#the NP i work with is refusing meetings with her boss's boss

[vaguelydownwards]

How did I, of all people, become a beacon of mental health at my workplace

[honestsycrets]

Poll 9.22

Hello everyone, giving y'all the choice between two different works I have been working on:

Snippets are as of yet, unedited.

Requests:

1. How about a miguel o hara md x nurse reader 😭

Hi! Can you do a Miguel x f!reader fic where they're dating? It's expensive to live in Nueva York and the reader overworks herself at a thankless job with a pervy boss but she can't find work anywhere else. She doesn't tell Miguel about her bosses advances because she doesn't want him to worry about her but the signs are getting harder to hide.

2. Still, I offer you this: Sheriff Miguel.

He's someone all the women have their eyes on, and he'd have his eyes on them, too, if he were younger. But he has a baby girl to worry about, a runaway wife to forget, and a town to keep an eye on, especially when a woman from the big city pays the little down a visit.

He meets her when he loses Gabriella in the market's crowd, only to find her tugging on a fine dress belonging to a fine woman.

1.) “You’ve been staring at this same lecture for two hours.” He offers the cool mug that you abandoned in the kitchen, dragging your feet to the couch and zoning out to the lecture he quickly clicks off. The remote clicks as he sets it aside.

“That’s how you study,” you murmured, despite the fact that the PowerPoint on your lap was unmarred. A highlighter queen, you loved to sully the pages with vibrant pens and highlighters til they looked more like poppy birthday invitations than school notes. His desk was chock-full of the heart-shaped sticky notes that you slapped on his lunch every night like clockwork. He kept every last one.

“Not how you study,” Miguel throws his arm over your shoulders, forcing you to tip against his side. You fell into the warmth that was his body, your PowerPoint clattering onto the floor. You don’t bother to pick it up, rubbing the heel of your palm into your swollen eyes. You were crying.

“I’m just tired, Miggy. Patients die on the floor every day.”

“Happens when you work hospice,” Miguel remarks. “There’s an opening in step down.”

“Ya sé. I tried.” You turn your face into his naked chest, your soft fingers curling along his dark skin. “No one else will work with me for school. Especially not with clinicals coming up. I just… need to make it a year.”

“Listen to me and quit,” Miguel suggests. “I can take care--”

“We’ve talked about this. I don’t want Stone’s blood money. The drugs he makes—”

Damn, as if his degree meant a whole lot of nothing. Miguel turns his hand over yours, grazing his thumb over the chunky diamond set in your newly acquired engagement ring. It isn’t as if he has a great relationship with the fucker, but… if it meant alleviating the stress that you wore everywhere, he’d make something of it.

“—addictive.”

“Let me take care of you.”

“I said no."

2.) “Yes, mami, Sheriff O’Hara. Do you know old Sheriff O’Hara?” You sure can talk pretty. He clears his throat, pulling on the sloppy tie that feels a whole lot hotter all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s been that long since he’s been with a girl. It isn’t like he can particularly go to the saloon and pick any one of those girls that followed him around up. He might have a night sitter for Gabriella but-- the town wouldn’t continually elect a loose man. Miguel’s eyes catch the flickering gold of a bumblebee locket on your chest, tracing its wings' curve. “‘Course she does, she’s mine. I lost her up in the crowd flow.” “Where is your wife? You can’t tell me you’re the kinda man that does it all, can you?” Where is your wife? The question tormented him. He could do it all. Managing the sloppy, slow thieves and putting down the occasional drunken brawl. At the end of the night, he came home to his empty home and saw his little girl. Miguel’s gaze danced along the puffy clouds in the sky. The fluffy clouds drift the same as usual, the same old slow draw, unknowledgeable about the change in his life. He suppresses the distant call of longing fluttering in his chest. “Ain’t got a wife. She ran off on me with some wolf. Usually, I got a sitter for my girl but, she came down with a fever.” “A wolf?” you repeat after him, “Why, you mean a gentleman?” “If you wanna call him that. He was an outlaw.” “I’m mighty sorry, Sheriff.”