interns. Harry folded his list neatly and tucked it into his pocket.

After attending to some of his post-op patients, Harry returned to his rounds before a page from Camille, one of the cardiology residents, summoned him to the cardiology wing. He knew exactly what that meant – it was time to meet the new interns.

"Doctor Styles! There you are," Camille exclaimed, waving him over as he entered the room. Before him stood a group of about twenty eager faces, all eyes on him. "This is Dr. Styles, one of the leaders in our cardiac surgery program. Any decisions made here will be run through him first."

"Good morning, everyone," Harry greeted, offering a warm smile to the group. "Congratulations on being accepted into the program. It goes without saying that this will be a demanding journey, but I hope it proves to be fulfilling for each of you. I'll be mentoring a few of you directly, but please know that I'm always available for questions or guidance."

"Any questions for Dr. Styles?" Camille interjected before Harry could slip away.

One voice rose from the group, breaking the brief silence. "About the mentoring. How does it work?" the inquiry came.

"Is that you, Knight?" Camille scanned the crowd until her eyes landed on Aurora, who stepped forward, no longer hiding behind a taller colleague. "Yes," Aurora confirmed, her voice steady. "I'm just wondering when we'll find out who our mentors are and when we should meet with them?"

"We don't have a set schedule for that," Camille replied, turning to Harry for confirmation. He nodded in agreement before she continued. "It usually happens when you and the attending find a bit of time between their duties and cases. As for when your mentors will be revealed, they will progressively become known as we introduce you to the rest of the attendings," Camille explained. She then turned to Harry. "Dr. Styles, do you have your list?”

"Right," Harry acknowledged, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the list. Unfolding it, he scanned the names before finding the one he was looking for. "And Aurora Knight," he announced.

"There you go," Camille said with a smile. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Styles. We'll see you in a bit."

Aurora Knight had always been sharp, bright, and endlessly curious, but above all, she was remarkably disciplined. So, when the time arrived to select a career path, her parents were taken aback by her choice of medicine. Aurora's unwavering discipline had guided her through many challenges, yet the surgical program posed an entirely new and demanding playing field.

At 27 years old, Aurora Knight was a striking figure with her long, tousled blonde hair framing her face. Her hazel eyes sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief, reflecting her sharp wit and curious nature. Despite her petite stature, there was an undeniable presence about her, an aura of confidence and determination that seemed to radiate from within. With a warm smile that could light up a room, Aurora carried herself with a grace.

"We'll be dividing into groups now," Camille announced, her voice carrying over the bustling activity of the surgical wing. "Each group will be assigned a new case, with an attending and resident in charge. Please listen to your resident and attending," she emphasized, gesturing for the interns to pay attention.

Aurora listened attentively as Camille began calling out last names, assigning each intern to their respective groups. As the names were called, excitement buzzed through the room, mingled with a touch of nervous energy.

"I hope I get to be with Dr. Styles," Aurora heard a voice beside her murmur. She couldn't help but smile at the comment, the sentiment echoing her own thoughts about the charming head of the cardiac surgery program.

Aurora kept her gaze fixed on the floor, not bothering to glance up at the others around her. Despite her outward confidence, it was all a facade. In truth, she was more of an introvert, often finding solace in the quiet moments of reflection.

However, being reserved didn't mean she was blind. She couldn't help but admire his striking features from the corner of her eye.

"Knight," Camille's voice finally broke through her thoughts, and Aurora looked up to see Camille pointing to a group of five. She was the last to be called, completing the group.

"You five will be heading down to the emergency room," Camille commanded, her voice firm. "You do remember where it is, right?" All five of them nodded in response. Aurora, however, couldn't recall, but she still nodded, not wanting to risk embarrassing herself and standing out.

The group of interns began to make their way downstairs in silence. None of them knew each other, but circumstances had brought them together on this task.

"Does anyone actually know where it is?" one of the men finally broke the silence, voicing the question that had likely been on all their minds.

The question hung in the air for a moment before Aurora spoke up, her voice steady despite the slight nervous flutter in her stomach. "I'm not entirely sure," she admitted, her hazel eyes meeting the gaze of her fellow interns.

The man who had asked the question nodded in understanding, a small smile playing on his lips. "I guess we’ll figure it out all together" he reassured, his tone friendly. “I am Milo”

“Aurora” She shook her hand.

The group continued down the corridors of the hospital, following the signs that pointed toward the emergency room. As they walked, conversation began to flow more freely, the initial awkwardness of being strangers starting to fade.

Aurora found herself drawn into the discussions, her curiosity piqued as she listened to her new colleagues share their experiences and aspirations. Despite the nerves that still lingered in the back of her mind, she couldn't deny the sense of camaraderie that was beginning to form among them.

Soon, they reached the bustling entrance of the emergency room, the controlled chaos of medical staff and patients filling the space. Camille had mentioned they would be assisting with a new case, and Aurora felt a surge of anticipation mingled with a touch of apprehension.

"We should check in with the attending," one of the interns suggested, breaking the silence that had fallen over the group as they took in the scene before them.

Aurora nodded in agreement, the group moving towards the attending physician who was overseeing the ER that day.

They stood awkwardly a few feet away from Niall as he diligently checked over some charts and finished a note on a patient. All five of them glanced at each other, silently urging someone to muster the courage to approach.

Eventually, Niall felt the weight of their glances on him and spoke up without looking up from his work. "I won't bite," he said, trying to ease the tension. “He is in there”

Just as they were about to make a move, the voice of Dr. Styles boomed through the room. "About time! Where the bloody hell have you been?!" he yelled, the urgency evident in his tone.

The interns hurried into the room, where they found Dr. Styles performing CPR on an unconscious patient. "What are you doing? Get in here!" he commanded, his voice urgent as he gestured for them to join him.

Aurora struggled to maintain focus, but it was nearly impossible not to be captivated by Dr. Styles' striking appearance as he fought to save a life. The muscles beneath his uniform strained with effort, his hair falling in disarray as he applied pressure. Despite his intense concentration, a furrowed brow revealed his determination to revive the patient. Suddenly, his commanding voice snapped her out of her reverie.

Without hesitation, she reached for a pair of gloves and swiftly approached the table.

"Let's get an EKG on him, Dr. Knight. You know how to do that, right? Or do I have to draw it for you?" Harry's voice cut through the urgency of the moment. Aurora nodded, her focus already on the task at hand. She began placing the electrodes on the patient's chest, each one carefully positioned. She ignored his harsh comment doubting her abilities.

"You, intubate him," Harry's next command came without pause as he assessed the patient's vitals.

Milo, one of the other interns, tried to not hesitate. He moved to the head of the bed, positioning himself to intubate the man efficiently.

"He's still bradycardic," Aurora muttered to herself, her eyes scanning the monitors as the rest of the team worked swiftly around the patient. Aurora looked down at her shoes and noticed the blood that was pooling under the stretcher. " he's bleeding from somewhere," she added, her gaze shifting to the man's sides.

"Can we roll him over?" Aurora looked up, meeting Harry's gaze with determination.

Harry nodded in agreement, quickly commanding the nurses to assist.

"I'll help," Autumn, another intern, offered, stepping forward to join Aurora.

Together, they carefully maneuvered the patient onto his side, revealing the source of the bleeding. There, in the fourth intercostal space, was a large and ominous laceration. The sight sent a jolt of urgency through the team as they assessed the severity of the injury and prepared to take swift action.

As the patient's vital signs continued to plummet, Harry's urgency grew palpable. "Dr. Madden, were you able to intubate?" he pressed, his gaze fixed on the worsening situation.

"Just give me a second," Dr. Madden muttered, his focus intent on getting a clear view of the vocal cords.

"We don't have a second, Dr. Madden. Did you do it or not?!" Harry's voice rose with frustration as Aurora and Autumn applied pressure to the wound. "Dr. Madden!"

"I-I..." Dr. Madden hesitated, faltering under the pressure of the tense situation.

Harry wasted no time. With decisive action, he stepped in and pushed Dr. Madden aside, taking control of the intubation process himself. In a matter of moments, the patient was successfully intubated, the urgency of the situation leaving no room for hesitation.

"Let's get him to the operating room," Harry declared, his voice commanding as the team mobilized to move the patient to the next phase of treatment.

The tension in the room was palpable as the chaos of the moment began to subside. It felt as though a storm had swept through, leaving behind an eerie calmness in its wake. All five interns remained rooted to their spots, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"He absolutely despises us," Autumn broke the silence, her voice tinged with frustration as she began to remove her gloves.

"Speak for yourself. He hates me," Milo sighed, his tone resigned. "I just couldn't get a clear view."

"At least he didn't offer to draw it out for you," Aurora quipped, attempting to inject a bit of levity into the tense atmosphere. The others chuckled nervously, their laughter quickly fading as they realized Harry had come back into the room.

Aurora, unaware of his presence behind her, continued to face away, while Autumn's eyes widened in apprehension. The realization dawned on them that their mentor had witnessed their candid conversation, adding another layer of tension to the already fraught situation.

"As soon as you're changed, I'll meet you all in the operating room," Harry announced, his pager interrupting the moment. Once the door closed behind him, a collective sigh of relief filled the room.

"Shit," Aurora thought to herself, the weight of the situation settling heavily on her shoulders.

"Good morning, everyone," Harry greeted as he entered the operating room. Aurora lingered in the back, blending into the crowd, attempting to mask her rising anxiety. Despite her efforts, she couldn't shake the nagging fear that Harry might use her comment to have her expelled from the program.

As Harry began to address the team, Aurora's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with worry. She had worked tirelessly to earn her place in the program, but one wrong move, one mistake, and it could all be taken away.

She watched as Harry moved about the room with confidence, his presence commanding attention from everyone present. His expertise was undeniable, his reputation as a skilled surgeon preceding him.

Aurora couldn't help but feel a pang of inadequacy as she compared herself to him. She was still learning, still finding her footing in the high-pressure environment of the operating room. The thought of disappointing him, of failing to meet his expectations, filled her with dread.

As the surgery got underway, Aurora focused on her tasks, trying to block out the persistent voice of doubt in her mind. She knew she had to prove herself, to show Harry and the rest of the team that she was capable, that she belonged here.

But with each passing moment, the weight of her anxiety grew heavier, threatening to overwhelm her. She couldn't afford to make a mistake, not now, not when so much was at stake.

"Dr. Knight," he called out, his voice cutting through her reverie. "Could you come here and hold the retractor?"

Aurora quietly extricated herself from the crowd, making her way to the table. With the assistance of a nurse, she put on gloves and a gown before positioning herself at the table.

"Here," he said, his hand extending the instrument towards her.

Their fingers brushed briefly as she accepted the tool. She couldn't help but notice the warmth of his hand compared to her own chill. Pushing aside any distractions, she focused on the task at hand, determined to carry out her duties with precision and professionalism.

She could only see his eyes and that was enough to make her nervous.

She tried to push aside the fluttering in her stomach and the way her heart seemed to skip a beat every time their eyes met. This wasn't the time or place for distractions. She had a job to do, a patient relying on her steady hands and focused mind.

With each passing moment, Aurora found herself slipping further into the rhythm of the surgery. The sounds of the operating room faded into the background as she concentrated on her task, her movements precise and calculated.

"Alright, that's all," Harry declared as he completed the final stitch. "Thank you, everyone." With that, he was the first to leave the room.

Aurora hesitated, waiting until Harry had exited before entering herself. Alone with him, she couldn't shake the sudden surge of apprehension. Despite her nerves, she couldn't fathom why he had specifically called upon her to assist him.

"Dr. Knight. A moment," he intercepted her as soon as she emerged from the scrub room. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding, and obediently followed him.

Harry led her outside of the hospital to a small coffee cart situated right by the entrance.

"Dr. Styles, I—"

"Latte or Americano?" He cut her off before she could finish, his question unexpected.

"Latte," she nervously replied as he ordered an Americano for himself and a latte for her.

"Dr. Styles, I just wanted to apologize for my comment. I want you to know that it won't happen again," she confessed, her words rushed and tinged with remorse.

"I wanted to apologize. I didn't mean to underestimate you in any way, Dr. Knight," he began after handing her the coffee and settling the bill with the vendor. "I'm certain that you're more than capable of handling not just an EKG, but any task thrown your way." He paid the woman and handed her drink. "I suppose I let the situation get the best of me. Just keep working as diligently as you have been, and you'll go far," he concluded before disappearing into the hospital.

Aurora remained behind, stunned by his words. As she processed his unexpected encouragement, she felt a newfound confidence settle within her.

Two months had passed since they began their tenure at the hospital. In that time, Aurora had forged strong bonds with Milo, Autumn, Daniel, and Abigail. However, Greyson had proven to be a persistent issue from day one. His reluctance to collaborate made him a challenge in a profession where teamwork was paramount.

As for Harry, he had remained standoffish. Since their last encounter, he hadn't directly addressed Aurora. Known for his impartiality and lack of favoritism, Harry maintained a neutral stance, assessing everyone solely on their ability to perform and execute.

“Right. Who will be assisting me today?” Harry asked as he looked around the operating room. His patient was being intervene due to a gun wound. He had already started operating, but though it would be a good idea to allow them to stitch up. “Milo and Aurora”.

Most of them had assisted him in the days prior, and today, Harry wanted both Milo and Aurora to have the opportunity to experience stitching up cardiac muscle.

Aurora silently recited the steps she had meticulously studied from textbooks and articles before entering the operating room. She made a conscious effort to recall every detail, anticipating that Harry might quiz them verbally. The nurse assisted Aurora in donning a gown and gloves, mirroring the nervous expression worn by Milo.

They positioned themselves opposite to Harry around the patient, they awaited instructions.

"Dr. Madden, could you assist me with this stitch?" Harry directed, prompting Milo to retrieve the necessary tools from the instrumental nurse. With careful precision, Milo attempted the stitch, mindful of Harry's guidance to ensure it held securely without compromising blood supply.

"I think that should do it," Milo ventured uncertainly, recalling Harry's recent advice on the importance of confidence in one's work.

"Very well. Dr. Knight, if you would?" Harry indicated to Aurora. Milo stepped aside, allowing her to take her turn. Aurora's task involved suturing the left coronary artery, a delicate procedure made more challenging by its angle relative to the heart. With a steady hand, Aurora cautiously slipped her fingers into the chest cavity, her nerves palpable.

Harry's reassuring voice broke through her anxiety. "Don't let it intimidate you," he encouraged, their eyes meeting in a moment of shared determination.

Aurora nodded silently, her focus returning to the intricate network of arteries illuminated by her headlamp. With determination, she began stitching, her concentration unyielding. The heart before them was far from healthy, but the man on the table had a family anxiously awaiting good news - a wife and two children relying on their expertise.

Suddenly, the monitor's alarming beep shattered the tense silence. Aurora's heart raced as she looked up, instantly gripped by nerves.

"What's happening?" Harry demanded, his voice sharp with urgency as he leaned over the cavity. "What did you do?" His tone rose with concern as he hurried to assist her in exploring the cavity.

"I didn't do anything!" Aurora protested, frantically searching for signs of bleeding around her stitches. "I followed the textbook guidelines," she muttered, her fear palpable.

Harry met her gaze, sensing her distress. "Find the source of the bleed," he instructed firmly, but the cavity was rapidly filling with blood. "Get a bag of O neg."

"I can't see anything," Aurora admitted, her panic mounting as she struggled to maintain composure.

"Think, Dr. Knight!" Harry urged, the urgency in his voice escalating. "The patient is crashing. What's your next move? Find the bleed!" His words reverberated in the operating room, but Aurora remained frozen in fear.

"Step away from the table, Dr. Knight," Harry commanded, his tone firm. "Leave the OR."

Feeling overwhelmed, Aurora hastily removed her gown and other attire, desperate for relief from the constriction. It was as if everything had become too tight, making it difficult to breathe or see clearly. Without a moment's hesitation, she fled the operating room and scrubbed out.

Navigating the hospital corridors, Aurora was acutely aware of the rising panic within her. Recognizing the signs of a panic attack, she sought solace in a nearby supply closet, allowing herself a moment of privacy to release her emotions. Though tears flowed freely, she couldn't shake the memory of her mother's advice never to cry in public, especially at work. Despite the overwhelming urge, Aurora remained composed, and like a good girl she followed the rules.

Twenty minutes elapsed before Harry emerged from the operating room. With a heavy sigh, he immediately noticed Aurora's absence, both outside the OR and in the scrub room. Removing his surgical cap, he made his way to the waiting room, his heart heavy with the weight of failure. Despite their efforts, the patient had succumbed to their condition, even after receiving extensive treatment with blood and adrenaline. Harry's attempts to resuscitate them had been in vain.

"I'll see you all in the conference room, and make sure the autopsy authorization is filled out by then," Harry commanded, addressing Milo, Autumn, Daniel, Greyson, and Abigail. "Where is Knight?" he inquired, noticing her absence. The interns remained silent, unsure of her whereabouts. "Regardless, proceed with requesting the autopsy."

After speaking with the family, Harry embarked on a search for Aurora. He scoured every corner of the hospital until he finally heard her sobbing in the supply room. Without hesitation, he used his key for access and entered, ensuring the door was closed behind him.

Aurora hastily wiped her tears and stood up from the floor as Harry entered.

"Dr. Styles," she managed to say between sobs, attempting to compose herself but unable to stop the tears from flowing. "I am sorry for what happened—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Harry's lips met hers. A rush of unexpected emotions flooded through him at the sight of her tears. He had always found her attractive, but he had maintained strict boundaries. Yet, in that moment, something shifted.

His fingers entwined in her hair as their kiss deepened. Initially taken aback, Aurora's confusion gave way to surrender. She allowed herself to be carried away by the intensity of the moment. Harry kissed her with a tenderness, but Aurora could feel the passion bruising her lips and swelling them.

As their kiss continued, time seemed to stand still. In that fleeting moment, Harry and Aurora were lost in each other, their worries and inhibitions fading into the background.

But just as quickly as it began, the reality of their situation came crashing back. Harry reluctantly pulled away, his fingers lingering on Aurora's cheek as they shared a silent, knowing look. They didn’t interchange any words. With a heavy heart, Harry turned and left the supply room, leaving Aurora alone with her thoughts and the echoes of their forbidden kiss.

"What happened to you? Are your interns driving you crazy already?" Niall inquired, joining Harry in the cafeteria where he sat with an untouched tray of food.

"Pretty much," Harry chuckled nervously, attempting to distract himself from the recent kiss he shared with Aurora.

"At least, there are some attactive ones," Niall added, digging into the burger he had ordered.

As Niall continued to talk about the interns, Harry found it increasingly difficult to focus on the conversation. Thoughts of Aurora and their momentary lapse in judgment lingered in his mind, casting a shadow over everything else.

"Yeah, they're certainly... interesting," Harry mumbled absentmindedly, his mind wandering back to the supply room where he had left Aurora.

Niall noticed the distraction in Harry's demeanor and raised an eyebrow. "Everything alright, mate?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

Harry shook his head slightly, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, just a lot on my mind, you know?" he replied vaguely, not wanting to delve into the details.

Niall nodded understandingly, but the concern in his eyes didn't waver. "Well, if you ever need to talk about it, I'm here," he offered, placing a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Thanks," Harry said sincerely, grateful for his friend's support. But even as he tried to push aside the tumultuous thoughts swirling in his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that things were about to become even more complicated.

Harry contemplated confiding in Niall. He longed for advice, a listening ear to untangle the mess of emotions swirling inside him. But the fear of Niall inadvertently disclosing their conversation to the chief held him back. Despite his growing feelings for Aurora, Harry hesitated to jeopardize his career and reputation over a fleeting attraction.

He departed that day after assigning a substantial list of tasks that needed to be completed.

He had hoped that by leaving, he could silence the relentless thoughts racing through his mind. Yet, even after hitting the gym and attending pilates classes, nothing seemed to make a difference. Harry remained plagued by confusion over why he had walked away without a word.

Now, he realized he needed to have a conversation with her. He needed to explain why it had happened, to assure her that it was just a single mistake and nothing more.

The following day, Harry arrived at the hospital earlier than usual. After grabbing a coffee, he began his rounds, checking on his patients. However, just as he thought he would have some time alone and that Aurora wouldn't be around, he unexpectedly encountered her. She was seated on one of the vacant stretchers on the OR floor, engrossed in what appeared to be studying.

Not wanting to interrupt her concentration, Harry debated whether to approach. Yet, he knew he needed to pass by her to reach his destination.

"Dr. Knight," he addressed her, making a conscious decision to acknowledge her presence. Continuing on his path without expecting a response, he felt a surge of nervousness. His heart raced, pounding in his chest as if it might burst. Despite his expertise in cardiovascular surgery, his palms sweated profusely, giving the sensation of a heart attack to someone less accustomed to such symptoms.

"Dr. Styles, could I speak with you, please?" Her soft voice caught him off guard from behind.

"Sure," he replied, attempting to appear composed though his nerves were anything but. "Follow me." Leading her upstairs to the rooftop, Harry sought solace in his refuge during the most challenging times.

"Listen, Dr. Knight. I know that I was completely—"

"Dr. Styles, I just wanted to apologize for what happened in the OR—"

Their words collided as they spoke simultaneously, their apologies hanging in the air between them.

"I crossed a boundary yesterday, and I shouldn't have kissed you. I'm your superior, and I'm supposed to be your teacher instead of..." Harry rushed out, "It won't happen again."

Aurora was taken aback. She wasn't inclined to apologize for the kiss; in fact, she had quite enjoyed it. Nor did she want him to apologize for it. The realization that it wouldn't be repeated left her feeling disappointed.

"Yeah, alright, Dr. Styles," Aurora nodded, feeling as though her apology for the incident in the OR had been rendered unnecessary and brushed aside. Disappointed, she managed a small smile before leaving, too disheartened to continue the conversation or remain in his presence.

Harry remained upstairs, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him like an eternity. Suddenly, he heard the door open, accompanied by the sound of giggles. Glancing over his shoulder, he instantly recognized the couple: Niall with a third-year intern. Harry recalled her; he had been her advisor during her second year. They shared a kiss, and as Niall pulled away, his eyes met with Harry's.

Upon noticing Harry on the roof, the intern hastily retreated, eager to vacate the scene. Niall allowed her to run out before he approached Harry.

"Why are you here?" Niall asked, standing beside him, his embarrassment and nervousness palpable. He wasn't ashamed of their relationship, but he understood the potential consequences if they were discovered and reported.

"Just getting some air. You?" Harry replied casually.

"Look, Harry—" Niall began, but Harry interrupted him.

"No need to explain, Niall. I won't say anything," Harry reassured him. Even if he hadn't kissed Aurora, he wouldn't have exposed Niall's secret. "Is it worth it?"

"She is," Niall replied after a moment of silence. "Not everything is about work. We all need to enjoy life a little. What kind of life would it be if we never took any risks?"

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," Harry admitted after a few moments. Life had grown mundane and routine lately. However, since Aurora had entered his life, things had become more exciting. Now, he found himself looking forward to going to the hospital.

As Harry reflected on the newfound excitement Aurora had brought into his life, he couldn't help but acknowledge the subtle shifts in his routine. Each day at the hospital held the promise of unexpected moments, whether it was a challenging surgery, a meaningful interaction with a patient, or even the briefest exchange with Aurora herself.

Despite the complications and risks inherent in their budding relationship, Harry felt a renewed sense of vitality and purpose. Perhaps taking a chance on love was worth the potential consequences. After all, life was meant to be lived fully, even if it meant stepping outside the boundaries of what was considered safe and predictable.

In the bustling atmosphere downstairs, Aurora found herself engrossed in the tasks of tending to outpatient consults and suturing wounds in the emergency room. It was a deliberate effort on her part to refine her skills; the prospect of returning to the operating room filled her with trepidation. Despite her best efforts to dissect every detail of the previous surgery in her mind, she remained uncertain about what had gone awry. Tempted to lay blame on Harry and the intense exchanges they had shared across the operating table, she struggled to shake off the lingering doubts.

Just as she was completing the discharge process for a woman who had sustained a laceration to her eyebrow, Aurora's pager buzzed urgently, summoning her to the cardiology wing. With a sense of urgency, she set aside her current tasks and hastened towards her next destination.

Much to her surprise, when Aurora arrived, Harry had summoned everyone.

"The autopsy has been completed. I thought it would be a good exercise to review it and identify where we may have gone wrong," Harry announced as she entered the room. "Dr. Knight, please take a seat," he instructed, handing a copy of the autopsy report to each person present.

Nervously, Aurora settled between Milo and Autumn, her apprehension palpable.

"Dr. Madden, please begin," Harry prompted, and the group delved into dissecting every detail of the report.

"So, what was the issue? Where did we go wrong?" Harry inquired after they had finished scrutinizing the final word.

Silence filled the room as everyone hesitated to speak. Aurora knew what had transpired, but she hesitated to voice her thoughts; she was reluctant to assign blame to anyone.

Silence lingered in the room as Harry's question echoed, met only by the sound of his watch ticking away the seconds. He glanced at the time, realizing his own time constraints. "I don’t have all day," he stated firmly, casting a discerning gaze over the assembled group. Among them, Aurora's eyes met his, devoid of the confusion evident in the others. He hesitated to call on her, torn between the desire for her insight and the fear of alienating her.

Before he could make a decision, Milo spoke up, his tone tinged with shame. "My stitches came undone, causing the cavity to fill with blood," he admitted, eyes downcast. Harry nodded, a plan forming in his mind.

"I'll arrange practice sessions for each of you next week to work on your skills. You're all dismissed. Dr. Knight, a word," he instructed as the others filed out of the room without protest. Once they were gone, Harry locked the door behind them.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to face Aurora, his demeanor softening. "I don't regret our kiss," he confessed, a wistful smile playing at the corners of his lips. "If it were up to me, I'd spend the whole day doing just that."

Despite her efforts to conceal it, her smile threatened to reveal her true feelings, while the blush creeping up her cheeks betrayed her nervousness. Stepping closer to him, Aurora closed the distance between them, her arms encircling his neck as Harry's hands found their way to her hips. He pressed a kiss to her forearm, his gaze locked with hers, and in that moment, the world seemed to fade away around them.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's embrace, the tension between them palpable, Harry couldn't help but feel a rush of conflicting emotions. He knew the risks involved in pursuing anything beyond a professional relationship with Aurora, yet he found himself unable to resist her magnetic pull.

Taking a deep breath, Harry leaned in closer, his lips hovering just inches from hers. In that moment, the world fell away, leaving only the two of them, lost in the intensity of their shared desire.

Aurora's hands deftly slid Harry's white coat off his broad shoulders, a sense of urgency in her touch. Harry reciprocated, lifting her effortlessly off the floor as their lips met in a fervent kiss. With a swift motion, he gently placed her on the nearby table, his hands moving with purpose to rid her of her scrubs.

"God, I've been craving this moment since the day we met," he murmured breathlessly, the heat between them igniting with his words. Every touch, every caress sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body, building a fire of desire that threatened to consume them both.

As Harry peeled off her top, Aurora's breath caught in her throat at the sight that greeted her. She hadn't expected to find intricate tattoos adorning his skin, each one a testament to a hidden side of him she longed to explore.

Aware of the ticking clock, Harry felt a sense of urgency creeping in. He understood the fleeting nature of the moment, knowing his beeper could disrupt their intimacy at any instant. With a swift motion, he lowered his pants just enough to free himself, his focus fixed on savoring every second.

As his lips trailed down her body, Harry uncovered her breasts, his mouth eagerly seeking out the tender breasts. With delicate precision, he lavished attention on each voluptuous, perky nipple, relishing the taste and texture beneath his touch.

"We're running out of time," she moaned, urgency lacing her words as she struggled to discard her pants. "I need you, now," she pleaded, her desire palpable. Harry's smile deepened as he peppered kisses along her neck, swiftly removing her pants with eager hands.

With a sense of determination, he pushed aside her underwear, his touch eliciting a shiver of anticipation. Slowly, he teased her wet folds with his head, each caress heightening her arousal. Finally, he entered her, their synchronized moans echoing in the room as they became one.

Their union was a symphony of passion and desire, the intensity building with each rhythmic thrust. Harry's movements were primal, driven by an unquenchable hunger for her. Aurora arched into him, her nails digging into his skin as waves of pleasure washed over her.

Lost in the sounds of ecstasy, they surrendered to the moment, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. Every touch, every kiss, ignited a fire within them, consuming them with a raw, primal need.

As their climax approached, the world around them faded into oblivion, leaving only the pulsating rhythm of their entwined bodies. In that fleeting moment, they were consumed by an overwhelming sense of bliss.

As they reached their climax of pleasure, they let out a simultaneous cry of release, their souls intertwining in a moment of pure bliss.

But as the echoes of their passion faded into the night, reality came crashing back, reminding them of the world outside their cocoon of desire. With gentle kisses and whispered promises, they held onto each other, knowing that their love would endure whatever challenges lay ahead. Because even though Harry was risking his entire career by having sex with her in a conference room at the hospital, it was all worth it to him because he finally felt like he was living again.

[carmenized-onions]

Where To? | Delivery Fees

logline; Fix, after fix, after fix; at a point, you've gotta ask what you are.

[!!!] series history, this is the fifth; First, Second, Third, Fourth

portion; 8k+ (sorry, it's about to go down. Perfectly in time for your long Friday midnight read that you regret in the morning!)

possible allergies; birth/medical shenanigans (nothin' scary, tbh, unrealistic), Mikey heavy talks and thus, mentions of drug addiction, it's traumas, his death, and grieving! Tony makes a joke about being bisexual, and I simply can't apologize for this, I write the perspective I have, man.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (aunt, mentions of bein' a mom, no pronouns? I think?)

this is by far, I think, the best (and longest) chapter so far, and if you don't leave me a paragraph (or several) detailing your thoughts and favourite moments, I will eat a lightbulb. And you will simply never hear from me again. Be warned,,,,,

Everyone works fast and efficient. Hospitality is used in two places for a goddamn reason. A well-oiled machine can switch gears on a dime.

Sydney gets a clean table cloth sample from a pile of off-whites they’d been considering. She puts it down in the office, swiping it over the floor to cover up the grime. Does she close her eyes when she walks in, and trip over the chair on the ground? Yeah. But she’s trying to be respectful of Nat’s privacy, okay!?

Tina talks Nat through everything as she gets Nat to lay down, she finds your Carhartt jacket hanging the shelf, folds it, and tucks it under the small of Sug’s back for support.

Richie is in the front of house, yelling at Pete over the phone, both with disdain and love somehow? That’s fathers for you. Fak is respectfully standing in front of the office door with one pile of warm cloths and another pile dry. Was he yelled at when he initially tried to come in? Yes. He’s handing them off to Sydney as needed now.

You scrub your hands clean, dry them, then start rolling on prep gloves at the sink. An apron is thrown around you, you turn your head just so, to see Carmen behind you, tying the neck and then waist of your apron for you.

He’s focused on the knots, but he looks up at you for a split second, meeting your curious gaze, his only explanation is, “S’faster.” You refocus on your gloves, because you’ll go insane if you don’t. It’s a silent exchange.

When you’re both scrubbed and ready, Carmen takes the towels from Fak and you usher for him to switch places with Tina, who slips out along with Sydney.

Everyone else sits outside the office, hushed and worried, and it is just the three of you, in here. Technically four, if you think about it. He sits on his knees so Sugar can elevate her head on his lap. And on the other side of him, about to assist in the birth of his niece, between her legs, is you.

You situate yourself, hands at the ready to catch a baby, towel in your lap.

And if you can just pretend you’re wearing medical gloves instead of prep cook gloves, and scrubs instead of an old Beef apron, you can almost believe it’s three years ago and you’re riding in the back of an ambulance helping a new mom deliver a baby, and Mikey is still alive somewhere where you don’t know him yet. You shake your head out of it. There’s not time for this.

“Alright, you’re doing a great job, just keep breathing, just keep pushing— Sometimes talking helps, uh, with labour.”

“I— What should I talk about—?”

“Oh, uh—” You look up at Carmen as if it’s gonna help you, and in a way, it does, “Why don’t you tell me baby names you’ve been considering? You pick one out?”

“Oh, oh I— Christ— I was thinking maybe, maybe Michaela? Is that stupid? That’s stupid, isn’t it?” She warbles with a stinging level of insecurity.

“I don’t think it’s stupid, Sug.” Carmen’s quick to jump in, swiping her hair out of her eyes. You nod in agreement, backing him up. “I don’t think it’s stupid. It’s a sweet sentiment— Nobody gets to judge the way you mourn, Nat.”

She groans in pain, then groans more pitifully, like being struck with a sudden guilt, “Tony!”

“Yeah, yeah, Nat? I’m here.” You take her hand.

“I was being a bitch before in the bathroom!” She whines this out like a drunk girl’s confession.

You’re quick to lean forward to her, consoling her, as if she is in fact a drunk girl in the bathroom with you, “Nononono, you were fine— Hey, keep pushing, keep breathing— You weren’t bein’ any type a way, you’re good!”

“I was so judgy! I was just like my fucking mom— Oh my God— Am I gonna be my mom?!”

Carmen and you are lightning fast to usher and coo a myriad of denials and flat out ‘No’s. When he gets the chance, he looks up and whispers to you, “What did she say to you?”

He’s far too hung up on this, in this moment. You squint at him, whispering back, oozing with sarcasm, “She can still hear you.”

“I said— I said ‘didn’t see you at the funeral’! Like who says that!?”

Carmen should be looking at his sister, which makes his stare feels ten times more exposing, “You didn’t go to the funeral?”

You shrug, but you feel a mountain of guilt on that shrug, like fucking Atlas. “Neither did you.”

He squints back at you, head tilting just slightly, “Yeah, but—”

“You knew him so much better than we did and I just— You’re so intimidating!”

“Intimidating?” Looking at Carmen’s face, it doesn’t look like he disagrees. Which only shocks you all the more.

“Yes! You know, you’re— You’re—”

“You’re like Mikey.” Carmen finishes for her. She nods, deliriously, trying to focus on her breathing.

“In what way?” You’re way too interested in this conversation, Goddamn it, look at the baby forehead, not the boy.

“You don’t talk like him or nothin’, but—”

“It’s the air!” Sugar shrieks on ‘air’, white knuckle gripping your hand. “You just, you control the temperature— you make rooms easier to breathe in like he did— And I— I wanted to push to see you make it harder to breathe like he—Oh my God!”

“Nat, you’re doing a fantastic job. The head’s a quarter way out, you’re doing —great.” You nod to Carmen, and wordlessly he knows to take your absolutely shattered hand out of her grasp and replace it with his. “And I try my best, but I— Y’know what, this isn’t the time—”

“No! Please, God, keep going!” She is clinging to your words like a telenovela. “This is all I have to keep my mind off my vagina tearing open!”

You nod, you want to wring your hands together but you’re wearing latex gloves. “I just— I didn’t know your brother better than you did. I just— I just knew him when he wasn’t letting a lot of people know him.”

“How did— you become friends with Mikey?”

“Dad was a fixer—”

“No, I know how you met. How did you become friends?”

You pause. God, no one’s ever called you on it. You've always been able to get away with a mere list of factors.

“I, uh…. was a couple jobs in at the Beef, with my dad, and we’d spoken casually before, but I stepped out to get some air, and he was there, havin’ a smoke, and he offered to share, and when I said ‘Oh, I don’t smoke’, he—”

You soften at the thought, eyes distant, smirking. “He went ‘What, are you Amish?’ And I guess, we just… Became friends over how detached and different I was, from everything else in his life. I didn’t know anything about him before The Beef. I didn’t come with expectations or social circles to rat on him to. I was— I was basically Amish, to him.”

You were his lock box. You had no way of using anything he ever said against him, and even if you could, you never would.

He could bitch about his successful baby brother in Denmark, and also rave over how excited he was about his successful baby brother in Denmark. He could do impressions of his little sister's cringey husband, and also show his relief in the fact that she will always be loved. He could tell you how scared he was, he could tell you what Uncle Lee said—he couldn’t tell you he was using. No. He couldn’t tell you. But you would find out, when you had to administer Narcan on him as he was passed out in the back alley of The Beef.

From there, there was nothing you didn’t hear about, nothing he thought would be worth hiding, after that. A diary of confessions is carved into your heart. Your name is carved into your favourite booth at your second favourite diner, not two blocks from here. It’s all the same handwriting.

You didn’t know Mikey better than his siblings did, you just knew how he felt about the things they saw.

Natalie’s shrieking brings you back to earth, you re-cradle your hands for the very top of the baby’s head. Despite the pain she’s in, she was right, your talking really is helping her keep the focus off her pain, “Is—Is that why you didn’t go to the funeral?!” She’s not judgy or mad, she just can’t say anything without full screaming it.

“I don’t— I don’t know if this exact moment is the best time—”

“I decide what time it is!”

Carmen looks up at you, and for the first time, is wincing at the iron clad grip his sister has his hand in— Ironically, the one with the stabbing tattoo. He wheezes, “She— She decides what time it is.”

“Right.” You nod at both of them, eyes wide. Your tone is hasty, you’d rather explain yourself well, but now you just have to explain yourself fast because the baby’s head is three quarters of the way out.

“Well, I, uh, yeah— It was, it was tough. I didn’t— I didn’t want to watch a group of people I’d heard so much about, good and bad, walk up on stage in front of a closed casket— N’— N’ talk about like, cute childhood moments— When I—When I had seen, when I had only seen him at his worst. And I— I liked the Mikey I got, loved the Mikey I got, but I know those last two years were very different. And I guess— I guess, I didn’t wanna learn… What I missed.”

There’s a lot of reasons why you didn’t go to the funeral, but that’s the one you know she’s going to find the most digestible and make some semblance of sense out of, right now.

She nods, repeatedly, deliriously, Carmen holds her head still. “I’m— I’m sorry, Tony.”

“I forgive you, Sug.” You nod back, reassuring, a soft smile for but a moment. “Now breathe, and one last big push— Head’s almost out! Smooth sailing from there, you’re doing so good!”

Just as frantic as Natalie’s screaming, there’s doors slamming, yelling, and what sounds like tripping from outside the office, “Nat! I’m here! I’m here! I’m coming!”

“Oh! Hold it in, Pete’s here—”

“Sugar, again, I hate to tell you this, not how that works!”

It’s about an hour later, you’re sitting out in front of The Bear, on the curb, with Syd.

Tina headed home as soon as she could to get back to her family. Richie said he’s on ‘daddy drop off’ for Eva tomorrow, so he had to head out— And he’s Fak’s ride, so he left too.

Once the baby had been delivered, and you’d screamed at calmly communicated to Carmen to get the exact time for the birth certificate, and Pete had rushed in and almost slipped on the wet sheets and cracked his head open— Everything was totally chill.

Pete’s driving his wife and daughter to Saint Anthony Hospital, where they’ll stay in holding for the next one to two days. Carmen refused to let you clean up on the basis of, ‘you just delivered my niece, get the fuck out’; and is inside, finishing that up. And so, you and Syd are perched up outside, getting some much-needed air, talking about nothing.

“That was fucking— crazy.”

“I think I should start smoking.” Is all you can reply, laughing shakily, eyes on the stars— Though there’s not many. Shout out light pollution. You hug your arms, still in the same outfit, apron-less, jacket-less, cold as fuck.

Syd laughs, “Yeah, that’s the move. For sure.” She sighs, sipping water from a deli cup she’d brought out. “...I’m never fuckin' having kids.”

“No, for sure.” You whistle, leaning back for dramatic effect, “I go back and forth on it a lot, and then I see a mom giving birth or dealing with her goblins and I’m like—”

You look to each other, speaking at the same time, “Free birth control!”

“Genuinely!” You snort, laughing through the words, “I leave cat food out on my fire escape for this one stray on my block, and I think that is as committal as I’m willing to get with taking care of creatures.”

She sniffs, looking at you more peculiarly, still smiling, “I think you’d be a good mom, though.”

Your amused grin sobers into a wistful smile, “I think you’d be a good one, too. Both like taking care of people.”

She punches your shoulder, softly, obviously. “You came through in an insane way, tonight.” When you try to wave it off, she doubles down, “I literally do not know what would’ve happened without you. The Bear is literally in your debt—And—And— You ditched your date, for us.”

You sigh, though smiling, “Syd, it wasn’t—” “It was bad? It was so bad you were kinda wishing this would happen?”

The house lights of The Bear shut off and Carmen comes out as you respond, locking the door behind him.

“I cannot fathom a date so bad that I actively hope my friend’s sister goes into labour and needs me to deliver her kid.”

“So it wasn’t bad?” She leans forward onto her knees, like she’s about to get the daily scoop.

“Not what I said, no, you keep cuttin—”

“You cold?” It’s Carmen who cuts you off this time, standing behind you both. You turn your head to him, still hugging your shoulders. He looks …stiffer than usual? Tense? You can’t tell the adjective, he just looks… Different. Or maybe it’s just a default you’ve never noticed. But you think you would’ve noticed.

You stand up, as does Syd. “Oh, yeah. I thought I’d like… Rinse my Carhartt before I wear it again. I’m good, though.”

He pauses where he is, like he’s computing, then shakes his head, “Don’t act tough.” And takes off his jean-fleece jacket, holding it out for you. Who are you to refuse that?

When you reach for it, he pivots in time to put the sleeve over your arm for you, then the other. You quickly recall the walk-in, and suddenly this feels like divine retribution. God, it’s weird to be cared for in return. God, he cares for you? Don’t start ruminating right now, holy shit—

“Thanks.” You cough, awkwardly, looking to Syd, pointing your fingers to both of them. “Ride? Ride?”

Syd holds her bag over her shoulder, and you can already tell what she’s gonna say. “I’ll take the—”

“If you say L instead of my fuckin’ car, it’s your ass, Adamu.” It’s past twelve. No way.

“…I’ll take the ‘your fucking car’, please.” She bows her head down, you throw your arm over her shoulder, dragging her with you. “That's my girl!”

You turn your head over your shoulder to Carmy, his weird different demeanour has somewhat melted away, good enough. “You comin? I’m holding your jacket hostage this time, so you kinda have to.”

He follows close behind you two, sheepish. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take the ride.”

“Who wants to sit in the back?”

“Isn’t the hot-seat s’posed to be shotgun?” Syd questions.

“You know, people say that, but that’s for when you wanna socialize, when it’s late you wanna sprawl in the back and pretend you’re the last person on earth.”

“You make a compelling argument, my friend.” Syd taps her nose, grinning. She calls to Carmy behind her. “I call the back!”

“Is it bad if I don’t check on my dad, while I’m here?” You park in front of Syd’s place. You know it well, your dads live on the same block. “No, right? It’s twelve in the morning and no matter what you both say, I think I do still smell vaguely of afterbirth.”

“If I were your dad, I think I would prefer to not be visited, right now, yeah.” Syd nods, taking her seat-belt off.

“Woww,” You eye her through the rear-view mirror, “You don’t love your daughter, Syd? Wouldn’t get up at midnight for me?” Carmen laughs from the sidelines into his fist, leaned against the window.

“Of course I would, my sweet child!” She snickers, reaching forward to pinch and pull your cheek, you slap her hand away. “Alright, fuck off.”

When she pulls back and goes to grab her stuff, you remember. “Oh! There should be a lil’ gift bag, somewhere on the ground back there?”

“Yeah,” She procures the bag, lifting it up to her head for you to see. “This thing?”

You nod, “Open it.”

“Oh what!?” She groans, before even opening it, “You got me a present and have saved me twice? Did you kill a loved one of mine or something?”

You laugh, shrugging. “Bloodlust is insatiable. But, y’know, I’m proud of you for opening and getting Head, I wanted to commemorate, or whatever.” You shove Carmen’s shoulder, getting his attention, “Yours is coming, by the way, I just need a lil’ more time on it.”

He seems perplexed by the idea that you’re getting him a gift, even though you already told him you would, but he nods. Syd unbags her present, “What…?”

In a small box, with a clear lid so she can see through, is a white Dickie peter pan style collar. Tacked onto both lapels are gold circular collar pins. On the left one, it has the initial S, and the other A; both in gold over a white background. A thin gold chain connects the two pins, across the neck. All fake gold, duh, you’re not rich. But it’s still gorgeous. And thoughtful.

“‘You lose all sense of identity, in a restaurant.’” You repeat her own words back to her, looking at her through the rear-view mirror, smiling. “I thought maybe a little extra personal touch on the uniform would help with that. The collar’s really just to explain how the fuck it works, but I also sweat so much in your kitchen, so I thought it could be use—” Syd cuts into your ramblings, swinging her arm over your headrest to hug you, more like choke. But with love, so you hug her arm back. “—Full.”

“You’re a great daughter, Tony.” She squeezes. “Thank you.” You just squeeze her arm back.

She shows the gift off to Carmen, who seems genuinely impressed, he can’t stop glancing between the gift and you. You remember things. “Beautiful, Chef.”

“Oh, oh oh, before you go—” You snap your fingers, “I’m coming to the wedding gig, fuckin’ uh… Vickie and Merman? That can’t be right…”

“You’re coming to Vinnie and Mira’s wedding?” Ah, count on Carmen to know names. It's his family, after all. Or family adjacent? Unsure.

You nod, “Bartending. Cicero got me. You’re catering?”

He nods, “30k is 30k.” Syd backs him up. “It’d be fucking stupid, if we said no, especially since they’re taking expenses.”

“We should like, coordinate or something—” “Wait!”

Syd interrupts, clutching the shoulders of your seat and Carmen’s. “When did you see Cicero?”

“Uh, couple hours ago? When you were spamming?”

Syd squints, looking into the middle distance like she’s just cracked a case wide open. Hot outfit. Denial of dates. Cicero. “Oh my god... Cicero’s your sugar daddy?”

“What?!” Lightning speed, both you and Carmen yell. Probably for entirely different reasons and confusions.

“No! Syd, I was at work—” “Well, it is a type of job—” “I am not doing any sort of code for Sugar Baby activities! I was at a real place of business and he was there, he asked me to bartend, he said y’all would be there.” You gesture with your hands wildly as a form of enunciation.

“Right…” She opens the door behind her, eye contact un-breaking. “I’m gonna figure you out…”

You roll your eyes, waving goodbye with one hand, flipping her off with the other. “Text me your hotel plans for New York, loser. We can split a room.”

“Okay, loser! See you. See you tomorrow, Carm!” She waves you off, shutting the car door behind her. Carmen waves back to her. Once she’s safely inside, he turns to you. You speak before he can.

“Listen, there’s something about being around your childhood friend, and also around your old neighbourhood, dropping her off at home like you used to in high school, that makes you completely age regress into a sixteen-year-old.”

He smiles, putting his hands up in defense. “I didn’t say shit.”

“I could feel the judgment, radiating.”

“I, I wasn’t—” He chuckles awkwardly, scratching his nose to hide his eyes. “I thought it was cool. To uh, see, a different side to—to both of you.”

“Awe.” You pull off the curb, driving off. “Wonder what you were like, as a teen.”

He laughs, “A fuckin’ loser, is what.”

“Eh, I was too.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Oh? We go to the same fuckin’ high-school, Berzatto?” You flick your gaze from the road to him for a moment. “I think I would’ve remembered.”

He rolls his eyes, though you don’t see it, back on the road. “You wouldn’t have been a loser. Not like, like me level loser, at least.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Too nice.”

“That’s true. I was an angel.” You hum. “I was well known but not popular, I tended to hang out with the more fringe people. Also, I was fucking depressed, I missed like, half my junior year with fake sick days.”

“Hm.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the head rest, tilting his vision to you. “I would’ve thought you were cool.”

“I would’ve thought you were cool, too.” You smile. “I bet we would’ve been friends.”

He just hums in reply, not confirming or denying, lost in thought. He tilts his head back to look at the road. You speak up after a moment, “Where are we headed, by the way?”

 He straightens up in his seat immediately, leaning forward. “Oh, oh right, fuck, directions—”

“That, but also like, I can drop you somewhere else— Like, not home.”

“Like?”

Like your place. “Like uh, I dunno, if you wanted to go to the hospital? If you’re like… A hospital family?”

He snorts, “A hospital family?”

“Like, for my nephew, I didn’t go to the hospital, I met him a week later. But you did already meet your niece— So maybe you get a pass?”

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re a hospital family, anymore, anyways.” Ah. The silent knowing. The glue that was there is gone. “You have a nephew?”

“Yeah, you wanna see photos?”

“Oh, uh, yeah—”

“I’m fucking with you.” You chuckle, “No one wants to see photos. But I do have a nephew.” You click your teeth. “You have now joined me at Aunt and Uncle status, people will congratulate you despite the fact that you contribute nothing to becoming one. Congratulations.”

You reach a hand out, awkwardly shaking his hand for a second before right back to the wheel. It’s hard to move one hand up and down and also drive. Carmen just shakes his head, chuckling. A win.

“We could also go shopping.” You shrug. “Buy your niece some baby shit? Or, you’re tired, so I should probably just drop you—”

“Let’s go shopping, yeah.” He’s quick to interrupt, pivoting to face you. Anything to keep the night going, with you. “If uh, if you want.”

“There’s always something I need to re-up on, I’m down.” You nod to him, more specifically, his phone in his lap. “Can you find the nearest 24/7 department store, for me?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He fiddles with his phone, getting directions, then balances it on the console so you can see. There’s a lull of comfortable silence as the adrenaline from you two delivering a fucking baby wears off. God, the trauma bond between you is as thick as a lead pipe at this point. You can’t tell if that’s a good thing. You don’t want to find out.

He’s first to break the silence. “Left up here.” Just reading you the directions, and then tacks on, as you take the left. “…Where were you, when we called?”

You groan, though smiling, “Not you fuckin’ too, Carmy!”

“I—” He laughs, disingenuous, you can tell. “I just wanna know, if, if we really did interrupt somethin’ for you.”

“You wanna know if I went on a date.” Not a question, a statement.

His mouth opens, shuts, opens. He shrugs. “A little.”

“Why, you wanna ask me out?”

What. What. What. What. Why— Where— Who—Huh? Crash the car. Why did you say that? Why would you say that? Crash the car right now. Veer into that streetlamp. Kill both of you. Instantly. Those should be your last words. Do it. Do it!

You cough, clearing your throat after a solid one second of silence— Eons too long. “I was— I was actually at work. Not lying to make you feel better. Didn't ruin shit, for me.” You’re certain you’re fumbling this, as you fake laughter at your cool joke, definitely a joke because he literally broke up with his girlfriend yesterday and that was an insane thing to say. Disrespectful, even.  

He’s silent, for a good few seconds, which again, centuries. If you were looking at him instead of the road, you’d see he looks like a deer in headlights, but like, a deer that is somewhat hoping he does get hit by that car.

“…What’s your work?” He flits between you and the GPS. “Straight through this intersection.”

“Bartender.”

“What bar?”

“You wouldn’t know it.”

“That’s why I’m asking. Take a right up here.”

You turn your head to look right, and also at him. He’s looking at you expectantly. You grimace, taking the turn. He’s not gonna let this go. “…Eden’s.”

He squints. “…Isn’t that—”

“VIP bar and club, yes.”

He backs up in his seat, thinking. Prodding at his inner cheek. “You’re a—”

“Alright, I’m a fuckin’ bottle girl, Carm!” You groan, wanting to say the realization before he could. “I do bar too— And I have been a sommelier, but yes, I am a fuckin’ ‘throw around bottles with flashlights strapped to them’ girl.”

“Turn into there, up left.” He crosses his arms, you’ve raised your voice but he hasn’t. “Is it… Good?”

You sigh, “Tips are good. And I tend to get put on bar. I’m only on-call, it’s just when they’re down someone and I’m down on services for the month.”

He nods, slow, pensive. You shrug, turning into the lot of the department store. A Target. The nice Target, too. “Gotta make rent somehow, y’know?”

He nods again, very clearly lost in thought. You park the car, in a relatively empty lot. He’s still thinking; you turn to him. “…You good, Carm?”

He turns his head up to you, at a molasses like speed. The gears are visibly turning in his head. “What if you worked at The Bear?”

“…Huh?”

“You could, you could do bar.”

“You don’t have a bar.”

“You could make drinks, in the back. We don’t have a drinks guy.”

You take a deep breath, thinking. That is really, what you want. You’d be at The Bear, every day. It’d feel like home. You’d spend time with your second family instead of an ever-turning roster of old male customers. Your coworkers at Eden aren’t bad, but you never quite clicked as family. Not like you did at The Beef. Not like you did at The Bear. You’re staring at Carmen, and his face is slowly morphing into a golden ticket.

Carmen wants you to quit. Carmen’s maybe never wished for the downfall of someone’s career more than right now. Or maybe it’s an uptick? He wants your success, really. The Bear would be an upgrade. You’d be at his restaurant, in his uniform. In the back, making drinks, where no one’s going to look at you, whistling, turning heads. You could make him lavender coffee, every morning. He could put it on the menu. You could work on a cocktail menu together. An evening coffee menu, too, maybe. He could spend the rest of his miles to send you to Paris, have you visit wineries to learn about different types of grapes and shit. He could come with you, maybe, if he got the time off. Who’s he kidding. He’ll never get the time off. But you could send him photos. An entire lifetime is rolling on in Carmen’s head, as he waits for your answer.

“You can hire me.”

There’s a wreath of grapevines, cascading over your shoulders, but then you poke his shoulder, and— “When—” they vanish. “—You can afford to.”

He squints, heart stuttering. “We-We can afford—”

“No the fuck you can’t.” You interrupt, shaking your head. “You and Syd are unpaid, right now, I’m not coming on until I see you cashing cheques.”

The coffee in his head hasn’t gone cold just yet. “But you will come work for us?”

You smile, nodding. You put your hand out for him to shake on it, he does. “You’ve got a promised bartender, Berzatto.”

He’s beaming, he’s trying to hide it, but his eyes are too bright for one in the morning. It’s impossible to not see it. But he keeps his cool persona, just nodding. “Cool. That's cool. Let’s uh, let’s—”

You smack your thigh, opening your car door. “Let’s get fucking going!”

It’s a ghost town in the store. You’re pretty sure you could rob this place blind, and not a single worker would bat an eye— If there’s even an employee here right now. You stroll through aisles relatively quickly— Carmen doesn’t have to wake up insanely early tomorrow, since The Bear doesn’t currently have a morning schedule— But he does have to get up at a decent time for Syd, who’s coming over to rework the menu.

Yeah, he took your advice. He’s working on being a better partner. He’s even grabbing ingredients that spark something in him, mumbling cooking terms you couldn’t utter back to him if you tried. It’s a stunning sight, to watch him work in this way. In his element.

Which makes him, in the Children’s Department, completely out of his element, look so much funnier.

“What the fuck do you buy a baby?” He stares down the aisle, alarmed, confused, possibly a touch scared. He turns his head to you, expectant, as though you’re a prophet who’ll save him. “What the fuck did you get your nephew?”

You shrug, counting on your hand. “A Peter Rabbit book, a teething toy that doubles as a stuffy, and a onesie—Or I think they’re called rompers? When they don’t go all the way to the feet?”

He squints, scratching behind his ear. “Do they use any of that shit, when they’re new?”

“No.” You deadpan. “But, my brother reads to him at night and baby switched from holding to teething pretty easy when the time came. Clothes are honestly the most useless. They outgrow that shit in two seconds.”

He nods, looking nowhere, thinking. “Bear and book?”

“Bear and book. Plus something for your sister.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not giving away my ideas.”

“You’re getting her something?”

“How haven’t you gotten my love language is acts of service and gifts at this point?”

“You could gift me with an idea.”

You cannot bite back the smile on your face. You shake your head and roll your eyes, walking ahead to get the bear and book. “I’m getting her a heating pad. You can get her bubble bath shit.”

The bear is cute. It’s incredibly squishable, he’s got adorable heart shaped nose and blue instead of pink on his ears. You’re holding the babe, since Carmen’s basket is full of groceries and you didn’t want to get the sweet little gentleman dirty. Carmen does not like that you keep calling the bear a sweet little gentleman. You do it more.

You offer up the Berenstain Bears for a book, he simply walks away from you. Oh, suddenly it’s bad to make this child’s life entirely bear themed? What world do we live in? You agree on Frog and Toad.

You split up for a couple minutes, he’s getting soaps on one end of the store, you’re getting a heating pad on the other. Plus the smallest bottle of bleach you can find.

It is a bizarre sight, you imagine, for the greeters watching you. Walking around, clutching a bear to your chest, holding a bottle of bleach in one hand, a boxed up electric heating pad in the other. Wearing a jean jacket that’s both a little too big for you and yet too small to button over your chest—and if they’re paying attention, underneath, a red leather corset. God, it’s one in the morning. Your makeup has probably melted off by now.

When you meet back up, he’s in the Hygiene aisle, relaxing bubble bath with Epsom salts already in his basket. Good Carm, he learns fast. Even better, he’s in the Men’s Hygiene section.

…Staring at Old Spice scents.

Your entire system completely reboots for no good reason. You blue screen mid-step. Thank God, his back is to you, so he doesn’t catch this. You sidle up next to him, coolly, squatting down to look at the scents on the bottom shelf.

“Every lesbian I know uses Wolfthorn.”

He turns his head to look down at you, flattening his lips in a line to not laugh. “You want me to smell like a lesbian?”

You tilt your head to look up at him, shrugging. “You currently smell like a bisexual.”

He still smells like you. Well, mostly he smells like seared meat and fish, but underneath that, he smells like your soap and shampoo.

He snorts, taken aback slightly by the subtle come out, covering the bottom half of his face with his free hand.

“You should get the fuckin…” You stand, finger waving over the bottles looking for the right one. “The relaxing one. Get all the advantages you can.”

He hums, “You like lavender?”

“In doses.” You shrug, swallowing. He thinks you’re intimidating? You feel like you’re under a microscope, the way he looks to you. “I get a headache, when it’s too strong.”

He nods, grabs the Bearglove scented one, and starts walking. Not letting you question the choice. You hurriedly follow after, heading to the self-check-out with him. He walks and talks. “What’s with the bleach?”

You stare at him for a long while, squinting. He stops walking to face you. “What?”

“I’m debating whether or not I tell you.”

“Are you gonna poison me?”

You click your teeth and snap your fingers, ‘awe shucks’. “You’ve foiled my plan.”

He smiles, but looks at you expectantly. You shrug, you must acquiesce. “It’s for your present.”

“You said you hate the painting in The Bear, so I’m making you a new one.”

It’s his turn to blue screen. You add, “If you end up hating it, you don’t have to put it up, but I wanted to take a shot at making a piece that’s you, like you wanted.”

All he can bring himself to do is nod, because if he doesn’t, he’ll spill his guts in the middle of this Target.  “I’ll hold off on getting a new one, then.”

He taps his card before you can, when you use self-checkout. He shrugs when you grumble about this. “I owe you gas money.”

“You did not owe me thirty dollars of gas money.”

“Then I’ve got credit in advance.”

It’s half past one in the morning, when you park in front of his place. Two nights in a row, this is gonna fuck with your schedule… Eh, when did you ever really have a schedule?

“Thank you.” He turns to you with a striking certainty, swallowing. “Like. For everything. I think I could’ve died every single day for the past few days, if you weren’t there.”

When you open your mouth to brush off the thank you, because he knows you’ll brush off the thank you, he hovers a finger in front of your face, shushing you. “Don’t give me that ‘no big deal’ shit, neither. It’s been a big fuckin’ deal to me.”

You sigh, nodding, you take his hand where it hangs in the air, bringing it down. You’re still holding it. You’re hoping he forgets that you are. He absolutely won't. “…I just don’t like it when people feel like they owe me. Other than, y’know, doing actual handyman shit for money.”

He nods, “I don’t feel like I owe you. I want to pay it back.”

You shrug, “You’ve fed me every day. So, that’s kind of a huge return.”

“You delivered a baby.”

“Listen, I’m just trying to make you feel better.” You lift your hands in defense, letting go of his hand. You regret it. “I’m very cool, we know.”

“You are.” He chuckles, but his words are sincere. Why is he looking at you so hard?

“What?” You cross your arms, looking back at him.

“You delivered a baby.” He repeats, wonderment in his voice.

You nod. “Not the first time. Which is lucky, not every paramedic has experienced a code O-B. I don’t wanna give you an unrealistic expectation.”

“How was that?”

“The code O-B?”

He tilts his head back and forth, ‘kinda’. “Being a paramedic.”

“Hard.” You nod, straightening up. “Hard. Went to school for two years, straight out of high school. Spent three years as a first responder. It was… Fucked. I cut like...”

You chuckle when you say it, shaking your head, but the feeling isn’t amusement, “Everyone out of my life. Not on purpose, just by design. The hours are insane, obviously, and my co-workers… Like, you expect to be the youngest in the room, and so, when you’re surrounded by kids your age, breaking some grandma’s ribs, doing C-P-R in the back of a shrieking, speeding truck…” You trail off, looking down.

“It’s uh… It was tough, yeah.” You sniff, not crying, just filling silence, looking back up at him.

He nods, “…That sounds pretty fuckin’ tough, yeah.” He’s thankful that you gift him with a laugh, however dry. “And you just switched to, to handiwork?”

You shrug, so-so. “I would’ve kept doing it, is the thing. Which is kinda scary to say. But, basically— In the free time I did have, my dad, who owned Chicago’s Kindest, would ask me to come fix shit with him— Which, would seem tiring, but he really just made me hold a flashlight and hand him shit, most of the time. It was more like… His dad way of asking to hang out.”

“And uh, it’s a old family business, right. He’s been doin’ that shit since I was born. And uh, when he started—” You flex your hands and fingers, cracking them, staring at them. “Gettin’ arthritis and all the other fun old people weaknesses, I started working and he started holding the flashlight… It was kind of a no brainer, when he told me he had to retire. To make the switch, I mean.”

You click your teeth, looking back up at him after a moment, “Sorry, I’m fuckin’ talking too much—” “No, no.”

“I— I, It’s good when you talk too much.” You do not notice the way his jaw grinds, for just a second. Cursing himself out in his head for bowing out at the last minute there.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You lean your arm on the shoulder of your seat, then your head against your arm. “Yeah, good bedtime story, at least.” You check the time on your phone. Almost two. “You’ve gotta fuckin’ go to bed. You’re probably gonna need to meet with Uncle J, anyways.”

“…Oh fuck.” He rubs his hand over his face when he realizes.

You continue, nodding, cringing for him. “Maternity leave, catering gig— You’re in for a fuckin’ day tomorrow, Berzatto. Need your beauty sleep.”

He swallows, nodding repeatedly, head in hands. “Yeah, yeah, I do.” He laughs, halfheartedly. “Thank you. Uh, for all the shit, again, and the ride. And the detour.”

You shrug, “Welcome. More fun with you, anyways.”

He nods, eyes going from straight at you to literally anywhere else. He fiddles with the door handle for a moment, though he’s turned towards you, not the door. It looks like he’s having a wrestling contest with his own brain. You’re not sure who, but someone wins. “I, I uh, do want to, by the way.”

You furrow your brows, a little worried, honestly. “Want to do what?”

“Ask you out.”

…

It’s sort of like, all the facilities of your stupid brain shut off. You think the teenager tripped over an important wire and every thought and ability to contextualize feelings has left. The same has happened to him, of course, and now it just comes down to both of your now palaeolithic brains to rapid fire responses to each other.

He adds, “Not right now, but, eventually. After, y'know, we— we know each other better.”

You nod. He continues, rambling. “And I’ve— I can’t split my time, right now. I’ve gotta-gotta focus on The Bear, right now, and- and Syd, right now.”

“That should be priority, yeah.”

“—I’m not expecting you to wait—Or-Or even say—.”

“I will.”

It’s his turn to go mum. You play with the stray baby hairs on the back of your neck, explaining.

“The timing right now, like, could not be worse for you.”

“Right.”

“You just started a new business,” “—Yeah—” “That you’re 800k in the hole for,” “—A little less—” “You just went through a break up.”

“Not a rebound.” He’s quick to assure, with a certainty. “If that’s—If that’s a concern.”

You smile, shaking your head, “Not a concern for me, concerned for you. I just wanted to agree with you, that the time for it isn’t right now.”

He laughs, softly, through an exhale. “You don’t wanna convince me otherwise?”

You laugh, shaking your head. You straighten up, putting your hands down. You feel bolder. He’s sort of asked you out, he’s called you pretty, he smells like you, you’re wearing his jacket, he’s staring at your mouth. No risky half-joke is gonna get rid of you now. Probably.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, just so you’ll fuck me, Carm.”

It’s like, a sleeper agent activates, in his brain. Like you’ve done the fucking Konami code. He goes from nerve wracked to nerve wracking. Reaching over the console, fast, hand on the back of your head, pulling you while also meeting you in the middle— And he’s about to go for it, not give you a second to reject him, before he thinks better. Well, kind of.

Holding you there, “I’m going to kiss you.” It’s not posed as a question, but it’s functioning as one.

You stare, wide eyed, taking in his features. Taking in his already waning confidence. “…Sure.”

And he does. And he’s realizing, as he pushes you towards him, pressing his mouth to yours, that this is so so so different, from Claire. You are not going to distract him— In a good way. You wouldn’t let him. You’re prioritizing him, even when that means you need to wait on him. You want to know him, first. He wants to know you. You were being funny, sure, when you said you wouldn’t lie to fuck him— But God, think of how much that means. He sure is. And now, that he knows you have so much respect for his work, his mind, his body, and are happy to just get to know him as a friend first—to give him the space and time he needs— He immediately wishes he'd never asked for said space.

He's holding your head to him, unyielding—Unless you signalled otherwise, but you haven’t yet. At the same time, he’s also pushing your shoulder back, pushing you back, leaning over the center console. He's realizing he's never really gotten the idea of wanting to give oneself and take another. He’s taking in everything, taking everything you’re willing to give.

He knows your conviction well enough, at this point, when it comes to others. He’s asked for time, and that essentially means, the second he stops, he’s going to be locked off from doing this again. He has to give everything—then take everything he can. Ration it out, over weeks. God, what if it’s months? You wouldn’t hold this from him for months, surely?

You tap his neck, gently, and he swears he hears— Feels a gasp. A moan? Don’t think about it. He pulls away, just a few centimetres. He smells like you. He still smells like you. Staring. Soft, scary, eye contact. It’s two in the morning, your makeup has melted, your lip gloss has evaporated, but it doesn’t look like it. No. They’re perfectly wet, blush pink bottom lip. Don’t think about it. He thinks about it; he doesn’t think about his next sentence. You speak at the same time, and for the first time, don’t say the same thing.

“Do you wanna come up?”

“You’ve gotta go, Carmy.”

He shakes his head; you can’t be serious. You’re so sweet, and now you’d be so cruel? You laugh at him, incredulous. He swallows, correcting himself, “Come up and—And sleepover, just that. Make you breakfast, again.” He kisses you, again, selfish. He knows that. He’s at peace with it.

“Carmy,” Good start, that deserves a kiss. “—as much as I’d love to see your apartment—”

“You’d hate it.” He cuts you off, God, it looks like you’re gonna keep talking, and he’s going to have to respect that. He switches to your jawline. “I don’t have a bookshelf.”

“You— Hold on, you don’t have a bookshelf, Carmen?”

“Don’t say my name like that.”

“Don’t bite! How many books do you have?”

“Ninety-one. Cookbooks. I narrowed down for the move.”

“Where do you— Christ— Keep ninety-one books?”

“Floor.”

“Floor?!”

“I told you you’d hate it.”

“I don’t hate it, I just— You deserve to have nice things.”

He pulls back again, staring at you, practically wheezing he’s breathing so heavy. He thinks on it for a second, this time. He wants nice things, too. You make him believe he deserves nice things. You're why he took a chance, took a risk, and told you he wanted to see if more could happen. He believes he deserves nice things. Nice you.“Come up.”

This motherfucker is evil, you think. He’s asked you to hold a conviction, asked you to hold a level of patience, for him. And you’re trying so hard to hold that conviction— While he’s actively trying to make you break it the second he’s decreed it. You’re hanging by a thread here. You cradle his face in both hands, kissing him on your own accord, this time. He takes this as meaning he’s supposed to go insane again. You laugh, and that makes it hard for him to not laugh too, which makes it hard to kiss you.

“Carmy.” You hold him back by his shoulders, just slightly. Giggling. You’re smiling, he can get you to fold, if he puts his mind to it. “You’ve got Syd coming over in the morning, all week—”

“Not until noon.”

“Baby, not the point.” Oh, pet names. Good. You called him Sweetheart when he was locked in the freezer, and that was all his brain had to work with until now. God, why did he say he wanted to get to know you first? You can do two things at the same time. You're multi-faceted.

“The sooner—” You wheeze, looking at him, he looks insane. “The sooner you go get sleep, the sooner the morning will come, the week will go by, you’ll start being able to pay yourself, soon enough. I’ll become your barback, you’ll be able to take time for yourself, and you’ll ask me out.”

He stares at you, thinking. “…I don’t think it’d go any faster—” “Carmen!” You squeeze his face with one hand. “Bedtime!”

He nods, finally, escaping his fugue state. “Okay.” He reaches into the back to grab his grocery bags. Christ, don’t look at the midriff, motherfucker, lock in! Lock it in!

You start to peel off his jean jacket to return it, he’s quick to stop you.

“Keep it. Wear it to work. Til you quit.” He looks at you, considering something once again, groceries in hand. “…Wear this too.”

After he finally gets out, and you wave to him from your window, waiting for him to get inside safely. You drive off, heading home. You take a long fucking breath. Slowly, your motor skills and cognitive abilities return to you.

You take one hand off the steering wheel, fishing out your rope chord necklace from your pocket. You rub your thumb over the plastic pendant, a year-old self-soothing method, by now.

You think about something Mikey said off-handedly, quite often, you squint, staring at the road ahead, perplexed, driving home with the first hickey you’ve had in a minute. You shout out in your car, pleading for an answer from beyond the grave here.

“Mikey, are you sure he’s a virgin?!”

Before we even, start here-- Number one, I'm sure you've forgotten at this point, but I will eat that lightbulb, motherfucker-- I just wrote 8k, I need my k of thoughts in return!! What'd you like! What stuck out to you! Favourite lines/moments!

What even happened in this chapter, deadass, I can't remember it all. Let's try to summarize.

Birth (woah!)

Mikey talks, a lil more of their friendship revealed, cute

Syd and Tony being cute as hell. Speaking of, I'm Desi, so I write Tony like a WOC-- I don't think it makes a huge difference to their dynamic, but I felt like noting it. Oh, Tony's gift!! Collar pins!!

Jacket exchange program, fr.

We would've been friends in highschool.

Why!!! You wanna ask me out!!!??? (crashes car)

Haha, what if you worked for me? (imagines a full perfect life together) I'm so normal.

(buys the brand of body wash you like) (specifically doesn't get the one that could give you a headache after a prolonged period of time) (even if it's the relaxing one) This is what normal people do.

Paramedic/Chicago's Kindest backstory!

(pseudo) ASKS OUT!! TENATIVELY!! REALLY JUST GOT SO FUCKING SCARED BY THE IDEA OF YOU GOING ON A DATE WITH SOMEONE TONIGHT THAT HE HAD TO TAKE THE PLUNGE.

kith.

That was the coin flip, btw. Hehehe. Heads he goes full smooch, Tails you go 'alright, sick, see u later', and he leaves. I could see it going either way. Carmen's a reserved guy. I knew I was going to make him state his interest, because I wanted to try out a lil something new. In the past, I've had the climax of a romance be 'omg we like each other how nice', and I wanted to try out the idea of these two knowing they like each other, and basically trying to maintain that. Thought it'd be fun.

Oh, this one's serious. I gotta know-- Good kiss? God I feel like someone's first boyfriend. I do not write sequences of intimacy. I go 'they fucking kiss, hurray, next scene'. And so, I really gave it my all here. I hope it turned out. I think Carm and Tony had so much tension piled on top of so much trauma that it simply couldn't have not been so feral.

Anyways, I expect an essay on my desk tomorrow. Thesis statements with supporting evidence, motherfucker. I love u. I hope u liked it <3

I start my job next week so I'm trying to write as much as possible before then, lmao.

Next Part

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — AIZAWA X READER

“I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.” 

You sit up on the couch and level your sulkiest pout at him. “No, seriously!” 

“If you were serious, I doubt you would be getting up,” he says dryly. He’s completely unsympathetic as he continues mopping the floor. 

“I’m dying and you don’t care about me,” you whimper. “I’m going to die all alone! And miserable! And unloved!”

Aizawa sighs. Scrubs the palm of his hand over his closed eyes. Shoves his hands through his hair. You feel the tiniest hint of guilt creep in. 

He drops his mop and walks over to you. For a second, you think he’s going to scold you. You know you’re being bratty. Aizawa’s had a long, tough day of being a pro-hero, and now he has to come back to babysit your spoiled ass? 

“Hey,” he murmurs, slipping his fingers under your chin so he can tilt your gaze up towards him. “Don’t do that.” 

“Don’t be mad,” you whisper, burying your face into his stomach. The cool cloth of his black silk pajamas feels nice against your overheated face. You really do feel awful. 

“I’m not mad,” he says. 

“Good. Cause you’ll regret this when your wife is cold in her grave and you’ll have to reflect on-“ 

“What brought this on?” He’s carding his fingers through your hair as you hide your face against him. It feels nice, having him comfort you. 

You could never lie to him. 

“I’m scared,” you sniffle, half genuine emotion, half illness. 

“It’s just a fever, baby,” he says. “Want me to take you to the hospital again? We can double check.” 

“No,” your voice cracks in sync with the plummet of your stomach. To your embarrassment, tears are leaking out of the corners of your eyes. “I was worried about you.” 

He waits patiently, still stroking your hair. 

While you had gotten your diagnosis, Aizawa had thought it might be a good idea to get his check up too. He was efficient like that, always the cool, level headed one in your little duo. 

“I saw your medical history. You have so many close calls, Shouta. So many times you could’ve died for real.” 

Aizawa pushes you down on the couch and tucks you back under the covers. He strokes your sweaty hair off your head, thankfully regretfully. He’s always tried to hide the intensity of his second life from you. There was no reason for you to have to face the brutality he did. It satisfied something in him to be able to protect you, even from a part of himself. But looking at the sparkling ring on your finger, he knows that it’s all about to end soon. 

Being a hero is as much a part of him as being your Shouta is. He won’t be the kind of fiancée who hurts you by locking himself away, even the aspects of him he wants to keep from you. He knows better, even if he likes seeing you as his refuge from hero life. At the very least, all he can do is try to ease the hurt. 

He lifts your ringed hand and presses a kiss to the stone you picked out together. “I’ll be careful. I promise not to worry you.” 

[glossysoap]

ready to comply - prologue

warnings: canon typical violence, injuries, weapons, switching povs between your thoughts and the boys’ thoughts. appearance of a major marvel character, you’ll know when you read it.

note: russian will be written in bolded italics. eng translation for russian sentences will be written in non bolded italics directly after said russian sentence. simon/johnny will be used interchangeably with ghost/soap.

inclusivity note: no mention of flushing or hair type. the woman can drag you/lift you because she has super serum, so you can imagine any body type for the reader.

up to date masterlist here!

ex: пример. example.

word count: 3,092

The 141 was on a mission in Moscow, Russia in the dead of winter. The battlefield was covered in a thick blanket of snow as flurries fell from the sky.

The rest of 141 was raiding a nearby warehouse for supplies and intel while you, their head surgeon, was waiting in the medical tent with a few residents and scrub nurses to assist you in any emergency surgeries that may arise.

Betadine, rubbing alcohol, suture kits, needles, gauze pads, bandages, forceps, ambu-bags, defibrillators. Pulse oximeters, intubation kits, casts, IV bags.

You made a mental tally of all of the supplies you had as you sifted through them. Bins were arranged on a large folding table in the middle of the tent, every bin allocated to each type of item. All suture kits in one bin, all gauze pads in another, and so on. You prided yourself in having an efficient, organized system that made triaging simple and less overwhelming.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when a sharp gust of wind blew into the tent.

Your arms and back prickled with goosebumps as a shiver racked through your body at the sudden temperature change. You thought you had bundled up appropriately for the weather but the task force wasn’t expecting such a harsh blizzard.

You turned to look at who unzipped the tent to see Johnny bustling in, dragging Simon behind him. A grin pulled at your lips at the sight of your two best friends.

Both of them were covered in snow, down to their clothes and tactical gear. Johnny's usually tan cheeks were flushed pink from the biting cold and his mohawk was dusted with snowflakes. You’d bet that if Simon didn’t have his mask on, his face would probably be red too.

“What brings you in, boys?” You ask, eyes surveying both of their forms for injuries. As they bounded to the beds closest to you, you could see crimson staining Johnny's shoulder and Simon's wrist.

“Got some grazes-” “Dinnae fash about it, Doc!” Johnny interrupts Simon with a cheeky smile, sending you a wink with his baby blues.

“English, Mactavish.” Simon grunted, yet not sounding the slightest bit bothered. You and Simon shared a look before rolling your eyes at Johnny's antics.

“Don’t worry about it, Doc.” The corners of your lips quirked up in an amused grin at the Scots’ translation.

“Yeah? I’ll be the judge of that. Sit, you two.” You ordered, nodding to some medical beds.

They chose to sit on the same bed you were standing in front of, one of them sitting on either side of you. Caging you in between their two big, broad forms. Johnny was sitting to your right and Simon to your left, both of them already removing a layer of gear for you to be able to patch them up.

When the two men were so close to you, you were suddenly reminded of their broad shoulders and towering height. They weren’t that much shorter than you even as they sat down on the bed.

You tried to ignore the way Simon's hand brushed your left arm and Soap’s hand grazed your right arm. You also tried to ignore the warmth that bubbled in your stomach and how your heart fluttered at even the smallest amount of contact from them.

Sometimes you found yourself forgetting that Simon and Johnny were already together because of all the attention and affection they give you. Inevitably though, a pit opens back up in the bottom of your stomach when you catch them looking at each other with that look that they reserved for the other man.

As you began treating their injuries, their touching only escalated. When you were treating Simon's injury, he had taken to holding your left forearm and rubbing slow circles into your skin as you patched his injury up with your other hand.

Johnny wasn’t much better, ever the overly affectionate one. You needed to be closer to Johnny due to the location of his injury so you leaned a bit closer to him. You let out a surprised yelp as the Scot pulled you in even closer so you were almost sitting in his lap — and you could’ve sworn that sparing a glance down at his thick thighs for a split second gave you heart palpitations.

If that wasn’t bad enough, his warm hand rested on the small of your back to keep you close and secure in his grip. Like Simon, he was also tracing small circles with his thumb. After testing the waters, Johnny began to slip his hand up the back of your top, resting it on the small of your back again — this time against your bare skin. You knew he ran hot but you never felt it so up close and personal. The almost burning warmth of his palm against your skin was a pleasant contrast from the freezing cold.

Your heartbeat was thrumming in your ears at the feeling of Johnny's rough, callused yet gentle hands. As he put more pressure on the small of your back to pull you closer, a tingle ran down your spine. You gulped.

This entire time that you were stitching up Johnny's grazed shoulder, you could feel his cerulean eyes burning into you. Searching your face for any reaction, committing every detail to memory — down to your long lashes fluttering against your cheek when you blinked and how you took your bottom lip between your teeth when you were concentrating.

You could feel Simon's honeyed brown eyes on you but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from Johnny's wound to see for yourself.

Simon's intense eyes were drinking you in. Every fucking inch he could get his eyes on. Starting at your nimble, working fingers stitching up his lover’s shoulder with such care and attention. Then going to your bare, exposed neck that was on full display given that your hair was put up and out of your face. As he stared at the expanse of your neck and the throbbing pulse point at your jugular, it took all of his strength not to jump up from the bed right then and there and claim you. He could only picture your neck littered with teeth mark indentations, the exact same way Johnny's back is.

Meanwhile, every single lingering touch and burning gaze only made you more conflicted. Every single touch made the pit in the bottom of your stomach worsen. You could only relish in their kindness and casual touches for so long before it chipped away at you. It’s not even that you were jealous of either of them, far from it. They deserved each other. They completed each other. You just wanted to be let out of it, to be spared from all the attention.

Suddenly, two of your residents peeked their heads into the medical tent to yell for you. “Doc, you’re needed out here!” You let out a sigh of relief at the much needed opportunity to get away from the two brute men.

Sparing a brief glance at the men, you handed them off to another doctor that could handle the rest, “He’ll take care of you two from here.”

As you walked to hand the other doctor their medical files, you didn’t see Soap’s longing glance your direction and the way Ghost’s hand was still reaching towards where you were a moment ago. Reaching to keep you there.

You clapped the doctor on the shoulder as you jogged past him and out of the medical tent. Immediately you felt a weight lift off your shoulders as you left the tent, escaping from the empty touches that left your heart aching for more. Aching for what you knew would never happen — could never happen.

“What do we got?” You asked, looking at your residents as you pulled new medical gloves on. When you started preparing for a new patient, you felt any previous thoughts melting away, being replaced by the familiar adrenaline high of surgery.

“Caucasian female, approximately early to mid thirties. Suspected pneumonia. Possible internal bleeding, possible concussion and ruptured right eardrum, along with some gashes on her arms.” One of your residents began listing symptoms while you made your way to the patient.

You grimaced as they spoke, already imagining what the patient must look like in that condition.

You and your residents arrived at the patients gurney where the woman laid, holding her bloody abdomen. She was supervised by two nurses that helped to keep her stable until you got there.

Your eyes scanned her shaking form, looking for any other injuries. Her emerald eyes were wide and glossy with tears, there were tear streaks running down her cheeks as well. Her lips were plump and red, the bottom lip was almost split from her biting it to try and stifle the pain. Her hair was vibrant red, thankfully not from any blood, and it flowed in messy waves down past her shoulders. She writhed and thrashed with every wave of pain that washed over her, her hands clawing into the sheet of the gurney. You could hear her teeth chattering from how cold she was as well.

“She’s been nonverbal so far and we suspect she can’t speak English. If she’s a civilian, she’ll be a native Russian speaker.” A nurse informed you.

You nodded to yourself, a beat passing as you evaluated the situation at hand.

You pulled out your tablet and searched for Russian translations, only coming up with the bare minimum phrases for the Russian language. Pursing your lips, you decided that while it wasn’t the best or most detailed, it would have to do.

Turning towards the patient again, you grabbed her hand with both of yours and squeezed it gently.

“Мне нужно осмотреть вас на наличие травм.” I need to examine you for injuries. You told her, trying your best to pronounce everything accurately.

“Все в порядке?” Is that alright? You asked, trying to make her comfortable by asking for her consent before touching her.

She nodded rapidly, eyes squeezed shut.

Immediately you and your team started triaging. One resident began a neurological exam, another administered more IV medications, and you began examining her abdomen, feeling for broken ribs and inflamed tissue. Using your stethoscope, you checked her breath sounds and heart rate. Clear and steady.

After clearing her of any cardiac injuries, you grabbed some warmed blankets and wrapped them around her, taking care as to not press hard on any injuries. She exhaled in relief at the slightest bit of warmth.

You and another resident then worked on patching up the wounds on her arms, starting by cleansing the wounds and dressing them with gauze pads and bandage wrapping.

You moved on to join your neurological resident with their examination. Her pupils were reactive but one was slightly dilated more than the other. Her head was throbbing and she was experiencing tinnitus in one ear, and the other ear had a busted eardrum. Another concerning sign was her feeling of nausea. Due to being out in the field, there was no way to tell if it was due to a brain bleed or if it was from trauma of all of the injuries.

You shared a knowing look with your team; you all knew how fatal a brain bleed could become. You all knew how quickly a patient could deteriorate if a brain bleed isn’t diagnosed quick enough.

She needed to be moved to a warm, well stocked hospital with the means to diagnose and treat her.

You made a judgement call and reached for your radio attached to your scrub top, pressing the audio button to call Captain Price.

“Captain, this is Doc. I need an emergency med-evac, ASAP!” You shouted into your radio, making sure Price could hear you over the howling wind.

“Copy that, Doc. Exfil will be there shortly!”

Your team immediately started heading for the helipad, wheeling her gurney and bringing all of the same medical supplies she needed. You wrapped some more warmed blankets over her as you waited for the med-evac.

As the helicopter approached the helipad, the already blistering wind became even colder. Once the helicopter landed, your team lifted up her gurney and wheeled it into the helicopter.

You gathered your duffel bag of supplies and said goodbye to the rest your team before climbing into the helicopter. As you were clipping your seatbelt on, the pilot leaned his head back to introduce himself.

“You’re the 141’s surgeon, I presume? Nikolai at your service.” His voice was muffled by the whirring of the helicopter blades but you could still make it out.

“Yeah, Captain Price talks about you a lot! It’s nice to have a friend in high places.” You grinned as you reached to close the helicopter doors.

He threw a salute back to you before preparing to lift off the helipad. The helicopter began shaking from the turbulence, making you grip the armrest tighter.

A whimper from the injured woman brought you out of your conversation, making you look down at her. The shaking had jostled her awake and pulled a cry of pain deep from her chest when her body shifted even the slightest bit. The movement made the throbbing in her head worsen too.

You reached down to hold her hand in sympathy, looking down at the redhead with furrowed brows and a sad smile on your lips.

Her eyes opened after a moment, immediately finding yours. Something was different about her gaze but you couldn’t put your finger on it. Something was.. off.

Suddenly she sat up and yanked your arm to pull you closer, making your eyes widen at her newfound strength. Something glinted in your periphery before she whispered in your ear, “Мне жаль. Я бы хотел, чтобы мне не пришлось этого делать.” I am sorry. I wish I didn’t have to do this.

Before you could process what she said, let alone translate it, she twisted your left arm into an impossible angle until you heard a crack. You cried out in pain and shock. Your arm fell limp at your side and pain radiated from your shoulder down to the tips of your fingers.

That pain was nothing compared to having a knife plunged into your chest right between your rib cage and into your sternum.

Pain bloomed in your chest, and you let out a bloodcurdling scream. Your shaky breaths came out in huffs as you looked down to your stomach, seeing a knife sticking out of your abdomen. Blood was seeping through your gear, crimson quickly staining the white fabric.

The woman yanked the knife out with a twist causing you to wail in agony. Once the knife was pulled, there was nothing to stop you from bleeding out in the middle of that helicopter. With a shaky hand, you reached into your duffel bag and retrieve some gauze pads. You carefully stuffed them against the wound before zipping up your tactical jacket to hold the gauze in place.

Every inhale you took felt like you were getting stabbed all over again, and every exhale you took sounded like a labored wheeze.

Nikolai turned to look back at you after you screamed, letting out a string of curses into his comms. He leaned out of his seat to get a closer look at you, giving the woman the perfect shot to throw that same knife and hit him square in the chest.

Your eyes widened in panic as you realized that she had just killed Nikolai, the Captain's close friend and the pilot of the damn helicopter.

She jumped out of the gurney and grabbed a parachute that was laying next to you before putting it on. Once she secured it, she pulled you up from your seat by your arms and used rappelling rope to tie you to her.

Throughout all of this, blood loss was taking a toll on you. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears and your head was spinning from dizziness. Your limbs felt heavy and sluggish, so when you tried to escape her hold, it was useless. Almost laughable.

She then slid open the helicopter door and wrapped her arms around you from behind. Black dots began flooding your vision as you started to feel faint.

Before you could process anything, she jumped out of the falling helicopter with you in her arms. Both of you were rapidly descending to the dark, choppy ocean. She reached around and pulled the pin from the parachute, releasing the canopy. Once the canopy got caught on the billowing wind, your descent to the water below slowed down.

You inhaled a deep breath and held it.

When the two of you hit the freezing water, the currents immediately pulled you under the surface of the waves. Your left arm was definitely dislocated and you wouldn’t be surprised if something was broken as well. You tried using your right arm to push yourself up towards the surface.

Your lungs burned with every second that you fought to hold your breath. Your chest felt crushed and your throat felt like it was wrapped in barbed wire. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, thump, thump, thump.

You thrashed, trying to find something, anything to find purchase on. Anything that could act as a float while you caught your breath. No luck.

With every passing moment, your willpower dwindled and you soon found yourself giving in to the urge to breathe. Just as you were about to take a breath, you felt yourself get pulled from the water.

The second your head came above the surface, you gasped for air. You took deep, desperate breaths until your lungs weren’t on fire anymore. Until you could feel the barbed wire wrapped around your throat loosen.

You looked up to see who was pulling you out of the water and to the shore, only to see the same red hair from the woman that attacked you in the helicopter. You didn’t have the energy to fight anymore, and you knew that you would probably bleed out soon anyways. You relented, letting your body go limp as she dragged you to land.

Blackness flooded your vision until your heavy eyelids finally dropped, giving into the heavy exhaustion.

The last thing you heard before losing consciousness was the woman speaking in quiet Russian. “цель успешно захвачена. мы прибудем в ближайшее время.” Target captured successfully. We will arrive shortly.

next chapter

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[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.03 ~ ♆

“ Let the 67th Annual Hunger Games begin, “

{{ finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, etc

{{ word count }} 4.5 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} The tribute Parade comes and goes as training begins and the next two weeks all but fly past. Then after an intrusive interview the day of the Games arrives.

{{ a/n }} Super quick “highlights” up ahead !! This chapter jumps around a bit and is much faster paced than normal but i swear it makes sense in the long run I just didn’t want to bore you all with regurgitated details to be revealed later on. enjoy!!

You didn’t see Finnick again.

Not even after arriving in the Capital on the train platform. A small piece of you had started to regret your outburst, but a bigger part was too stubborn to admit that. Besides, the likelihood of you seeing the boy again was slim. Thatcher was right in saying you’d be “whisked away” because everything moved incredibly fast from then on.

Your transport to the Tribute Center was quick and efficient. You were barely able to settle before a prep team all but kidnapped you and whisked you away once more to the Remake Center to prepare for the parade and opening ceremonies of the Games.

The prep team’s techniques were invasive, to say the least. Almost every inch of your skin was examined, prodded at, scrubbed, washed, plucked, waxed, moisturized, and polished when they finished the lengthy cleaning process. Even The dried blood under your fingernails had been picked away. As more time passed, the more you really did start to feel like some kind of show animal or “prize-winning salmon” leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

Managing a weak thanks as you’re handed a flimsy gown to cover up with, your prep team gives a nod before leaving. That too-clean feeling from the train ride sends pinpricks up your spine again as you sit up to slide the gown on and peer around the sleek room. It’s wide open and similar to some kind of medical bay, although much more modern than the small clinics back in District 4. Peacekeepers line the outside wall along slanted windows. There are many smothered voices behind plastic, vinyl curtains used to separate the small prep rooms down the open corridor. It’s safe to assume you’re surrounded by the other Tributes.

A stylist introduces herself to you as Hyacinth, briefly explaining the vision behind the luxurious garment as it’s pulled from a protective sleeve on the hanger in her hands. Every set of Tributes was given costumes to match their District’s core industry to wear throughout the parade. District 4’s costumes, obviously, represented their many fisheries. The garment was difficult to distinguish from any other fishing net made on your ports back home, but as the stylist began to wrap the intricate material around your exposed skin it began to look more like a costume.

You were right about the ensemble being mostly netting. Thankfully, you were provided a bodysuit that had been airbrushed to match your complexion and painted details to resemble gills across the sides of your ribs. Large iridescent blue-green fish scales had been woven in and across the netting on your chest as if splattered there, crawling up your collarbones and wrapping around your shoulders. More scales were placed down your arms towards your fingertips, and the same process was applied to your legs with a sticky substance. The bottom of the netted costume had more scales adorning the hemming, their colors changing under the lights. You were left barefoot, which you felt was a bit dangerous, but you were too focused on their intricate handiwork to object to. Your hair was left in its natural texture, although Hyacinth laid a few pieces just how she wanted them. Ear cuffs made to resemble fins wrap around the shell of your ears. Your makeup was painted on in colors to match the color-shifting scales, and your fingernails and toes were painted an ocean blue.

“You look absolutely stunning Darling,”

Hyacinth had stepped back to admire her finished product, and you couldn’t help the insecurity churning your insides. A bathing suit revealed more than a netted outfit, but you couldn’t help feeling completely exposed. “I-It is very beautiful. Thank you,” You try not to stumble on your words as you do a small twirl in the mirror. Hyacinth’s smile spreads, and she gives a giddy clap of her hands, largely appreciating the flattery.

“Wonderful Darling!! Now, come, come, we must get you downstairs. Your chariot awaits!”

You’re ushered away from the small prep room and quickly transported from the Remake Center to an open-air stadium for the Tribute Parade. Upon entering a large open hall connected to the stadium floor, you notice the twelve shiny mental chariots pulled by beautiful inky Clydesdales. The horse’s mane and tails are freshly groomed, and their coats shine in the stadium lights. You can’t help thinking what magnificent creatures they are as you approach. The other Tributes around you are resigned to themselves, talking only to their stylists or one another. Your district partner and their stylist are already beside your chariot as well. You offer a small hello but wander over to the beautiful inky-colored creatures attached to the chariot.

One of the Clydesdales gives a soft whinny as you gently reach out to stroke its mane. You’d only seen horses less than a handful of times but had always admired the strong creatures. The remaining minutes you have before the opening ceremonies begin are spent stroking the horse’s strong neck and muzzle while whispering sweet nothings to the creatures.

Once an announcement is made that the ceremony is about to begin, you give the horses a sweet smile in farewell before stepping up onto the chariot beside your District Partner. You hadn’t noticed the odd look they’d given you, but their eyes quickly averted upon you meeting their stare. That familiar anxious knot twists your insides as the gleaming chariot lurches forward to follow the procession. Your knuckles turn white from how stiff your grip on the front of the chariot is.

The parade runs smoothly, though you find the loud cheers and hollers of the hundreds of thousands gathered to watch the event extremely overwhelming. Bitterness sets in your jaw as you remember they only care about the entertainment your death will provide. Your promise echoes through your mind as you take your eyes from the grandstands to look ahead toward the President of Panem, Coriolanus Snow.

You will not die.

Training begins in the morning, bright and early. There’s officially less than two weeks before the Games. All twenty-four tributes are transported to the Training center from their quarters and dressed in nearly identical uniforms consisting of black athletic long sleeves and pants with sleek black combat boots. Burnt orange accents run up the side seams and across the shoulders of their uniforms. The only distinction between Tributes is their district number embroidered on their backs in the same burnt orange as the accents on their clothes.

You scan the large training area as everyone spreads out to show off their personal strengths. Shifting your weight between your feet, you try to focus on your brief discussion with mags over breakfast. The goal of the training is to be observed by potential sponsors who can send aid in the arena. The more sponsors you get, the better your odds of potentially surviving. Your goal wasn’t to gain as many sponsors as possible by showing off but instead focusing on honing your skills to survive without the extra gifts. With a deep inhale, you make your way to a tall rope course that stretches the expanse of the upper levels of the hall and get to work.

The first few days spent in the Training Center, you work on getting through the ropes course, then getting through the course with weights, then doing both things while being as light-footed and silent as possible. You try to distance yourself from the other tributes, especially the growing pack of careers. Your best bet is to blend in and remain invisible to keep others off your back. Tensions increase after the first week, and a fight inevitably breaks out between the careers. Two female tributes are arguing for power within the alliance, ending in the pack dividing in two. You can only hope the grudges they now carry become their downfall in the arena as you resume your knife-throwing practice.

You’re not the best, but you manage to at least hit the target a few times. By the end of the next day, you’re hitting the target, although nowhere near the center or any crucial extremities on the human cutout. It would be enough to slow an opponent but nothing lethal at long range. You tried to push away the bile that threatened to rise in your throat whenever you remembered the high possibility of actually facing another human being with these knives. You hoped it wouldn’t come down to that, but your rationale knew better. The claim you spat in that bronze-haired boy’s face rang in your ears.

“I’d rather choose death than a life with blood on my hands.”

You scrape by with a score of six during the private Tribute Showcase, nimbly traversing the ropes course with a heavy weight on your back with barely a sound. Your goal of staying under the radar had worked.

Tonight, Hyacinth was fawning over another luxurious garment designed for your impending live audience interview with the ever-charismatic and flamboyant Caesar Flickerman. The stylist monologues her vision while zipping the back of the ensemble. Your costume tonight was made to represent the sea itself, a deep aquamarine bodysuit covered in various droplet crystals hugging your form, and a makeshift cape of the same deep color fades into layers of progressively lighter sea greens and blues, mimicking the sea foam of rolling waves on the coast. The many layers of the waterfall cape move in a satisfying cascade down your back to the floor, trailing behind you.

You’re given slim boots to match the bodysuit, and your hair is pinned up to showcase your bare back and the excessive cape. Ear cuffs nearly identical to the ones you wore during the parade wrap around your ears, and your makeup is honed more to accentuate your natural features than cover them. The polish on your fingernails is a muted sea green that causes a twist in your chest. The color reminds you too much of a certain bronze-haired boy.

Regret flashes through you again.

“Alright, Darling, shoulders back. Head high, you’ll be a spectacle no one will look away from,” Hyacinth coos as she brushes the fabric across your shoulders and adjusts finishing minute details. You offer a small smile with a sweet thanks before she loops your arm in hers and leads you toward the wings backstage. You really weren’t fond of the many cameras or prying eyes that awaited beyond your shadowy safe haven out of view, but you didn’t have a choice but to smile and play the part.

The male Tribute of District 3 is wrapping up their brief interview, and that anxious knot contorts harshly inside your chest. Soon, the interviewer and interviewee stand, shake hands, and the Tribute exits stage left.

“Now, Our next Tribute hails from the northern end of our beloved District 4,”

Caesar chirps through his introduction, and a nudge from behind urges you forward at the call of your name. You startle forward but manage to keep a sureness in your steps. The bright flashing lights and mechanical snaps of cameras form an overstimulating cacophony between the roar of the Capital citizens. The host of tonight’s event is adorned in sparkling silver, from the top of his slicked-back hair down to piercing eye contacts and a monochromatic tux that you could’ve sworn was closer to chrome from the gleaming shine.

You offer a wavering smile as you approach the host. Caesar Flickerman motions you to the seat beside him as he descends to the eggshell-colored swivel chair. You take your seat, adjusting the cascading cape to flow over the arm of the chair to remain because of the audience. A chorus of “ooo’s” and “ahhh’s” reverberates through the auditorium, and you can’t help the burning flush at the tips of your ears. “You look absolutely stunning tonight, my Dear,” Caesar compliments through a picture-perfect smile. You nod in thanks as he dives right into the questions.

“So, how has Capital life been treating you?”

“Uhm, it’s been very.. different, to say the least,” You stumble a bit through your response, but Caesar simply nods and leans out to the crowd with that picture-perfect smile and a laugh. “Well, what’s the most?” and a chorus of hoots and laughter rises from the audience again. Your faux smile falters, and your hands wring together in your lap anxiously. “It’s just more..extravagant than back home, is all. More colorful.” You reply shakily. The host nods in encouragement before moving on to the next question.

“Well, a little birdie whispered that a certain Sweetheart of the Capital arrived with you on the Tribute’s train. Our beloved Finnick Odair, one might say. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is there possibly a star-crossed lovers situation on our hands?”

Your blood runs cold as the phrase leaves Flickerman’s lips. He’s leaned forward, clearly on the edge of his seat, with the microphone pointed towards you, and the auditorium falls deathly silent. Your throat feels tight as all you do is stare in pure disbelief. “W-What?” You choke out, bewilderment on your face as your ears flush red from a burning embarrassment in your chest. The audience scoffs in disappointment at your response, and your confusion grows.

Caesar’s expression shifts as his smile falters, his eyes all but telling you to answer or make something up so he can move on. You stutter in reply while firmly shaking your head from side to side,

“No, no! It’s nothing like that at all. Honestly, I find him more irritating than anything. Besides, I’d never fall for a stuck-up Peacock like Finnick Odair in a thousand years!”

Your embarrassment turns into anger at the question as the audience groans in further disappointment, a few “Boos” echoing through the rafters above. However, much to your dismay, a few conspiring whispers slip through under all the noise that signifies your words weren’t taken as truth. This makes your blood simmer as Caesar barks a laugh, slapping a tanned hand on his silver knee.

“Ah hah! Well, that’s a mighty claim my dear, but I’m not so sure you’re well believed seeing that blush on your cheeks!”

Your jaw sets as you sit through two more equally ludicrous questions about your life before you exit the stage and return to your living quarters for the night. Upon returning to the Tribute Center and changing out of your ocean blue costume with the help of Hyacinth and her team, you immediately sink into the heavenly warmth of the large tub in your private washroom. However, not before receiving a thorough chew out from Thatcher over your once again “unprofessional behavior” when answering Caesar’s questions and for apparently “disrespecting” the Capital’s Darling.

Gently, you scrub yourself clean but remain in the comforting heat and steamy air till the water is frigid, trying to soak in the pleasuring warmth as long as possible while enjoying the brief privacy the washroom allows. Eventually, you drain the tub and towel yourself off, slipping into soft, lightweight bottoms, similar to the ones Finnick had thrown at you on the train, and an oversized short-sleeved tunic.

Finnick.

Unwanted pinpricks of regret stab your chest again, and a crease forms between your brows as the remembrance of the bronze-haired victor brings the interview questions surging back to the front of your mind. You grip your toothbrush tighter as you try to push away the embarrassment from earlier tonight. You didn’t know or understand how a rumor like that could even be an inkling in someone’s mind. You didn’t even see the boy at the station platform, and what business was it of a bunch of old snobby Capital Elites to reach after the love lives of children picked to slaughter one another in less than a day? Your stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought.

Once you finished preparing for sleep, you pad your way over to your bed and find a comfortable seating position before flipping through a few of the ‘sleep aids’ with a small metal remote. The floor-to-ceiling windows in your luxurious, Capital-provided, bedroom flashed between different sceneries till you landed on one of the waves crashing on a foggy shore. The muddy sand of the beach drifted under the lull of the tide. Occasionally, seagulls cawed from the clouds above.

You knew you should be doing something with your last night of so-called ‘freedom’ before the Games begin tomorrow, but all you can do is stare at the waves. You wonder how your siblings and father are faring like you have every night since your departure from District 4. You could only hope they were learning to adapt with you being gone. Trying not to spiral over your fate, you drag your hands down your face to scrub at your eyes with a heavy sigh and thick swallow.

“I can do this…”

You mutter the mantra to yourself as you internally review the strategies Mags had made you memorize. There weren’t any clues given as to what the arena entailed. Rumors had been overheard in the Training Center, but the Gamemakers never repeated an arena. There could be anything in that dome of death tomorrow. The waves continue to crash on the screen, the whistle of a breeze blowing through the tall pines just beyond the beach that helps keep you grounded.

You could do this. You had to. Your father’s only word in farewell echos like many others.

“Survive,”

The morning comes too soon. You didn’t touch much of your breakfast even though you know you need as much energy as possible. Mags gives a pointed look your way, and you begrudgingly force a few bites down. Afterward, Mags, Hyacinth, and you are escorted by peacekeepers to a flight hanger near the Tribute Center. You receive an almost bone-crushing hug from your mentor that you graciously return with equal vigor.

“Thank you, for everything”

You murmur into the older woman’s hair. You feel her tears dampen the tunic covering your shoulder. Forcing yourself to pull away and wipe the tears from the elderly woman’s face as she signs her care for you. You offer a sweet smile and other thanks before a Peacekeeper takes your arm and leads you onto a hovercraft. Hyacinth follows, and you're pushed into a seat.

“Your arm,” The Peacekeeper orders while reaching out their hand. You hesitantly reach out, and they quickly place a device with an abnormally large needle into your arm. You grimace at the sting as a trigger is tugged, and a small glowing object appears beneath your skin. Your arm is dropped, and you place two fingers lightly over the slight bump caused by the device. “Don’t touch that. It’s your tracker.” The peacekeeper remarks, and you startle, returning your hands to your lap. The flight is long, but you don’t doze off as adrenaline pumps through your core. Tucking stray flyaways behind your ears, you look across to Hyacinth, who offers a solemn smile. The hovercraft eventually lands, a group of Peacekeepers in stark white uniforms meet you, and you’re quickly led to a small room.

The room is bare bones with only a rack containing your uniform for the Games, a small desk, and an overhead lamp. Two peacekeepers stand guard outside the door, and Hyacinth helps prepare you one last time. The uniform doesn’t give much away about what to expect of the arena besides its colors. Consisting of dark brown hiking boots, slim-fitted pants with multiple pockets in burnt umber, a warm brown skin-tight tank top, and a lightweight khaki-colored windbreaker. The possibility of a dry, warm climate arose in your mind as you examined the materials of your uniform. Hyacinth gave you a sad smile as she fixed the hood of your jacket.

“Good luck my Darling, it’s been my pleasure to know you.”

The stylist’s smile is sad, tears brim her eyes, and you can’t help feeling emotional. This was it. She would be the last person you saw before the Games began. You wrap your arms around the tall woman in a hug, surprising the stylist, but she gently accepts and returns the gesture. You give her your thanks before an announcement comes through a speaker somewhere in the room that the countdown is about to begin. With a thick swallow, you step towards the glass elevator indicated to ale you up into the arena. You hesitate, a shaky inhale entering your nose before gingerly stepping onto the panel. The glass door wraps around with a slick “shink” and your whirl to face your stylist. But she’s already left the room, probably unable to watch another one of her tributes enter the thunderstorm of the Hunger Games arena.

You don’t blame her.

A moment passes before the platform you’re standing on begins to rise, and your gaze turns skyward. The light is bright, causing your sensitive eyes to squint. You take note that you’re at least in an outdoor setting. The air that kisses your skin is dry and warm as your platform fully breaches the earth into the arena. Your head swivels as you take in the surroundings as a bright yellow countdown has begun in the sky above via hologram.

The arena of the 67th games was a ravine.

Half the tributes are spread on your side of the steep, open-mouthed drop, the other twelve across the wide mouth on a parallel cliff. There are trees behind, but there are no weapons because they’re all in the center across a woven net. The footholds are wide. If you’re not careful, you’ll trip and either plummet to the rushing water miles below or succumb to a Tribute’s attacks. Weapons and supplies are placed on a tarp in the center of the woven bridge. The Cornucopia. Maybe things would be over sooner than you thought.

The countdown is halfway.

Wetting your lips, you take a glance down and fight the urge to vomit, hearing someone else already do so over the side of their podium at the descent less than a foot from the cliff edge. Layers of cliffs jut out in makeshift ladders and walkways with alcoves to possibly hide in, but you quickly realize the only source of fresh water will be the rushing river at the bottom of the ravine. Glancing back up, you quickly try to stop the blanking panic in your mind as you try to recall everything Mags had taught you. Your best bet was to run. You can use your jacket as cover and get to the bottom to hide while everyone is too busy risking the crawl to the weapons. There was bound to be edible plant life at the bottom, or worse, you hunt for something better on the way down.

Ten seconds left.

Nine,

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

One,

“Let the 67th annual Hunger Games, begin.”

A bell sounds, and all hell breaks loose. No one yells, only the fierce grunts as Tributes race for the Cornucopia. You don’t see your District Partner, but you don’t stay static long enough to see the carnage that ensues as you bolt in the opposite direction. Two other Tributes bolt after you but veer straight into the trees beyond. Your heart feels like it’ll burst from your chest as you sprint down the edge till you find a slope to take you down. Falling to a slide, you slip down to another cliff as the first canon booms.

twenty three left.

Two more canons burst through the arena as you continue your rocky descent. Children are screaming above you, and you hurl what little substance is in your stomach as a body falls in front of you with a sickening crunch. The blood splatters across your skin, and you bite back your terrified scream. You have to keep moving.

Another canon.

Twenty left.

You dare take a glance behind and luckily manage to escape unnoticed. But you don’t hold hope on that factor as loud snaps reverberate down the canyon. Someone was cutting the net to the Cornucopia. There’s more screaming as you nimbly jump from the rocky slab you stood upon down to a jutting-out cliff, narrowly avoiding a fall to your demise. A pained scream catches in your throat through gritted teeth as your shoulder makes contact and you roll across the red earth. A dampness coats your tongue with a metallic taste of copper. Blood.

Forcing yourself to stand, your knees nearly fall out from under you, but you remain upright as you take another running jump to an even lower rock platform. By now, someone shouts above the screaming, “Go that way!” and you force yourself to move faster. You don’t have time to see what the voice originating the order meant. All you know is you have to get away. You land chest first on the edge of the cliff, and the wind is knocked from your chest. Blood splatters on the gravel, projected from the cough of air escaping your lungs. It’s an effort to pull yourself back up over the edge, slipping on sliding feet for a foothold on the rock wall, but you manage. There’s the crunch of boots above, and your terror amplifies tenfold as a spear shoots past you down to the depths. “S-Shit..” you gurgle on blood as you take off running once more, choking down small gasps of air that never seem to reach your lungs.

You can’t stop.

Another canon goes off and you hear another body fall to the depths, following another grotesque crunch of bone and muscle on rock.

Nineteen left.

A metallic clatter fills the expansive cavern of the ravine, and you spare a fleeting glance above just as the netting of the Cornucopia plummets. Metal cases, weapons, backpacks, and other supplies become entangled in the tarp they had rested upon as debris falls. Cases shatter and clang on the many cliffs. You do your best to evade the sharp debris but aren’t fast enough as a blade slices across the back of your left leg. You’re brought to your knees by the searing pain but again force yourself up, barely remembering to grab the small blade and continue your descent. White hot pain shoots ribbons through your entire leg, but you keep moving, albeit slower than before. Two more canons.

Seventeen Tributes left.

Seven children already dead.

You could only hope your canon wouldn’t fire anytime soon.

Another canon, sixteen left.

You will not die.

{{ taglist }}

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Joel Miller x wife fem reader

Family Emergency

Joel rolled over in bed, the soft glow of the clock illuminating the early morning hours. His wife, Y/N, lay peacefully beside him, her steady breathing a comforting reminder of her presence. Joel closed his eyes, trying to fall back into sleep, when the phone rang abruptly, shattering the tranquility. Groggily, he answered, only to hear his father’s voice, fraught with panic and pain.

"Joel, it's Dad. I think something's wrong. My chest... it hurts."

Joel's heart skipped a beat. "Hang on, Pops. We're coming."

He hung up and turned to Y/N, gently shaking her awake. "Honey, wake up. It's Pops. He's having chest pains."

Y/N's eyes snapped open, instantly alert. Years of working as a Med Surge Nurse had trained her to switch from sleep to action in a heartbeat. She leapt out of bed, her mind already racing through the steps she needed to take. Joel dashed downstairs to start the truck, while she grabbed her stethoscope and a bag of supplies she always kept ready for emergencies.

They raced out of the house, the cool night air biting at their faces as they hurried to the truck. Joel's hands were shaking as he fumbled with the keys, the engine roaring to life. Y/N jumped in beside him, her bag clutched tightly on her lap. Joel sped down the empty streets, his worry etched deep into his furrowed brow.

"He's going to be okay," Y/N reassured him, though she couldn't hide the tension in her own voice. "We'll be there soon."

The drive seemed to stretch on forever, each minute feeling like an eternity. Joel's fingers drummed nervously on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and the clock. Finally, they pulled up in front of his father’s house, the familiar sight bringing a small measure of relief.

Y/N bolted from the truck and rushed to the front door, Joel close on her heels. She burst into the house, her voice echoing through the hallway. "Pops? Where are you?"

"In here," came a weak voice from the living room.

She found him slumped in his recliner, his face pale and sweaty. Kneeling beside him, Y/N quickly assessed his condition. "Pops, did you take your medication today? Have you checked your blood sugar?"

He shook his head weakly, his hand clutching at his chest. Y/N's eyes widened as she realized what might be happening. She pulled out her glucometer and checked his blood sugar levels. The reading was alarmingly low.

"Alright, Pops. It's just your sugar. I'm going to get you a spoonful of peanut butter and some orange juice," she said, her voice calming and professional.

Joel watched anxiously as Y/N moved with practiced efficiency, grabbing the necessary items from the kitchen. She returned to his father's side and carefully administered the peanut butter and juice, keeping a close eye on him as he slowly regained his color.

"Pops, you really scared me," Joel said, his voice choked with emotion.

His father managed a weak chuckle, the color gradually returning to his face. "I'm sorry, son. Guess I just forgot to eat something."

As his blood sugar stabilized, Y/N helped him back to bed, ensuring he was comfortable and had everything he needed within reach. She knelt beside him, her eyes filled with concern. "If you feel anything else, or if you’re unsure, call me immediately. Promise?"

He nodded gratefully, squeezing her hand. "Thank you, Y/N. You're a lifesaver."

Joel and Y/N finally made their way back home, the adrenaline of the night slowly wearing off. They climbed into bed, the first light of dawn creeping through the curtains. Joel turned to her, his eyes filled with gratitude.

"What would I do without you? Thank you for being there for my dad," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/N smiled, her hand resting gently on his cheek. "I wouldn't change it for the world.”

Joel pulled her close and said” I’m glad you did, because you’re fucking amazing at it. plus you look so hot in your scrubs.”he smirks already getting a hard on. he rubs up against his wife trying to get her in the mood

Next thing he knows he is getting smacked with a pillow she laughs and says “Go to sleep, now’s not the time” he grunted and kissed her and flipped over to hearing his wife’s silent snores “Damn that was fast.” he chuckled and slowly falls back asleep himself.

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[mychlapci]

… I like to think Sentinel would manage to condition himself completely by accident. Most of it could have been avoided by just not trying to optimize his studying time by taking his supplements at the same time. He probably started off like you said, trying to hold still as his /medical device/ expanded in his valve to connect with his gestation tank. Maybe even felt a little uncomfortable with how wet he got, feeling it pump the nutrients into him until his belly was swollen with more than just his bitlet. And of course he wouldn’t just overload himself afterwards to get rid of the charge, it’s not like he’s INTO this! That would be ridiculous. Him, a Prime and an Elite Guard, getting charged up over carrying of all things… Sentinel growing increasingly horny until just prepping the applicator has his sensitive pussy drooling, day by day subconsciously anticipating his lessons more and more as the mental link between being horny and being a good mommy strengthens. But then throw housekeeping into the mix—Sentinel Prime would never stoop so low as to be dirty, but he IS a bachelor, after all.

Maybe he sits up one day and feels a little broody, a little like nesting. Well, he’s already taking his supplements while he does his parenting classes. He might as well look up some tips on keeping things clean. Getting up from his desk afterwards, tingling with charge that he keeps denying exists as he sets about tidying up the kitchen. He needs to sanitize it after cleaning the applicator after all. Subconsciously setting his hand on his belly as he straightens up from scrubbing the floor and deciding he’s earned a reward with all this hard work. Rushes back to his berth to wring out a weak, dry overload from his limp spike, just enough to sate the urge but not to clear the charge—belly swollen with a bitlet, his valve and node are his frame’s higher priority. And maybe he adds his little rewards to the schedule, right after completing his lessons and preparing his hab for a bitlet! A hardworking Prime like Sentinel deserves a little tlc after all.

But after a few weeks, he finds himself rocking on the applicator. Grinding in his chair as his calipers cycle down and clutch at what is basically a false spike anyway… a little moan sneaking free as his last video ends with a “you’re doing a great job, carrier!” or perhaps a “you’ll be such a good mommy!” Well, it’s just more efficient to get his overload NOW rather than wait, right? A good Prime shouldn’t waste time when he could be working on other things. So he moves his daily overload to lesson time, feeling guilty and a little embarrassed… at least until his next vid brings up how an increase in libido and sensitivity are perfectly normal for carriers. Of course there’s nothing wrong with Sentinel, nothing odd here. He’s just a perfect, textbook case of a carrying mech. In fact, the neediness might even be a sign that he needs MORE supplements a day than he’s been getting. Might be time to talk to a medic.

And of course, months down the line when he’s so swollen that he can’t even SEE his array let alone play with it, he might even realize what he’s done. Well, the apron made sense when he scratched his handsome paint one too many times while cleaning the hab, but did it need to be so pretty? Did his valve need to clench when his vids praised him? Did his panels need to heat up when he cooked or cleaned or set the pump up for his poor, leaky titties? But it’s too late to turn back, too hard to untrain his reactions (especially when he can’t bring himself to want to, too used to multiple overloads daily). Too much effort when no one needs to know.

And then the bitlet finally arrives, and all Sentinel can think is that his last vid kept saying how beneficial it is for a youngling to grow up with a sibling or two… and what a perfect little mommy he is, for only doing what’s best for his little one. Well, the office hasn’t burned to the ground without him yet, now has it? Maybe he could do some paperwork from home. At least until the bitlets wean. That’s awfully young, though… maybe when they start at school.

of course it’s Sentinel’s own fault. He’s so stupid. If he hadn’t tried to optimize his study hours and transfluid implants, then he wouldn’t have ended up discovering getting this damned pregnancy fetish.

i love to imagine Sentinel realizing, despite himself, that he’s conditioned himself into associating his pregnancy with overloading and having to face the fact that he doesn’t have it in him to change it… if he even tries to clean, or watch a video or read a book about carrying he gets so unbearably horny and it’s too hard to resist. He can always reason that his frame is simply… demanding the nutrients for the bitlets, nothing more, just a basic reaction. He’s doing fine. Getting incredibly wet just while cleaning is… a side-effect he’s willing to push through. No one needs to know.

oOoh Sentinel getting himself knocked up again… that’s just exquisite. I mean, back then, it was just an accident, but this time… no, of course it was an accident. He just accidentally wrapped his legs around the designated mech and made him overload inside, he wouldn’t have done that if he’d known he was gonna end up knocked up again, surely. But it’s alright, a youngling should have a sibling. 

i am so glad that my fantasy, regarding any mech at all times, is now applicable to Sentinel. I need him visibly pregnant, swollen with his second baby, with his first one latched onto his chest as he feeds it<33

[bullet-prooflove]

headcanons 12. Grudges and vendettas (yes. yes this is just me giving you a reason to talk about how much natalie pisses him you off)

I feel like this could go on forever with Jimmy because he does not suffer fools, esp ones that fuck about with his wife.

Grudges:

Natalie – hates the fact she can’t do her job without getting overly emotionally involved often to the detriment of others. Is super pissed off when she tries to drag others into her drama, eg: Anita over Children’s Services queries, Will over the medical trial, Crockett over her feelings for Will, Jeff Clarke over her dead hubby.

Will – previous grudge – close friends now. – Absolutely hated his maverick attitude, felt like Will’s sole purpose was to make his life harder in the ED until… Those news rules got imposed preventing them from treating people who needed it, it really pissed Jimmy off that they couldn’t help people because of a financial factor. He really enjoyed Will’s creative application to the problem, also the way he handled the Matt scandal. It made him realise Will actually had the good of the patients at heart and it was more about doing what’s best for them than ego.

Anita’s mentor Danny,- if that man comes into the ED, he absolutely refuses to be the one treating him.

Social services in general for the way they treated his wife, basically using her up and spitting her out. For him it’s very much an example of how the system is completely broken.

The coffee guy from the café down the street who put his phone number on Anita’s coffee cup despite seeing the wedding ring. Jimmy will not leave a tip for this joker and will give him the most complicated order imaginable just to see him stress.

CFO of Chicago Med – He hates this guy, esp after the scrubs thing. He likes things run efficiently and that guy really fucked a lot of things up for them in terms of the supply chain and treating patients, to Jimmy that’s unacceptable. If they ever end up on the same elevator, Jimmy’s reminding him of the importance of patient care.

Connor Rhodes – mutual respect now – but at first he was pissed because Connor kept using the hybrid OR for shit it wasn’t meant to be used for and it was running up costs in the ED that Jimmy had to explain or make deficits for in the budget. When he very forcefully explained this to Connor who hadn’t realised this the two came to an agreement.

Jack Dayton – he hated 2.0 with a passion because it kept telling him what to do during surgery and despite knowing better he would argue with it. When he tried to explain the probs with this to Jack and Grace Song he was brushed off about his concerns because he know docs like Sam and Dean would go out of their way to avoid it’s backseat surgery.

Stevie Hammer – he will never forgive her for breaking Will’s heart a little. He was just starting to get back on his feet after Hannah, put himself out there a little and then she went back to a husband who didn’t love her, because he offered her a better medical position. For Jimmy it really showed her true self.

Maggie – initially because he found her nosy, but he understands now she cares deeply for the people around her and it’s done out of love. He was very sorry to hear about her and Ben and it put the shits up him a little, because to him they were the perfect couple and he never saw the divorce coming. He’s extra attentive to his own marriage after that.

Doris – He dislikes the fact she’s really gossipy. Him and Anita once had a very heated discussion she overheard and before lunch time, multiple people had made comments about the state of his marriage, offering him advice.

[sweetnothingtm]

pretty little thing - simon “ghost” riley x reader

pairing simon riley x f!reader

word count 5.6k

content warnings nsfw, fingering, choking, blood, mentions of wounds

author note first time writing for ghost, pure appreciation and smut!

He keeps the visits between the two of you close to the chest, like a dirty little secret he can’t let go of.

The first time he saw you was against his will. It’d been a long, long, shitty day that ended with a bullet wound on his shoulder and various other cuts and gashes he attempted to tend to himself. Dirt and grime covered his gear, he smelled of tobacco and sweat, and blood continued to pour out of his wound. He’d ended up washing the jacket four times, but there was still a dark stain there now.

Soap is the one who leads him to the small infirmary. Located in the back of the facility and surprisingly unguarded, the medical unit consisted of a few offices and two larger exam rooms. Ghost isn’t thrilled to be there. He’d rather bleed, but Soap had recommended you for your efficiency and no questions asked policy. So - Ghost conceded, already exhausted from the mission and knowing he wouldn’t clean the wound himself until at least tomorrow morning.

He’s glad he didn’t fight him on it.

You were wearing a loose bun, crossed legs hidden by a pair of loose scrubs. You’re reading a book, free hand holding a pen that twists around your fingers effortlessly. When Soap enters, your eyes drag across the room to him. A smile paints your lips, and you swivel around to face him, not knowing the Lieutenant was soon to follow.

“Johnny, breaking up more dog fights are you?”

You’re teasing him. Soap laughs breathily, a hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head. “Aye, but I brought the dog this time,” he says, stepping to the side of the open door. You tilt your head slightly, closing the book and waiting expectantly.

Ghost enters begrudgingly, six foot two frame standing tall in the exam room. His eyes are trained on you, on your eyes as the recognition settles in and your shoulders straighten instinctively. You’re nervous, he can tell.

The pain in his shoulder throbs, and he has to grit his teeth to push through the pain. He hasn’t been to the infirmary in a long time, always too stubborn and prideful. If he could do it himself, why bother letting someone else do it for him? It smells like cleaning products, mixed with a bit of you. He doesn’t seem to mind it as much as he used to.

When you break his gaze, he’s almost a little disappointed. Almost, but not yet. You clear your throat, reaching for a medical mask and a pair of gloves on the table. “Lieutenant, how can I help you today?”

He glances to his shoulder silently, as if your question was a joke to him. You remembered feeling small, a little lost and trying desperately to be on your best behavior. “Handled things a bit to close to the chest, this one. Can you make it quick?” Soap asks, patting Ghost on his good shoulder. He grunts, already annoyed with the Sergeant and his antics.

You nod quickly, smoothing out the sheet on the exam bed and beginning to dig through drawers for proper equipment. You’re used to playful jokes and familiarity with your patients, but you’ve never treated the Lieutenant before. Known for his grim and silent behavior, Ghost was considered a phantom among those outside his closest circle. You’d never seen or heard him and you thought it best to stay that way. You’re a good medic, a great one even, but someone like him makes you nervous.

He’s sitting now, his eyes still trained on you and your every movement as you carefully cut the fabric of his sleeve and expose the festering wound. You’re glancing at his tattoos, eyes dancing across the ink in a way that makes his skin feel ablaze. You work diligently, brows knit in concentration. Soap is seated in the corner, legs spread out and arms crossed over his chest.

When you clean the wound, Ghost can’t help but involuntarily hiss through his teeth. You’re dabbing and wiping at the blood, tossing used products in the trash. “Clean cut through, just barely missed the bone. Lucky you,” you say to him. Soap chuckles beside Ghost, and you glance at him with a hint of amusement in your eyes.

He liked that you never needed to press about things. You were comfortable without answers, but he knew you had questions you wanted to ask. Your thumb glazes over the wounds he’d sewn shut himself, tsking softly to yourself.

“Your stitches are uneven, good for a Lieutenant, but I could do better,” you would end up saying to him.

It takes you an hour to clean, address and bandage the wound. You’re wiping your brow with the back of your hand, pulling down the medical mask, and sniffing. Ghost quietly admires your work, and he thinks that it wouldn’t be so bad to do this again. He catches your gaze, and you smile lightly at him. He hears Soap stand, yawning aloud and stretching his arms.

You shuffle through a drawer, quickly writing down a couple notes and plucking out a bottle of painkillers. You extend them towards him, a smile still playing on your lips. It’d been a long night, Ghost didn’t want to say something that he just might —

“Thanks, doc. Just about made my night,”

— regret.

You blushed, nodding meekly to him with eyes wide like a doe. You’re uncertain if you’ll see him again, but you’re hopeful. Soap rubs your head playfully, nudging you softly. “Aye, I told ya’ Ghost. Ain’t she a catch?” ══════════════════════════════════════════

You saw him again a month later in the middle of the night, like a ghost haunting its new favorite place.

He comes as often as he can. There are always wounds to be healed in his line of work. He’s not necessarily trying to get hit, but being able to see you afterward was a forbidden fruit he’d gladly take. You start expecting him, always with a little smile on your face when he saunters in. There’s still hesitation between the two of you, but neither of you seems to mind.

You knew he could mend these things himself, given the shit job on his other cuts. Yet you find yourself feeling a little special that the Lieutenant wanted you to do it.

After a while, he started to come alone - a surprise to you. His eyes are always hidden by the same thick black paint, always staring at you with the same intensity as the first time. His demeanor never really changes, just grows accustomed to yours, becoming in tune with one another.

When your brows are knit in concentration, and you're holding your breath as you sew his cuts, you would look up at him, lip pulled between your teeth. You look innocent, a fawn in the meadow. His heart started to skip a beat to wait up for you.

Sometimes things slip from his lips like a bottle of wine. Memories, places he’s been, and the things he doesn’t like. The little things take aim and fire at you, and you accept it eagerly. You gather information from him and bind it to memory like a book. He’s alluring and enticing, a phantom creeping ever so closer to your heart.

He realizes it too, after spending so many sleepless nights pretending he needs you to patch him up. There are healed wounds scattered across his body, little patches of you that are stuck to him. He’s always been the silent brooding type, but you’re beginning to warm up to him.

Some nights he stays well after you’ve finished, chest rising and falling gently as you read in the corner. You would hum softly to yourself, a gentle and melodic tune that Ghost would carry with him whenever he was gone. Never rushed to leave, the Lieutenant takes his sweet time enjoying the company of you. It’s a slow-moving dance that you play, but he’s started to get his footing down. He’s got you figured out.

You blush whenever he enters the room, eyes lighting up with a hint of excitement. You began smelling like his favorite pack of smokes, and you lean in when his raspy voice recounts the day as if you’re hanging off his every word. There are times when you’re exhausted, dark circles highlighting his favorite pair of eyes. You’d prop your head on your hand, humming soft replies but trying desperately not to succumb to the fatigue. It’s like you want him there too.

He has a nickname for you now, after a rainy night where you dozed off on him, curled up on a chair next to him. He remembers the feeling of your head on his shoulder, the one you had patched up not so long ago. It slipped from him quietly, almost against his own will.

It’s best you sleep in your own bed tonight, Princess.

You woke up quickly, eyes blinking away the exhaustion and blushing a deep crimson. Embarrassed, you glanced away from him, chewing on your bottom lip. He chuckled, the sound deep and reverberating. He could get used to this.

So the months fly by, the Lieutenant visiting the medic between every break. You stop looking for more work and start asking about what missions his force is on, and what you can do to pass the time. The days are spent waiting for him, wondering if you’re ever going to slip up and if it will be the last time you see the brute you’ve become so accustomed to. The school-girl crush you built months ago had eventually flared into a forest fire.

It’s a waiting game of who’s going to get burned first.

══════════════════════════════════════════

He’s unsure why he came to you, it just felt natural. He figures that you’re more than willing to clean up his mess, and with a pretty face like yours, he can’t help himself. It’d been three long months, all of which were spent wondering what you were doing. The silent question of did you miss him hangs heavy in the air.

The infirmary is quiet tonight, only the sounds of whirring machines greeting Ghost as he stalks down the hall. Outside, the rain patters softly against the windows, and a distant breeze travels through them. He brushes past another medic that isn’t you, ignoring their startled stare at the gaping wound in his side.

He can’t feel it. He’s thinking of you, what you’re wearing and what smile you’ll give him today. If you ever ended up watching the movie he recommended. Did you smell like cigarettes? The scent of you mixing into an intoxicating concoction he couldn’t quite shake off.

A bullet grazed his side, clean through and bleeding like a dying dog. A mission gone bad, the day gone even worse. The Lieutenant’s boots landed on the base and went straight to you. He ignored the shouting from Price and Soap, head clouded by the pain festering at his side and the idea of you. He’s got a hand putting pressure on it, blood coating his fingers from holding it the entire evac. Despite his teammate's pestering, Ghost wanted you to treat the wound.

You’re not in the exam room, and it takes Ghost off guard. He can picture you there in the corner, lips plump around the pen as you read over medical records and prescriptions. But the chair is empty, and only the sound of the water dispenser greets the Lieutenant.

He’s immediately overwhelmed by the feeling of irritation. Did you leave without saying? He thinks not. You knew better than that. Ghost stands silently in the exam room for a few moments, wondering what to do. You’re always here, so why aren’t you today when he wants you most?

He ignores himself, clenching his jaw. Despite the pain blossoming at his side, Ghost didn’t want to see another medic. As he’d come to like, you were efficient, obedient like his favorite pet, and downright irresistible. Maybe it was his stubbornness or the fact he’d gone so long without the feeling of you, but the Lieutenant grew frustrated by your absence.

Another moment passes, and he gives in. Turning on his heel and gritting his teeth, Ghost stalks down the hall like a wraith, a cloud of disappointment and anger brewing above him. There’s a medic down the hall, standing over a computer. He aims for them, boots landing with purpose and eyes glaring a burning fire into the wall.

It wasn’t as if you were his medic - technically - and he understood you were human too, but he had come to expect the existence of you in his everyday routine. Your laugh, the small twinkle in your eyes as he gave pieces of himself to you, and the little smoke breaks you share after hours gave Ghost a sense of purpose. While he knew that a shred of something more ached inside of him, he ignored it every time. You needed better than him, he reasoned, and so he kept his distance.

That’s when he hears it, soft and delicate. You’re laughing. It stops him in his track, confusion flooding his senses as he subtly tries to track where the melody comes from. Your office. He feels like a fool and immediately retraces his steps to you.

There's drops of blood all over the floor at this point, yet he doesn’t give a damn at the prospect of seeing you. He’s been here once before, right before he left. You were nodding up at him with wide eyes and full lips, his voice heavy as he said goodbye. He remembers it all too well, the way that you squeezed your thighs together and bit your lip, disappointment crossing your face.

The door is slightly ajar. Your voice tangles with another in a friendly conversation, and it irritates him to no end. A dim glow emits from the crack in the frame, spilling into the hallway and illuminating the dirt caked onto his boots. He didn’t bother to knock, nudging open the door with his shoulder and immediately catching your gaze. Your heart skips a beat, a wave of emotions catching itself in your throat.

You pulled up a chair at the front of your desk, legs crossed and body facing towards the private who's leaning toward you with a slight smirk on his face. Your hand is resting against the bandaged palm of the man’s hand. Ghost thinks it’s too close for comfort. You're hanging off of the Lieutenants gaze, a mix of rage, confusion, and something else brewing behind the skull. The private follows you, eyes widening in shock at the towering threat that’s just entered. He’s quick to his feet, glancing briefly at you as if he wanted to say more. There’s a moment that passes. Two. Ghost grows impatient and enraged by the idea of you being there for someone that isn’t him.

The words come quick, sharp, and lethal. “Get out.”

You’re waiting for him, fidgeting uncomfortably as the young man quietly apologizes and slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Thick tension settles over the room as Ghost breathes heavily, fingertips digging into the bleeding gash as he desperately tries to control the boiling rage that consumes him. The silence is deafening, but you welcome it. It’s been so long.

Restless nights, whining and pleading with yourself that he’ll come back. The forest fire continues to burn between the two of you, heat encasing your body as you become drunk on his presence. You memorized his features, pining for them night after night. Every hour ended with a disappointed moan and the searing blaze continuing to consume you until you saw him again. He looks the same, if not a little rougher around the edges. You notice the laceration at his side, swallowing a pit of fear as Ghost takes a purposeful step forward.

It takes a moment for him to know what to say. He’s caught between going absolutely ballistic and asking you how your day was. He takes another step forward, so close he could reach for you. A second passes before you stand, heat rushing to your cheeks as he finally stands in front of you. He’s missed you. You smell like he remembers, absolutely divine. There’s a sparkle in your eyes, pulling him ever so closer to you as he inhales sharply. Lips full and red, you wait expectantly for him.

“Hi, Princess,” he breathes, the words husky and deep as it penetrates you.

“I missed you,” you say, glancing down to his side in an attempt to avoid his gaze. So innocent, you couldn’t even look at him without squirming.

Fuckin’ Hell.

His hand lifts your chin up, gently as though you were his favorite toy. He’s staring straight at you, the mask hides the smirk that plays on his lips. Ghost can’t help but let the intoxicating feeling of lust wash over him as you stare wide-eyed at him. He’s angry. Angry he wasn’t there, enraged by the idea of you touching anyone but him. Eager to make up for lost time, hopeful that you’ll make the time for him.

“Apparently not enough, sweetheart,”

Confusion crosses your features for a moment, mouth opening and closing quickly. You’re looking up at him, leaning on your hands to try and regain some control over yourself. You’re apologetic, thighs squeezing together as he continues to stare you down. You've been waiting for him. He can tell, smirk widening as you fidget uncomfortably under his gaze. A loose breath leaves you, a knot of anxiety forming from such close contact. You break his gaze, staring at his side as the blood continued to seep through his hands. “What happened, Simon?”

It’s the first time you’ve asked him that. The first time you’ve used his name after he gave it to you. For a moment he pauses, unsure how to address you when you’re looking at him like that. He doesn’t want to answer, too invested in the way you’re avoiding him. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and he’ll do anything to catch you.

His thumb grazes your lower lip, rubbing it tenderly in a way that makes him ache. You’re leaning into his touch, eyes fluttering closed for a breath until his hand slips to your neck, gripping it gently. And here he goes again, saying things he’ll always —

“Think you can kiss it better, Princess?”

— regret.

You inhale sharply, eyes meeting his as the words slip and tumble from his mouth. It spills onto you like a glass of wine, staining your features with a mix of shock and need. His fingers press into your neck, forcing you to look at him. The mask separates you, but you’ve come to welcome it like an old friend.

The Lieutenant continued to fix his gaze on you, pinning you against the desk as he waited patiently for your response. His question feels like a joke, a sick parody of the last few months of whatever has simmered between the two of you. You’re confused, wondering if the words were spoken or just a figment of your twisted imagination. He waits though, almost hesitant to continue.

You’re caught beneath him. Stuck in his haunting stare and suffocating in his shadowed presence. So many sleepless nights are spent asking yourself what if. Hours spent drowning in the idea of him, of him wanting you. Blushing crimson red, you’re keenly aware of his rough grip against your skin. His towering frame encases you against him, with only so much room to breathe.

“Is that an order, Lieutenant?” There’s a playfulness to your tone that makes him throb. He’s getting hard just at the thought of you, innocent and eager to do whatever he asks. Little Vixen.

“Questioning a superior officer, Princess?”

“Never.”

“Good girl,” a whine escapes your lips, and you're pouting up at him in a way that pulls at the seams of his sanity.

He’s had enough. He’s done waiting, done being nice and playing the long game. Too many complexities of engagement, and so many hidden rules he's unaware of when it comes to you. It’s infuriating, the way you’re looking at him like you’re ready to be on your knees. He needs you and wants you to bend and break for him.

His hand involuntarily pushes you until your back is flush against the desk. Ghost thinks this view is made just for him. His hand is clutching your neck delicately, your legs spreading open to allow him to step closer. He does, savoring the way you arch against his touch, nipples pressing against the thin shirt you're wearing. The feel of your thighs brushing against him sends Ghost into a spiral, and when you moan softly underneath his touch - he just can’t help himself.

His bloodied hand reaches out to between your thighs, rubbing soft and slow circles as he appreciates the view of you. The wound at his side is all but gone when you’re writhing under him like this. The pain dissipates and is replaced by a throbbing desire. Hips lifting and reaching into him, you’re clutching his wrist that grips your throat with both hands and grinding into the touch. Ghost notices the euphoric look in your eyes, cock twitching in his pants as he begins to lose control.

He quickens his pace, fingers digging into your center as you let out a mewl in approval. He’s waited ages for this. Ghost follows suit, letting out a groan when one of your hands cups a breast and begins to squeeze it softly. You’re soaking, all just for him. It’s a thought that pulls something animalistic out of him, and he tightens the grip around your throat until you’re bucking your hips against him.

“Fuck, Simon - please don’t stop,” you beg, growing wet at the continued pressure. You use his name like it’s yours to claim, and he can’t help but grip your throat harder. Soaking through your clothes, Simon can feel you begin to unravel. He’s ecstatic - after all this time you’re finally right where he wants you. Mewling and moaning for him without hesitation, always too good for him.

He presses his thumb to your lips, precum slicking the tip of him as you open your mouth and lick his fingertip softly. His other hand pauses his movements on you, dragging down everything separating him from you. The two of you wonder why this hasn’t happened sooner, all the time wasted when it should’ve been spent doing this.

His wet thumb drags itself down to your exposed clit, and a stupid grin spread across his face at the fact that you’re wet to the touch. “Tell me what you want, Princess,” he rasps, free hand moving to take off his belt. You’re looking at him with pure adoration, but there’s a hint of hesitation as his zipper drags down.

You swallow, breaths coming out uneven and heavy as he continues slow motions along your clit. “It’s the first time for me,” you whisper softly, lips caught between your teeth as you blink up at him.

“Bloody. Fuckin’. Hell. Princess, am I gonna pop your cherry?” He teases, dipping a finger into your center. A soft wet sound follows the action. He’s lost every sense of direction, control slipping from him and replaced with the overwhelming need to watch you come undone. His cock rubs against the fabric of his clothes, desperate to feel you. He slips the hem down, ignoring the dried trail of blood on his side and gripping it harshly.

Simon pumps himself slowly with one hand, the other dragging itself from your clit painfully, only to drag up his mask a fraction of the way - exposing his smirking lips to you.

You immediately prop yourself up on your arms, a little too eager at the idea of being able to taste him. You lick your lips expectantly. He notices this, head dipping down to you as his teeth drag your lip and catch you in a deep kiss.

He tastes like tobacco and mint, the taste intoxicating as you hang off his lips desperately. Simon continued to draw slow circles on your clit, savoring the way you mewl for him. You’re a little sheepish, embarrassed by what a reaction he’s drawing from you, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, he loves it.

He breaks the kiss to look at you, the grip on his cock tightening when you lift up your shirt to show him the little black bra you’re wearing. His eyes darken a shade, a hand reaching out to fondle you as his tip gently brushes your folds. He teases you, rubbing the precum onto you and chuckling darkly.

“Guess so, love. Ready?” He asks quietly, patiently waiting for your response.

You nod meekly to him, a breath coming loose as the pleasure begins to coil within you. “Yes, sir,” you say.

That’s all it takes. All you had to do was say the words, and Simon becomes completely undone. He groans loudly, pressing the tip into your center and admiring the way your fingers drag along his vest, desperate for him. One hand resumes its spot on your neck comfortably, locking you in place. The other holds the base of his cock, aligning it and waiting patiently for you to beg.

You buck your hips, moaning at the way his tip presses into you. Simon gently rocks his hips at your movement, the length of him easing into you until you’re gasping at his size, eyes shutting in concentration. He savors the way your pussy squeezes around him as if it’s made entirely for his pleasure. It’s been a while since he’s had a good fuck, but he can already tell he’ll keep coming back to you. He’s greedy, what can he say?

When he’s finally inside you, the base of his shaft rubbing against your wet folds, he can’t help but grunt in satisfaction. Beautiful. You’re right where you belong, below him with those pretty wide eyes and those full little lips that should be wrapped around his cock. Simon adores you, hungry for more. “You’re so tight, sweetheart. I’m gonna ruin you,” he says like it’s a promise, and you know it is.

He starts out slow, letting you adjust to his size. You’re breathing heavily, chest rising and falling with each slow and agonizing thrust he takes. It hurts, but you like it. There’s a discomfort that blossoms into an unmatched pleasure, moans slipping out of you like confessions to god. He’s choking you until you see stars, eyes rolling and hands pulling him inexplicably closer.

There’s no more room for hesitation or embarrassment anymore. The feeling of his hips thrusting into you, thighs squeezing around his frame and little whines pulled from you. You’re pleading with him, knees going weak, and a knot of ecstasy forming in you. “Harder,” you say, “please, Simon. I need you,” you whine desperately.

How can he say no to a pretty little thing like you?

His pace settles to a comfortable roll and thrust of his hips, the desk shaking and squeaking underneath you as your fingers cling to it. He can’t hear it over the sound of your cunt pulling at his cock. His side has started to bleed again, but he’s ignoring it. Drowning in the sensation of you and how tight you feel around him.

Two fingers gently rub your clit as he continues thrusting. Heat blossoms in your pussy, a haze taking over your senses as pure pleasure began to take control. It’s divine, a feeling unknown to you until right now with him. You don’t think you’ll ever recover, always pining after this euphoric experience that he’s given you. “You’re being such a good girl for me. Can’t wait to feel your little cunt cum on my cock,” he snarls.

The Lieutenant knows what he’s doing, and you’re thankful to sit pretty and enjoy the ride. While his hand chokes you senselessly, he’s fucking you like it’s the only chance he has. There’s an animalistic nature in him, untamed and consuming every ounce of you. You’re feeling dazed, whimpering and moaning under Simon's touch as he tightens the grip on your throat. His cock fits perfectly in you, brushing against your g-spot in a way that makes your legs shake. He’s waited for this, to see you scrunch up your face and whine so easily for him. You’re grinding your hips against him, pulling at his gear, and crying out in pure excitement.

The heat builds into a fire, lighting you ablaze. You’re unable to help yourself, breaths shakey as a feeling completely unknown begins to develop within you. Simon has a smirk on his face like he knows something you don’t. His fingers quicken, face hovering over your ear and hot breaths spilling onto your neck. Your nails are digging into his back, whines ringing in his ears like a sweet melody.

You’re gonna cum, and he knows it.

Simon continues to fuck you relentlessly as his own orgasm builds. You’re soaking, the scent of you hangs in the air and he can’t get enough of it. All those months with his cock between his hand, wishing it was you. The endless nights of his grunts and moans, your name on the tip of his tongue. He chuckles darkly, teeth grazing the skin of your collarbone and fingertips digging into your neck. His cock pumps in and out of you quickly, fingers circling your clit until you can’t hold it anymore.

“You gonna be a good little girl for me, Princess? C’mon, cum for me,” he emphasizes the last word with a hard thrust, groans slipping past his lips and mixing with the scream that’s ripped from your throat. Your legs shake uncontrollably, eyes roll back and hands come to squeeze your tits at the overwhelming pleasure that ripples through you like a tidal wave. He straightens, standing tall and watching you. You’re wiggling along the desk, papers shuffling beneath you.

Another heat wave builds as Simon chases after his orgasm. He’s continuing to rub your clit, thrusts becoming uneven and harder as he grips your jaw and forces you to look at him. The mask is haphazardly sitting along the bridge of his nose, the smirk still plastered across his face. His eyes are dark with lust, insatiable greed, and hunger to have you. Simon curses under his breath as your cunt squeezes him tightly, his cock slamming into your core as you grind your hips against him.

When he cums, his hand squeezes your neck to the point you’re blinded by everything that’s him. His scent, the feel of his fingertips gripping you like you’ll disappear, the way his eyes dance along your frame in pure devotion to you. Simon has a sinister grin like he’d just won an award. His pace slows, but he continues to quickly rub your clit until you whimper his name. You’re unraveling at the seams, lips wobbling and eyes becoming glossy.

It only takes another moment until you squirt all over his fingers and the tip of his cock that rests along your folds. Your hands dig into your tits, eyes sparkling with the newfound release. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, and you know that Simon was holding back just for you.

A moment passed where it’s just the two of you, bodies stuck to one another like entangled vines. There’s a glimmer of satisfaction in the Lieutenant's eyes, and you’re struggling to catch your breath as you come down from your high.

When you sit up straight, two hands brace behind you to keep you up. You’re in a haze, heat pooling in your stomach as Simon pulls you into a quick kiss, savoring the way you taste before he pulls down the mask. You’re blushing a deep red, biting the inside of your cheek as you notice the new wet patches that paint the desk and his gear. His hands hesitantly leave your body, almost like he’s disappointed it’s ended so soon.

Your eyes travel to the dark red patch on his side, and you glance at him innocently. “I need to address that,” you say softly, a little smile playing on your lips. He looks at you, a hand instinctively reaching out to the wound.

“No more patients. Only me,” he states, gently pulling off his gear and exposing the red wound at his side. You’re nodding your head, eyes trained on his own as he cups the side of your face. “Can you fix it, doc?”

“Yes, sir.”

[literallyjustanerd]

Clone Wars Hospital AU Headcanons

Forgive me my shameless indulgence, but years of working in a hospital has given me Thoughts™ so just for some stupid fun: Welcome to the GHR: the Grand Hospital of the Republic! Where the Jedi are doctors, the clones are nurses, and the padawans are interns

501st battalion: Paediatrics

212th battalion: Maternity

104th battalion: Gen-Med

327th battalion: Orthopedics

Corrie Guard: Emergency Department

Headcanons below:

Paediatrics: Ward 501, Paediatrician Dr Anakin Skywalker

The ward is split on loving or hating Anakin, there's no in between

He's great with the kids though, the patients love him

Rex is the unit manager who has more experience than Anakin despite Anakin “outranking” him

Has to gently steer Anakin back on track and wearily remind him not to make orders just to spite other doctors

Constant happy music playing in the ward, everyone has fun accessories and brightly coloured scrubs

Fives and Echo are the most senior nurses and also the worst influences

Together they can cannulate a kid without them even noticing but also they're the ones shit-talking the annoying/unhelpful parents in the nurses' station five minutes later

If the kids are extra good, Jesse lets them colour in his tattoo

Dogma and Tup are the new grads - Tup is great with the kids, gentle and always gets them smiling, Dogma makes them cry no matter how hard he tries

Kix is NICU-trained and somehow still remembers every single piece of anatomy and physiology from training. Unparallelled medication knowledge. He’s the one all the student nurses want to be paired with

Ahsoka is on her paediatric rotation under Anakin's instruction

She's the intern the nurses give their feedback and requests to when they don't want to talk to Anakin, because they know Anakin will listen to Ahsoka over them

Maternity: Ward 212, Obstetrician Dr Obi-Wan Kenobi

Obi-Wan works closely with Anakin, refers most of his clients there for their child’s care

Anakin did rotations with him in training, Obi-Wan sometimes forgets that he's now a fully registered doctor and will still try to instruct/encourage him

Obi-Wan has borrowed Ahsoka for days in clinic or in the birthing unit, during which time the nurses will spend their entire shift trying to convince her to come to their unit instead

Obi-Wan is beloved by the nurses because he actually asks them for their input, unlike SOME doctors who just give orders (Anakin)

Did you catch him talking to the unit manager after handover this morning?? Hardcore flirting at 7:05am?? Cody was definitely into it

Cody is one of the most involved unit managers - he’s on the floor with the other nurses most days, always staying overtime and pulling double shifts to help keep things running smoothly

Waxer and Boil are considered bad luck charms - whenever they’re rostered on the same shift, things will always go to shit

God forbid either of them mentions it being “nice” or “quiet” on any given day - that just guarantees that three minutes later they’ll have five labouring people come in actively pushing 

The two of them once delivered a baby in the parking lot outside because the mother didn’t make it in time - the parents still bring Numa in to visit sometimes

Their nurses have the best stories, sometimes even more gory than ED

General Medical: Ward 104, Physician Dr Plo Koon

Has Dr Plo been here forever?? Nobody at the hospital can remember a time he didn't work here

The best doctor, agreed by all nurses and patients

Keeps offering free check-ups to the nurses on the ward

Brings snacks for the nurses' station

Wolffe is the scariest unit manager there is - grads and students are terrified of him

The unit is the most efficient in the hospital because of it

God help the pathologist who loses a sample from them. He will not hesitate to riskman you

*Over the PA* “Visiting hours finish at 1900. It is now 1902. Get the fuck out.”

Emergency Department: Corrie Guard, lawless wasteland

Boost, Comet and Sinker knew him in training and are immune to his glare, they use this power to constantly fuck with him

Caffeinated to the point of medical concern

Lectures drunk uni students about the dangers of alcohol before finishing night shift at 0730 and going home to drink wine straight from the bottle

If Fox has to triage one more belligerent idiot demanding immediate attention for a stubbed toe he's going to come through the plastic window and throw hands

Take the turkey sandwich and shut the fuck up

Constant arguments with the ward over whether or not the patients are stable enough for ward transfer

Just take the fucking patient Wolffe, they've got enough to deal with down here, they're bed blocked and there's a line out the door

Orthopedics: Ward 327, Orthopedic surgeon Dr Aayla Secura

They all started in sports science

The most jacked nurses

Group gym sessions before or after shifts

I don't care if you're tired. You're getting out of that bed whether you want to or not. Use it or lose it. Mobilise, bitch.

They’re the ones who keep stealing the bladder scanner from gen med but won’t admit to it

If you witnessed the incident between Dr Secura and the unit manager Bly at the last Christmas party, no you didn't

Bonus:

The Bad Batch are agency nurses, they go where they're needed and everyone hates them because they make more on the hour for it

Weird mish-mash of different skills and background knowledge

Will go eat dinner in their car instead of in the break room with the other nurses

Tech will not stop correcting people on the wards he’s put on, he is not popular for this despite mostly being right

“You can’t nurse-initiate that drug.”

“That phone order is invalid. We need to call the doctor for another.”

“The patient’s blood pressure is 135/82. This is technically outside normal parameters.”

Crosshair openly shit talks the other nurses with his patients because he knows he won’t be there tomorrow to catch the fallout

[hereticpriest]

Mercy Chapter Seven: Heat

Rating: Explicit 18+

MDNI

Relationship: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

To begin with, some warnings about this story: A/B/O Dynamics, Female Alpha, Male Omega, Some chapters may involve messing with the whole 'alphas are always dom and omegas are always sub' because I think nuance exists even in A/B/O dynamics, Fucking with the timeline (this is a blend of Canon, Legends, and original lore), Minimal use of Y/N (Explained in the first chapter), Reader is an alien species of my own creation and thus has a physical description, Familial bonds explored heavily, Clone rights explored heavily, Violence is more graphic than canon-typical however any graphic descriptions will be noted, AFAB reader, Not beta-read so I apologize for any mistakes.

Chapter warnings: Canon-typical violence, small injuries, first time/virgin sex and associated awkwardness, oral sex (m receiving), handjobs (m and f receiving), p in v sex. Let me know if I am missing anything!

Read on AO3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six

Chapter Seven: Heat

Your descent down the mountain is much less difficult than your ascent, however, Obi-Wan has begun to get further into his pre-heat and you know you are running out of time. By the time you reach the bottom again, you are beginning to see the effects in your strong, stoic Omega. You’re proud of him - you can feel his emotions and snippets of his pain through your bond, and yet he hasn’t complained once. You bring him back to the stream and strip off everything but your cloak and robes to keep yourself covered while you quickly and efficiently wash both of your clothes in the swiftly running water. Thank the Stars you had a bar of soap in your medical kit along with antibacterial rinse for field cleanliness. Each article of clothing is hung over a tree branch while you work, and Obi-Wan keeps an eye out around you before going further upstream so he can fill your filtered waterskins. You keep him in your periphery, ears twitching to catch all of the sound around you, listening for threats.

Once your clothes are clean, you approach your Omega, taking the waterskins from him and putting them down on the bank of the stream. You rip a strip from the bottom of your cloak, dunking it in the stream then wringing it out and using the force to give a little tug at Obi-Wan’s robes with a playful smile. Pink blooms in his cheeks and you laugh softly, stepping closer to him.

“Do you mind if I help clean you up a little? I can carry you here if I have to during your heat, but I’d like to get you nice and clean to begin with so you feel more comfortable.” You practically purr, voice low and smoky, the sweetening of his scent growing strong as you speak. Obi-Wan swallows hard, nodding his head as he undoes his belt and drops it, opening his robes to show off his otherwise naked body. His chest is covered in lovely ginger hair, far less sparse than it was when he was young, and you run your fingertips through it impulsively while he shivers. You rub soap into his underarms while he blushes and stammers, as quick and efficient as if he were a patient. It was certainly nowhere near your first time helping clean someone up, but Obi-Wan had always been shy, as typical of most Jedi. You wipe away the residue with your cloth, pausing briefly to scent him again to calm him down before you continue.

His stomach is still covered in the dried remnants of his cum, so you gently run the soap and then the cloth over it, scrubbing gently to get it out of his body hair. His thighs are damp with sweat and slick, so you wipe them down, crouching in front of Obi-Wan in a way that has him stirring. The crease of his thigh and pelvis is next, and Obi-Wan’s face is red when you look up at him. You can feel the hint of shameful joy of being cared for so intimately, of having someone see the most intimate parts of him. Not just see him, but touch him, clean the sweat and slick from his body, smell his desire and the fact that he hasn’t been able to wash since his last sonic shower the day before your ship crashed. The lack of judgement - the love in your eyes - is making him feel so many tangled feelings.

He’s starting to get hard, cock swiftly filling with blood, and you flick your tongue out to lick your lips as you shamelessly wipe down his crotch to get the dried precum out of his pubic hair. Obi-Wan outright shudders as you dip the cloth in the water again, wring it out, then wipe down his balls. His hand grasps at your hair and you laugh softly, bringing your other hand up to grasp a handful of his ass and part his cheeks, drawing a squeak of indignation from him.

“I-I can do this myself.” He reminds you, and you shrug, leaning into his hand on your head, your tail wagging behind you shamelessly.

“I don’t mind, my sweet little Omega, but if you’d rather do it yourself while you’re still coherent…” You shrug, putting the choice in his hands. You would never want to cross his boundaries. Obi-Wan considers for a moment, and you feel his twofold embarrassment through your bond at both the act itself, and the fact that the idea of it is turning him on.

“I… I suppose, if you want to, darling.” He finally mumbles, and you stifle a chuckle to avoid making it worse as you quickly and efficiently clean him up. Once you’re done, you stand and give him a gentle kiss, then shed your cloak and robes completely instead of just leaving them hanging open like you had for Obi-Wan. You feel a sharp tug through your bond, the feeling of blood rushing, an intense need, and so much love it nearly makes you dizzy. You smile to yourself, hanging your clothing up on a tree branch and approaching the stream again. You startle as Obi-Wan steps up behind you, hesitantly placing his hands on your hips.

“May I help you as well?” He asks, and you let out a happy sigh at the idea, giving the cloth a really good scrubbing before wringing it out and handing it over to him with the soap. He takes his time familiarizing himself with your body, washing your underarms while he looks over every inch of you. You instruct him to wash under your breasts, where sweat tends to pool in the breast binding you wear, and he tentatively does, though he does also pause to trace his thumb across your nipples. You laugh, giving him another encouraging kiss.

“You’ll have plenty of time for that later, dearest. We have to get back to our shelter, unfortunately.” You remind him, and he hums his acknowledgement, refreshing the cloth while parting your thighs with a gentle hand. He’s more efficient here, his ears just as pink as the skin he’s washing, and you can feel his desire spiking as he tries to thoroughly but gently clean your cunt and inner thighs of the sweat and slick of the last couple of days. He doesn’t crouch like you had, and you feel the thought almost as if it’s your own, that he worried if he did he’d bury his face there and never stand up again.

Once you’re mostly clean, you both step into the stream to wash the remnants of swamp water from your lower legs and feet. It’s a quick affair, the water too cold to be comfortable for long, but it does inspire you to try and use the Force to wring every last bit of water from your clothes so that you can get redressed quicker. Unexpectedly, it works, and you both get dressed in a shivering rush of laughs and flying fabric. You both only dress in your underwear, pants and undertunics. You won’t need the rest - it’s warm on this planet even at night, and Obi-Wan will need all the fabric he can find to make a suitable nest. You even forgo the breast binding for ease later, wrapping it up in your bag. You find a conveniently shaped rock with a deep enough well for it to act as a basin, filling it with water and carrying it back to the alcove with you while Obi-Wan collects firewood and builds a campfire just outside.

As you’re arranging the makeshift basin with your bags nearby, ensuring everything will be relatively within reach, you hear a breathy whimper at the same time as you feel cramping through your bond. Obi-Wan’s heat is nearly here. His need to nest has been slowly building as you worked, but now, it’s too strong to ignore. He makes his way into the alcove with you, gathering the suitably large pile of clothing you’ve laid towards the back so that he can start arranging his nest. As you finish the campfire he’d started, you notice Obi-Wan fussing with his cloak on the bed of moss and fabric. He’s created a sort of nest from the moss, both of your robes, spare tunics and pants. Now, he’s laying his cloak over it, tucking and fussing until it sits right. Next, he takes your cloak, giving it what appears to be the prime spot in the nest. You smile adoringly, admiring him as he works with what must be a sappy look on your face because as soon as Obi-Wan turns around and catches you, he starts blushing again.

“I’ve never done this before.” He admits, and you shrug, approaching tentatively. Omegas can be protective of their nests even with their Alpha in the early days of a relationship. Obi-Wan seems to calm down as you crawl across the edge of the nest though, reaching for you and pulling you closer to him.

“That’s okay. It looks like you’re doing a wonderful job, dear. It looks very comfy. You’ve done so well with so little to work with.” You praise him, and he beams at you, drawing you into a gentle kiss. Your tail wraps around his ankle instinctively, drawing a happy sigh from your Omega against your lips. You give him another sweet kiss, then slip out of his nest carefully to avoid disturbing it.

“Where are you going?” Obi-Wan whines, and you chuckle, sending him soothing waves through your bond.

“I have to scent the perimeter of our den, dearest. I won’t take long, and I’ll be right here.” You promise, and he nods, but he keeps his gaze on you as he curls up in his nest, “Eat a ration bar, Obi-Wan, you’ll need your energy.”

He obeys you, fetching a ration bar from your bag and eating it politely but quickly while he watches you. You rub against the edge of the alcove, covering the stone in your scent as best as you can, running purely on instinct. You’ve never done this before, but you know you’d tried to when you had your first rut. Master Dooku had stopped you, strong but gentle hands holding your wrists to keep you from sending your scent flooding through the halls of the Jedi Temple. Now, no one will stop you. You have an Omega to protect, sweet as can be in the nest he made in a den you found, just as your instincts demand. You have to mark your den so that anyone that comes anywhere near will know the consequences of getting too close. At a certain point, you will have very little control of how violent your reaction might be.

By the time you’re finished scenting the den, the sun has begun to dip, painting the sky in purples, pinks and orange. Obi-Wan has curled himself up in his nest, rubbing his lower belly as he is wracked by cramping. As you begin to approach your Omega, you get a prickling feeling in the back of your neck. Something is watching you. You know Obi-Wan senses it too because he doesn’t fight you as you gesture for him to stay in the nest when he begins to get up. You growl deeply, your subvocals rolling farther than the sound could ever hope to reach, and Obi-Wan shivers with delight. You can feel it - he’s not afraid with you there to protect him, but his arousal is sharp and tangy in the air.

A creature similar to a loth wolf or a Narglatch creeps out of the darkness, ribs expanding harshly with every breath. It’s a bit bigger than a loth wolf, with large paws tipped in claws that more resemble a nexu more than anything else. Short-haired, with a line of longer hair down its spine leading into its tufted tail. It has the longer snout of a loth wolf and fangs like a raxshir, but you notice lines of teeth down its throat, likely for the purpose of guiding prey down its gullet. It stalks in front of your den, and you growl loudly as you rise to its challenge, baring your teeth at it in an obvious threat display as your tail lashes behind you. Your ears are pinned back to your head, furious to find this dangerous creature so close to your Omega. You kick off your boots by the entrance, dropping your lightsaber into your bag to keep yourself from using deadly force unnecessarily. You step out into the barely lit forest in only your pants and under tunic, and lower into a stance you’ve never used before in your life. It comes naturally, but you don’t recognize it as any form opener you’ve ever heard of. The creature leaps at you, jaws open and snarling, but you duck low and get it round the neck, muscles in your arms rippling as you hold it. Its massive paws slap against your back, claws digging in and ripping open your skin as it scrambles for purchase that will allow it to escape your hold.

You plant your feet, anchoring your grip with one arm while reaching down with the other to grasp at its back legs. Lifting it over your head, you throw the beast into a nearby tree, roaring your dominance. You hope that the hit will be hard enough to make the creature realize you’re not an easy meal, but it comes back for more with drool dripping from its jaws. You smoothly dodge its gaping maw, then reach out with the Force and push it hard into a jagged boulder to the right of the alcove entrance, but this time you follow it. It swipes at you as you come close, rearing back onto its hind legs and smacking you across the face with a paw hard enough that it nearly breaks your nose. You growl, swallowing blood, and this time you pull it down with the Force until it slams into the dirt. You don’t want to kill the beast needlessly - it is just hungry or defending its home like you are. It snaps at you as it tries to stand, and you grab its lower jaw, then wrap an arm around its head to grab the upper jaw with your other hand. Obi-Wan watches as you hold its mouth open, your teeth bared and tail lashing behind you while it tries to snap its jaws closed. Your next growl is all subvocals, nearly inaudible, and the beast ceases fighting beneath you. You hold it still for a moment longer, then shove it down as you step back and release it, in case it decides to keep fighting. Thankfully, the beast seems to decide you're not worth the effort and runs off into the woods, and you can finally take a breath. 

You’re dirty, sweat pouring down your back and stinging as it drips into the scratches dug into your skin, but as you approach your hideaway Obi-Wan looks you over with a hunger you feel in your bones. You take a second to start the process of healing yourself, checking your nose to ensure it isn’t broken as you approach. Your Omega’s heat has nearly begun. He kisses the blue blood from your lips, strong hands caressing your hips as he pulls you into the safety of your den. You breathe him in as he checks your back out, ensuring that you’re actually healing yourself instead of being stubborn, then pulls you into his nest to take a quick rest while you both wait for his heat to settle in.

You allow Obi-Wan to curl around you, murmuring praise for how well you protect him, how strong you are, and how attractive it was to see you fighting that creature with your bare hands for him. You doze off to his scent surrounding you, and the firm warmth of his body wrapped around yours, his nose buried in your neck.

~

Far, far away in the council chambers of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, the Council watches a holo of yourself and Obi-Wan. Your old Master leans forwards in his seat as you tell them about the crash of your ship, and that while you’ve survived, your ship is basically scrap metal at this point. Master Windu hums thoughtfully as you tell them that you are stranded with limited supplies, no scent blockers, and no rut or heat blockers. You, very clinically indeed, tell the Council that Obi-Wan’s heat is nearly here while the man in question tries to look as professional as possible, thankful that the holo can’t translate how red his cheeks are.

“Obi-Wan and I opened up our Force signatures to each other for the first time, and we have discovered that we are Force-mates. I have a feeling few of you will be shocked by this news. I will be bonding with him during his heat. I apologize that I cannot ask permission, however I will do what I must for my Omega. Please inform whoever you send to our rescue not to approach our coordinates relayed through our distress beacon until the customary five days are through - I doubt that will be difficult as the journey here is just over three. I will accept any punishment deemed necessary on behalf of both Obi-Wan and myself when we return to the Temple. May the Force be with you, and whomever you send to our aid.” You end the holo recording on a somewhat somber note, and the Council sits in stunned silence for a long moment before it is broken by Master Yoda’s quiet laugh.

“Works in mysterious ways, the Force often does.” He says, and Master Plo Koon sits up straighter.

“I would be happy to collect my old Padawan and her mate. I’m a skilled pilot, and I’m sure I can handle the dangers circling the planet.”

Master Windu nods in response.

“Bring Master Qui-Gon with you. Familiar Betas will be a better rescue team, and the man is going stir crazy.” He said with a hint of humour in his voice, and a fond smile.

~

Warmth. You’re wrapped up in blissful warmth, and the sweet scent of your Omega, tangy with arousal. You blink awake, staring out of the small alcove into the darkness of the forest before you, disoriented briefly to find it so late before you remember that you’d decided to take a nap in preparation for the inevitability of your Omega’s heat hitting early this night. You hum as you twist in Obi-Wan’s arms, your hand stroking down over his side. His scent has turned, the deep sweetness and bergamot-like tang of heat bleeding out of him as it settles in. He’s hard against you, though you woke early enough that he still sleeps on without the sharp ache of need.

You decide to get ahead of it, dipping your head to kiss along his neck and up the column of his throat. Obi-Wan stirs beneath your lips, his arms tightening around you, and you smile as he sleepily mumbles your name. Not your virtue name, but your actual name, the one you’ve kept in your heart since you became a Padawan in accordance with your Haelan heritage. Y/N. He’s one of the few people that likely remember it, and it makes you happy, reminding you of how long you both have known each other. His lips part around a moan as you press a couple of kisses along his scent gland, and he stirs in your arms, shivering as your thigh slides between his legs while he’s still sleepy and pliant. Your tail curls around his knee possessively.

“You smell so good, sweetheart.” You whisper, and Obi-Wan sighs happily, twisting his fingers through your hair while he grinds against your thigh. It takes very little effort to pull Obi-Wan’s undertunic over his head, discarding it behind you and splaying your hands across his chest so you can feel his chest hair under your palms. His hips roll in little circles as he grinds against you, breathing hard against your ear, and you feel the instinct to bite a necklace of lovebites around his neck as he leans his head back to expose his throat. You cover his neck in kisses instead of bites, dropping your hands to grasp his hips and guide him to thrust against you.

“More, Alpha.” Obi-Wan begs, pupils blown wide with desire as he clutches at you, “So close. I want to come.”

You hum with satisfaction, undoing the ties to his trousers and guiding them doing his legs to avoid too much of a mess. Once your Omega is naked, you press him back into the soft fabric of his nest and dip your head to lick a fat stripe up the underside of his cock, drawing a loud, broken moan from his lips. Your tail lashes behind you, showing off exactly how eager you are for him. His hands tangle in your hair, and you have to hold his hips down to keep him from rutting against your face even as he whines. The taste of him sits heavy on your tongue, and you can feel a pull deep in your gut, so you wrap a hand around the base of him and slowly guide him into your mouth. It’s a new sensation, a little uncomfortable at first, especially accommodating his size. You have to really work to hold his hips down, but you find yourself slowly getting used to the way his girth fills you. He’s so close that it only takes a few bobs of your head before he’s coming down your throat, grasping at your hair and tossing his head back while he moans your name.

You swallow the salty mess of him, then crawl up his body, letting him pull you into a needy kiss so he can lick the remnants of his spend from your tongue. It takes only a few moments for his need to rise again, and you figure it’s about time you both become one. You’ve made your poor Omega wait long enough. Obi-Wan helps you strip your clothes off as soon as he realizes that is what you’re doing, and you sigh as he pushes you back into his nest, his mouth closing around your right nipple the moment it’s revealed. He discards your trousers somewhere off the edge of the nest behind him as he explores your body, his hands grasping at your breasts. His hot little mouth leaves a trail of kisses across your chest as he moves to give the same love to your left nipple, and you moan as he puts a bit more of his weight on you, pressing his hips into yours so he can grind blindly between your legs. The head of his cock catches against your hole, and you have to grab his hips to stop him from slamming home, moving swiftly to roll him over onto his back. The whimpers are instant.

“I know, I know, lovely. Shhh.” You whisper, straddling his lap and holding him down, “I just need to make sure I’m ready, or it’ll hurt. Can you wait for me, or do you need me to make you come again first?”

Obi-Wan shivers, looking you over for a moment while he decides whether he can wait, before reaching between the two of you to cup your cunt in one large hand. You nearly buckle at the touch, eyes wide. No one’s ever touched you there before, and you’ve only touched yourself a couple of times through the years.

“Let me help.” he murmurs, boldly gliding his fingers through the wet heat of your cunt, running entirely off instinct and the very little anatomy you had learned in your lessons. He strokes his thumb sloppily across your clit, probing gently at your hole with his middle finger, carefully sinking it in the moment you give him a nod. You’re wet enough that he is quickly able to add a second, and he pants for breath as you moan above him, thighs tight around his hips. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but he lets your body guide him, pumping his fingers into you a little faster as you grasp at his chest for support and roll your hips with him. Eventually, you grab his hand and pull him free of you, bringing his fingers up to your mouth to suck your own juices from them while he watches with wide eyes.

“Good boy. You’ve waited so long, sweetheart. You’re so strong.” You murmur, letting go of his hand so you can reach between you both and guide his cockhead to press against you so that you can sink down on him. The stretch of him is immense, and you both moan in unison as you roll your hips about halfway down, lifting a bit to ease the pressure before sinking down again until he bottoms out. Obi-Wan scrabbles for a grip on your hips, well-kept blunt nails digging into your skin and leaving red lines behind as he tries to breathe through the overwhelming pleasure. You’ve never felt so full in your life. It takes you a second to get control of yourself, and Obi-Wan rolls his hips up into you as you breathe through the fullness, unable to help himself. He’s still early in his heat, so he has some degree of control, but you know that won’t last long. You take the chance while you can to adjust and slowly make love to him, leaning forwards for a kiss while you slowly get your legs under you and begin to ride him.

Obi-Wan clings to your hips, desperate moans slipping from his lips in between messy kisses that send lightning racing down your spine. It’s good, but it takes time before you find the right way to move, where to put your hands and how to balance properly. The first couple of thrusts are awkward, Obi-Wan trying to match you but nearly jolting you off his lap while you struggle to figure out what exactly to do with yourself. It shouldn’t come as a surprise - you’re both virgins, and sexual education is limited at best at the Jedi Temple, largely revolving around how to avoid faux pas with species that have freer outlooks on sexuality than the Jedi themselves. Once you find a good rhythm, riding your Omega becomes a little easier, and starts to feel natural. You find a pace that works for both of you, slow and deep and hard, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust. The curve of him drags against that spongy spot inside of you that you’ve found the few times you’ve touched yourself, and you feel a little wild with it, shooting sparks of pleasure through you with every movement. It’s so much, so overwhelming, but you’ve not had a lick of pain so far. Just a mind-numbing stretch around the girth of your Omega, and the sparking pleasure of his cock bumping against your cervix with every thrust. It’s like he’s made for you, the way he fills you so perfectly, just on the edge of too much.

“Almost there, Alpha, almost-” Obi-Wan cries out, cutting himself off with a groan as he arches his back, gripping your hips and pulling you down on him harder. You meet his pace, taking his hands from your hips so you can pin them above his head, taking over so he can ride the waves of pleasure and just enjoy it. A ragged groan rips from Obi-Wan’s throat, and you feel through the bond all the things he can’t manage to say as he nears that peak. At first, it’s just feelings. Pleasure, desire, love blooming bright, happiness, bliss. And then, words form.

You feel so good around me. My perfect Alpha, taking such good care of me, and making me feel amazing. Force, Mercy, I feel like I’m melting. I want to come inside you, feel it flow out of you onto my skin. Want it to take. Fuck a baby into you so everyone knows I belong to you. Want to be yours, Y/N. I need you to be mine. I need you. Stars, I’m going to come. Gonna fill you up. Take it from me, Alpha. Take it! Take me!

You lean closer to him, grabbing his chin and gently forcing him to look at you even through the haze of his pleasure. His pupils are blown to the point that his pretty ocean blue eyes are nearly black, and his mouth is lax with pleasure. You kiss the soft wrinkles of his sweetly furrowed brow, unable to help yourself.

“Do you want me to bond you? Do you want me to mate you properly, my sweet Omega? Do you want to be mine?” You ask, and Obi-Wan nods jerkily, tears in his eyes, “I need your words, baby.”

Yes! Mate me. Bond me, please, Alpha. I want to be your mate.

Good boy, my sweet Omega.

You lap at his mating gland, hoping that your Haelan saliva will help ease any associated pain. Your fangs are sharp, so you hope it won’t be too uncomfortable. You’ve been told time and time again that the pain is negligible while in the midst of a heat, rut, or even just an orgasm, but you can’t help but worry about hurting your Omega. Your tail is wrapped tightly around your Omega’s thigh, needing every part of you to be holding onto him. Obi-Wan whimpers below you, and you finally cup his neck, holding him still so you can sink your sharp, aching teeth into his mating gland. Blood blooms in your mouth, and Obi-Wan gasps, thrusting his hips sharply up into you. His mind is a flurry of ‘yes’ and ‘yours’ through the bond, and you don’t feel much pain at all from him. Something else clicks into place between you, a deeper level of the bond, and you feel yourself suddenly nearing the brink of orgasm as if it’s snuck up on you. You shiver with pleasure as you feel Obi-Wan jerk below you, and each throb of his cock as he fills you with cum. You brace yourself atop him, rolling your hips in lazy circles to prolong his orgasm and pulling away only when you feel him on the brink of oversensitivity. 

You lay down beside your Omega, pulling him gently into your arms and petting his hair as he comes down from the high of it, panting like he’s run a marathon. It takes him a few moments before his breathing starts to even out, and you stroke your fingers through his chest hair with one hand while the other delicately smoothes the strawberry blond strands of his hair out of his face. Your eyes are locked on his mating bond, the imprint of your teeth in his neck making you feel at once both lost in adoration and like a brute. His heat is temporarily sated, and he nuzzles against you, pulling your leg over his hip to open up your thighs.

“Sorry I didn’t make you come, darling.” Obi-Wan murmurs softly, and you laugh softly, pulling him closer before he can feel too guilty about it. You smother him in kisses, nipping at his pouty bottom lip and the tip of his strong nose.

“I would be shocked if you did, sweetheart. It’s our first time. We’ll learn.” You murmur, sighing as he slips his hand between your legs to cup your cunt again. His chest starts to rumble, a broken, raspy thing that tells you he’s never really purred before. But he purrs for you. He purrs for you, nuzzling his nose against your pointy ear and nipping the tip of it while scooping up the cum leaking from you and pushing it back in. He thumbs your clit, exploring your feelings through the bond to find what makes you feel good, and pushing two thick fingers into your cunt. With his purr against your back and his lips grazing over your mating gland, you find yourself swiftly nearing that peak again, rocking your hips to meet each thrust of his hand.

“Feels so good. My sweet, perfect little Omega, taking such good care of me. You gonna bite me, make me yours?” You mix teasing and praise, shivering as Obi-Wan nips sharply at your jaw.

“I am yours, dearheart. And you are mine.” Obi-Wan purrs, crooking his fingers while working his thumb over your clit, and you feel something pull in your gut as you come tumbling over the edge into the strongest orgasm of your admittedly limited experience. Obi-Wan sinks his teeth into your mating gland as pleasure floods your system, and the final tumbler clicks into place, unlocking the full potential of your bond. You shudder as you come a second time mere moments after the first, and Obi-Wan groans against your neck, blue blood dripping down his chin. His purring gets louder until it’s all you can hear, and you lay in a puddle of bliss in his arms as you come back to yourself. When you manage to open your eyes, it’s to the image of Obi-Wan with your blood in his beard and moustache, sucking every drop of your release from his fingers. You sigh, leaning up to shamelessly kiss every drop of you from his chin before licking your way into his pliant mouth.

“I love you.” You whisper when you part, and Obi-Wan smiles as he presses his lips against your mating gland.

“I love you too, darling.” he purrs back, licking around the raw bite to clean up the blood. You roll onto your side, dipping your trusty cloth into the basin of water you collected so that you can clean both of you up. You’ll need to rest. Tomorrow, Obi-Wan will be delirious with need and you will have little time to rest in between taking care of him. You can feel the stirrings of your rut as well, triggered by his heat and swiftly approaching. Once you’re both cleaned up, you pull your cloak atop the both of you and curl yourself around your Omega, nipping his shoulder when he sleepily but playfully grinds his backside into your pelvis.

“Sleep, needy little thing. I’ll take good care of you.”

[cricket-reader]

Side of the Road III

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

Summary: the team has to come to terms with the new guest at the compound. Old wounds are brought to the surface for Bucky.

Warnings: language, depictions of violence, Tony Stark being himself, mentions of near death experience, mentions of wounds, probably incorrect medical jargon/procedures, Bucky’s negative thoughts

Word Count: 1,201

A/N: Today is my official one year anniversary of this account. Thanks to everyone who followed me and left comments. I appreciate you all more than words can say! I figured to celebrate by posting a continuation of my first ever fic I posted to Tumblr!

Series Masterlist | Part 2

The next morning, Stark is at the coffee machine as the rest of the team meander in. Bucky didn’t get any sleep, too preoccupied about the guest they picked up. Steve and Sam didn’t get much sleep either, haunted by the mutilated figure of that innocent woman. Bruce and Helen stayed up until the woman’s body was stable enough to move out of the cradle, and even then they took turns keeping watch over her.

“You guys, I had the weirdest dream last night. I don’t remember specifics, but there was a lady wrapped in our coats trying to give terminator over there a-”

“Stark.” Steve’s sharp voice cuts off his sentence.

Tony’s head whips around to see the haunted faces of his teammates. Frowning, he sets his mug on the counter.

“So… it was real?” He shrugs with a non-committal hum before plastering a smirk over his features. “I thought it was a weird dream anyway. Why would I want that image in my mind?”

“Knock it off, Stark. That girl almost died. This is no joking matter.”

Tony’s face pales. He didn’t think it was serious. How much did he have to drink last night? “What exactly happened?”

“We’re not sure. Her back was mangled and she was left in below freezing temperatures with nothing to protect her against the cold. If she had been administered to any normal hospital, she would have died.”

Tony’s hand scrubs over his scruffy facial hair. “There was no one around?”

“Nope, it seemed like whoever did that to her dropped her there to die.”

“Well, shit.”

Tony doesn’t like the sound of this. He is naturally an untrusting person. Hell, he doesn’t even let the Avengers—the team he has worked with for years—see the real him. Letting an unknown into his compound is a risky move. But how far would his enemies go to get to him—to the team? Surely they wouldn’t send him a nearly-dead woman to take him or his team out.

First of all, there are much more efficient ways to get rid of him, as evident with the whole Obie spectacle. Secondly, no one on the brink of death could take out his teammates. He’ll just have to keep an eye on her when she makes her recovery.

“Friday, my love, how is our newest guest settling into our wonderful compound?”

“Her vitals appear to be stable. She has not woken up yet, but she is recovering thanks to Doctor Cho and Banner,” Friday responds, diligent as ever.

“Great,” he claps his hands together before grabbing his coffee and disappearing to his lab.

Steve scoffs. “How can he be so cruel? It’s like he doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

Bucky frowns, grabbing a mug for himself and Steve. The bitter liquid spurts into the cups, ready to give them fuel for the day—or at least for a few minutes.

On his part, Bucky isn’t completely convinced that Stark’s true nature is cruel. Bucky honestly suspects it has everything to do with him. Who would want to show their true face to the psycho who killed their parents? Not for the first time, he wonders if the team would be better off without him.

“Wow, I see how it is,” Sam grumbles, grumpily grabbing his own mug and making his own coffee.

“What? Don’t tell me princess Sam needs his overly sugary excuse for coffee made for him. Would you like me to cut up your breakfast into small pieces too?”

Sam rolls his eyes, saying something about jerk-faced super-soldiers getting on his nerves.

When Bruce steps into the kitchen, the atmosphere stills. Conversation halts and eyes dart towards his exhausted figure.

Bruce sighs. “She’s stable for now. We almost lost her a few times, but she’s a fighter. We’ve got her on a feeding tube and everything until she wakes up.”

“The marks on her back?” Sam questions.

“The cellular regeneration worked. From the brief look I got at the wounds, I suspect she was either whipped or someone took to carving into her with a knife.”

A shattering sound breaks the otherwise silent response. Heads turn to look at Bucky who is staring in shock at what’s left of the broken piece of pottery in his vibranium hand—almost as if he hasn’t registered that it was him who destroyed it.

Bucky doesn’t even feel the burning liquid seeping into his shirt and jeans.

Swallowing, he looks around the room, shame filling his body as he goes to clean up the mess he made. Steve tells him to go get cleaned up before Bucky can even start to pick up the shattered pieces.

Allowing Steve to do just this one thing for him, Bucky storms out of the room. On the way to his room he tries to think of a way to repay Steve for helping him, even if he has been told that he doesn’t owe Steve anything on numerous occasions.

Distraction, he realises.

He’s trying to distract himself from the fact that some poor woman had to endure some of the same kind of torture he went through. He grits his teeth, remembering the way those whips tore at his flesh. The way they burned their way through the outermost layers of skin and kept digging and digging and-

She had to go through that too

His gut churns, heart beating faster and faster. Disgust, hatred, and pure unadulterated rage claw their way through his body. He needs to punch something—he needs to punish those who punished her.

The door to his room slams open. If it were any normal door, it would have broken off its hinges. The only reprieve he receives from the force he used comes in the form of the hole where the doorknob met the wall. He slams his door back shut, knowing at this point he’s acting like a toddler with a tantrum but not having it in him to care.

Why is he so angry?

In all his time as the Winter Soldier, one would think that he had seen enough horrors to be numbed to anything and everything around him. So why does this irk him so much?

It doesn’t make sense, and he doesn’t like it. He shouldn’t feel this way over some poor woman he knows nothing about. For all he knows, she could have deserved it. She could be the scum of the earth finally broken down to her last resorts. She could be as bad as his captors in Hydra. Turning a blind eye to the corruption or playing a direct hand in an unwilling participant’s torture.

But the way she begged him. Please—no… no more… It appalled him that she reminded him so much of himself. Of his early days where he fought with everything he had, the days where he begged the doctors to stop, to let him die, to have mercy.

It hits too close to home, he decides. That is the reason he is so worked up about it. She has been broken down into a shell of herself just as he had been.

He deserved those lashings after all the blood that stained his hands. Did she?

Series Masterlist | Part 4

Bucky Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @loki

Comment if you’d like to be added to this story’s Taglist

[echoingalaxies]

Content/CW: branding, injury and blood, past torture, medical whump, team whump, post rescue

Words: 2608

This isn’t a chapter of anything. It’s more like a scene from the middle of a (mostly) non-existent story. Since I don’t introduce the characters properly here, have a little guide:

Josephine: head medic / Otto: caretaker / Laurent: whumpee / Frankie: field medic / Riina: team leader / other mentioned names less relevant

-----

“Are you sure?” Josephine looked hesitant. She had her arms folded across her chest. “It won’t be pretty. Maybe we should wait until morning, when the others get here.”

Otto ignored her question.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sleeping boy behind her, his body moving slowly with deep, steady breaths. It was slightly assuring to see him be so calm, momentarily unaware of all the agony he must’ve been put through, but Otto couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling caused by Josephine’s secretiveness.

Laurent’s broken fingers were now in a cast. The wounds on his arms had been bandaged. His previously long, beautiful hair had been buzzed nearly as short as Otto’s. The rest of him was covered under a light blue blanket.

That was what Josephine was preparing him for. To reveal whatever horrors were hidden underneath.

Otto had been the first one to inspect Laurent’s condition during the car ride home, but hadn’t had the opportunity to see under his clothes. They’d been glued to his skin by dried blood, but Frankie had assured him Laurent wouldn’t bleed out on them during the half an hour it took for them to safely return home.

Not a second went by Otto wouldn’t have praised the angel that Josephine was in his mind, for she had been there waiting for them when they’d brought Laurent in, dressed in scrubs and ready for action. Otto had spent the following hours sitting in the hallway right behind the hospital room door, his mind replaying images of Laurent’s beaten face like a never-ending slideshow. He had gotten himself through two panic attacks. Frankie, Hayden, and even Riina had stopped by every couple of hours to see if he had been let in yet, staying for a minute to console him each time, offering him food and water.

Otto had denied. Nothing mattered to him until he’d know Laurent was okay.

Whatever was under that blanket, whatever Josephine tried to protect him from, he had considered during those past hours.

“Otto.”

“Just… just let me see, Jo.”

Josephine gave him a look, disapproving his demanding tone, but stepped back to stand right next to Laurent’s bed, and with a final nod of confirmation from Otto, pulled aside the blanket.

Otto had experienced a fair share of pain in his life. The tendon on his calf had once been sliced, he’d been stabbed, yet neither of those things had been as efficient to bring him to his knees than the sight currently in front of him. His knees hit the tiled floor with a hard thud, but he instantly scrambled back on his feet, trying to get away, take back everything he’d thought about how he could take it.

He had noted Laurent lying on his side, and assumed there must have been injuries on his back. The guess had been accurate, but the specifics of what those injuries could have been like was where he’d been gravely mistaken. He’d assumed scars similar to the ones on Laurent’s arms. Bruises or stab wounds.

But this…

Rows upon rows of identical burn marks covered Laurent’s back like a pattern printed on a fabric, all the way from his neck to his pelvis, shaped like a coat of arms with something pointy in the middle. The skin surrounding the burns glowed fiercely red from infections.

Otto didn’t need to take another look to know what it was. He’d know the symbol from anywhere.

After Laurent had been taken three months ago, the team had received an anonymous letter, only containing this very same symbol, pressed on the paper in blood. The laboratory had confirmed the blood belonged to Laurent.

Riina hadn’t talked for four days after that, and anyone who had tried to talk to her had had a knife thrown at them. Everybody else had expressed their devastation in slightly healthier ways.

They had fought these people enough times. They had lost team members to them. Now, once again.

Otto’s skin crawled.

The Crowns, and their family crest, forever burned deep into Laurent’s skin, dozens of times.

“Otto?”

Otto’s vision was blurred by fury. He squeezed his trembling hands into fists, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He took a reluctant glance at Laurent again, and noticed Josephine had pulled the blanket over his shoulders once more.

Good. Never let those repulsive marks see daylight ever again.

“Otto, I need you to breathe.” Josephine’s voice was coming from somewhere afar, and when there was a sudden touch on his forearm, though likely intended to be comforting, Otto flinched away. The initial shock was now rapidly making room for rage unlike he had ever known.

“Breathe?” He must have been yelling, because Josephine was shushing him, but Otto couldn’t contain it. Had there been something within reach he could just grab and break – there were supplies on Josephine’s medical cart, but no one was allowed to touch them if they wished to walk out alive – he would’ve smashed it to the ground.

He had no idea where to put all this anger.

Otto pointed at Laurent’s covered back. “Look at him! There’s… there’s like a hundred of them! He looks like a fucking Louis Vuitton bag!”

“It’s terrible, I know, but you have to lower your voice,” Josephine said. If she was feeling any distress about the situation, she didn’t show it. “If you need to lash out, by all means, I understand, but do it anywhere but here.”

As if on cue, Laurent let out a small whine, and Otto fell silent in an instant. He held his breath until Josephine, who was by Laurent’s side in a second, gave him a thumbs up signalling Laurent hadn’t woken up. She marched back to Otto and grabbed his arm, this time with way more force, and dragged him out of the room.

The hallway was empty, but despite it being late at night, Otto could hear noises from elsewhere in the building. He could vaguely make out Riina’s voice from her office two stories above, screaming at someone. He could hear Frankie and Hayden from their bedroom at the end of the hallway.

He was envious of all of them. He wanted to shout. He wanted to be the one in bed with his lover instead of witnessing his suffering.

“I swear I’m going to kill them,” Otto spat the second Josephine closed the door behind her. “I’m going to rip them apart, all of them.”

“Yeah, you’re not going to make it to the next mission’s team with that attitude.” Josephine leaned her back to the door. She had dark circles under her eyes, and Otto realised how exhausted she must be, having worked relentlessly to treat Laurent, for hours in the middle of the night, mostly alone. Frankie might have been helping her for a moment at some point. “Riina has asked to see him as soon as he wakes up to gather information about the captors before creating a plan.”

“But we already know who did this,” Otto said. He let out a hollow laugh. “They’ve literally put it all over him. We’ve known it was them even before.”

“Sure, but Laurent might’ve heard a lot of valuable things we need to take into consideration before going after them.”

“I wanna go.”

Josephine looked at him almost pitifully. “You’re too close to this, love. Riina barely let you join the rescue crew, so she won’t let you join the searches. And not that I have a say in it, but I think that’s for the best. Laurent’s going to need someone around when he wakes up.”

“He’ll have you –”

“Someone he knows,” Josephine said. “I joined after he was taken. He’s never met me. He’s going to want a familiar face around. Someone to calm him down as I have to poke at his injuries. We’re short on anaesthetics and won’t get a new supply until the end of the week, so you better be there to hold his hand through all the pain we won’t be able to help him with.” She paused, eyes fixating on Otto’s poorly bandaged shoulder peeking from under his torn shirt. “You need any? I’ll gladly give you some since we’ve still got some.”

Otto shook his head. He had completely forgotten about his own injury. The pain in his body was secondary to the one in his mind. It couldn’t compare to a single thing Laurent had been through. “It’s fine. Save it for him.”

Josephine didn’t look pleased. “Can I at least take a look?”

“You should go help Laurent inste–”

“For heaven’s sake, Otto,” Josephine groaned. She straightened her back, suddenly standing almost as tall as Otto did. She took a keychain out of the pocket of her scrubs and began to unlock the door opposite to the hospital room. “I’m not asking anymore. Let me fix you before you die from an infection, because if you always keep acting like this, some day you will. In you go.”

She pushed the door open and pointed inside. Otto stood still, glancing between her and the hospital room door.

“Laurie –”

“Is asleep and will manage a moment alone.”

Josephine crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows. Otto still wanted to refuse, but he knew if he did, Josephine would likely sneak into his room to stitch him up in his sleep. As kind-hearted as she was, she’d rather tie her patient to a chair to finish a procedure than let anyone walk away from her hurt.

“Be quick then.”

He had been to Josephine’s office a few times before. It was where she stored extra medical supplies, and performed minor procedures that didn’t require space for the patient to lie down.

“Why on earth didn’t Frankie take care of that?” Josephine asked as Otto sat down on the stool. Otto glanced down. He had bled through his shirt and the bandages he had quickly wrapped around his shoulder and upper arm while still on field. It had been a dumb, avoidable injury. They hadn’t come across a single soul while rescuing Laurent – Otto had managed to cut himself on the rusty, crooked fence around the mansion.

“I didn’t let her.”

Josephine let out a long sigh. She flicked her hair over her shoulders and tied it on a low ponytail, and ordered Otto to take off his shirt while she washed her hands. Moving his arm up and down, Otto realised how much in pain he actually was. He bit his cheeks to stop himself from gasping.

“You’re going to kill yourself at this rate,” Josephine said, starting to peel the bloodsoaked bandages off Otto’s skin. “This is deep. You have to let people take care of you next time.” 

Otto felt a pang of shame. Josephine was clearly worried, and he hadn’t meant to stress her out any more than she already was.

“Thank you,” he said quietly as Josephine began cleaning the wound. “And… Thank you for helping him.”

From the corner of his eye he could see how Josephine half-smiled.

“Do you only ever think everything through him? Did anyone ever tell you you’re allowed to think about yourself once in a while?”

Otto didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to for Josephine to know the answer. Her face turned serious again, and she slightly shook her head.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “Patching up someone unconscious is easy. I can’t tell what he’ll be like when he wakes up. I pray they haven’t broken his soul like they did to his body, but either way he’s been through hell on Earth.”

Otto thought back to the dungeon they had found Laurent in, hazy but conscious, shackled to the ground. The memory of Laurent crawling away from the team like he didn’t know them, like he was afraid, hurt like a knife. Laurent had passed out almost as soon as he’d been carried to the car. From fear, pain, or exhaustion, or possibly a combination of any, Otto didn’t know. His cries and pleads to not hurt him still echoed in his head.

“It isn’t over yet,” he said in a lifeless voice. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep next to Laurent, his lively and loving Laurent. He wanted him to be okay.

Josephine frowned, taking notice of Otto’s tone. “This isn’t your fault. You know that?”

Otto shook his head. He shut his eyes, trying to breathe through the guilt.

Josephine gave up cleaning his shoulder and kneeled in front of him, squeezing his hands.

“Look at me,” she said, waiting patiently until Otto’s eyes found hers. Her hands felt cold against his skin, and he could feel her steady pulse from her fingertips. “Those Crown people – they’re to blame. That Michael guy I replaced, he is to blame. Not you. You didn’t know.”

Otto winced at the mention of the old medic’s name.

Josephine tried to be sweet, but she was wrong. She was new, only been with them for two months, and she didn’t know everything. It had been all his fault. He’d trusted the wrong person. He’d made enemies, he’d been their target, and Laurent had sacrificed himself to protect him.

Otto sniffled, hanging his head. “I trusted Michael.”

“I’m sure all the others did too.”

Josephine held his hands until his breathing evened out and he managed to give him a convincing enough smile affirming he was okay. He let Josephine finish patching him up without protesting. He even accepted a pill, not stopping to ask what it was.

Half an hour later, he flicked on the lights to his room. His and Laurent’s room.

He had tried to plead with Josephine to get to sleep in the bed next to Laurent’s in the hospital room, but Josephine had been unbending. Deep down Otto understood her reasoning, but as he lay down on their bed, alone for yet another night, he gravely considered sneaking in to sit beside Laurent until morning and deal with the consequences later.

The alarm would wake him up in a few hours. The team would have an early meeting regarding the previous day’s operation, then assemble a crew of a few of them who would go and seek out the people responsible for what had been done to Laurent.

Laurent would wake up and be heard.

The crew would prepare.

Otto would not.

Josephine had been right. He needed rest. He needed to be there for Laurent. The medicine Josephine had given him had been a great help in calming the storm inside of him, and with most of the rage gone, staying behind and getting to take care of Laurent had started to sound like the best possible thing. Isn’t that what he’d been praying for months? To be with him again? Why had he been so eager to leave his side at the first given chance?

Otto hugged Laurent’s pillow against his chest. It had been so long since they had been together. He just had to wait for a bit more, until morning, when they would finally get to talk again. Otto would hold his hand. He would never let him out of his sight.

Yet before all of that, there was one more night to tackle, undoubtedly either entirely sleepless or full of nightmares.

The Crown crest might have been permanently burned on Laurent’s skin, but Otto felt like it’d also been carved on the insides of his eyelids, because it was all he could see when he closed his eyes.

[the-little-moment]

Part Eight

Words: 1,050

Warnings: Mention of canon violence

Summary: Senna and Rampart discuss Bern's worth. Crosshair makes one confession and withholds another.

Choices

“I would like to request your assurance that I will be able to keep my assistant.” 

“Your assistant.”

“Yes. CT-Six-Two-Four-Nine. The chief clone medic. He has been working for me for almost four years now.” And he was a lot more than an assistant, but Senna wasn’t going to belabor the point. She doubted Rampart cared.

As she watched, he picked up his datapad and pulled up Bern’s file. The vice-admiral’s office on Coruscant was darker than the one on Kamino, but just as spare. The wide view of the city behind him was its only ornament, and the chair the doctor sat in straight and hard. 

“CT-Six-Two-Four-Nine. His record is impeccable.”

“Of course.” Senna felt a touch of pride for her friend. 

“Except for…” Rampart scrolled further down, frowning. “It says here that he was scheduled to be decommissioned on Kamino for striking an officer. You.” The vice-admiral gave her a strange look from behind his desk. “You made him your assistant?” 

The doctor sighed internally. There was always that one little thing. “He showed potential. He has performed to the highest level. As you said, his record is impeccable.”

“Hmm, yes.” Rampart returned to Bern’s file. “Not one infraction in more than three years. Still, a natborn or even a droid could do his job easily. I assume you’re here because we have been replacing your clone medics. What’s so special about this assistant?”

Senna chose her next words carefully. “I am sure that you can appreciate the efficiency that comes with a long term working relationship. I trained him. He anticipates my needs in the office and in the operating theater and it would be difficult to replace that with someone else. It would take time and I’d rather not add that to my plate right now too.” She held back a cringe at the very real frustration that had crept into her voice. Had she gone too far?

But Rampart reacted the way she’d hoped he would. He was just as much a member of this tangled bureaucracy as she was. The Empire didn’t seem entirely keen on making any of their jobs easier.

“Good help can be hard to find.” He gave her a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You may keep your assistant, for now. That need will be reevaluated in the future. Is that all?”

“Yes. Thank you, Vice-Admiral.”

“Anything for you, Doctor,” Rampart replied dryly, already back to his datapad. “Dismissed.”

Crosshair sighed from his position seated on the exam table, reluctantly unsnapping the top of his blacks. “It’s just a bruise,” he rasped, throat still sore from the commando droid’s crushing grasp.

Senna winced at the purple marks around the sniper’s neck.

“You’ve been treating me like glass lately. You don’t have to.” It was his turn to wince as the doctor dabbed the hand-shaped bruise with a salve that stung his nose, trying to be as gentle as possible.

“Hmm, I wonder why that is.”

He lowered his chin to look her in the eye and Senna was struck again by the changes in his face. The deepened lines across his forehead and around his thin mouth made him look more severe than he ever had. His shaved head was almost painful to her as she remembered the soft hair of his childhood. But he’s still here. That’s what matters. 

“Cross.” Senna touched his arm with the back of one gloved finger as she returned to her ministrations. “What is it?”

The sniper grimaced, turning away to look across the room. “It’s nothing.”

“Cross.”

Crosshair sighed, trying not to let his frustration get the better of him. Again. “The governor of Desix. I shot her.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble he hadn’t had a chance to shave. “Cody…he wasn’t going to do it. She was a traitor, but he made her a deal. I couldn’t let him—Grotton would’ve—it was a direct order, Sen. I had to.”

“Then why..?” Senna wasn’t sure she understood his conflict. He must have killed Separatists during the war. They all had, or would have if they’d had the chance. 

“The commander—after the mission—he said something to me. About…having to live with my choices.”

Senna’s brows raised slightly as she finished applying the medicine. That sounded like Cody. But it didn’t sound to her like an Imperial clone commander. She took a step back to study her patient as she stripped off her gloves. “You wish you hadn’t shot her.”

“I had to. What would’ve happened if I didn’t?”

The doctor bit her lip, wishing she had an answer. “I’m sorry, dear.”

For a terrifying moment, Crosshair teetered on the edge of a confession. I killed the people on Onderon too. And it was so much worse than this.

He yanked the words back before they could leave his mouth, dropping off the table to refasten his shirt with hands that almost shook. Never. You can never tell her that.

“I’ll see you later,” the doctor said gently, and Crosshair nodded without meeting her eyes. She’s going to think you’re really broken up about that governor, he sighed to himself as he left the medbay. Better than the truth.

Back in her office, Senna mulled over what Crosshair had told her, and what he hadn’t. She hadn’t seen Cody since the transition, and she missed the marshal commander terribly. Too many of his class were gone now. They’d lost Gree on Kashyyyk just as the war was ending, then Fox weeks later at the Jedi Temple. Ponds had been gone for so long now. And Cody’s close friend, Rex, had been lost in the crash of the Tribunal, along with so many of his brothers and the young Jedi commander they had served. 

She’d been glad when Crosshair had told her he’d seen the commander, probably the only other person on base who actually called him by his name. Cody had always been kind. Kind to her boys when so many weren’t. And Senna knew that, although he’d never admit it, Crosshair craved the kind of respect that Cody gave him, that he’d given them all. 

“Be careful, dear,” the doctor whispered to herself, remembering the sun on his armor that was surely gone now, as the Empire drained all their light away.

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