#nurse tunics

[nursecareuniforms]

How to Locate the Best Nursing Uniforms: Some Inspiration

The iconic white nurse dress, often associated with the image of Florence Nightingale and early nursing pioneers, holds a significant place in the history and symbolism of healthcare. In this article, we will explore the origins and evolution of the white nurse dress, its role in shaping the nursing profession, and its continued relevance in today's healthcare environment.

The white nurse dress is a timeless symbol of nursing that has deep historical roots. Its origins can be traced back to the pioneering efforts of Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War in the 19th century. Nightingale, often regarded as the founder of modern nursing, recognized the importance of a distinctive nursing uniform. She introduced the concept of nurses wearing plain, white dresses with aprons and caps. The choice of white was not merely aesthetic; it symbolized purity and cleanliness, principles that were central to nursing care.

At that time, the Care worker tunics served practical purposes as well. It made it easier to spot stains and contaminants, prompting nurses to maintain meticulous hygiene standards. The apron and cap were also functional components, providing protection and aiding in the identification of nurses. Nightingale's uniform became an emblem of dedication and compassion, setting the stage for the nursing profession's transformation.

Evolution and Adaptation

While the traditional Care worker uniforms remain an enduring symbol of nursing, it has evolved over the years to align with the changing needs of healthcare professionals. The modern white nurse dress retains the fundamental principles of cleanliness and professionalism but incorporates design elements that prioritize comfort and functionality.

Today, white nurse dresses are often made from lightweight and breathable materials, allowing nurses to move freely during their demanding shifts. They may feature pockets for easy access to essential tools and items, reducing the need for additional accessories. These dresses are designed to withstand the rigors of a healthcare environment while maintaining a polished and dignified appearance.

The Symbolism and Professionalism

The white nurse dress continues to symbolize professionalism, compassion, and dedication to patient care. Patients and their families often associate the white dress with competence and trustworthiness, instilling confidence in the care provided. The clean and unassuming appearance of the dress reinforces the idea that the focus is on the patient's well-being rather than the attire of the healthcare provider.

Moreover, the white nurse dress reinforces the principles of hygiene and infection control. While modern healthcare uniforms may come in various colors and styles, the white dress still signifies a commitment to maintaining a sterile and safe environment for patients. It is a reminder of the importance of frequent handwashing and meticulous attention to cleanliness, values deeply ingrained in nursing practice.

Conclusion: A Timeless Symbol of Care

In conclusion, the white nurse dress remains a timeless symbol of nursing care and dedication. Its origins in the pioneering work of Florence Nightingale continue to influence the nursing profession today. While the design has evolved to accommodate the practical needs of modern healthcare, the symbolism of purity, professionalism, and patient-centered care remains unchanged. The white nurse dress serves as a powerful reminder of the enduring values and principles that define nursing as a noble and essential profession in the healthcare landscape.

Author Bio: For the white nurse dress David is a professional writer having the specific ideas for the same.

[solbaby7]

Make You Mine

pairing: azriel x reader

warnings: swearing, sexual tension, toxic relationships, possessive themes, violence, ( just a fuck ton of bad decisions babe, i can’t help it, live for a feral Az )

summary:

[ part one ]

—

Sometime after dinner, once the adrenaline and underlying excitement had quelled; you’d decided to keep Damien around. While proving to be generally horrible, he also perfectly filled the place of a pawn.

A pawn in a game that only you knew you were playing.

One that pushed the line of entirely too far when you showed up at training the following day with hickeys lining the length of your neck—the same place Azriel’s lips had pressed their kisses into at dinner. The same lips you’d pictured when Damien was putting them there, hands groping at your ass as he eased the hem of your black dress over your hips.

Azriel notices you the same time you spot Nesta, striding past the shadowsinger without a hint of acknowledgement but you could feel his eyes glued to the fit of your leathers. “I thought it wasn’t your place to be out here playing with swords?” Nesta drawls out, almost bored as her opponent shuffled out of the ring nursing a bruised jaw.

“If that’s the case, then show me where I belong, Lady Death.” You peer up at her and the five finger grip on her hip, practice sword held loose in her free hand.“Unless, you can’t?”

“I’m surprised you still have enough energy to bother,” Nesta gestures to her own neck and you subconsciously tug your shirt higher. “Long night?”

A slow grin grows at the corner of your mouth, hands bracing your weight to hoist yourself into the ring and briefly you all but preen when you feel the shadowsingers rage permeating the air. Toying with Azriel’s poor restraint never ended well but surely he wouldn’t actually kill anyone. Pride overwhelms common sense and you can feel the chill of his shadows slinking around the edges of the ring as if summoned; watching, listening. “Early morning.” Nesta’s grip tightens on the hilt of her practice sword with full intent of taking you up on your offer but when her lips part no words form.

Instead, she makes a noise, not quite a scoff but not exactly a hum either. “So, there is something decent about the company you keep after all.” You don’t take it offensively and you’re certain Nesta’s readying herself for more but it never comes. A brow raises, head tilting to the side but the silence makes sense when the towering figure behind you blocks the warm sun from bare shoulders.

“Actually,” The husky tone tickles the shell of your ear. “—you’ll be sparring with me today.”

“I’d rather not.”

Azriel’s hand curls around your arm, holding firm but not hard enough that you can’t break free if you tried—if you wanted to. You refuse his gaze, focusing on anything but him and his centuries of trained muscles stuffed beneath the fabric of his fighting leathers. He’d ditched the jacket, tunic too, both tossed in a heap near Cassian. Left in nothing but the sleeveless undershirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination; broadcasting the sharp lines of his neck and the soft curls of inky tattoos that resided there. “You don’t get to make the decisions here anymore,” His free hand raises to cup your jaw, tilting your head to the side and he can’t fight his body’s natural reaction to snarl at the very thought of another man’s mouth on your skin. “Not when you keep proving that you make such poor choices.”

You jerk away from his grasp, twisting out of the grip on your arm and a foot smacks at the back of his knees. Finally looking at him—looking down at him, Azriel sees the fire in your eye; the hatred and anger. The betrayal at his hands and the person you had to become because of it. “You have no right to judge my choices.” It’s barely a whisper, concealing as much as you could with so many eyes watching—so many ears listening. “You mean nothing to me.”

“We both know that isn’t true.” Curse your body for reacting to his touch; warm hands sliding up to cup at your waist. The smell of him sinking into your nostrils and seducing every nerve like a walking aphrodisiac.

“I think I have feelings for Elain.”

The reminder snaps you back to reality, hand reaching out to smack him clear across his face. His eyes lower to slits, right cheek going red but you’re too pissed to even register the stinging pain in your palm. “Fine,” Azriel says too casually, jaw ticking with barely there restraint. “We can play this your way.”

It’s gone quiet save for the two of you, the others pausing their fighting to see the scene unfold, waiting to witness the spymaster make an example of you. Certainly, they must’ve forgotten that you’d been doing this since you were old enough to wield a sword; fighting males bigger than Azriel.

Fuck feelings when you had a point to prove.

“I’m not here to play with you, Az. I just want to fight.” It was a cheap shot; using the stupid little nickname to your advantage but his body always reacted so obediently to his name on your tongue. He’d just barely gotten back to his feet before you strike at him, throwing a quick succession of jabs his way in a style that he didn’t teach you.

Maybe all of those weeks away traveling the other courts after his confession had left marks that he hadn’t learned yet.

Something about you that Azriel didn’t know.

The very thought leaves him distracted a second longer than he’d have ever allowed if it was anyone else. He’s quick to recover, blocking and dodging, throwing hits of his own but eventually you grow tired of the refrained punches—the obviously subdued responses to your rage and it only adds more fuel to the fire. “If you aren’t even going to try and be a challenge then just yield so I can spar with Nesta like I planned.”

He hadn’t reached for his sword once, not a single finger twitched to grip at the daggers holstered at his hips and sure, hand-to-hand was fine but with Azriel it felt too close; too intimate. “Is that what you want?” He takes a step closer and immediately your face turns away from him, refusing to acknowledge him or that low tone he took with you and only you. “A challenge?”

“I don’t want anything from you.” Except to have been the first choice. One that he was sure in. Not second guessing if every special moment had only felt like that for you. “Not anymore.” The thought alone has your skin flushing with embarrassment, completely turning around to hide but Azriel just shifts to accommodate.

“You don’t mean that.” There’s worry etched in his brow, skewing the whole canvas of his face and it was like your soul wanted nothing more than to appease him. Battering and clawing at your bones, scrambling for the freedom soothe every line and give him everything he’d ever dreamed of and more.

“I want to.” Azriel watches the stone wall you put up, rounding up all that love and adoration, cradling at the sobbing affection that no longer had a place to call home. It takes everything in you to leave it all, to ignore the desire to toss aside better judgement and fall into the need. The softness in your eyes dies with the squaring of your shoulders as you retake your stance, regarding him as nothing more than one of the recruits. “Fight me or leave the ring—I don’t exactly have all day.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to leave. Forfeit and grant you a worthy opportunity but that is not the case.

You should’ve known better.

Azriel’s determination was a force to be reckoned with, skilled swipes of his sword followed by combat moves he only saved for the battlefield. A particularly rough strike is blocked but it still makes you stumble. “Is this challenge enough for you?” Azriel demands, swords interlocked, faces so close you could smell the minty scent of toothpaste on his breath. Golden eyes are piercing under the suns rays, barely concealing how impressed he truly was with the way you’d kept up. Swift and limber, light on your feet and efficient in every step taken but there’s a certain chaos to your moves—something fresh and unpredictable. “This right here,” The fight, the passion, the frantic thrum of your blood rushing in your ears from the pure adrenaline that erupted at the sight of him. “—is why we will never be over.” He’s not even breaking a sweat, syllables breaching perfectly kissable lips while looking like he belonged on a throne in the deepest chasms of Hel. “I know he doesn’t make you feel like this—not like I do.”

“Stop.” It takes more effort now; balancing keeping up that stone wall and maintaining your composure under his attacks. A deep breath to settle your thoughts and you completely drop your sword, effortlessly switching to something more hands on.

“Don’t you see that I can’t?” The restraint in his voice slips, a vein bulging in his neck and your fingers scream for you to reach out and trace it. “Not until you see that he will never be able to do for you what I can.” Azriel’s shadows swirl around your arms, clamping them close to your body as he pulls you into him—his chest on your back and those hands attempting to disarm you. Your breath hitches when you feel the trace of warm skin down the length of your holsters and the weapons fastened to them. A barely there that sends your body in a pure frenzy; one that demands all things Azriel until the end of time. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what it felt like—you and me.” The stiff length of his cock pressed into the curve of your spine and it takes everything in you not to actually moan. “Just say the words and I’ll remind you. Right here in front of everyone if that’s what you wish.”

Do it. Your thoughts shout. Do it. You know you want to.

“I think I have feelings for Elain.”

Sharp jabs of your elbow to his abdomen. A hand that clamps down around the thick bulk of his arm and all that manly strength is used against him when he’s flipped right over your shoulder. Legs straddle at his waist, one blade shoved at his throat while the other pressed gently at his chest. “No, he doesn’t make me feel how you do.” You confess, breathless and your shoulders slump ever so slightly. “But, at least with him, I know I was his first choice. At least with him,” Your words shake and Azriel can’t handle the way you have to force the composure. “—I never have to worry about being second best.” The swords clatter to the ground, not bothering to retrieve them as you get back to your feet.

You’re nearly at the edge of the ring when he calls out, still on the ground and propped up on his elbows. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Neither do you, Az.”

[shirefantasies]

Can I ask for a request?

For the fellowship men? So they get wounded and their crush have to nurse them? And she is total calm with that like "Hun your leg is bleeding you have to take off your pants so I can treat the wound" and she's total obvious and didn't get the longing looks she get oder when he ist flustered and shiver because she touch his skin. ("Sry for the cold hands")

I’ll do my best! Tried to vary up the scenarios a bit 😉 thank you so much for requesting 😌 Warnings: some blood & injury mentions, minor language, some suggestive jokes!

The Fellowship When Their Crush Cares For Their Wound

Aragorn

"Won't you please sit down?"

The tender urgency of your words finally ran a shock through Aragorn, who complied. Perhaps it truly was no good to continue pressing on at the detriment of the group.

"Very well. We rest!"

"That was not so hard, was it?" You asked him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Now, if you please." Pantomiming removing your shirt, you nodded his way.

Aragorn's brows furrowed, blue eyes fixing you with concern, questioning, as he sat and tightened his bootstraps.

"I saw that slash you took," you breathed, "let yourself be cared for."

Inhaling, he nodded, unlacing and shrugging down his tunic. Never had you made such a request before, but giving as you were, it made sense. Such nature was what inevitably drew Aragorn to you. Your touch was soft as you reached out to caress the skin above where he had been injured. Cleaned it just as gently.

"What?" You suddenly broke the silence, tilting your head and fixing Aragorn with an innocent bat of your eyes. You truly had no idea.

He shook his head, a smile playing upon his lips to swallow the wince of pain as you began wrapping his cut flesh in bandages. "Nothing. Only gratitude at the care of your heart and the ease of your hands."

You smiled back, sending Aragorn's chest leaping somewhere far deeper than the pain could reach.

Legolas

"You're bleeding."

"It is nothing, really," the elven prince tried to brush you off, but shaking your head, you stepped in front of him.

"Keep not your pride so tight about you," you chastised, hands upon your hips and a teasing look upon your face, "the dwarf can't see you. Come. Let me at least wrap it up for you."

Legolas's expression softened at your words, and with a slight nod, he followed. Wordlessly he removed his layers when you reached a spot off to the side, dark eyes never leaving you as he revealed the entirety of the wound, a slash near his collarbone. Unthinkingly, your hands went right to the area around it.

"Oh, Legolas, it's worse than I..." You paused, feeling him shiver. "I'm sorry, are my hands cold?"

"A bit," he replied with a bit of a smile, resting both of his hands over yours.

Flushing, you shake your head. "I am supposed to be caring for you."

Legolas just smiled at you. "Can we not have both? This is the least I can do."

"True," you teased, "I suppose it benefits us both, does it not?"

"Indeed," he nodded, "but mostly yet I know no other way to show my heart's gratitude."

Boromir

"I can hardly believe you!"

"Believe what? We are safe again," Boromir replied, a hand tightly clasping your shoulder.

"You are well aware what, you hero of a man," you shot back, waving a hand up and down his form, "now go and lie down for me already!"

"Oh?" His brows shot up at your words. "Is that how you like it?"

"No matter me, you've been wounded! Being surrounded upon all sides and grazed with arrows does that to a man. I saw the one that caught your side and while I'd like to hold you up as much as you need, first we'd best patch you up."

"Oh," Boromir said again, this time a bit dumbly as he lowered to the ground with a nod. His teasing tone quickly returned, however, "Yes, indeed, whatever you say. I forget what a great healer you are."

"Well, I certainly may not be the best, but there is no reason to burden oneself with wounds already inflicted. Not to mention it mostly got your back."

The moment Boromir exposed himself, he glanced back at you, catching the trace of your eyes over his skin. Your hands soon fell upon it, working quickly to clean and wrap up the bloody graze nice and tight. What surprised him, though, was the work of your hands after this, your fingers kneading the skin around it. Pleasure and pain rolled in equal waves through him as you did so.

"My apologies, does this hurt too much? I felt you start a bit just now. My brother just told me that we heal better if we're relaxed."

"And I believe that wholeheartedly," Boromir agreed with a smile, "please continue. I must confess I have never received such fine treatment before."

Giggling at his comment and eliciting a chuckle from him in return, you continued with a smile of your own.

Gimli

“Sit still!”

“I can still fight!”

“Like hell you will,” you shot back, stopping Gimli again with a hand across his chest, “I don’t care what you think you can do, you just could have been killed! Now stay there, please. I’m worried about you.”

Spoken considerably softer, those last four words were what halted Gimli’s protest the most, a glow of warmth and hope ringing out in his chest. His lips parted a bit in surprise. “Oh. Alright, then, do what you need.” For all his bravado, it had been a nasty case, his body slammed down so hard and his now-pounding head taking the brunt of the force.

“Thank you.” Reaching your hands up, you slid his helmet off first, tucking his hair behind his ears. You could feel the way he tensed up at your actions as you pulled one hand away to fetch your cloth. "Sorry, did that sting?"

He had to get out his head- all you were doing was taking care of him. "Not at all. Please-please continue." Perhaps his words sounded desperate, but Gimli barely cared when your hands were on him like that.

Speaking of which... You took firmer hold, tilting him by the chin to get a better angle with which to dab the warm fabric over the wound.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

Frodo

"Would you not like to do something about this?"

Frodo simply peered up into your eyes with his glistening blue stare, tilting his head inquisitively and tugging at his sleeves, which you then took a hold of.

"No, no, take this all off is what I meant."

"Take- take it all...?"

Hand crossing over your shoulders, you drew lines down in an impression of the chain Frodo wore, the impossibly heavy burden he bore burning into his skin at all times. "Surely you feel it. You must. Keep it on, I won't touch it, but please let me ease the pain."

Blinking, Frodo inhaled, nodded. "Very well. What will you do, then?"

"Just put some salve up there around where the chain is. Here, just take your shirt off a bit," you told him, fussing with his jacket but allowing Frodo himself to undo the top buttons of his shirt.

He glanced up, followed your gaze and saw it lie not upon the ring, but upon his, and visibly relaxed, a smile finally working its way to his soft lips. Nodding again, he sat back as your hand pushed the metal chain up from its place, spreading your healing concoction upon the opened skin. When your hand got lower, you could feel how rapid his heartbeat was thumping beneath skin and bone.

"Don't worry, really. All I care about is you." Did it pick up again?

"I am at ease, the first of such I've felt in some time. I cannot thank you enough," he replies with a shake of his head and a kiss to the hand you weren't using.

Sam

"Alright, Sam, open up your shirt."

"I beg your pardon?"

Shaking your head, you chuckled at his wide eyes. "I heard you got a nasty scrape, and if so, I've got just the thing for it."

Shock still swam in his green eyes, his fingers hovering over the buttons hesitantly as he glanced between them and you.

Flushing, you spoke once more, much more hastily as you held up the jar of medicine in question. "Oh! Er, well, if you'd rather someone else take a look, I can give this to Aragorn and he can-"

"No!" Sam cut you off, shaking his head. "No, no let's not trouble Strider, you're all right. Here we go."

Glancing back and forth, he sat down upon a rock and undid the top three buttons of his shirt, wiggling the fabric loose to reveal the wound you'd been told of. Your eyes wandered a bit before guiltily returning to Sam's; he smiled faintly as you dipped your fingers into the cool contents of the jar and reached back up to smear some on. Sam, surprisingly, did not flinch but he did shiver a bit.

"Oh, my apologies, I should have warmed it up a bit better first, shouldn't I?"

He sat up a bit straighter at your words. "Not at all, I can take it. Just...just startled me a bit is all. Don't worry your pretty head."

Merry

"Trousers off. Let's see it."

"Right now?" Merry loudly whispered, eyes going round.

"Yes, right now," you fussed, "or else you'll bleed out! Come on."

"Oh. Oh, the wound, yes. Bit of a close one there, wasn't it?"

You put a hand on your hip as Merry lowered into a seated position and undid his belt. "Had Boromir not been there with his shield, you could have lost your leg. What were you thinking?"

"Well, if you really must know," Merry shot back, shimmying his outer garments down to reveal a glistening red gash upon his right leg, "thought charging in might impress you."

He shuddered under the cleansing water you pressed against it, likely due to the cold. Your brow furrowed equally at the wound as it was at him, your eyes darting up to search his. "Impress me?" You replied incredulously.

"Yes," he agreed with a crooked, devious smile, "and with that first line of yours, I thought it'd worked."

Pippin

“Alright, take off your trousers.”

Pippin’s eyebrows shot up as his hands slid to his belt. “Is that what we’re doing? Well, all right then…”

Head tilted and brows furrowed in confusion, you fixed him with a look. “Of course we are, you got a huge gash above the knee. Lucky for you Aragorn harvested us a whole lot of poultice herbs the other day.” Your gaze slid between Pippin and your work of crushing the leaves as he sheepishly loosened his garments.

“Right, right, I knew that, yes. So the leaves are going to go down first, then?”

“Indeed,” you nodded, dabbing at the remaining dribble of blood before you began gently dabbing the poultice on.

Your eyes traveled back up to meet his, their deep green sheen bringing a shy smile to your face. Beneath your hand, he shuddered faintly.

“Sorry, does that sting?” You asked him, glancing again between your work and him.

Puffing out his chest a bit, Pippin shook his head. “Not at all. Not when I have the best nurse in all of Middle Earth to take care of me. Feels a bit good, in fact.”

Flushing, you gave a full smile at his words as you tied off his bandage. “Well, having the best patient helps, too.” Feeling a bit bold, you reached up and patted his cheek. “Let me know if you need anything else, alright?”

A wide grin spread across Pippin’s face. “Oh, I can think of something."

[bloodiedrogue]

FEAR OF LOSING IT (4)

SUMMARY: When it's discovered that Astarion's being hunted, you take matters into your own bloody hands.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 4,235

WARNINGS: Teasing, spoilers for BG3, canon typical violence, minor character death, pining if you squint a little, feelings realized!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Day 4 is here! Prompt is "you're not scared, are you? Of Me?" So hopefully I did it justice?

Also sidenote, to anyone wanting to be on the taglist. I had a few issues tagging some people but I still put your name. Not sure why it won't let me tag so check your settings and next fic I'll try again.

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

-

The sun beams down as you walk along the water’s edge, carefully stepping over damp rocks and foliage with narrowed eyes. As per usual, you and Astarion are trailing behind the rest of the pack —you because of the hangover you’ve been nursing all morning; him because he lives to irritate you. 

“I don’t understand how you feel so ill. You barely had more than a few drops of that ale.” 

Slightly in front of you, Astarion steps around a patch of suspicious-looking rocks, turning to grab your arm and guide you out of the way as you scrunch up your face in disgust. 

The air is way too hot to be touched. Beneath the fabric of your tunic, you can feel your skin grow increasingly sticky, prompting you to brush off Astarion's hand but reluctantly still follow with a groan. 

“I drank more at camp,” you confess, feeling a pain radiate inside your head. One that’s almost reminiscent of the tadpole, pulsing in angry motions that make you close your eyes and quietly wince. 

Picking up on your discomfort, Astarion slows his pace, opting to walk alongside you rather than ahead. “And why in gods name did you decide to do that?”

Immediately, you shrug your shoulders, offering him nothing despite knowing the reason. Last night at the party you embarrassingly drank to forget all those thoughts. The ones filled with visions of hands and mouths gliding across your wanting skin. 

Even now you hate to admit it, but after parting ways, you were still a bit riled up. A mixture of anger and annoyance coating your soul once you finally got situated inside your tent, knowing deep down there wasn’t much you could do. Gale had already returned to camp before you so you definitely couldn’t do the deed yourself without the possibility of further embarrassment, and you sure as hell weren’t going to wander back to Astarion with your hands between your thighs, begging for release.

In the end, the only other option was to get pissed drunk, so you did. And now, you were greatly suffering the consequences in the form of a whole day’s worth of walking under the beating sun alongside an overly stubborn and nosy vampire. 

“All by your lonesome?” 

Without even having to think, he looks at you with the kind of false pity that makes you want to drown him. To lace your fingers in his perfect locks so that you can better shove his face into the water, never to hear that damned voice again. 

Gods, is it ever tempting...

Rolling your eyes, you swear under your breath and shove him aside instead, feeling the edge of your elbow make contact with his chest before you attempt to step forward, feeling his hand pull you back. 

Overall, the motion is quick and painless —a twirling rush that sends you hurtling into his frame, boxing you in in the form of a hand that rests against your lower back— but regardless it still surprises you. 

“Was it because you wanted it?”

His hand lingers against your leathers as he awaits your answer. Barely putting enough weight to truly hold you back, it quickly becomes obvious that your current stance against him is of your own volition. A choice you’ve made during a moment of weak desire as you deeply inhale the dewy air. 

“Wanted what?”

“You know.” 

At this point, you’re positive he knows that you secretly like it when he touches you. When he physically guides you through difficult terrain or lets your fingers brush when trading trinkets after a day of looting. You’ve never made it known that you dislike it —never protested, even during times of tense discussion. All you’ve ever done is make faces of annoyance, hoping he’ll take the hint.

He never does. Not even now, as you press both of your palms against his chest, applying a bit of pressure as you stare him down, does he think to move. To let his hand fall to his side to let you continue your stride. Instead, all it does is remain perfectly still, resting against the small of your back, waiting. 

It makes you swallow hard as you take a step back, feeling the resistance of your hip as it brushes through his fingers.

“You’re really not going to admit it?” he asks then, watching you pause. Feeling you stop mid-step to cock your head and flash him a grin so utterly snobbish, that his facade of confidence finally slips. 

“What? That I want to fuck you?” 

Your voice is patronizing. A pointed tongue laced with poison gunning for his throat. You want him to taste his own medicine. To feel what it’s like to be on the receiving end of taunting words that fluster, so you don’t say much more. All you do is stare, waiting for him to break.

“No, that you want me to fuck you,” he corrects almost immediately, his courage returning ten-fold. Doubling down on the way your mouth slightly opens in annoyance, because even in your boldest of moments he still manages to throw you off.

It makes you want to drown yourself instead, realizing just how persuasive he can be. Without trying, it’s as if he’s perfected every potential conversation before it’s happened. In his mind, he can look at a face —hear the beginnings of their voice and already have the correct response at the ready.

“Do you spend all your time thinking of ways to seduce anyone that gives you the time of day?” As you speak, you fully step away, turning on your heel to let out a shaky breath you pray he doesn’t catch. 

“Only the attractive ones, I suppose.” He laughs and follows behind, his footsteps echoing through the water as you attempt to catch up with the rest of the group. 

“Attractive ones, huh?” You peer over your shoulder with a raised brow. “Is that a genuine compliment you’re offering or another one of your usual deceptions meant to butter me up?”

He doesn’t tell you. Instead, he just offers you a shrug and purses his lips, leaving you guessing —an expression that only tightens the tension that’s seemingly begun to grow.

Well, at least for you. 

Since the night you let him feed, even you have to admit that you’ve found it increasingly hard to resist his charms, remembering how good it felt to just let go for a couple of moments. How, when it happened, there was an inkling of freedom that you felt was found. A new sense of clarity that arrived just as your lifeblood left. 

As much as you’d deny it if asked, you think about it often. At night, when you’re lying in your tent trying to sleep, you frequently attempt to replicate that feeling, calling upon your tadpole to replay the memory of the cold, numbness deep inside your throat.

As you step out of the water onto a patch of grass, you wish you could feel it now instead of the hangover. Instead of the sweltering heat and Astarion's piercing gaze penetrating the back of your head, waiting for another response he’ll just counter. 

It’d certainly make the daily trek you’re experiencing all the more bearable. Being able to forget about the aching in your skull for just a moment would solve at least half of your problems, maybe even two-thirds of them depending on how Astarion proceeds to act. On whether or not he walks in silence or—

“Do you smell that?”

You release a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, feeling your impatience begin to build. “Smell what?”

He loudly sniffs beside you, his nose scrunching upwards dramatically before he turns his head, narrowing his eyes. “You’re telling me you don’t smell that?” 

“Smell w—“

  Before you even have time to react, it hits you. The foul stench of metallic burning through your mouth and nose, forcing you to cover your face with your hands.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” 

You nod, tightening the hold around your face as you continue forward, realizing you’ve somehow lost the rest of the group —something Astarion notices too, causing both of you to slightly panic.

“Oh, for fuck sakes, really? They couldn’t at least wait for us to finish our…”

As he trails off, waving his hand in the air to replace whatever words die in his throat, you catch a glimpse of an unfamiliar man up ahead, watching as the both of you continue.

“They’re probably over the hill,” you point out then, trying your best not to let the sudden nerves inside your chest get the better of you once you see the nameless man raise his hand, beckoning you closer.

“Who the bloody —do you know him?”

You look at Astarion as if he’s just said the stupidest thing known to man, still moving forward. “Ah yes, the mysterious man standing out in the open! Yes, I know him well, why?”

“Alright, no need to be cruel.” 

“Says you.”

Once again, his response fades to nothing. The argument slipping down his throat once the voice of the man calls out to you.

“Maybe he saw where the others went?”

Astarion scoffs. “Or maybe he’s the one who’s been setting up all those traps.”

“Traps?” 

You don’t remember seeing any traps. But then again, you’re not very perceptive when your head feels like it’s on the verge of splitting in half. 

“Yes, traps. The one’s I’ve been guiding you through like a fucking cattle dog!”

Letting your frustrations get the better of you shove him aside before you can think, turning to let both hands lay waste to his shoulder causing him to stumble sideways. As he does, he looks at you with hesitant curiosity; knitting his brows together while his mouth falls open into a half smile. 

An awkward laugh sounds through the pounding in your head as the footsteps draw near, prompting you to look ahead, noticing the man a few steps away, looking between the two of you. 

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” 

His words sound sincere —cautious in a way that has you peeling your gaze away from Astarion's wild expression to shake your head.

“No, sorry, just a, uh—“

“A lover’s quarrel,” Astarion finishes. “You know how it is.” 

Angrily you inhale, paying his obviously entertained face no mind as you continue to survey the man now in front of you, noticing the plainness of his clothes and the unkempt hair that circles his face like a halo. 

It’s apparent then that he’s been on the road for some time now. He’s not necessarily dirty looking but quickly you realize he’s the cause of the smell, making you swallow hard in an attempt to suppress the sickness that follows. 

“Ah yes, of course. My apologies.” He laughs —as does Astarion— while you just frown in between, trying not to blow another fuse. 

“I’m sorry but can we help you?” You crane your neck and smile sweetly, letting the more deceptive side of your mind take over, prompting Astarion to quickly clue in and do the same. 

“I was just speaking to your friends up there. They told me you were falling behind.” 

“And that’s your business because?” Raising your brow, you watch him falter for a moment.

“I’ve set some traps along the path. Nothing too hidden if you’ve got a keen eye like all of you, but still, I informed them of their whereabouts.”

Informed them of their whereabouts? Please. This man’s trapping skills are abysmal at best. 

You have to bite your lip once you hear Astarion's insult in the back of your mind, knowing he’s right. It’s one thing for him to notice the traps but for the rest of your party to as well? There’s no way they would’ve noticed if not for the lack of effort put into their placings.

“Well, uh, thank you. That’s decent of you.” You nod but make no effort to move. Instead, you just stand there motionless, staring him down, waiting for him to elaborate further so that you can better gauge this man’s intentions. 

You’re certain they’re anything but innocent. Given the smell wafting off his leathers and the way he keeps glancing over at Astarion with a slight twinkle in his eye makes your suspicion only grow. Your defensive walls rising to their highest point as you look at the vampire, allowing your tadpole to reach out. 

He’s up to something.

“Yes, well, I’m not hunting the likes of you so best avoid the unnecessary conflict and clean up.” The man’s gaze slowly turns to you, a hardened grin creeping through his features, causing you to twitch. 

There’s definitely something off. Something far more sinister underneath that polite expression and overly eager attempt at making small talk but you’re still not sure what it is. Or what it means when he offers you his help. 

“Fair point, but what are you hunting, may I ask?” 

“Something terrifying?” Astarion questions. “Perhaps a dragon or a kobold?”

What if it’s you?

Your partner’s eyes shoot to yours. Immediately, they fill with something you’ve never seen before. Bordering on fear, you’re quick to notice their unexpected vigilance. The building of a thought that drives his mind to something new. 

Suddenly in an instant, he’s overly alert, the movements of his shifting pupils making you wonder if maybe this is the man Astarion's been looking out for. That somewhere in his past he took advantage of the wrong person and they’ve been enacting their revenge ever since. Honestly, it’d make sense. Vampires aren’t the most well-liked of creatures, and although, aside from Astarion you’ve never experienced the company of one, it’s become increasingly obvious he’s a special case. A vampire that excels in all deceptive measures and tactics, preying heavily on whatever victims he can get his hands on. So, it wouldn’t be far off to think this man was hired to kill him. 

Making use of the tadpole again, you reach out silently, feeling no reluctance as the face of a man appears at the back of your mind, towering over you. Black as the night itself, he shrouds you in an ocean of thick shadows that conceal his face but not his presence, and because of this, there’s a panic that rises through your chest. Clutching your lungs with clawed fingertips that threaten to burst them like balloons. 

You force yourself not to look at Astarion as the memory continues —as an angry voice echoes through your ears telling you you’re his. That you belong to him and no one else and that if you so much as step a hair out of line he’ll hunt you down. 

Before you can even react the memory fades, leaving you there to piece together the man in the vision and the hunter standing before you, knowing they’re connected by a common enemy. Strung together by a tether of motivation that ties around Astarion's throat like a tightened noose. 

He’s not here to kill him but to take him away. To snatch him right under your noses by playing the unsuspecting hero. 

“As exciting as those options are, I'm actually on the lookout for a vampire spawn. His name is Astarion but I fear he’s already long gone.”

His confirmation is all you need to let your guard rise further up. Allowing your fingers to stretch against your sides, readying their need to reach for your weapon, you merely nod your head and let Astarion take the reins. 

“Oh, what a pity. It’s always like that for creatures to run away at the illest of moments, isn’t it?” He leans in with that same devilish grin, tossing aside all previous fears in favour of this newfound information. 

“Isn’t it,” the man parrots, shaking his head with a fake laugh. “Rather unfortunate considering I’m only trying to bring him home.” 

“Home?”

The word pours from your lips with such desperation that even the hunter questions your response. Raising his brow, he only slightly leans forward with interest, clicking his tongue as he glances between the two of you. “You wouldn’t happen to know this Astarion character, would you?” 

“I don’t think I’ve heard of him.” 

“Nope.” 

You sound like two opposing sides of a coin. Astarion, ever the charmer responds with subtly, the structure of his body remaining calm and collected while you remain a ball of nerves. A tightly wound set of muscle and bone too quick on the draw for your response to be deemed believable.

“He’s dangerous, you know. A wicked thing. Or, so I’ve heard.” He’s speaking solely to you but regardless Astarion continues to control the conversation, pulling it all back with a loud hum. 

“Wicked you say? Care to elaborate.”

There’s confusion for a moment. Then acceptance, prompting the man in front of you to explain. “While he’s nothing more than a vampiric spawn, he’s still got quite the head on his shoulders. Cunning, but nothing compared to a real vampire.” 

You know Astarion’s fuming beneath his facade then. Eagerly awaiting to rip this man apart, limb by bloody limb once the opportunity arises. You can feel his emotions through the tadpole —the way they pulse in angry waves, threatening to spill out at a moment’s notice. 

Almost instantly, it forces you to push him back. Closing your eyes for a second or two, you shift thoughts of comfort to his head, letting him know that you’re there. That if the moment comes where this hunter makes his move you’ll be ready to defend him.

Thankfully, it calms him down —steadies the rousing anger that you know is still there, lingering beneath the surface. Allowing him to take a few breaths, resetting himself for the inevitable. 

“I mean, I’m no expert but considering they’re still technically vampires I feel it’s safe to assume you’re still at the risk of… oh, I don’t know, injury? A good maiming perhaps if the spawn were to be particularly famished?” 

“You’re not wrong, I suppose. Spawns are particularly powerful compared to the average but considering the sun’s high and dry I’d say we have the advantage.” 

“Do we now?”

The two of you share a glance. Astarion's tadpole squirms in time with your own and in an instant a plot is formed.

“Actually, now that you mention it I have heard tell of this Astarion fellow,” you muse, watching the man’s expression. How it changes from innocent hero to hungry hunter at the drop of a hat. 

Next to you, Astarion nods his head, echoing your words.

“You don’t say?” 

“We were actually a part of a camp not far from here last night. A big group. So, it makes sense why the name didn’t come to me sooner.” You push out a fake laugh, acting as if the whole thing’s some silly little mistake while you wave a hand through the air. “Now that you’ve reminded me though, he was definitely there, lurking about like a little leech.” 

You wiggle your fingers for dramatics, earning a scoff inside your mind that has you forcing back a genuine laugh, sensing Astarion’s annoyance. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know what way he was going?” 

This time Astarion pipes up. “I remember him saying something but, honestly, my uh, memory is a big foggy.” 

As he raises a hand to his face, gripping the bridge of his nose, you motion the man to move close. “Perhaps a bit of coin could remind my uh, lover here of the information you seek.” 

Lover, huh? 

Paying no mind to his internal dialogue, you rub your fingers together to signify your partner’s needs, watching intently as the man leans back and looks at you with slight annoyance before taking a moment, realizing he’s got nothing to lose. 

Considering the payout will more than likely cover such costs, he quickly turns his attention to the bag resting on his hip, opening it up with slow hands that you jump at the chance to catch off guard. 

Pulling a dagger off your hip, you make no sound as you drive the blade into the side of his throat. All you do is press a hand to his mouth, covering the groans that swiftly coat your fingers in blood, following him toward the ground. 

“I’d say be wary the next time you come snooping in other people’s business but I’m afraid it’s too late for that, isn’t it?” you tell him, feeling him struggle. Seeing him reach out to grab the knife that sits tightly in your hand, wedging itself further into the apex of his neck. Suddenly, it makes you realize what you’ve done. 

You’ve just killed a man in cold blood. And for the life of another killer, no less. Without so much as a thought, you drove this man straight to his grave, knowing that if you didn’t the probability of him gaining the upper hand would only grow. That if he survived and caught on to your ploy, he could’ve taken Astarion away. 

You realize then that you’re anything but ready for something like that to happen. Sure, he may be the cause of a lot of your frustrations throughout the day but somehow he manages to balance them out with his charm. With his innate ability to provide you with a space that’s begun to border the lines of comfort the more time you spend with him. 

It’d hurt too much to let him go. But it’d hurt even more knowing he’d be going back to his old life. To the one you still know so little about but feel its pain. The never-ending threat of a figure controlling his every movement. He may not have spared the details but you know the last thing he wants is to find his way back there, so you did what you had to do to prevent that. To keep him safe just as you so subtly promised. 

Breathing heavily, you let go of the knife and look toward him, asking him if he’s okay. 

“Okay? Darling, you can’t be serious!”

“What?” 

He’s kneeling on the ground beside you before anything else, reaching to grab your shoulders, pulling you roughly into his chest. “You just asked that man to pay us money and then jabbed a knife through his throat. If anyone should be asking who’s okay here, it’s me.”

“I’m fine. Are y—“

“Shhh.”

Up until now, it hadn’t occurred to you how badly you’d been shaking. Against his chest, you can feel the tremors of adrenaline take over as your head slowly lowers to his shoulder, releasing a loud and shaky breath. 

You know exactly what came over you at that moment. The fear of losing the only person that’s ever made you feel happy despite your flaws became too real and it caused you to lose all sense of preservation. 

Almost instantly, you became nothing more than a weapon —a striking blade shoved through opposing flesh. You felt the threat of the moment and your mind flew through all the other possibilities, landing on the only ending where Astarion's safety was ensured. 

Realizing this, you slowly move to wrap your arms around his waist, feeling him hesitate halfway through. 

It’s obvious then you’ve crossed some sort of boundary, so you go to pull away, apologizing under your breath as you feel his grip only tighten. 

“Are you okay?”

You’re not sure why he’s asking. Or why he refuses to let you go. “Astarion, I said I’m fine.” 

“Yes but are you okay?”

One of his hands moves to cup your cheek, pulling your focus back to him. Forcing you to see the uncharacteristic care inside his eyes as he thumbs your skin. It causes your tadpole to wriggle almost uncontrollably, discovering the connection that’s there. The unspoken bond he shares with you now that you’ve proved your loyalty. It’s enough to earn your honesty. To admit that you’re not okay while he continues to hold you. 

You’re not sure why you care so much for him. Maybe it’s the attention he offers in a world where loneliness is often rampant or the way he makes you laugh even during the most unsightly moments. Either way, all you know is that in this moment you’re afraid he’ll hate you for it. For letting the curtain of snide remarks and harsh jokes slip to reveal a body of emotions too big for you to carry by yourself. 

“I couldn’t let him take you.” 

Your voice is barely above a whisper. So inaudible against the sounds of the world around you that for a second you think you’ve spoke to his mind.

“I see that. You struck him before I could even ask him to sweeten the deal.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Astarion snorts and moves his hand, letting it glide across your cheek until it finds purchase beneath your chin. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You saw a dangerous man and took charge. Honestly, it was frightening.” 

“You’re not scared, are you?”

“Of?”

“Of me?” 

The laugh he lets go of is so full that this time you feel him shake, his frame rattling against yours as he taps your chin. “Not in the slightest, my dear. Impressed, maybe. A little bit turned on too if I’m being frank but no. Not scared.”

-

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[gaiussleechtank]

It was one of those nights: the peaceful ones where both King and Court Warlock could shed their titles and just exist as two friends sharing cups of wine beside a fire. Both were silent as they nursed their drinks and basked in the dim lighting the fire provided Arthur’s dark chambers.

Merlin was lying across the floor on top of countless pillows and blankets, parallel to the hearth of the fireplace. His feet were bare as he had kicked off his boots hours earlier and the cords of his tunic were pulled extremely loose. Merlin’s legs were crossed one over the other as one hand played with a lock of his own hair as the other blindly traced the engravings of his goblet.

Arthur was sat his chair above Merlin, facing the fire and looking down at the peaceful man. He was glad that Merlin’s eyes were closed because it allowed the King to openly stare. For someone who was regarded to be so aware of everything all of the time - Merlin has not once ever cottoned on to Arthur’s gaze on him. In a way, it was reassuring that Arthur didn’t have to fear being caught by the very man he was observing. But it another way it was far too frustrating: Arthur nearly wanted to be caught and then in turn be forced to admit his reasons for staring.

For the Goddess’ sake, how could Arthur not look anywhere but Merlin with the man lying so enchantingly in front of him, doused in the golden light of the flames?

How could he lay his eyes elsewhere when nothing and no one else brought him nearly as much happiness and fulfilment in his heart than Merlin?

How could he when Merlin was everything that he loved?

The nearly empty goblet rested on his lap with his hands encircling the rim, it would be stupid to say it.

“Merlin?” Arthur broke their silence.

Merlin hummed in response, he didn’t move nor open his eye, but the tone of his voice easily told Arthur that he was listening.

“I’m in love with you.” Oh, fuck.

The body in front of him stilled. Merlin’s hand retracted from his hair as he slowly sat up. Arthur couldn’t tell you when the Warlock’s eyes had opened but he could give you a thousand words at least on what it felt like to be under their unending gaze. Merlin didn’t look away from Arthur as he got to his feet and came to stand in front of his King.

Merlin might not have ever been aware of when Arthur’s eyes were on him - but Arthur was far too aware of Merlin’s piercing stare. The King averted his eyes and stared down at the lingering mouthful of wine in his cup, listening to Merlin’s few footsteps.

A hand slid underneath Arthur’s jaw and half cupped the side of his face: hesitantly, Arthur let himself be guided to look up at Merlin. Had it been anyone else, this would have been so dangerous - to willing put his heart and mind at risk by giving someone else so much control over him would have been a death wish if it were anyone else.

Yet this was Merlin, the one person in his life that he would faithfully trust the world with to the ends of time.

It was sad eyes that Arthur saw. Not angry. Not disgusted. Not hurt, or even happy. Sad, sad, eyes that Arthur would nearly say were brokenhearted.

Merlin sighed with a pained and defeated expression. “Not again.”

“What?” Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat.

Merlin smiled with a soft pain, his thumb stroked over Arthur cheek as he said, “You don’t love me, Arthur.”

“I- I do.” Arthur stammered, he hadn’t anticipated out right refusal, denial and disbelief as an outcome. “I do love you, Merlin.”

Merlin swallows and seemed to choke back tears.

“No, Arthur, you don’t.” He repeated. “This is a love enchantment, this has happened before. You aren’t in love with me.”

The words were far too rehearsed, Merlin’s expression too knowing and understanding. Arthur felt like a petulant child being gently corrected on the truth. Had this really happened before? Had Arthur been enchanted to be in love with Merlin before?

“Merlin, I know my feelings, please believe me.” Arthur begged in futile.

“I don’t think you realise how badly I want to, but I can’t.”

Arthur’s eyes widened at Merlin’s confession - even though the feelings were reciprocated, Arthur was still being rejected - but he saw it. He saw all of the held back and restrained love Merlin held in his eyes for Arthur. He finally was bearing witness to Merlin’s affection, only because the Warlock was allowing him to.

“Is it really so unbelievable that I love you that you are convinced my mind is under the control of a spell of potion?”

“I know you love me - in the way friends love one another, brothers even.” Merlin stressed, his words clearly hurting himself. “But you don’t love me the way I want you to, you never have and you never will.”

“You do want me to love you like this?” Arthur countered.

Merlin closed his eyes and shakily let out a sob, his hands ran from Arthur’s jaw and face, around the King’s neck and weakly grasped at the back of Arthur’s head. He pressed his face into Arthur’s hair, Arthur pulled Merlin in closer and strung his arms around the Warlock’s waist and back: he could feel Merlin weep.

“You won’t remember this conversation, you never have, so why not?” Merlin muttered with a bitterness that surprised the King. “I have loved you for years, Arthur, what I feel for you goes beyond the devotion of prophecy and bond of friendship. I’ve always known that you will never feel the same.”

How his heart ached on the verge of breaking: Merlin loved him. He was in love with Arthur. He felt the same as Arthur but clearly awful past experiences that Arthur cannot remember are preventing him from acting on the truth.

Arthur tried to speak but was cut off before he could even utter a syllable.

“No, Arthur, please stop.” Merlin said, slipping out of Arthur embrace. He looked so guilty.

Merlin believed Arthur not to be in control of his mind and actions, he believed Arthur to be susceptible to anything. Though Merlin was nowhere near the kind of person to take advantage of someone under the influence of something mind altering. Even though this ‘supposed potion or enchantment’ was giving him what the Warlock wanted, Merlin still held back and refused.

Even such a simple embrace, the kind of embrace that was becoming more commonly between them as the years progressed seemed to wreck so much regret through the man - Arthur wanted to shake him and scream at how wrong Merlin was: that he could and was consenting to any any hold or touch Merlin could or would give him.

Arthur stood up and met Merlin far too closely. Their faces were mere inches apart, dangerously so. The King saw how badly Merlin wanted to give in, he could see the arguments and thought process that Merlin was going through.

His hand hovered over the side of Merlin’s face as leaned in closer.

“Don’t.”

He froze.

“You’re not in the right state of mind.” Merlin breathed out, more for his own sake than Arthur’s.

Arthur hand fell to his side but he didn’t move away.

“Please tell me how I can prove my honesty.” He asked.

Merlin looked down with resignation and then turned away to the doors.

“Come, Sire, follow me.” Merlin murmured as he left.

He hadn’t called Arthur ‘Sire’ in years, not even in heated arguments did Merlin enforce that distance between them. It spoke tales to Arthur on how hurt his best friend was. He dashed after Merlin, it wasn’t hard to follow the sound of weary footsteps.

They were heading for Merlin’s laboratory. Arthur caught up with broken hearted Warlock and joined their hands together - Merlin allowed it.

Met with the smell of dodgy potions, old books, strong herbs, ash and numerous other smells that Arthur had grown familiar with associating with Merlin’s experiments, Arthur saw and felt Merlin relax slightly. They were on his ground now, they followed his rules.

Arthur let go of Merlin’s hand and took his chair that he always sat in when observing Merlin work.

“You stare a lot.” Merlin said as he leafed through shelves of bottles - no doubt searching for a cure-all potion that he had concocted in earlier years.

“I always have, you’ve just never noticed.” Arthur replied honestly.

Merlin sighed for the thousandth time that hour and stood up straight and returned to Arthur, bottle in hand. It was a small vial with opaque pink liquid filling less than a third of the bottle. He stood on the other side of the work bench and handed over the vial of anti-serum.

Wordlessly and without hesitation Arthur uncorked the bottle and drank his mouthful. Setting down the bottle, he leaned closer to Merlin, head propped up by his elbow, hand under chin, staring at Merlin patiently.

The Warlock also leaned closer, gold creeping into his eyes without a single incantation as he analysed Arthur’s reaction to the potion. The world seemed to hold its breath as it waited for the two men to get onto the same page.

“Well, am I really under an enchantment?” Arthur asked after a very long pause.

Merlin’s mouth fell open as his brow and eyes once again creased into tears.

“No… You aren’t.” Merlin managed to say, covering his face as he cried.

Arthur stood up and joined Merlin on the other side of the workbench. He pulled the shocked and relieved and sobbing Warlock into another hug. Both holding onto each other equally tight.

“I love you, Merlin.” Arthur promised his Warlock firmly.

[thelien-art]

Day 6: Darkness and Loss of @elrondweek

Losing Celebrian

Poppy: Poppy symbolizes death and loss, as well as remembrance and mourning. They are used for healing

Healer braids contain five braids which I headcanon concealed under a coif and pined long veil so that only the ends of the braids, tied off in ribbons, can be seen seriously if there´s a big wish for this I am ready to make a long post of it with drawing reference - different kinds of healers can be told by which color their ribbons are as well as under tunic and how loose or tight the veil is (their uniform is also different depending on if it´s a nurse or a doctor)

Looks like baby girl took off his gloves :/ I usually draw him with stars but not this time as it made the drawing to light

Rambling over healer clothers:

The robes are might out of bleached linen and are combined by deer leather gloves at times

I haven´t decided on a look for them as I would like for them to have visible buttons down, but that way it wouldn't have the slits that shows the color of the under robe, so I´ve decided it goes with a button down jacket if needed.

The colors are meant to be soothing but blood and dirt also need to be visible on them, and they have to be able to handle boiling.

They are meant to be easy to take on and off so they are assembled by an underrobe, a shirt, and then the tunic on top.

The veil are meant to cover all hair - except the tips - and keep it from getting in the way. It is also used to get hair away quick if you need to treat someone fast but don´t have the time to braid your hair away. The five braids are nearly for keeping as much out as possible but also to wear when not wearing the veil to show you have medical experience

- I haven´t figured out the colors yet so this is all I have currently

[aquaticwolfkuri]

You HATE Me, But I Hate YOU More: ch.6

“hehe….hahaha….Hahahaha….HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!” Zim laughs, completely impressed by his new and genius EVIL plan. It was just too perfect, so evil, that only someone as great as him could have come up with it, other than Minimoose of course.

The plan? Ruin Dib’s prom night by asking Plotty to go with HIM instead of the Dib-Human. Yes, the plan is very amazing.

“NOW to attend Skool like the good and filthy human that I am!” Zim says, throwing on his disguise before heading out the door. Gir and Minimoose wishing him the best of luck.

Everyone gathered by their lockers, gossiping and conversing about all sorts of things, ranging from rumors, boys, adult magazines, games, and many more stupid human things. Zim cared not for such things, and right now, his target was the ginger haired girl.

Thankfully she wasn’t too hard to spot, so Zim ruthlessly shoved anyone that got in his way.

“Oh, Hello Zim” The girl says, giving him a smile that nearly makes him gag.

“Yes, Hello…PLOTTY.”

“Did you need something? If your looking for Dib, he’s-”

“Z-Zim is not looking for the Dib-human!!!” Zim’s face starts to feel warm, trying NOT to remember his computer’s clearly INCORRECT calculations.

Plotty looks at him, feeling a bit awkward and confused… Zim can see this and quickly changes the subject.

“I was actually looking for YOU.” Zim says.

“Me?”

“Yes. You see… because of my condition, most of the other HUMANS, tend to pick on poor Zim, even making fun of my water allergy…. Now Zim has no one to go to prom with…” Zim says in the most soap opera way possible, even going so far as to fake the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Oh, that’s awful… Of course I’ll go to prom with you Zim” She says, smiling brightly. Delighted, Zim thanked the girl, letting her know just how HAPPY she’d made him before making his way to class, laughing maniacally… but, unfortunately, he bumps into the back of a very familiar black coat. Dib turns around, giving him a very accusing look as he narrows his eyes.

“Zim, what did you do?? What are you planning this time?” 

“Well Dib, if you must know… the Plotty-girl will be going to prom with ME!!” Zim says, laughing again, but instead of Dib wallowing in Sarrow like he had imagined, Dib instead tackles him to the ground, attempting to strangle him.

"Zim, you little piece of shit!!” Dib yelled. Zim screamed and gagged, before finally kicking Dib in the groin, and pushing him off. Dib nearly sheds a tear, but he pushes through the pain and grabs Zim by the leg before he can get up.

“Z-Zim, I hope you know how much I HATE you right now!” He punches him, and Zim pulls his hair, biting into his arm. 

“I hate you MORE Dib!” Zim retorts back. They both continue to kick and fight as the other students gather around them, watching the live wrestling match, and pulling out their phones as they capture footage of the event; even Gaz.

“Zim you-....y….y-yaaaCHOOO!” Sneezing right into the alien’s tunic, Zim screams bloody murder, and thankfully, the principal arrives just in time with the other teachers to stop the fight from escalating, sending them both to the nurse's office.

“Dib… This behavior is completely unacceptable. This is the 4th time this week. You can't keep assaulting Zim just for being different.” The principal says, tired and frustrated. Dib is such a talented student, so gifted in fact, that he’s honestly being held back by being in high Skool and not Membrane Corp… yet his behavior was just out of control.

“It's Zim’s fault! He- Cough cough!”

“LIES! The Dib-human lies!-”

“Enough. Dib, your suspended from Skool for the rest of this week.” The principal says. This was the last thing Dib wanted to hear.

“B-But Principle Morals, Prom is THIS weak! A-And my Dad is going to be pissed if he finds out!” Dib says, trying not to have a meltdown

The principle sighs. “Fine. I’ll allow you to attend prom, but for the rest of the weak, you’ll be suspended from Skool… You can go home now.” The principal says before leaving the nurse's office. Dib falls back against the small bed, and groans.

“Fuck… Dad’s going to be pissed.” Dib groans, removing his glasses before rubbing his eyes, frustrated, and this morning's headache didn’t help. He can hear Zim cackling in delight and it only makes his headache throb.

He already didn’t feel good getting up this morning, and now he had to deal with this??? He never should have gotten out of bed… or maybe he should have exposed Zim sooner. In fact, he should just rip his wig off in the class hall, and force those stupid contact lenses off his eyes; then everyone could finally see what he is! They would HAVE to BELIEVE him! And then, after enduring so much of Zim’s shit, he could finally cut open the damn alien and study his organs to his heart's content.

“That’s right Dib, suffer like the pathetic- “ Dib grabs Zim’s face and sneezes. Zim screams and squirms.

“THE GERMS!!!”

“Fuck you Zim.” Dib grabs his glasses and walks out of the room as Zim continues to scream and squirm. He should have known, he should have fucking known Zim would pull some shit like this. No matter if Dib does something nice or mean, the alien always has to double down and make his life more miserable than it already was.

Dib just can’t ever get a break, he can’t ever just have anything go right! 

“Hey… I heard from the Principale… Dad’s gonna be pissed.”

“Yeah…Cough cough!... Hey Gaz… can we trade place?”

“What? And have me be stuck with Zim? No thanks. Besides, I don’t think there’s anyone else that could capture that guy’s attention more than you.” Gaz explains, but Dib raises a brow at this.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks, but Gaz just shrugs and doesn’t elaborate any further. 

“Anyway, you look terrible. Get plenty of rest once your home…”

“I will…”

Dib returns home after a miserably long walk, only to have his dad reprimand him as soon as he walks through the door, giving him the longest lecture before sending him to his room, and as punishment, he would not be given access to any of his paranormal possessions or TV shows. 

So Dib just lies in bed, letting his slowly forming fever consume him. He hated not having his things or knowing that Zim could be doing who knows what at Skool… and yet, he couldn’t help but feel relieved he wouldn’t have to bother with any of it anymore.

But you know what really pisses him off??? Is that he caught a shitty cold helping Zim out, only to get totally backstabbed! And why would Plotty go with Zim to prom anyway!? 

He just groans and rolls over in bed feeling miserable, feeling too sick to even be pissed anymore. “Cough cough cough! Ugh…. this fucking sucks…”

Later, his dad comes up to his bedroom and brings him a bowl of chicken noodle soup and some water. “Thanks dad…” Dib says, careful not to burn his tongue while eating his bowl of soup, but his dad takes a seat next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Son, I know being a teenager can be a difficult thing.”

“Dad, I’m fine.”

“You have so many new hormones inside you, making all sorts of chemical reactions.”

“Dad-”

“And sometimes those changes make us see people differently.”

“Dad, where are you going with this?”

“I know you must be so confused and maybe even frustrated. I know you and your little green friend used to be so close as kids, but sometimes things change when we get older.”

“We were never friends, dad.”

“Look son, I will always love you and I’m always proud of you. But bullying Zim is no way to get his attention. Just tell him how you really feel Dib. I know he’ll feel the same way” He say, patting his head before leaving the room, taking the empty soup bowl with him.

Dib nearly chokes, blushing “D-Dad, I don’t have a crush on Zim!!”

“Sure you don’t son…!” He says from downstairs, clearly humoring him.

“W-What the fuck??? Why would Dad think that???” Dib groans, falling back against his bed, coughing into his hands.

This can’t be happening… First Zim asks Plotty to Prom, then he gets suspended from Skool, and now his dad thinks he has a crush on Zim??? And why would his Dad think Zim would like him back??? Zim hates him!

But then he suddenly remembers yesterday when it rained… He thought he had seen Zim blushing… Gaz said something weird too, about him being the only one that could keep Zim’s attention… and then there's Zim’s disdain towards Plotty, like maybe he’s-....???

“No,no,no,no,no,no,no!! Zim is NOT in love with me!! I HATE Zim! And Zim would NEVER fall in love with me! ME of all people! I’m his greatest enemy! I’m a stinking disgusting human for crying out loud!!” Dib shouts, as if he was trying to reason with the universe and convince it that all of this was just some crazy misunderstanding.

“He’s an evil alien invader trying to conquer Earth! He’s loud, annoying, violent, green, and tiny! He’s proof that i’m not crazy…! He’s...the only thing that makes me feel… normal, kind of… I don’t have to hide my paranormal interests around him… UGH! What the fuck am I thinking?” Dib looks out the window, looking towards the stars for some kind of answer. He sighs and lays back down, setting his glasses aside and goes to sleep for the rest of the night.

[quiteliterallyilliterate]

I legit just see you randomly on my feed and your writing was really good and I thought why not? Since requests are open, may I request for yandere skyward sword link with goddess reader? Reader can either replace Zelda herself or is a whole other goddess that doesnt even belong or own Hyrule. Id love to see what else you have in store here!

Order up!

Sorry it’s been a while! I’ve been dealing with a lot these past two weeks but hopefully life will improve (?) Love this concept and there’s a mention of @monpalace’s idea with Skyloftians using shed loftwing feathers to propose. Not proofread, I am sorry, this took wayyyy too. Much like Link, i am eepy. That’s about all!

Hope you enjoy!~

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

There was little refuge for Link on the surface, that much he knew. That much the world made incredibly apparent. Aside from what little lands like that of the kikwi or the ancient temple, there was little non-hostile life. The sun was fading from the sky, Hylia’s light fading from the surface land, letting monsters run rampant across the untamed earth. Not a particularly pleasant situation given the stab wound he’d nursed, limping through the forest as he tried to find a way home. With no statues in sight, he resigned himself to his fate —alone within an unkind world. Not that it’s a first that he’s felt such a manner, everyone knew everyone in Skyloft, his business was never truly his. And with Groose and his goons taunting him for his every breath, there wasn’t much to say for company. He could be surrounded by people, and yet he was —to some level— still alone. That was, aside from Zelda, missing among this realm. There was some small, nagging part of him that wish he needn’t search for her. Sure, he valued her companionship, and yet… it’s been odd lately. Originally he kept from the sky to be with her once more. But now knowing he was a piece in a prophecy —one she knew, no less— he couldn’t help but question the authenticity of their friendship. He feels wrong about it to question. The hylian people serve Hylia, he should be grateful that he’s been sent on a mission she foretold. He should be so many things. It just seems added onto the pile of things he should be. More outgoing, Zelda would say after he’d share his difficulty with speaking to his peers. Less pathetic, Groose and his lackeys would sneer. Dead, He’d often think, looking at the bags under his eyes and tousled hair. So it seemed irrelevant that Hylia wished he’d be heroic. The small decaying temple looked surprisingly stable from the inside. Vines and mosses grew into the cracks within the marble, nature filling in where people could no longer support. The door was easily blocked and the main area was large enough to safely light a fire without smoking himself out. Above a plinth stood a statue, sharp imposing eyes glaring at whomever entered with judgement. Their face was alight with the golds of the fire, setting in the allure within his mind. Looking down past stone ceremonial robes were offerings, placed at their feet, still fresh despite the centuries since any people lived down here. A deity, he noticed a little too late. Perhaps it was sacreligious of him to stay here, the Hero of Hylia taking refuge in a different god’s home. But perhaps that kingdom has since crumbled, their blades too rusted to do him any harm. The blood seeping through his tunic was the least of his concerns as sleep pulled him in familiar as ever.

Link liked to sleep. It was safe and warm, something quite the contrast to the life he’d led. He wished many times both before his journey and since its onset that he could stay asleep forever. It’d be a blessing, to exist in such a state of peaceful serenity outside of a world defined by its wars. And yet, morning after morning, he’d awake to soft sunlight or be shoved out of his bed. Hylia did not wait on him. So waking up to fingers carding softly through his hair as a lullaby —one his memories could just barely grasp at— was a sharp contrast. He felt no pain in his stomach nor the jolt of adrenaline he was used to. Turning around sleepily, he saw you, the very deity he seeked refuge under. He scrambled to apologize, your sharp eyes looking down upon him as he lay strewn across your body.

“I’m- Oh- I-“ He could not, for whatever reason, speak. Much a common theme in his life that whenever he needed his words, they’d fly away faster than a loftwing. Strong arms tightened around him, shushes and soothes whispered to his pointed ears.

“Be at ease. Your goddess cannot find you here” The fingers resumed carding through his hair, twirling the uneven cuts. “You are safe, little hero” Your words bled with a care and endearment he had not been given in so long. His mind latched to you, to your care and your soft treatment of him. He let himself rest limply, telling himself that it would pass soon. Nothing ever stays this good for this long. And yet, there were no monsters to kick in the door or someone waiting on him. There was just you and him. And no other God watching. “She’s put you through so much.” Your statement hangs in the air as Link can’t find the words that dignify a response. “To wander in here bleeding as badly as you were.” His eyes widen and he does his best to pat his tunic, feeling for the blood. And yet there was none. Aside from the rip in the forest fabric, there was no signs of him ever being injured.

“What?” His brows furrowed and he found himself looking up to you. Your skin held an inhuman glint, a glow to it that needed no sun nor fire to illuminate. Your hunter’s eyes had no iris, a scalara of pure white looking back at him. Your lips here pulled to something of a mischievous smirk as you looked upon him.

“I fixed you.” Your tone was a little uncanny, voice unused to conversing. “I used to do it frequently for the before people” He felt his eyes widen marginally. He’d never heard of the ‘before people’ only if what came after them. He knew naught of their societies, nor their deities. You giggled at his curiosity, pressing lightly on his shoulders so he’d lay back down. “It’s been so long since i’ve had such lovely visitors” Your voice was a far off cry in his mind as he buried his face in the nape of your neck. There was no rushing of blood to lull his own rushing mind, and yet you soothed him all the same. “Rest now, little Hero. I will watch the world in your stead.

There were many times afterwards that he visited you. He’d put a beacon near the clearing where your quiet temple sat. Gone was the comfort of absence that came with sleep, that nullifying expanse of nothingness. Instead, he’d seek out you, the glow of your grace soothing the rage he now brought upon the world. At your Altar he’d leave gifts, anything you’d mentioned in passing or anything he knew must’ve been good. You’d offhandedly speak of how much you missed the ancient cistern, and he’d bring you its water. He’d gather the fruit of the Faron woods, making into pies and jam and alcohol for you to feed off of. It wasn’t often, but he’d occasionally get you blood or meat. Not common, he didn’t want to raise concerns, but he knew the spirits would strengthen you. You may have only had a one man clergy, but he was loyal to a fault. He cleared the surface of monsters so you could roam freely, basking in the moonlight as your fingers brushed the grass. His favorite gift to you came in the form of a plume of crimson feathers. You were quite oblivious to the meaning behind the exchange, instead cooing over the bright colors and imagining the majesty of the bird it came from. But he knew that maybe then the other half of his spirit —as the people said— would mingle with your own to care for you as much as you did him. Bound to you perhaps by fate and now with the matrimony of his gift to you, no longer would you lay forgotten to the world. He’d build an empire in your honor if it would be your wish. He’d kill the goddess who subdued you if it were your ruling. Afterall, he was prophesied to kill a deity.

[hamsterclaw]

Humbug

Bangtan Christmas 2023 drabble 1 - read the rest here.

Paediatrician Dr Jung Hoseok is beloved by all his patients and everyone he works with. Unfortunately, his cheerful demeanour is only a front, underneath it all, he's a humbug.

Pairing: Hoseok x f! reader

Genre: Paediatrician Hoseok, social worker reader, fluff, smut

Rating: 18+

Word count: 6k

Warnings: Sex, swearing, medical emergencies

Hoseok looks up from the computer screen at the sound of his name. His eyes take a moment to adjust, the screen’s the brightest light in the otherwise darkened paediatric ward.

The nurse, Jihyo, holds out a mug of coffee, just how he likes it. 

Hoseok accepts gratefully, stares at the words on the side of the mug.

Big patience for little patients.

He blinks, indifferent, and goes back to prescribing.

His phone rings, muted because it’s 3am but he can hear it loud and clear.

He lifts it to his ear. ‘Dr Jung,’ he says by way of greeting.

‘You’re needed in the ER,’ comes the crisp tone of the ER charge nurse.

Hoseok sighs, doesn’t bother to ask why. ‘I’ll be there in 5.’

He hangs up, signs the chart and gulps the rest of his coffee, scorching his tongue and the roof of his mouth but preferring the burn to the desolate pang of his empty stomach.

The dry sandwich he’d bolted at 6pm the day before is nothing but a distant memory, churning its partially digested way through his intestines.

He takes a shortcut to the ER, cutting through the works alley between buildings.

Ironic that he has to pass the unofficial smoker’s alley to get fresh air.

Kim Namjoon, his friend and the resident cardiothoracics surgeon, nods and waves a vape pen at him in greeting. 

Hoseok lifts a hand back, pushes the back entrance door open that someone’s propped open with a brick, hospital security be damned, re-enters the hospital next to the mortuary.

He glances askance at the double doors. It always makes him feel a little twitchy passing the morgue in the early hours of the morning.

He reminds himself he’s a grown adult as he picks up the pace, allows himself a little sigh of relief as he turns the corner and sees the bright lights of radiology.

He’s greeted by a cacophony of noises as he enters the ER, monitors beeping, people barking out instructions, distant sirens as ambulances pull up to the drop off.

He narrows his eyes against the fluorescent white strip lighting, looking around for the charge nurse’s familiar navy tunic. 

He spots her by the resus bay, grimaces a bit at the carnage from a trauma that hasn’t been cleaned up.

‘Called for a paediatric consult?’ 

The charge nurse nods, brisk, waves an arm in the vague direction of the paediatric area. 

‘15 year old, intoxicated.’

With that she’s off, and Hoseok trudges away. 

The atmosphere in the paediatric area is less jarring, not so much because of the cheerful murals on the walls, but because it’s quieter, less hectic.

Hoseok assesses a teenager in a glittery jumpsuit who smells so strongly of alcohol and hairspray he reminds him of his own high school leaving prom.

He does an assessment, makes the mistake of asking the teen if he wants a drink on his way out of the exam room.

The teen chortles gleefully. 

‘Yeah, gin and tonic, hold the tonic!’

Hoseok rolls his eyes as he exits.

He’s looking for a free computer to write up his notes when there’s movement in the periphery of his vision. 

‘Need a computer?’ you ask. 

Hoseok blinks to wake himself up. You’re way too pretty considering the early hour. Judging by your attire, more casual than smart, your carelessly styled hair, he makes an educated guess. 

‘Are you with social services?’ 

‘Y/N, duty social worker,’ you confirm, nodding towards the exam room he’s just exited. ‘Jaebeom’s one of ours.’ 

‘Yeah?’ Hoseok asks. ‘I’m Hoseok, paediatrics. I’m admitting him until he sobers up.’ 

You nod. ‘His foster carer can pick him up in the morning, she’s got another child that she needs to drop off at school.’ 

You look around, yawning delicately behind your hand. ‘Is there a place to get coffee around here at this time?’ 

There’s an on-call room waiting for him, a bed, but Hoseok doesn’t hesitate. 

‘If you have five minutes for me to write up my notes, I can take you to the lounge?’ 

You give him a look he doesn’t bother to interpret, it’s now 4am and if you say no he can always go to bed. 

‘Yeah,’ you say. ‘Thanks.’ 

Hoseok types up his notes with you sitting in one of the empty chairs in the otherwise deserted paediatric department. 

When he logs off he’s amused to find you engrossed in sorting shapes to slot into a sphere. 

‘I can give you a few more minutes if you want,’ he says, dry. 

You laugh. ‘I’ll be quicker once I’ve had caffeine.’ 

You follow him down the corridor towards the main hospital to the lounge. 

Hoseok swipes his ID badge, pushes the door open. 

You take in the ancient mismatched couches, the big screen TV, the tiny kitchenette with the top-of-the-line coffee machine, the chipped mugs drying next to the sink.

‘So this is how doctors roll, huh?’ you say. 

Hoseok laughs. ‘Yeah baby, stick with me and I’ll show you a good time.’ 

He waggles his eyebrows, and you burst out laughing. 

Hoseok’s struck by your smile and the way your eyes light up. He clears his throat, tells himself to stop staring at you like a creep. 

‘Latte?’ he offers, picking up the nicest mug he can see. 

‘Yeah, thanks,’ you say. 

You’re fishing in your bag, emerging with a half-opened package of cookies. 

He exchanges your coffee for a cookie, gestures to one of the couches. 

He’s not expecting you to sit next to him, there’s plenty of space, but after a moment, you choose the seat beside him. 

You sip your coffees in silence. 

‘Been busy?’ you ask. 

‘Yeah, a little,’ Hoseok replies. 

Up close like this, he can see the tiny piercings in your ear, the gleam of gold through the fall of your hair. 

Again, he pulls himself together with effort. 

‘Have you been busy?’ he asks. 

You stretch a little. ‘Yeah. We’re short-staffed, like always. Also something about the cold weather makes people be shits to each other.’

Hoseok’s not surprised. Winter’s always hard, fuck Christmas spirit and all that jazz.

‘I hear you,’ he says. 

You sip your coffee, offer him another cookie which he accepts. 

Your phone rings in your bag, you glance at him as you fish your phone out. 

‘Duty calls,’ you say ruefully. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ 

Hoseok’s about to bid you goodbye when you lean towards him, close, thumb brushing a corner of his mouth so quickly he barely registers it before you’re pulling your hand away. 

‘Crumbs,’ you say. There’s the tiniest twinkle in your eye.

Hoseok’s voice comes out raspy as he says, ‘Thanks.’ 

‘See you around, doc.’ 

You’re not waiting for an answer, shouldering your bag, tossing him one last look on your way out. 

Hoseok leans back against the couch, willing his heartrate to decelerate. 

Outside, the darkest part of the night’s just about over. 

***

Hoseok’s working hard to keep his bright smile on today. 

He’s had a parent ask him if he has kids and then tell him he couldn’t possibly understand how precious their child is, as he doesn’t have children of his own. 

He got an email from a conference he’s applied to saying due to the huge number of applicants, his abstract wasn’t selected for presentation. 

His intern, Hyunjin, seems to be on a mission to aggravate him as much as possible. 

‘We need a derm consult,’ Hyunjin tells him at the end of presenting the patient he’s just seen. 

Hoseok closes his eyes briefly, desperately summoning what remains of his rapidly dwindling stores of patience. 

‘Why do we need a derm consult, Dr Park?’ he tries not to bark. 

‘This patient has verrucas.’ 

Hoseok blinks, takes a breath. 

‘This patient needs nebulised albuterol and oxygen and an admission to paediatrics. The verrucas can wait until he gets better and the mom can stop by a pharmacy for some over-the-counter verruca treatment.’ 

Hyunjin stares at him. 

‘He’s satting in the low nineties,’ Hoseok points out, words coming out brisk, staccato. ‘I can hear him wheezing from here.’ 

The ER nurse behind Hyunjin’s already tutting and prepping the neb. 

‘Was there anything else, Hyunjin?’ Hoseok asks, getting up, staring at the rapidly expanding list of patients waiting for a paediatric consult.

His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket with a sigh. 

‘Dr Jung,’ he says. 

‘Is that Hoseok?’ 

The voice is vaguely familiar, but he can’t place it. 

‘Depends who’s asking,’ he snaps. 

‘It’s Y/N, the social worker. You got me coffee last week at 4am?’ 

Hoseok has a flash of a memory, of your hand on his face. 

‘Shit, sorry,’ he says, running a hand through his hair, already sticking straight up in all directions, courtesy of the shitty haircut he got in the barbershop on his way in. 

‘Rough day, huh?’ you say, the sympathy in your voice making warmth bloom in his chest. 

‘Yeah.’ 

‘I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner after work today,’ you ask, no preamble, so direct Hoseok takes a moment to process. 

‘I’d love to,’ he says. ‘I don’t get off until 8, though.’ 

‘I finish at 8 too,’ you say. ‘That works for me.’ 

You exchange numbers, and you promise to text him details. 

‘Hope your day gets better, Dr Jung,’ you say, the teasing note in your voice making him smile, genuinely, for the first time, today. 

‘It already is,’ he says. 

He’s still smiling when he hangs up. 

‘Hoseok,’ comes a voice from behind him. 

Hoseok raises a brow inquiringly at Hyunjin, who, inexplicably, is still standing there. 

‘About the verrucas,’ begins Hyunjin. 

‘Nope,’ Hoseok says, pleasantly, still smiling. 

He brushes past Hyunjin and picks up the next consult. 

***

It’s ten to eight and thank fuck for that, because Hoseok’s had enough of today. 

He’s getting changed out of the scrubs he was forced to change into after he was projectile vomited on by a chubby 10 month old, grateful he has spare clothes in his locker, when the door to the changing rooms opens. 

Hoseok pauses, shirtless, hands on the tie of his scrubs bottoms. 

Hyunjin blinks at him. 

‘Nice abs, boss,’ he says. 

Hoseok eyes both the fluffy white tee he was about to change into and the scrubs top he’s just discarded, questioning why he ever thought going into medicine was a good idea. 

He grits his teeth. 

‘Yes, Hyunjin?’ 

‘There’s a blue light call - breathless five year old, ETA 3 minutes.’ 

‘Jisoo is on tonight, let her know,’ Hoseok replies. ‘Also, close the door, damnit.’ 

Hyunjin looks surprised at the three medical students who have clustered behind him, all of whom are staring at Hoseok wide-eyed. 

‘Jisoo’s going to be twenty minutes late, something about a train breakdown?’

Hyunjin’s got the wisdom to stay out of Hoseok’s reach. 

Hoseok’s hand lands on his soft t-shirt, longingly. 

With a sigh, he bypasses it and reaches for his scrubs top, pulling it over his head. 

‘I’ll be right there,’ he says. 

***

By the time Hoseok’s assessed the breathless patient and handed over to an apologetic Jisoo, the time on the clock on the wall says 9pm. 

Hoseok pulls his phone out, dials your number. 

You answer on the first ring. 

Without waiting for him to say anything, you say, ‘The food’s still hot, I took the liberty of ordering for you. Are you on your way?’ 

Hoseok breathes out, a sigh of relief so profound he feels lightheaded. 

‘Marry me,’ he says. ‘I’ll be there in ten.’ 

He gets dressed in record time, emerges out of the carnage of the ER like a phoenix rising from the ashes. 

You’re the first person he sees when he gets to the restaurant, and you’re the best thing he’s seen all day. 

He greets you with a hug and a cheek kiss that you weren’t expecting, judging by the shy smile on your pretty face. 

‘I —’ you start, then you stop, adorably flustered. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ Hoseok says. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’ 

‘I was just going to say I ordered tempura that’s on its way,’ you say. 

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ Hoseok says. He’s got his hand on yours on the table without any memory of how it got there, but he likes the feel of it. 

‘Make it up to me,’ you say, easy. 

‘I’m going to do my best,’ he promises. 

***

At least four people have seen Hoseok’s bare chest today, but you’re the only person he cares about impressing, at least right at this moment. 

Because holy fuck, you’re beautiful, pressed tight to him on your poky couch, mouth on his, lips and teeth clashing as he kisses you over and over. 

You’re making noises that are driving him slightly crazy, making him feel hot and desperate, and he has to stop himself from looking at your tits in that black bra or he’s going to embarrass himself. 

Shit. 

Your hand’s slid down, brushing over his dick, and he’s so hard already he has to will himself not to nut right now. 

He tugs experimentally at the strap of your bra, and when you don’t protest he tugs it down, cups the weight of your left breast. 

God, you feel so good. Soft, warm, exposed nipple begging to be kissed. 

He runs his thumb over your areola, a slow pass. 

The low moan you let out gives him the confidence to scrape the tip of his nail over the peak of your breast. 

‘God, take it off, Hoseok,’ you tell him, and Hoseok’s sure as hell not going to make you ask twice. 

He slides a hand around your bare back, unhooks your bra, can’t stop himself from looking. 

His dick, already trying to stand at attention in its denim prison, twitches at the sight of your bared breasts. 

Hoseok’s trying to remember what colour briefs he has on, if it’ll be obvious when he takes his jeans off that he’s leaking precum just from looking at your tits. 

Then you cup the length of him over his jeans, and he finds he doesn’t give a fuck. 

Your skirt’s ridden up, your thighs part under his hand encouragingly. 

You’re so soft Hoseok can’t suppress a groan. 

He hooks a couple fingers under the gusset of your panties, tugs, and your hand lands on his. 

Hoseok looks up, hand stilling. 

Hoseok’s been told that he has a gorgeous smile, but just at this moment, you’re the one who’s blinding him. 

‘You can touch,’ you say, voice husky, teeth in your bottom lip. 

‘Yeah?’ Hoseok asks, his own voice raspy, dropped low. 

‘Yeah.’ 

‘Can I taste?’ 

You help him tug your panties down, over the curve of your ass that he can’t resist squeezing. 

He tugs the flimsy cotton down your thighs, helps you slide a leg out. 

He realises, belatedly, that you never answered his question, but you don’t seem to mind as he bends down, flicks his tongue against your pretty cunt. 

Damn, you sound even prettier when he’s eating you out. 

Hoseok licks into your folds, nudges your clit. 

He doesn’t have any hangups about giving head, especially not in a girl like you who seems to enjoy everything he’s doing. 

‘Shit, Hoseok,’ you moan, breathless, eyes squeezed shut. 

He pushes a finger into you, curls it, and you cry out so loudly his cock hardens even more. 

He tugs at the button fly of his jeans, loosening them for a little relief. 

‘Please tell me you have a condom,’ you plead, voice thick, so sexy Hoseok can’t believe you’re under him like this. 

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you come and I’ll fuck you?’ 

‘Fuck me now,’ you tell him. 

Hoseok seals his lips around your clit, flicks his tongue, slips another finger into you, scissoring, pressing, slow, making every movement count. 

‘Hoseok!’ 

He doesn’t reply, because he can tell by the way your thighs are shaking that you’re close. 

He just needs another minute. 

He doesn’t know if you’ve realised that your fingers are in his hair, pulling, but he’s taking it as a positive. 

He keeps doing what he’s doing with his tongue, because you seem to like it. 

Your cunt tightens around his fingers, you call his name again, buck your hips into his face, and Hoseok doesn’t even need you to tell him you’re coming because he can feel you pulsing, can hear it in your voice, can feel the way everything tightens as you reach your peak. 

It’s the hottest thing he’s seen in a while. 

Fuck. 

Hoseok draws himself out of jeans, takes himself in hand, pumps once. 

You haven’t forgotten him. 

‘Get inside, Hoseok,’ you say, and as he fishes the condom out of his jeans you flip it out of his grasp and rip it with your teeth. 

Hoseok closes his eyes as you squeeze the tip and roll it onto his dick, concentrating on not coming in your grasp. 

You push him back onto the couch, get on top of him, and Hoseok could weep at the view. 

Your hair’s a mess, your lips bitten and flushed, and goddamn, your tits need to be in a museum. 

He doesn’t realise he’s said that last bit out loud until you burst out laughing. 

‘Shut up, Hoseok,’ you tell him, but you’re still riding him so there’s that. 

Hoseok grabs your hips, helps you move even though you’re doing a pretty damn good job already. 

‘You like this, Hoseok?’ you ask. 

Hoseok flexes his cock inside you. ‘Yeah,’ he says. 

‘I like it too.’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

You lean forward, tits bouncing in front of his face, and Hoseok thinks that if he died right now, smothered in between your breasts, he wouldn’t mind one bit. 

‘Go on, baby, take what you want,’ you say. 

Hoseok bucks his hips hard, up into the wet warmth of your cunt, tugs your head down to kiss you deep, open-mouthed, and comes with a groan, deep in his chest. 

Bliss. 

***

Hoseok wakes in a bed he doesn’t remember getting into, a bedroom that he finds soothing, with its neutral colours and soft sunlight filtering in the crack between the curtains.

There’s an arm flung across his chest, the soft curve of a breast against his chest. 

You’re turned away, boneless, in a deep sleep. 

His incorrigible cock stirs as he takes in the line of your back, down to the tempting curve of your ass. 

He spots the clock on the wall, groans when he realises he should really be up now if he wants to get to work on time. 

You’re still dead asleep even after he’s fully dressed, splayed out in the sheets, gloriously naked.

Hoseok pulls the duvet over your bare shoulder, resists the urge to kiss your upturned cheek, and makes sure the door’s locked behind him as he leaves.

***

Hoseok tightens his scarf around his neck as he waits for you at the entrance to the Christmas market you’ve managed to convince him to accompany you to.

The fact is, he hates the cold, he thinks all Christmas markets are gimmicky and overpriced, and after a run of incredibly busy shifts, he’d much rather be in bed with you right now than here.

Hoseok sidesteps neatly as he’s approached by a jovial couple dressed as Father Christmas and Mrs Klaus.

He’s about to pull his phone out to check on you when you hurry up to him, tuck your arm in his.

‘Hobi! You weren’t waiting long, were you?’

Hoseok looks at your bright smile and can’t bring himself to say anything other than ‘no, not long.’

Your lips are cold, but the kiss you plant on his cheek, next to his mouth, goes a long way towards improving his mood.

He doesn’t even give the three elves handing out tiny candy canes a dirty look.

‘Crepes?’ you suggest, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the longest queue is in front of the crepe stand.

‘Sure,’ Hoseok agrees.

You get in line and immediately turn to him, sliding your arms around his waist, under his coat.

‘How’ve you been?’ you ask.

Hoseok and you have met up a couple times over the last three weeks, enough that he’s left a spare shirt and some toiletries at your place.

You’re sweet, and fun, and he hopes you like him as much as he’s starting to like you. 

‘I’m better now,’ he says, just so he can admire the glow of your smile. 

‘You’re cheesy,’ you say, but the brightness in your eyes tells him you don’t mind. 

‘Nah,’ Hoseok replies. ‘You dragged us to this Christmas market, I know you’ve got your eye on one of those tacky reindeer tree ornaments, you don’t get to call me cheesy.’ 

‘I like the blue one,’ you say, conceding so easily Hoseok has to smile. 

‘Wait here, I’ll go and get it,’ he says. 

‘What crepe do you want?’ you ask, as he pulls away. 

‘Surprise me,’ he tells you. 

Hoseok walks over to the ornament stall you’ve been eyeing for the past five minutes, picks out the blue ornament, hesitates over the collection of tiny gold Christmas bauble earrings. 

He makes a decision, pays, shoves his purchases into his coat pocket and walks back to you. 

You hold a crepe out to him, and he accepts with a ‘thanks’, taking the warm paper-wrapped bundle out of your hand and taking a bite. 

The warm melted chocolate floods his taste buds, and he tries not to moan at the gooey sweetness of it. 

‘Good, right?’ you ask. ‘Worth the wait.’ 

You’re not waiting for an answer, skipping ahead, heading for the chestnuts and hot chocolate like you’re a walking Christmas cliche. 

Hoseok follows behind you. He finds he doesn’t really mind. 

***

You stick your key in the lock, unlock the door to your apartment, don’t bother with the lights before you turn around and slide your hands up Hoseok’s chest, fingers tucked under the lapels of his coat. 

Hoseok doesn’t have a lot to say, not when you’re looking up at him, lips pouted for a kiss. 

He slips a hand around the back of your neck, cupping your head, and tilts his head down to yours. 

‘Mmmm,’ you murmur. ‘You taste like chocolate.’ 

Hoseok leans down again, kisses you deep, tongue sliding into your mouth. 

‘It’s cold,’ he says. ‘Warm me up.’ 

He’s only half-serious, having you pressed against him like this is doing a hell of a job of warming him up. 

The wicked gleam in your eye gets him the rest of the way. 

‘Come on. Want to take a bath?’ you ask. 

Hoseok makes out with you in front of the mirror in your bathroom whilst the tub fills, is a short second away from guiding his cock between your legs when you pull away, bend over in front of him to test the temperature.

‘Get in,’ you say, and Hoseok’s always been good at following instructions. 

He slides into the warm heat of the bath, groans at the feel of it, reaches out to steady you as you climb in on top of him, right into his lap, impatient like he feels. 

You look so good bare and wet like this, the steam making tendrils of your hair curl against your neck, the tops of your breasts visible above the water line. Hoseok hadn’t thought he could get any harder but he does. 

‘Sit on me,’ he says, and there’s a slosh of water, wet skin against wet skin, and then the slippery warmth of your cunt, taking him in. 

The tips of your breasts jiggle in front of him as you move, and between the tightness of your walls around him and the prettiness of your moans, Hoseok’s in heaven. 

He slips a hand around your hips, helping you ride him, and curls his hand around your breast, lifting it out of the water so he can suck. 

You cry his name as he flicks his tongue over your nipple, and Hoseok squeezes the flesh of your hip, tight, under the water. 

Your rhythm’s erratic but it’s making the pleasure build, short, tight circles of your hips against his. 

‘Hoseok,’ you moan. 

‘Yeah?’ he mumbles, lips around the peak of your breast. 

He flexes his cock inside you, hums in satisfaction at the way your face goes slack, eyes half closed. 

Shit, you look so pretty in the throes of pleasure. 

Hoseok slides a hand up, fingers curling around your neck, thumb pressed into the hollow between your collarbones. 

Your voice is hoarse now, raspy like his, as he urges, ‘Go on, take it.’ 

He presses down, you gasp, and lose your rhythm entirely as you come around his cock, walls spasming around him. 

Hoseok takes over, fucking you through it, hardening until he comes with a low grunt. 

Wet, slick, warm. 

You’re tired, he can tell, the way you’re slumping against his chest. 

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ll wash us off.’ 

He coaxes you into your shower with him, soaps over the marks he’s made on your skin, wraps you into a towel. 

By the time you’re both in bed, you’re more asleep than awake. 

‘Work tomorrow?’ you ask. 

‘I’m working,’ Hoseok tells you. ‘Want me to set an alarm for you?’ 

He doesn’t get an answer, you’re asleep on his chest already. 

He should get up, switch some lights off, but a moment later, he’s asleep too. 

***

Hoseok never thought he’d see the day he would want Hyunjin to be around, but he’s getting slammed, and the way things are looking, he needs all hands on deck. 

He’s jogging down the corridor to his second emergency call for the day despite it being only 10am. It’s busy even for the holidays. 

‘House fire,’ barks Mira, the ER charge nurse as Hoseok snaps on gloves. ‘Three children, five minutes out.’ 

‘How bad?’ asks Hoseok, prepping an IV access kit. 

‘PICU are aware, they’re sending backup when they can but they’ve got their own internal collapse, they’re dealing with an arrest on the neurosurgical ward,’ Mira replies. 

The doors slide open, and Hoseok can already tell from the looks on the paramedics’ faces that it’s not looking good. 

Fucking hell, where’s Hyunjin, what a day to be in resus training instead of on the floor. 

The second patient’s wheeled in as the first is still being parked, and Hoseok’s surprised to see you accompanying them, covered in soot, but he doesn’t have time to process now. 

All he can do is deal with what’s in front of him, so that’s what he does. 

***

It’s well into the afternoon by the time all three patients are stabilised and wheeled up to the PICU. 

Hoseok’s washing his hands mechanically in one of the resus sinks, buying his brain some time to come down from the adrenaline of the last few hours, when he hears his name called. 

‘Hey,’ you say, holding out a cup to him. 

Hoseok takes a big gulp of the steaming hot coffee. There’s sugar in it, he doesn’t usually have sugar in his coffee, but today it goes down smooth, giving him a much-needed glucose boost. 

He drinks most of it before he can muster a ‘Thanks.’ 

You don’t seem to be in a hurry. 

You’ve cleaned most of the soot off your face, but your top is ruined. 

Belatedly, Hoseok notices a plaster on your arm, remembers that you came in with the ambulance crew and the three kids. 

‘Are you ok?’ he asks. 

‘I’m fine,’ you say. ‘I was just outside the house when the gas oven imploded. I saw the kids in the window and got them out.’ 

Hoseok blinks. He hadn’t been expecting that. 

‘You ran into a burning house?’ 

You frown a bit. ‘It wasn’t burning then, there was just smoke everywhere.’ 

You cough, and he notices that your voice is a little hoarse. 

‘Besides, I was right there and I saw the kids, I couldn’t leave them.’ 

‘Shit,’ Hoseok says. He pulls you into a hug. ‘I didn’t know.’ 

‘Do you think they’re going to be ok?’ you ask, resting your head on his chest. 

‘I hope so,’ Hoseok says.

He pulls away. ‘Did they check your carbon monoxide levels?’ 

You laugh, and the tension in his chest eases a little. ‘Yes, doc, I’ve been cleared for discharge.’ 

You grab his hand, squeeze. ‘I’m probably doing better than you right now.’ 

‘This is why I hate Christmas,’ Hoseok blurts out. 

You’re looking at him, but you don’t say anything, and he can’t stop anyway.

‘Everyone goes on about Christmas and goodwill and people helping each other and yet the same shit happens as the rest of the year. It means nothing, just a commercial holiday that big companies use to make money out of dumb people.’ 

‘It’s bullshit,’ Hoseok says.

‘My parents feel the same as you,’ you say. You give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. ‘They never celebrated the holidays.’ 

‘They had the right idea,’ Hoseok agrees.

‘When do you get off today?’ you ask. ‘I can make us dinner, if you want.’ 

‘I don’t think I’ll be good company,’ Hoseok says, honestly. 

‘You’re welcome, even if you’re the biggest grinch in the world,’ you say, with a sweetness that makes warmth bloom in his chest. 

‘I’m not a grinch,’ he says, half-heartedly. 

‘A humbug, then,’ you say. 

You reach out and touch his cheek. 

‘Come over, later, if you want.’ 

***

Hoseok finds himself outside your apartment after his shift, wondering if you really wanted him to come over. 

You don’t keep him waiting long, soon enough you’re opening the door, handing him a glass of wine, putting food in front of him.

Hoseok hasn’t even so much as showered, he came straight from work.

You notice him looking at the half-decorated Christmas tree you’ve got in your lounge, the open box of ornaments next to it.

‘I like Christmas,’ you say. ‘I thought I’d cheer myself up by putting up a tree.’

You seem to be worried about his reaction, so Hoseok grasps your hand.

��Just because I’m a grinch doesn’t mean you have to be,’ he says.

You smile. ‘My parents never had a tree and I always wanted one.’

The food and the wine are going a long way towards making Hoseok feel normal again after his day.

‘Are you going to see them for Christmas?’ he asks.

There’s a brief shadow across your face, so quick he isn’t sure if he saw it.

‘They’re doing relief work in South Sudan,’ you say. ‘They’re doctors too.’

You ask, ‘Are you away for Christmas?’

‘Yeah, my parents and sister are upstate. I’ll drive up to them.’

‘Are they grinches like you are?’ you ask, teasing.

Hoseok laughs. ‘I’m the only grinch in the family. My mother goes all out, and my sister loves Christmas too.’

‘Sounds amazing,’ you say, a hint of wistfulness in your tone.

Your top’s slipped down over your shoulder, and between the way your skin gleams and the way your lips are stained from the wine, you’re so pretty Hoseok’s distracted.

He reaches out, tugging you into his arms. 

‘Can I take a shower?’ he asks.

‘Sure,’ you say. The mischievous twinkle is back in your eyes now. ‘Want company?’

‘Always,’ Hoseok says.

***

For once, you’re up before him the next morning. 

He must have been more tired than he realised.

You’re fastening your bra in a feat of dexterity he’s always admired. 

‘Shame I missed the show,’ he says, his voice raspy in the darkness of your bedroom. 

‘Happens every morning,’ you say. ‘You’ve got an invite every time.’ 

Hoseok laughs, rolls over, sheet around his waist. 

‘What time is it?’ he asks, propping his arm behind his head, looking out the crack in the window as the snow falling outside. 

‘It’s 6am on Christmas eve,’ you tell him. 

‘Shit, I gotta pack for tonight,’ he says. 

You pull a sweater on over a tee, sit on the edge of the bed to put socks on. 

‘I probably won’t see you until after the holidays, huh?’ 

‘I’m back in a couple days,’ Hoseok says, hand on the small of your back where your sweater’s ridden up. 

‘Yeah. Merry Christmas, Hobi. Eat all the turkey for me.’ 

‘I don’t even like turkey,’ he says, honestly. 

You laugh, amused, and cup his cheek. ‘See you after Christmas, grinch. There’s coffee in the kitchen.’ 

Your goodbye kiss makes him want to pull you back into bed with him. 

***

Hoseok pulls up outside his parents’ house, rubs the back of his neck, trying to get the crick out. 

He can see the living room and kitchen lights are on, and he already knows that when he opens the front door and steps in he’ll be greeted with familiar smells. 

Cinnamon. Fresh bread. The chicken dish his eomma always makes the night before Christmas. 

He realises with a start that he never thought to ask you what you’d be doing for Christmas. 

He’d spent an hour finishing decorating your tree after you left your apartment, so that you’d have a fully-decked out tree when you came back from work today, and had only belatedly realised that perhaps you’d have had fun decorating the tree together. 

He’d put the earrings he got you under the tree, hung the gloriously tacky blue ornament he’d picked up for you at the Christmas market. 

He’d packed the red lace panties you’d tossed merrily in his face when you’d stripped for him the night before, in the shower. 

Shit, maybe that was a creep thing to do. 

Too late now. 

The front door opens, and his sister stands in the doorway. 

‘Come on, what’s taking you so long,’ she asks. 

‘Coming,’ Hoseok says. 

He grabs his bag out the trunk and goes inside. 

***

Hoseok wonders if he’s even in the right place. 

You’d once told him, offhand, that you often volunteer at the shelter close to your apartment on Christmas day, and when he’d gone to your apartment and you weren’t in, he’d driven here. 

It’s a women’s shelter, and he’s trying to make himself look as harmless as possible as he waits to be let in. 

A woman dressed in a light-up jumper opens the door, eyes him suspiciously. 

Hoseok has a sudden feeling that he’s made a terrible mistake. 

It’s too late now. 

‘I’m Hoseok, I’m a friend of Y/N’s. Is she here?’ he asks

To his relief, the woman’s face transforms into a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

‘You’re the doctor friend she keeps telling us about! Come in, she’s here.’ 

The woman grasps him by the arm, pulls him in out of the snow. 

‘She’s helping in the kitchen, you can help too, if you want.’ 

‘Sure,’ Hoseok says. Her grip on his arm is strong, there’s no way he’s going to say no. 

He’s led to an industrial looking kitchen, dated but clean, greeted by the sounds of chatter and Christmas classics. 

There’s mess everywhere, like Santa exploded, but all that falls away when he sees you.

You look up, spot him, and the smile on your face makes him smile too. He probably looks like an idiot, here grinning at you, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

You get up, and then somehow you’re in his arms, the reindeer headband you have on poking him in the jaw but he’s still not bothered.

There’s heckling, teasing, whooping, but all he sees and hears is you.

‘What are you doing here?’ you ask, holding him so tightly he can barely breathe. 

He likes it.

‘I forgot to wish you Merry Christmas,’ he says.

‘Merry Christmas, humbug.’

Hoseok wants to argue that he’s not a humbug, not really, but you’re kissing him, so he shuts up and kisses you back instead. 

©hamsterclaw 2023

[nursecareuniforms]

How to Locate the Best Nursing Uniforms: Some Inspiration

Scrubs are a popular and adaptable option for clothing worn by healthcare workers because of its general acceptability and degree of customization. Scrub suits, which include of a loose-fitting shirt and pants, are a standard attire for nurses globally, including those in Australia.

Hospitals have strict policies on the colour, cut, and length of every employee's uniform. This is carried out to provide a dependable and polished look. In most circumstances, nurses are permitted to choose their own professional clothes.

There has been a change in emphasis recently to recognise and incorporate men nurses alongside their female colleagues. Since you will be wearing your professional gear on a regular basis throughout the workweek, it makes sense to invest in high-quality clothing.

We've included some useful guidance below to help you choose a new pair of scrubs that will work for you. The following specifications should be taken into account while looking for fresh scrubs. You should choose the white nurse dress in this case.

There are several of simple and reasonably priced choices available.

It's a good idea to get your scrubs from a respected merchant if you can afford to. It is advised to spend money on high-quality shoes if you want to make sure they look good and last a long time. The following rules must be followed by employees: being on time, dressing appropriately for their shifts, and making sure their scrubs are spotless and in great shape.

These three excellent goods may fulfil all of your requirements. It is still feasible to locate excellent imitations of designer labels even in areas with restricted access to retail stores. It's vital to remember that a lot of businesses often provide discounts. The white uniform of a nurse is conspicuous in any setting. The white nurse's costume should be included in the care worker tunics.

Particular Advice for You

The possibility to explore new paths and develop original solutions is substantially enhanced by the contrast between innovative and standard procedures. Each individual has a unique and unmatched understanding of themselves. T-shirts are a classic and adaptable piece of apparel that look well on everyone.

If there is anything you would want revised, please submit it. You may constantly refresh your sense of style, even if it's out of style right now. A person's decision between a fashionable and simple tunic will determine how confident they feel about their new look. By means of experimenting with their own style, people might perhaps get a more profound comprehension of themselves. This also has the benefit of boosting confidence. It is customary to test out many scrubs in order to choose the best one. It's crucial to choose the Care worker tunics with care.

Studies have shown the possible advantages of putting pockets up front in apparel.

It's crucial to take the job's professional standards into account in addition to your own personal style preferences while choosing a new uniform. Think for a minute about the importance of the things you keep in your pocket. If the extra space is utilised regularly, it will be employed to the maximum extent possible. It's possible that keeping valuables out of your chest pocket can assist relieve shoulder and neck discomfort. With the breast pockets on unisex scrub shirts, you can simply store small objects like mobile phones and pencils within easy reach. Choosing premium Care worker uniforms would be the wisest move in this case.

Conclusion

White coats and scrubs are worn by physicians, nurses, and other medical staff members as a sign of professionalism and commitment to their jobs. Keeping things neat and organised is essential to making sure everything looks its best. People who wear white scrubs have the chance to learn about good hygiene practises and personal cleanliness. Due to the difficult situation, a compromise must be reached.

Author Bio: For the white nurse dress David is a professional writer having the specific ideas for the same.

[hyber-region]

Voltailor, the pika clone of the Hyber region ⚡️

Voltailor is based off an Irish field mouse and the cartoon mice from the old Disney film Cinderella, who help her with her chores and also sewed her a dress. Voltailors use their lightning tipped tail to I also based his fur pattern on the tunic squires might be drawn in. Voltailor will also have a split-evolution depending on what stone you use to evolve it!

Voltailor will evolve into Havachu, who’s based on fairy tail (pun) knights but uses its tail as its sword and the thunder stone has become its shield. If you use a moonstone instead your Voltailor will evolve into a Bobitychu, based on the fairy godmother and in my head it’s the nurse assistant Pokémon for the Hyber region :) Bobitychu uses her static energy to fluff up her fur and float around and her tail like a wand to channel her fairy type moves.

[impossiblesuitcase]

Hope In It

“The queen is dead! The queen is dead!”

Imperial Adviser Konn Torin’s hand paused mid-air from where it had been directing bodies to a bay of ships.

“The queen!” screeched the young woman, rushing into the crowd of diplomats. She was plainly dressed in a beige tunic—the rank of a servant, and Torin didn’t think he’d ever seen one of Luna’s maltreated servants acting of their own volition.

The clatter of Lunar aristocrats and frightened Earthen leaders filled the loading docks. Since the emperor had threatened to bomb the protective biodomes, the crush of people were practically clambering over one another to board the ships. They hadn’t heard any updates on the situation unfolding in the throne room since Kai had raced off to find Linh Cinder.

“What? What does she mean?” reverberated off the walls. People stopped on the ramps of the ships, watching on curiously.

“Queen Levana is dead! She was shot!” the servant choked out. Her cheeks were coated in tear tracks, her eyes manic. Torin wondered if this state of delirium had arisen from loyalty to the queen, or rather, disbelief that the tyrant could be truly dead.

“No!” cried an older man, whom Torin recognised as from one of the Lunar families. His age was only apparent from the startled slip into his natural, worn voice. Recomposing, he asserted, smooth and youthful, “This is just speculation!”

“Princess Selene shot her!” She circled aimlessly, recycling the news to every guest that would listen. “The queen was shot! She’s dead!”

A hundred murmurs repeated those words under their breath. The Lunars connected eyes in horror—and some—feigned sympathy. 

The Earthens barely held back raucous cheers.

Torin’s ears tingled. He was not a man wont to extreme emotional fluctuations, but this news almost stopped his heart. Could it be true?

Realisation swiftly cloaked him. Kai went in search of Linh-dàren. If the Princess did shoot Levana, what other blood might have been shed? 

Kai.

He abandoned his position as sentinel and reached a fellow Commonwealth representative. “Ensure that everyone remains here until you receive an all-clear,” he instructed. “We cannot yet substantiate this claim. I will go and locate His Majesty.”

“We will wait for your return,” the man replied, bowing.

Torin shook his head as his mind paced two, three, ten steps ahead. Leaving this dock now could very well risk his own life. “I may not be able to. Lend me your portscreen and I will comm Representative Li with updates.” 

The man nodded and unclipped the device from his belt.

Taking it, Torin marched ahead, ignoring the whirlpool of sentiments trying to suck him back in. The cacophony was barely distinguishable, but laughter and crying and cheers spoke much of its meaning. Fury. Rejoicing. Anticipation.

———

The trek to the throne room was much shorter now than it had been an hour ago. The once packed hallways were now absent of officials, flashy nobles, servants, even guards. It was almost ludicrous to imagine that the coronation had been on that very same day when so much carnage and destruction had occured in such little time.

Fierce shouting grew louder as Torin neared the throne room. He began to run, turning the corner to a swarm of bodies blocking his path. Doctors and nurses wearing bloodied scrubs were huddled, shouting, “Pulse is weak! We need oxygen, stat!”

He came to hover nearby but could not identify the victim past the doctors’ tight shoulders. His own pulse faltered as it led him to the worst scenario. Where was Kai?

“He’s inside.”

He spun on his heels towards the magnificent mahogany doors. The voice was heavily accented—American—and weary. 

Torin composed himself. “Thorne-jūn,” 

Carswell Thorne had not struck Torin as a serious or even responsible man in the brief time they’d met. Yet the man in front of him now looked broken and old. He was covered in blood, his clothes ripped. 

“He?” Torin ventured to ask.

“Kai. He’s inside the throne room.” Carswell’s heavy eyes scrutinised Torin—flitting from his white dress shirt down to his dark pants. Pulling an arm from behind his back he revealed a black suit coat draped over his elbow. “I think this is yours.”

Indeed it was. Torin had lent it to Kai’s young friend Crescent, hoping to calm some of her hysteria. But if the small, frightened girl was not wearing it, where was she?

“I had no intention of reclaiming it,” Torin said, taking the jacket into his hands all the same when proffered to him. It was damp and left redness in the creases of his palm. “Where is Darnel-mei?”

“She was hurt,” Carswell said, voice barely audible and tinged with…shame?

He chose to not enquire further as to what this implied. As Carswell’s hazy gaze attached to the retreating backs of the doctors, Torin wondered if the victim was Crescent. And if Carswell Thorne was somehow responsible for what had befallen her.

Partly relieved but not yet satisfied, he straightened. “Is the emperor all right?”

“Dunno. They wouldn’t let him follow her.”

His brow furrowed. Kai did seem to care for Cress, but not enough, he thought, that he would abandon his search for Linh-dàren.

The two exchanged a nod. Carswell staggered away in the same direction as the doctors. He may be in need of a doctor himself, or at the very least, a glass of scotch.

Once the young lad was out of sight, Torin cast the jacket to the ground and thrust open the heavy doors.

A figure lay sprawled on the marble floor. Getting closer, Torin’s blood congealed. It was Kai. Blood pooled around him and over the throne near where he lay, dark like the black strokes of a Japanese ink painting. The stone of the backrest was cracked in the centre.

“Your Majesty!” he cried, racing over and halting just before crashing into Kai. He slid to his knees, examining his body with burgeoning dread. “Where is it?!”

Completely dazed, shock written over his face, Kai murmured, “What?”

He seized his hands into his own. “Where were you injured?” 

Appearing confused, he squinted blearily before following Torin’s gaze to his own torso. His white coronation outfit was bright red, his skin slick with blood.

“Oh,” Kai answered flatly. “Not me. I wasn’t…It’s Cinder’s.”

Torin pursed his lips. …Cinder’s?

Kai tried, weakly, to wipe it from his arms.

Blood. Cinder’s blood.

Torin shifted his hands to the boy’s forearms, pulling him to his feet. “Where is Linh-dàren now?” 

“They just took her.” Kai’s empty gaze drifted to the doors. Ah. It was not Crescent that he’d seen being carted away.

He recovered his sensibility rather remarkably. “Shall we follow them, Your Majesty?”

Kai rubbed at his eyes. Torin hadn’t seen the boy this shellshocked since the death of his mother. “No…I don’t know if Cinder…they wouldn’t let me follow her.”

He scoffed, guiding Kai to the entrance. “You are the Emperor of the Eastern Commonwealth and the King Consort of Luna. You can go where you please.”

Kai dully shook his head. “Was King Consort.”

As they reached the doors, he retrieved the black dress coat from the ground and draped it over Kai’s stained shoulders. “If Princess Selene survives—as she will—you very well may become King Consort again someday. We will not let mere doctors stop us.”

Slowly, a light filled the boy’s vacant eyes, as if waking up from a nightmare. Without notice, he took off.

Torin fell into step, trying to match Kai’s steady pace. But Kai had transformed, emboldened by the promise of again seeing his princess. Flickers of a rowdy ten-year-old and then a slouching fifteen-year-old returned to Torin; along with his reminders to walk orderly, like a prince should.

But this determination was nothing childish. This was the gait of a man in love.

———

Blood had dribbled on the marble floors like proverbial breadcrumbs for their quest. Streaks dragged through it, suggesting fast footsteps. Neither Torin nor Kai knew where the medical wing was located, yet the second they saw that crimson evidence, Kai began running.

Slow down, Torin wanted to call for both their sakes, because the emperor would overexpend himself, and Torin was not a young man. But such a request would be cruel to him now.

They were not the only ones running. Servants fled the hallways while others huddled in trios with nervous murmurings. Just as Torin was about to reach into his pocket for his inhaler, Kai skidded to a halt. A crosspath emerged—to the left, a lavish hallway of purple carpets, ancient moon sculptures and a grand piano at its end. The right, stale white walls, dim lights and no such frivolities. In between these two was a large reflectionless window, slightly ajar. Cries of battle and howling slipped through from below.

“Your Majesty, should we perhaps—”

Kai chose right and sprinted. This time, Torin could not keep up.

As he bumbled after him, he passed Carswell Thorne, standing at a distance from a different mob of doctors. They surrounded a gurney, and when Torin saw a gleam of a shimmering orange skirt, he now knew where Darnel-mei was. Slumped against the wall nearby was a disorientated red-headed girl, cradled in the arms of one of those ghastly wolf soldiers. Torin choked on his tongue but then recognised the particular shade of green in the beast’s eyes. This was Kai’s ally, whom he had met when they concealed the Rampion in their ship on the journey to Luna. He reproached his own thoughts for the snap-judgement, especially when the man held the girl as though she were the finest bloom in a garden.

Turning the corner, Torin found Kai beside a flashing red operating room sign, motionless as a nurse explained the imperativeness that he do not impede their recovery efforts.

Resigned, he bowed his head. “Do your best, please,” came his weak voice. He watched—jealously, Torin thought—as the nurse whisked behind the large double doors.

The port at his waist pinged, an unfamiliar chime that reminded him it was borrowed. He punched in the override access code, opening to a comm from an Eastern Commonwealth officer.

“Kai,” Torin called, gently. “Her Maje–Her Highness, Princess Levana has been confirmed as dead.”

Staring at the closed hospital doors, Kai nodded. “I know. I saw her.”

And then, the memory of the throne returned to Torin. Certainly Cinder hadn’t been seated there. But it too was tainted with blood, and that pool contained much more than a single body could have produced. He drafted the cracks in the seat in his mind, the point of impact small and precise.

Princess Selene shot her.

Her body must have been taken away before Torin had arrived. But not before Kai had seen it.

The raging battle below their feet niggled at his thoughts. Hesitating, he recommended, “I suggest we declare temporary control, until Her Majesty The Queen’s status is known.”

Another slight nod. “Tell them…as King Consort, or…whatever. Just direct them to stop the fighting.”

He bowed and turned. He would first comm the Eastern Commonwealth officials to handle the loading docks, then contact their own fleet of security to instate control. Perhaps they could reason with the Lunar guards to help as well. The wolf soldiers would be impossible to restrain, but if they could at least remove the thaumaturges…

He compelled his muscles to contract, to walk forward, unsuccessfully. His feet were solid beneath him, his conscience arguing.

Torin heard a shaky exhale.

He could not leave Kai.

He spun back around and covered the distance. “Kai.”

Kai’s gaze arrived, weakly, in that of his mentor’s. It was the little warning he received before Kai buried his eyes in his wrists, sobbing.

“I can’t…” he choked. “I can’t…”

Torin planted stabilising hands on his elbows as they trembled with his shuddering breaths. 

Anyone in New Beijing Palace could have attested to the fact that Konn Torin was not known for having a propensity for affection. But Kai, he realised bleakly, guiltily, had hardly hugged a body since the late emperor’s demise. That was unacceptable.

The distance discarded, his shoulder offered, Kai collapsed into him.

“It will be all right,” Torin promised into his hair. “She will be all right.”

Shouting chased them from the closed doors; elevated alarm from hard-wearing professionals that made Kai gasp. Torin covered the boy’s ears. He needn’t know what lay behind those doors. Because none of them knew. There were no protocol-issued, well-worn documents assuring that Selene would live. They could only rely on her demonstrated stubbornness and talent of living to spite all naysayers.

But Kai’s father had been determined. Kai’s mother had been stubborn. And they were both dead. Torin had lost two great friends but Kai had lost his parents. If he let this spread to his heart, he may never awaken from this grief-stricken stupor.

“Kai,” Torin breathed, “You must live.”

“...What?” Kai whispered, confused.

He pulled back, hardened eyes peeling away to reveal softness. “No matter what happens to her, you must live.”

Kai looked to the ceiling. “I know…my people…”

“No. You must live for her. And for yourself. Only then can you have the strength for your people.” He wiped the tears away with his sleeve. “She needs you right now.”

“I can’t do anything for her right now, Torin,” he argued miserably. 

Despite it all, Torin smiled. “Do you really believe that?”

Kai’s sharp inhales syncopated with the beeps and clangs from within. Torin had always answered his questions. ‘Towin, why can’t I play with Daddy in his meetings?’ ‘Torin, why do I have to go to the gala?’ ‘Torin, why is Mama sick?’’

This question, only Kai could answer.

As those eyes had managed every time before, they reached a horizon point somewhere over Torin’s shoulder, and the determination crystallised. Torin masked a sigh of relief. For a moment, he truly believed this time might be so severe that there could be no return.

Another embrace, this one Kai initiated and pulled away from resolved. “Call off the fighting and order the thaumaturges back into the palace. I’ll collect the Eathern leaders from the docks and have them organise the crowds. We need to remove the wounded from the battlefield.”

“Shall I divert medical resources to those groups?”

“Yes,” he ordered, turning on his heel and his feet moved in step with his thoughts.  “Repurpose as many rooms in the palaces as needed. Send”—he paused, briefly, slipped a look at the closed doors, and righted himself—“Send our own medical staff as well.”

Torin followed dutifully. “And…you’ll leave Linh-dàren?”

“This is what she needs me to do right now.”

In this moment, Torin was walking beside his dear friend Rikan. This boy, this emperor, galvanised for a new purpose. To prepare Luna for its queen. To carve out a space for Linh Cinder to fill. To aid her as a friend, an ally, a partner.

The closer they got to the docks, the louder the shouting became. Frantic servants and muddled aristocrats still cried the refrain: “The queen is dead!”

No. The queen would live, and Torin dared to hope in it.

Bonus

Sometimes, Cress felt like she was getting the hang of this being around people thing. Sarcasm was becoming more obvious. Body language more telling. But then there would be a little quirk of human interactions that would demonstrate just how unaccustomed to everything she was. Today, she learnt about sneaking up on people.

Cress was halfway through closing the door to her suite when a voice purred, “What perfect timing.”

She gasped and flung around to the apparition.

“Captain!” she exclaimed, clutching her stomach. The jolt was not kind on her still-tender stab wound. 

Thorne grinned, all purple button-up and dimpled cheeks and bergamot cologne, materialised in the spot that was seconds-before empty. “Hey darlin’.”

Cress pried away her hand before he noticed it serving as an anchor and got that guilt-tinged frown. Any reminder of his (unwilling) role in her injury was a doleful experience for them both. Still, at least she could now walk without fearing her intestines would unravel.

“You scared me half to death.” She batted his shoulder.

A pleased look spread over his face. “Stealth is one of my greater qualities.”

She blinked at him. Repeatedly.

“Okay,” he relented, tone faltering. “Not necessarily.” He jutted a thumb at the door behind him. “But my room is just opposite.”

“So that gives you the right to near knock my soul out of my body?”

“I was simply coming out to say hello. I can’t believe that you’d accuse me of trying to catch a fright from you.” Thorne rested a hand on the door frame, pressing her back to the door as he craned his neck towards her. “I wouldn’t do that to my girl.”

His girl. Her heart began dancing an Irish jig for an entirely new reason. At least if she swooned from giddiness, he was in prime position to catch her. “Did you come to tell me something?” she murmured, unable to meet his eyes.

“Oh, you know,” he drawled. “I was checking out Cinder’s new place, all the bells and whistles. It’s not bad.”

“It isn’t bad,” she agreed. “It’s magnificent.”

“It’s no Rampion.” He retracted his hand from the doorframe to take hers. This time, she could look at him. “I stumbled into the gardens—nice, sure—but something was missing.”

“A waterslide?”

“Your hand in mine.” he corrected. He kissed that hand. “As long as you’re up to it, would do me the greatest honour and accompany me for a stroll?”

Her stomach throbbed. She shouldn’t walk for more than ten minutes at a time, and she’d already walked all the way to and from the dining hall for breakfast that morning. But her excitement rang louder than the ache.

“I know, it’s tough to think of an excuse not to go,” he said. “But I promise it’ll be fun. I even brought a token as a security deposit.” Reaching to his back pocket, Thorne procured a single rose, pink in its petals and tinged with brown at the base.

Cress pulled it into her fingers, awed. “It’s beautiful!” she cooed, burying her nose in the creation. “It’s a rose, right?”

He looked surprised, but only momentarily. “Indeed. You’ve probably never seen one before.”

“No.” She twirled it in her fingers, eyes fixed on the rich, fathomless colour. Oh, now she understood why roses were romance personified. She noticed that they were thornless, though she wouldn’t have minded if they weren’t. She happened to like Thornes a good deal. “Do they have more?” she asked, eyes gleaming.

“Hundreds, sweetheart.” He looked smug. His plan had succeeded beyond expectations. She was too happy to care.

“In that case, yes, of course.” She turned to the door, saying, “I'll just pull on a jacket,” when a knife twisted in her gut. She clutched her side, gasping as Thorne stole her shoulders into his hands.

“Cress! Are you okay?!” 

She gritted her teeth, hissing and attempting to take air into her lungs until the pain finally subsided. “I’m fine,” she said wanly.

He frowned. “No, no you’re not. You should’ve told me the pain was acting up.” He wrapped his arms around her sides supportively, sighing. “You need to lie down.”

“No!” she protested. “No, I want to come.”

He cast her a grim stare then pecked her cheek. “Tomorrow, okay?”

She scowled. Her injury was a poor wingwoman to her romantic life. “Okay,” she conceded, only slightly mollified.

“Here. I’ll help you get into bed.” Thorne pulled a hand away from her waist to push open the door.

Prickling erupted on her skin. She suddenly remembered what lay inside. “Oh, no, I’m fine. It’s not that bad—I can just—”

“Nonsense.”

She barely cried a “wait!” before the door swung open and the evidence spilled out in a rich floral perfume.

Thorne walked them both inside, gaping at the garden on the centre table. A mammoth bouquet of lilies, peonies, gazanias and foliage reached almost up to the ceiling. He plucked the creamy white card from the base and read it aloud:

In hopes of a swift recovery. Best Wishes, Konn Torin.

Thorne hadn’t yet blinked. Cress just about felt his token wilt in her hand. “I still love your rose,” she assuaged.

Thorne lowered the card, staring dejectedly at his intimidated rose. “I need to up my boyfriend game.”

She laughed. Cress tucked the rose behind his ear, giggling at his quizzical look. She leaned up, thirty excruciating stitches be damned, and planted a firm kiss on his lips. She pulled away. “Let’s start with that date tomorrow.”

Notes

This one's for me and @hayleblackburn, maybe the only members of the Konn Torin fan club. We're a small but loyal pit crew 😔✊

@cindersassasin @hayleblackburn @spherical-empirical @salt-warrior @just2bubbly @gingerale2017 @kaider-is-my-otp @slmkaider @luna-maximoff-22 @kaixiety @snozkat @mirrorballsss @skinwitch18 @bakergirl13 @wassupnye @linh-cindy @therealkaidertrash21

[illuminatedquill]

Short Story Summary: Hera Syndulla arrives at Sabine and Ezra's comm tower to drop off the first print editions of their personal trading cards.

*For @alphaofdarkness and @jedi-nurse who inspired this with their conversations on the Discord server. Hope you like it.

Lothal, Early Morning - Sabine and Ezra's Comm Tower

The characteristic soft chime that played whenever someone was waiting below in the comm tower's courtyard alerted Ezra to their guest's presence. Setting down the data-pad he had been browsing through for the Holo-Net's daily news, he stood and walked over to a nearby monitor at the security station that had been recently installed by Sabine as a precaution.

After all, the last time a guest had arrived she had ended up with a lightsaber stabbed through her abdomen. It was not an experience she wished to repeat again.

Shooing a curious Murley off the console, he pushed a button. The monitor's screen lit up, showing the crisp image of the tower's courtyard - and the familiar face of their guest.

Smiling, he spoke into the intercom. "Hello, Hera."

The green-skinned Twi'lek smiled back and waved at the camera. Seeing her face, practically the same since he had first seen it over a decade ago, always filled Ezra with a sense of warmth and comfort. Hera had been a steady friend, mentor, and surrogate mother to him during the hectic early days of the Rebellion. She was the eternal bedrock of the Spectres, the foundation from which all of them had built their new lives upon.

He noted the casual outfit she wore today: not her usual flight uniform, but a fashionable beige sport jacket, dark brown tunic, slim, high waisted pants, complete with comfortable walking boots. Grasped in her hands was a slim, non-descript wooden case.

"Retirement looks good on you, General," he remarked.

Hera snorted. "Semi-retirement. I was practically forced into it by Leia. She was very insistent."

"It's well-deserved," he replied. "And long overdue."

"And boring," she retorted. "I need structure, Ezra. A mission."

He laughed. "So, you're hiring yourself out as a delivery service now?"

She scowled at him. "Gotta do something. I'm still helping people, at least."

"And not getting shot at or participating in dog fights with pirates is presumably a benefit, as well," Ezra added.

"Eh," she said, waving a careless hand. "I kind of miss it, sometimes."

Hera peered up at the camera. "Are you going to let me up or we just going to chit-chat like this all day? I've got other places to be, you know."

Ezra grinned and let her in.

The slim wooden case lay open on the worktable, revealing the contents within. Ezra peered over it, taking in the sight of what Hera had brought.

She sipped at a caf, a special blend of Hera's favorite flavors. "Thanks for this," she said gratefully.

"Of course," Ezra responded. He picked up one of the items within the wooden case and observed it more closely: a trading card, thin and metallic. With a sense of bemusement, he inspected the image of himself on it, conforming to what he had perceived at the time of the photoshoot to be a "heroic" pose: his lightsaber activated and held in a basic guard position.

There was at least a dozen more of these contained within the wooden case.

"Where's Sabine?" Hera asked.

Ezra nodded towards the section of the comm tower's interior, where the master bedroom was located. "Sleeping in. She just returned from Mandalore late last night."

"Busy days for her, huh," Hera said.

Ezra shrugged, still eyeing the trading card in his hand. "Bo needs her to keep the clans in line."

He shook his head. "I can't believe these are actually real. A Jedi on a trading card."

"Hey, don't knock it," Hera said. "Skywalker's got a bunch, too."

Ezra's eyes widened. "Luke? How did the New Republic convince him to do this?"

"Same way we did with you. He had similar concerns: that Jedi shouldn't be involved in this sort of publicity, even with benevolent intentions," Hera explained. She paused to take a brief sip of her caf before continuing. "To counter this, the government pitched that it was for historical purposes. It was a good way to get the young ones across the galaxy up to date with knowledge of galactic affairs and the people who shaped them."

He blinked, remembering the exact same explanation being given to him. "It's a little scary that they found a way to trick Jedi into this."

Hera shrugged. "You're both history nerds. And there's no harm in giving the kids heroes to root for. I think you both appreciate that fact."

Ezra studied the cards some more, smiling a little. Living as an orphan on the streets of Imperial controlled Lothal, he would have given anything to have a fun side hobby like that.

"Leia, her husband Han, Skywalker, and Lando all have their own trading cards, too," Hera commented. She reached down and plucked a card from within the wooden case. "Everyone in the Ghost crew, also. Me, Zeb, Kanan - even Chopper."

Ezra snorted. He glanced over at the trading card Hera was holding, this one featuring Sabine. She was wearing one of her go-to civilian outfits, her head encased in a speeder-bike helmet. The characteristic Sabine Wren smirk was also in vivid display, along with one other feature that immediately caught his attention.

He frowned. "That can't be recent," he said. "When did she grow out her hair?"

Hera turned to him, surprised. "Right," she said. "You weren't here to see that."

She offered him the trading card. Ezra took it, gazing softly down at the image of his wife.

"She's beautiful," was all he could say. He had only ever seen Sabine with short hair, a necessity with her Mandalorian helmet. Even when she had come to rescue him on Peridea, Sabine had worn a short pixie-style cut. Ezra had assumed that had been her style the entire time he had been gone.

The deep purple he remembered from Peridea was present, but it blended beautifully with the longer locks of burning red. It reminded him of the gouts of flame bursting forth he had seen in paintings of dying stars; the effect of her dye colors presented the look of pure starfire flowing down her shoulders.

"Yeah, Sabine had these done a while ago," Hera confirmed.

"But they're just being released now?" Ezra asked. "Why?"

She sighed. "It took quite a bit of convincing for Sabine to acquiesce to this decision. You know how she is with public facing stuff like this."

Ezra winced, imagining the conversations between Sabine and the New Republic officials to be short and one-sided. Despite her brash exterior, he knew his wife to be an immensely private person, preferring to keep out of the public eye.

"I finally got her to agree, but Sabine would only do it on two conditions: first, that she would have a say in how the cards were designed. If her face was going to be on them, she wanted to ensure that the cards were artistically up to her standards."

Ezra smiled slightly. Sounds like her, he thought. Art was Sabine's first love, before she met him. She would want to make sure that the artwork showcased on the trading cards was befitting of the heroes they featured.

"What was the second condition?" he asked.

Hera cocked her head at him, her eyes suddenly wistful. "That her trading cards would only be sold as a set, not to be separated for any reason."

Ezra's brow furrowed. "She wanted her card to be permanently paired up with another?"

"Yes, Ezra," said Hera quietly. "Yours."

His eyes widened at the revelation.

"That's why hers are only being released now," continued Hera. "She was waiting for you."

Ezra was silent, looking over the cards: his and Sabine's, paired together.

Not to be separated for any reason.

He coughed, trying to clear the sudden lump in his throat. Hera clapped him on the shoulder.

"I think they look better together," she observed wryly. "Don't you?"

Ezra smiled; his eyes were moist with emotion. "Yeah," he agreed. "They do."

Sabine wandered out of the bedroom a little after mid-day. Her hair was sticking up on one end; eyes still bleary from the long sleep, she shuffled over to the couch and sat down next to Ezra.

"Had a good sleep?" he asked her.

She laid her head onto his shoulder. "Mmmmm. First soft bed in weeks. Heavenly isn't strong enough to describe it."

He kissed her head softly. "Is Mandalore still doing alright? No one's gunning for another civil war? "

"Yeah, clan meeting went nice and smoothly," she replied drowsily. "Boring."

Ezra chuckled, strongly reminded of Hera's same response earlier this morning.

"Sounds like progress," he mused.

She shifted her head on his shoulder, moving into a more comfortable position. "Heard you talking with someone. Was it Hera?"

He nodded. Sabine grimaced. "You should have woken me up, goober."

"You were tired. Hera didn't mind. Said she'll call later, to catch up with you."

Sabine didn't argue back, which was an indication of just how exhausted she still was. "What did she want?"

Ezra produced from his pocket the trading cards. "She was dropping these off."

His wife sneaked a glance at them and let out a surprised breath. "Karabast," she muttered. "I forgot these were a thing."

"Freshly minted, first edition," he bragged. "Super rare and valuable, I'm told."

She snorted. "Whatever. We should sell them and buy tickets to a star cruise."

Setting the cards down on the worktable, Ezra grinned and hugged his wife close. "I'm also told," he said gently, "that ours are not to be sold separately."

Sabine went quiet.

He reached over and laced his hand in hers. "It's very thoughtful of you," he whispered. "Thank you."

She squeezed his hand back. "We're a package deal, Ezra. I don't want anyone separating us ever again. Even in something as silly as trading cards."

[ladystarksneedle]

The eye of desire

Summary: A maid at the keep finds herself burdened by changes of green.

Warnings: mentions of period typical sexism, derogatory language and attempted assault (not Aemond)

Word count: 1.6k

Prev<

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The bell in her quarters chimes incessantly waking her up from her slumber as she clamors to dress in haste. It is the hour of ghosts, she realizes as she treads towards the familiar chambers ahead fixing the kercheif over her hair as she’s let in through the doors. He sits by the fireplace in his tunic and trousers, wet and disheveled with a chalice in hand. His wet coat appears to be discarded in haste, lying unevenly on the chaise as he stares ahead acknowledging her presence with a nod. She's swift to get to work, arranging his clothes in piles to be taken away and making preparations for his bath while he sips his wine. There is an unnerving silence that clings to him, haunting her as she busies herself with her task. He sits calmly, staring ahead in satisfaction, a stark contrast to how he'd left for Storm’s end. She silences the pang of jealousy coursing through her as she leaves to organize the pails of water needed to soothe him, missing the way his fingers clench and unclench in tandem.

Ever since the death of King Viserys, the Stranger appears to have made his home in these very walls. She remembers the dreaded day very well, waking up cheerily to attend to him only to be ushered hastily to the dungeons instead, left alone and shivering for hours at the mercy of the Master of the crooked cane and his jaunts with all her questions returning unanswered. She was, however, much luckier than many of those whose company she'd shared. She'd been summoned later, around the hour of the bat, back to his chambers to assist him for the night, just as she had done many times before and dismissed soon after being told to report to him again at dawn.

She'd done so without question, dressing him for what would come to haunt her throughout the days that followed. Some of the maids she knew returned to their positions in time, after pledging their allegiance to the crown, but many did not. She wonders what became of them as well as of her own family. She remembers seeing them last on the morning of the coronation of their new king, in the dragon pit. She'd spotted them all, her brothers along with her parents huddled together before the ground shook with thunder casting them away from each other in a flurry of red. She wonders if they were hurt and nursed back to health as the water before her steams with oils of lavender, almond and wild hazel, warm enough to take away the burden of his day. He steps in promptly before leaning back to let her work her hands through his hair, untangling the knots and massaging his scalp. She feels his body relax as she works, her mind wandering to the condition she's found herself in while he hums in between making her smile ruefully in response. She wonders how his new bride would take up the mantle of care she's religiously put up for him, finally casting her aside. Perhaps then she'd be able to meet those dear to her.

She recovers from her reverie soon enough, in horror and mute delight. The mist that shrouds her prince the next morn is unpalatable and a mockery of her faith in him. The words whispered in the hallways arouse fear and disgust yet the booming voice of the King silences them all with mirth followed by reluctant applause. There's a feast to be held in his honor for blood well spilt. The thought sickens her as she works in preparation for the night to come. The keep has been decorated with banners of green and gold, with stars of the faith lining the halls highlighting the presence of the Gods among them, more ominous compared to the comfort they're there to provide. She blends in perfectly with them too, dressed in beige and green, a tribute to the change being brought about, a mute spectator to it all.

She returns to him at dusk, fiddling as she readies him again. The leather in her hands feels heavy as she fixes it in place lingering at the feel of the golden flame clasp on her fingertips. It feels cold as she lets it go before catching his eye in the mirror. He holds her gaze intuitively before dismissing her with a flick of his wrist. As the night carries on in unexpected cheers and jests she's summoned to the banquet to attend to the merriment. The maids serving them appear to be adequate in number yet she lingers on, helping them serve wine and cake. The King laughs and guzzles his drink, eyes alight as the crowd clamors for his attention flitting from one subject to the next before it lands on her. She's been warned of it and how to go about it once caught, to acknowledge and avoid lest she bear the brunt of his eagerness yet she feels her body stiffen in response. The Stranger lurks in his eyes ready to pounce as he beckons her towards him.

“Come ‘ere wench” he bellows calling her forwards “Let me look at you properly”

She sees her prince turn his head towards her as she walks with the pitcher in hand pouring fresh wine into his cup.

“What a pretty little thing you are” he murmurs running his hand along her back “A fine price to pay for the stag lost to me now, is she not brother?” he says, looking at him.

“The Baratheons will follow you, your grace” she hears the Hand respond with a shake of his head.

“Yes yes, what choice do they have? Lord Borros seems to have a clear head for matters as such. A man like him would hardly prefer to side with pups” he laughs “As strong as they might be” he says smirking as his hand travels lower. She winces in response as she stands still near him.

“Perhaps I might indulge in a little bite after all, I'm sure your bride wouldn't mind after the show you put up”

She feels him clench his jaw as he rises slowly, fingers clasped around his chalice as he stares him down.

“Careful brother we wouldn't want to spoil all the merriment”

“T’is your grace” he responds petulantly, smacking her as she flinches.

“Hmm. Perhaps your grace should let me claim my prize then, for ridding you of one pup, this feast is in my honor after all” he challenges holding his gaze.

She feels the King stare at him before letting her go as he raises his own cup to him. “Of course” he says “You're wound out tight enough, let loose tonight brother, there is more to be done on the morrow” he replies with a glint to his eyes.

She feels his fingers grab her arm hauling her towards the door as some of the drunken lords erupt in cheers, trying to hide the shame that burns through her.

She's taken to those familiar doors in haste, tugged along like a doll before he dismisses the guard at the door. The room feels warm yet she shivers running her hands over her arms.

“Sit” he commands, seating himself before the hearth. He pours her a cup of wine and she accepts it trembling as she takes a sip near him. “I will not force you” he says looking at her as she drinks.

“It is what he does with most” she whispers bravely “To the maids, I've heard them complain.”

“My brother has a taste for depravity” he says as she lets his words linger.

“What do you wish to do with me?” she asks, gazing at him in doubt.

“Whatever you'd like,” he says, eye glinting dangerously.

“And if I refuse, would things go back to the way they were”

“If that is what you want”

“It is my lot in this life”

“And here I considered your position to be a bit more accomodating” he huffs in jest.

“In what way? Many like me have had their lives upheaved by a mistake”

“You consider this to be one” he asks, raising his eyebrow.

“There is no justice in this world”

“Yet you cling in prayer to the Father”

She looks at him disbelief as he drums his fingers against the armrest. “I find he seldom listens to some of us”

“No, some of us seek it in our own way” he responds thoughtfully.

“I do not wish to be hurt”

He looks at her for a moment before tilting his head in response. “You've served me well over the years, do you think I'd demand more than what you could give”

“Would this be an extension of my duties then?”

“Yes”

“And we'd continue the way we were before, but with me being your lover” she asks blushing.

“A convenient arrangement”

She fidgets in response as he gets up, irritated by her disagreeableness. “You may leave if you wish to, I will not hold it against you”

“It doesn't bother me” she whispers coming up to stand behind him before continuing “It never has and none of it ever will”

He stares at her as he turns to face her, sensing her hesitancy. “You will have my protection. It shall be with you as long as you wish to continue”

She nods in response before reaching up to touch his face. He startles before letting her set her hand on his cheek stroking his wound. She sees him stare into her eyes, daring her as she removes his eyepatch.

“Does it still hurt?” she whispers.

He hums as he leans down to capture her lips. She tastes the sweetness of wine on his tongue as he caresses her and the bitterness of smoke that clings to him as he lights her aflame. It is the last thing she remembers before drifting off to bliss, considering her own blood well spilt.

Taglist: @witheredoffherwitch @arcielee @chompchompluke @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @b00kw0rmsworld

[francesminos-tt]

Lucemond time travel fix-it au with a twist where a 11-year-old Aemond and his 30-year-old self switches bodies.

Older!Aemond is happily married to Lucerys. They have three children and Lucerys is nursing their youngest.

Youger!Aemond just got his eye gauged out. Poor boy.

It all starts at that fateful night on Driftmark. Aemond claimed Vaghar but lost an eye. The pain is too intense, the hurt too deep, the humiliation too intolerable, and most importantly, the indifference in his father’s eyes is too much to bear. As the maester is sewing his flesh back together, Aemond blacks out for a bit.

When he wakes up next, he finds himself in a strange place. He’s lying on a massive bed; the unique ocean scent tells him that he’s still on Driftmark, but the surrounding is completely different from mere seconds ago. Did he pass out longer than he thought? Did his mother put him to rest? Why is his face not hurting? What is the warmth on his left?

Aemond doesn’t have to wonder any longer, because the warmth shifts and Aemond hears a small yawn as he feels hot breath on his neck.

“Why are you up, Aemond?” A mop of brown curls emerges from Aemond’s blind side. It’s a boy, no, young man with soft features and sleepy eyes the color of honey wine.

Aemond doesn’t know him. Seven, he never sleeps in the same bed with anyone else. And he certainly doesn’t cuddle.

“Who are you? I demand you to get off my bed and identify yourself.” Aemond says, his voice deep and resonating, nothing like the voice Aemond is accustomed to.

This is NOT his voice.

The young man frowns, sleep disappearing from his eyes. He studies Aemond for a while before slips off the bed. The young man fishes an oversized tunic from the floor and throws it on. The tunic comes down all the way to the middle of his thigh, and Aemond belatedly realizes his companion is completely naked. So is Aemond.

“Did Aegon give you something nasty again? I am going to cut off his balls.” The young man spits, pacing around the room to light the candles.

Aegon, right, that’s a familiar name. His older brother is constantly horny and drunk which annoys Aemond to the core, but now he would die to see a familiar face again.

“Here. Drink some water. Does your head hurt? Do you feel like vomiting? I can have the maester prepare some tonic for you, or do you prefer some warm soup?” The young man returns to the bed with a goblet in hand. He offers the goblet to Aemond before leans down, pressing their forehead together to feel Aemond’s temperature.

Aemond’s breath catches in his throat. Never is someone so caring to him. Not even his own mother. Alicent is always civil and aloof. She is more Queen than mother to him. Aemond can’t remember the last time someone showed such affection and devotion to him.

“How do you feel? Talk to me, Aemond, beloved, you are scaring me.” The young man brushes a strand of silver hair from Aemond’s forehead, his touch so tender that Aemond doesn’t want him to stop.

“Who are you?” Aemond asks again, this time barely a whisper. This is a dream, Aemond is sure of it. Maybe the maester gives him too much milk of the poppy. That’s why he would have this strange but incredibly vivid and addicting dream. He is afraid if he asks the wrong question, the caring stranger would disappear and he will be left alone with pain again.

The stranger chuckles, as if Aemond just did something silly but endearing.

“I can’t believe you are so hang-over that you forget your own husband.” The stranger says. His eyes twinkle, small beads of sweat gives his skin an inviting sheen, and Aemond could see red bite marks scattered all over his chest, especially around his nipples.

“Husband?” Aemond repeats, rather stupidly.

“That’s right. I am your husband, Lucerys.” The young man kisses Aemond on the lips as he reveals the truth.

Aemond’s whole world starts to spin. No. It cannot be. This is merely a milk of the poppy induced dream. There is no way he would marry Lucerys of all people. The boy who just took his eye.

But, come to think of it, Aemond now sees a pair of big doe eyes, unruly curls, plush lips, full cheeks, and a cute button nose. All those features scream Lucerys to him.

“What year is it?” Aemond mutters.

“Are you sure you are all right, love? It’s 140 AC.”

And just like that, a 11-year-old Aemond somehow transfers into the body of his older self almost 20 years later.

Bonus:

121 AC, Driftmark

Aemond (turns to the maester): Can you look at my husband Lucy, eh, I mean my nephew Lucerys? I think his nose is still bleeding.

Everyone looks shocked except for Lucerys.

Lucerys (sniffles): Are you hurting too much uncle?

Aemond: It’s not too bad. Come here, you can kiss it better.

Lucerys (stumbles toward Aemond)