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inpakmakina · 4 months ago

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Thermoforming Machines for High-Volume Packaging Production

High-volume packaging production requires machines that are capable of handling large quantities of material in a short period. Thermoforming machines, particularly those used in high-volume settings, are designed to efficiently produce large batches of products. These machines work by heating plastic sheets until they become soft and malleable. Once softened, they are formed into the desired shape using molds, often with the help of vacuum or air pressure. The speed and efficiency of these machines make them an ideal choice for industries requiring rapid production rates, such as food packaging, medical packaging, and consumer goods manufacturing.

The key to high-volume production lies in the ability of the thermoforming machines to quickly switch between different product designs while maintaining precise and consistent results. With advancements in technology, modern thermoforming machines can handle large-scale production without sacrificing quality. For businesses looking to meet tight deadlines and manage high production volumes, the investment in efficient thermoforming machinery is crucial. These machines offer faster cycle times, greater reliability, and a level of automation that can significantly reduce the need for manual labor, streamlining the production process and driving overall cost efficiency.

In high-volume production settings, maintaining consistent product quality is just as important as speed. Thermoforming machines provide precise control over the forming process, ensuring that products meet high standards. The use of high-performance thermoforming equipment ensures that products are formed accurately and efficiently, minimizing defects and material waste. This precision is especially critical in industries like medical packaging or food packaging, where the integrity of the packaging can impact the safety and usability of the product. Thermoforming machines for high-volume packaging production are designed for efficiency, speed, and precision, enabling large-scale manufacturing of plastic containers and trays.

What is High-Volume Production?

High-volume production refers to the manufacturing process where large quantities of products are produced in a relatively short amount of time. This production type is commonly associated with industries such as food packaging, consumer goods, electronics, and pharmaceuticals, where the demand for standardized, mass-produced items is high. High-volume production is characterized by the use of automated processes, large-scale machinery, and streamlined workflows designed to maximize output while minimizing production time and costs.

In high-volume manufacturing, the focus is on producing large batches of products consistently and efficiently. Machines and systems are optimized for speed, automation, and accuracy to ensure that the production process can handle large volumes of items with minimal human intervention. High-volume production is often a critical part of supply chains, where manufacturers must meet strict deadlines to satisfy demand from retailers or consumers.

Additionally, high-volume production can significantly lower unit costs as economies of scale come into play. By producing large quantities at once, manufacturers can reduce material costs, labor costs, and overhead, making it more cost-effective to produce at scale. This form of manufacturing is central to the success of many industries that rely on standardized products and large production runs.

Why Should You Choose High-Volume Production?

Choosing high-volume production can provide several significant benefits for businesses. One of the primary advantages is the reduction in cost per unit. As the scale of production increases, manufacturers can take advantage of economies of scale, leading to lower material costs, reduced labor costs, and optimized use of factory space. This reduction in costs allows companies to maintain competitive pricing in the market, which is critical for products that are sold in high volumes at lower price points, such as consumer goods.

Another reason to opt for high-volume production is increased efficiency. With the right machinery and production processes in place, companies can streamline their operations to produce more in less time. Thermoforming machines, for instance, can deliver fast cycle times without compromising product quality, making them an excellent choice for businesses looking to meet high demand quickly. Automated systems allow for fewer manual interventions, leading to more consistent output and fewer errors in production.

High-volume production is also beneficial for companies looking to maintain a steady supply of products. The ability to produce large quantities in a short time helps businesses avoid stock shortages, meet demand spikes, and ensure that their products are consistently available to consumers. This is particularly important in industries where product availability can directly impact a company’s reputation and sales performance, such as in the food industry or pharmaceutical packaging.

Efficiency Improvement for High-Volume Production with Thermoforming Machines

Thermoforming machines play a crucial role in improving the efficiency of high-volume production. These machines are specifically designed to handle large-scale operations, offering faster cycle times, greater automation, and enhanced precision. The ability to quickly heat, mold, and cut plastic sheets ensures that production can move rapidly from one step to the next, minimizing downtime between processes. This efficiency is vital when managing large production runs where time and consistency are of the essence.

The efficiency of thermoforming machines is further enhanced by their ability to operate with minimal manual intervention. Modern thermoforming machines come equipped with automated features such as auto-loading, auto-unloading, and automated cooling systems. These features help reduce labor costs, improve safety, and maintain production speed without the need for constant supervision. Additionally, the integration of advanced control systems allows operators to adjust settings and monitor the production process in real-time, ensuring that the machines are always performing at their best.

Another significant efficiency benefit of thermoforming machines is their ability to use various thermoforming techniques, such as vacuum forming, pressure forming, and twin-sheet forming. These versatile processes allow manufacturers to produce a wide range of products from the same machine, reducing the need for additional equipment and simplifying the overall production workflow. Thermoforming machines can also handle different types of materials, which increases their flexibility in adapting to various high-volume production needs.

Why Should Thermoforming Machines Be Preferred for High-Volume Packaging Production?

Thermoforming machines are an ideal choice for high-volume packaging production because they offer numerous benefits over other manufacturing methods. One of the primary advantages is their ability to quickly and consistently produce packaging materials at large scale. Whether for blister packs, clamshells, or trays, thermoforming machines can form plastic sheets into complex shapes with precision, ensuring that the packaging fits perfectly and offers the necessary protection for the product inside.

Another reason why thermoforming machines are preferred in high-volume packaging production is their cost-effectiveness. With the right setup, thermoforming machines can produce large quantities of packaging materials at a lower cost per unit than other types of machinery. This is due to their efficient use of raw materials and the ability to operate at high speeds. Additionally, thermoforming machines can work with a variety of materials, including PET, PP, and PS, allowing businesses to choose the best material for their specific packaging needs while keeping costs under control.

Finally, thermoforming machines are favored for their reliability and precision. High-quality thermoforming equipment can produce consistent results, which is crucial in industries where packaging must meet stringent quality standards. These machines are designed to maintain tight tolerances, ensuring that every piece of packaging produced is uniform and free of defects. This level of consistency is essential for packaging products that require a high degree of protection, such as medical devices or food items.

High-Performance Thermoforming Machines for Fast Production from INPAK

INPAK offers high-performance thermoforming machines that are specifically designed to support fast production for high-volume manufacturing needs. These machines feature advanced technologies that enable them to produce a wide range of products quickly and efficiently. With high-capacity forming stations and robust heating systems, INPAK’s machines are built to handle the demands of high-volume production without compromising on quality.

One of the standout features of INPAK’s thermoforming machines is their ability to minimize downtime. Through innovative design and automated features, such as quick mold change systems, INPAK’s machines can reduce the time spent switching between production runs. This results in more efficient workflows and higher overall throughput, making them an excellent choice for businesses that need to keep up with high production demands.

INPAK’s thermoforming machines also offer enhanced precision and customization options. With adjustable settings for temperature, pressure, and cycle times, manufacturers can fine-tune the machines to meet the specific requirements of their production processes. Whether for creating intricate packaging designs or optimizing for speed, INPAK’s machines provide the flexibility needed to maintain high levels of efficiency while ensuring that product quality remains top-notch.

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#inpak #ınpak #thermoforming machines #Thermoforming Machines for High-Volume Packaging Production #Supplier Thermoforming Machines #Manufacturer Thermoforming Machines #Manufacturing Thermoforming Machines #Youtube

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equalonline · 1 year ago

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EQUAL - Robotic TIG Welding

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Unique Power Technologies is the top sheet metal manufacturing company that uses the latest technology in Robot Welding Services to bring you the highest level of Finishing. UPT has been known for quality sheet metal fabrication services since 2020. No matter what service you’re looking for, we guarantee to not only meet but exceed your expectations and ensure your full satisfaction. Our Fabrication Services deliver clean finishing and long life with completely repeatable results. Our system is ideal for high-volume production. As a result, projects can reach optimum material utilization, increasing manufacturing accuracy and efficiency.

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 24 days ago

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change of plans

Summary: Your plan of waking up Harry with breakfast in bed gets interrupted when Harry finds you in the kitchen wearing only his shirt.

Pairing: Harry Castillo x fem. reader

Wordcount: 2k

Rating: E

Warnings: established relationship, some domestic fluff, smut (unprotected sex), kitchen sex, a hint of breeding kink, fluff, making plans about the future (reversal of a vasectomy)

A/N: I haven't watched the movie since it doesn't come out here until august, but I don't care I love him lol

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Main Masterlist // Harry Castillo Masterlist

It wasn’t often that you were awake before Harry.

Usually he’d be up and out of bed before his alarm went off at 5:30. He’d check the stock market and his emails before he’d kiss your forehead and quietly got up to get ready for the day.

You’d usually wake up when he was about to get out, giving him a tired smile when he came back to bed to kiss you goodbye.

You’d been dating for almost a year, living together for the last two months after your the lease of your apartment ran out and your landlord wanted 1k more. Per week. For a shitty one room apartment that always smelt like Chinese foods from the restaurant in the same building.

And like it was nothing, Harry just offered his place. You had been spending most of the time here anyway but still. Your relationships never were like it was with Harry. You didn’t have to constantly proof your worth or walk around on tiptoes.

For the first time in your life you felt like you were in love with someone who loved you just as much, if not more back. And it felt wonderful.

Dating a billionaire was not on your agenda when you finally gave in and agreed on a blind date your sister wanted to arrange for you.

Only that the man she had set you up with never showed up. Fed up and warming up to the idea that maybe ending up as a single cat lady, you were about to leave when Harry sat down across from you with a warm smile and the question if he could invite you for a drink.

You had spend almost every single day together since then.

Now you were looking at him as he slept. He was laying on his stomach, his face squished into one of his pillows, the bedsheet almost up to his nose. He had come home pretty late, you’d already been asleep when he slipped into bed, cuddling against you and pretty much falling asleep immediately.

One of his biggest projects in Abu Dhabi finally had been signed and with that he could finally relax.

You fought the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair and instead slowly slipped out of bed, grabbing his shirt on your way towards the ensuite.

You grabbed the suit he had been wearing yesterday when you had freshened up, making sure to add them to the pile of the dry cleaning that would be picked up later today, before you walked slowly through the penthouse, towards the kitchen.

The view from so high up was still breathtaking every single time. The sun just so peaking over the clouds, as if you were floating above New York City which was hidden beneath the clouds.

Humming to yourself you walked towards the coffee machine, pressing the button for your favourite before you turned towards the screen that managed almost every device in the penthouse, turning on the radio on a low volume before you walked towards the enormous fridge, opening it.

You picked everything you’d need to make some pancakes, setting it down on the kitchen island before you grabbed your drink, taking a long sip, humming along to a song on the radio.

You wondered if you could surprise Harry with breakfast in bed.

You had taken some days off work, Harry telling you that he wanted to take you out of town to celebrate your upcoming anniversary.

Smiling to yourself you reached for a bowl before you began to add all the ingredients for the pancakes. Whisking them together as the news announced the successful deal Harry had made yesterday, making you smile like a proud mother.

Jumping when you felt arms wrap around you from behind you let yourself relax against his broad chest, Harrys face nuzzling against your neck, his lips pressing against your skin.

„Good morning,“ he hummed and you pouted with a smile.

„I wanted to make you breakfast in bed,“ you said, feeling him smile against your skin. His arms around you tightened and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth when you felt him rub his hard on against your ass.

„How about a different kind of breakfast?“ He kissed up the side of your neck, his facial hair softly scratching over your skin. You were still slowly whisking the pancake mix when one of his hands slipped under your shirt, slowly up your stomach.

„Mhhhh and what do you have in mind?“ You smiled, tilting your head to the side to give him more access.

His hand found one of your breasts, giving it a gently squeeze as he moved his hips against yours, a low moan escaping your lips.

„How about I show you?“ He mumbled as his other hand slipped between your legs, groaning when he found you wearing nothing underneath.

You gave up on the pancakes when his fingers slipped through your folds, the whisk falling down on the marble island with a clang. Turning your head, his lips were on yours immediately, two of his fingers pushing inside of you.

He hummed against your lips, his tongue slipping between them, deepening the kiss all while his fingers moved inside of you, lazily working you up.You brought one arm up and behind you so your hands could reach him, your fingers slipping into his hair.

„More,“ you mumbled against his lips and and he grinned, his thumb rubbing over your clit and you gasped.

„Wanted to wake you up with my mouth on you,“ he said, voice hoarse. You let your head fall back next against him, his mouth on your jaw as your lips parted.

„Take my time with you,“ he said, his hand on your breast playing with your nipple.

„Been so busy with work lately, I missed you,“ your other hand came to hold on to his arm across your stomach.

„Missed your wet little pussy,“ he sucked on your earlobe and you moaned, already close to your orgasm.

„You fucked me in the shower yesterday,“ you reminded him, voice breathy and he chuckled.

„Not the same. When we get off the plane I intend to not leave the bed for at least three days,“ he whispered against your ear, his fingers finding the spot inside of you that made you shake, focusing his fingers on it. You came with a soft cry of his name, and Harry hummed a „good girl“ against your ear as he continued to pump his fingers into you.

When his fingers finally slipped out of you you release a long breath before you turned your head to kiss him again.

„Plane?“ You mumbled against his lips. He smiled, kissing your nose.

„Surprise,“ he winked, bringing his hand up, licking his fingers clean, his other hand still on your breast. Narrowing your eyes playfully you turned around, crossing your arms behind his neck.

„Where are we going?“ You asked and he hummed, shaking his head.

„All you need to know is that you don’t need any clothes, we’re gonna be alone for four full days,“ he grinned and you rolled your eyes, fighting unsuccessful against the smile that spread on your lips.

„Hmmm… Four days naked? Whatever are we going to do?“ You asked, letting your hand run down his chest, eyebrows raising in mock surprise when your hand slipped straight into his boxers and wrapped around his hard cock.

„I have a list,“ he grinned before he kissed you again. You chuckled against his lips, slowly pumping his cock.

„Oh yeah?“ You mumbled against his lips.

He moaned against your lips and you were about to get on your knees for him when his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you onto the kitchen island, making you giggle. You spread your legs as he got closer towards you.

„Oh yeah. I’ve been working on it during my super long and boring meetings,“ his hands pulled your shirt up until he could pull it over your head, throwing it to the floor, leaving you sitting naked with your legs spread in front of him.

„You mean the super long and boring meetings that made you 300 million dollars richer?“ You teased and he slipped his boxers down before both of his hands ran up your thighs. One hand wrapped around his cock and you parted your legs even wider as he slipped the tip though your folds.

„Those exactly,“ he nodded, notching against your entrance.

„Multitasking. I like it,“ you teased and he laughed, kissing you again while he slowly pushed into you, both of you moaning. You let yourself fall back, both of your hands on the counter behind you, arching your back.

„You’re so fucking beautiful,“ he shook his head slightly and you moaned deeply when he began to slowly fuck into you, filling you deeper and deeper until finally his cock was fully inside of you. He set a slow pace, both of his hands coming down to lean against the kitchen island, his head dropping down to kiss the soft skin on top of one of your tits before he softly sucked your nipple into his mouth.

„Oh fuck,“ you moaned, your head falling backwards, arching your back even more to get closer to him. You slowly moved your hips to meet his thrusts.

„So my plan is a lot of hits,“ he mumbled against your tit and you actually laughed. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he looked up at you, before he let go and came to stand to his full height, hands pulling you closer to the edge, towards him.

He moved faster, pumping his cock into you, his skin slapping against yours. You moaned.

"A little bit of that,“ he groaned and you smiled out of breath.

One of his hands slipped between your bodies, his fingers playing with your clit as his thrusts intensified.

„And fuck. Yeah definitely this,“ he said with a moan and you crossed your legs behind his ass, pulling him even closer as he pumped into you in quick, hard thrusts.

„Oh shit baby,“ you pushed yourself up, hands coming to rest on each side of his neck, both of you looking down to where he was fucking into you, while continuing to rub your clit.

„Look how wet you are for me,“ he mumbled against your ear, kissing your shoulder.

„Just for you baby,“ you slipped one hand into his hair and he leaned in to kiss you. It only took a few more seconds until you came, wave after wave washing over you as you moaned against his mouth.

He let his forehead fall against yours, now chasing his own orgasm.

„Cum for me baby,“ you whimpered, lightly pulling his hair and he groaned.

„Gonna cum. Gonna fuck, pump all my cum inside of you until….“ He stopped himself and you tilted his head up so you could look at him.

„Until what? Until you get me pregnant?“ You asked and he nodded with a moan, twitching inside of you.

„Do it. Fuck me full of you. Fuck a baby into me Harry,“ you whined and his lips parted, moaning as you felt him cum, fucking his cum into you until he stilled, his cock deep inside of you.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. He kissed your temple until you looked at him.

„I’ve been thinking…“ he began and you raised your eyebrows.

„More on your list?“ You asked and he chuckled, shaking his head.

„Not on the sex list. On… our future list,“ he said softly and you smiled, interested. A few weeks ago you had dreamed about your future together. How you wanted to grow old together. And maybe start a family.

But Harry had a vasectomy almost fifteen years ago.

„I made a appointment to reverse the vasectomy,“ he said and your eyes widened.

„Really?“ You asked and he nodded.

„How do you feel about that?“ He asked and you smiled up at him.

„Ecstatic,“ you grinned before you kissed him.

#my fic #harry castillo #harry Castillo x fem. reader #pedro pascal #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #pedro pascal characters

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nemo-writes · 3 months ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter one

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: you help steady the hospital’s chaos with quiet rituals and small acts of kindness. order and routine make each shift feel almost predictable. yet, tomorrow may demand more than the calm you rely on.

⤿ warning(s): medical-talk + inaccuracies, blood

⟡ story masterlist ; next

✦ word count: 2.8k

You used to have dreams—bright ones, hungry ones.

But somewhere between the double shifts and the endless hum of fluorescent lighting, those dreams had quieted. They hadn’t disappeared, not entirely, but now they came in the form of small things: the smell of tea steeping before sunrise, the clean snap of hospital sheets, the stillness of your apartment before the day began.

You lived alone, but that was never a tragedy to you.

Your apartment was modest. Cozy. Lived-in, with warm wooden floors and cream curtains that kissed the edges of your windows. One plant thrived stubbornly in the corner by the radiator—some gifted thing you’d kept alive out of sheer spite. Photos of nieces, nephews, and long-lost vacations sat on the sideboard. The kitchen was small, but clean. You kept your things tidy, because life was messy enough at the hospital.

It was your control. Your calm.

Your mornings began the same way they had for years. Wake up before the sun, curl your toes into your slippers, and shuffle toward the kettle. Black tea, strong. You didn’t bother with cream or sugar. Just heat and caffeine and the comfort of routine. You drank it while checking your phone—usually a few texts from Dana, the charge nurse over in Emergency, and an update or two from your sister about her youngest’s science project.

Then, a hot shower. Soft music playing in the background—today it was old blues, something mellow. You dressed in your gray scrubs, slipped on your comfortable shoes, and made your way to the kitchen.

You didn’t believe in skipping meals—not after years of surviving on vending machine food and sheer willpower.

The contents of your first lunch bag were already waiting in the fridge: slices of roasted chicken you’d basted the night before, still fragrant with lemon and thyme, and a generous scoop of rice pilaf with caramelized onion and roasted carrots tucked beside it. A small container of green beans sautéed with garlic. Warm cornbread, wrapped in foil, so it stayed soft. A boiled egg. Warm food. The kind that could keep your feet under you even in the middle of a 12-hour shift.

Then you opened the second lunch bag that you pulled out whenever you had an especially high volume of left-overs, and began to fill it. A thermos of hearty lentil stew, a few cheese and spinach empanadas you’d made and frozen last week, a stack of soft tortillas wrapped in cloth to keep warm, and a small container of fresh-cut fruit. You added a tin of shortbread cookies, too. People liked those.

You never asked who needed it. You didn’t have to. You just left it in the staff fridge every morning, labeled simply: “Up for Grabs – Eat.”

By noon, it was always empty.

You paused before sealing the bags, then reached into the top drawer by the stove and pulled out a handful of black tea packets. Not just a few—seven or eight. You slid them into the side pocket with care, the familiar crinkle of foil against fabric oddly soothing.

Then came the last step: a glance around the apartment, a check of the stovetop knobs, and the soft click of the door behind you.

Everything was where it needed to be. Just like always.

. . .

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital never slept, not really.

You arrived with the sun cresting over the river, a pale smear of gold across the skyline. Even in the early morning, the hospital was alive: stretchers rolling in from Emergency, clipped voices paging overhead, janitors finishing their night rounds, and a group of med students already looking overwhelmed before they even got inside.

You swiped your badge at the side entrance and were immediately hit with the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee.

For you, the surgical wing was your kingdom.

Bright lights. Cold air. Soft beeps and controlled chaos. You’d been here longer than most. A senior surgical nurse, day shift. You weren’t in it for praise—you weren’t even in it for thanks. You were in it for the discipline, for the order that existed even amid blood and panic. In a world that never stopped breaking, you were one of the ones putting it back together.

Your team knew it, too.

“Hey, boss,” said Fin, a junior nurse in his second year. He looked like a wiry greyhound who’d grown up on steel mills and pick‑up games; he had the reflexes of a cat and the attention span of a bee. He fell into step beside you with a bounce in his sneakers. “Just got a fresh post-op in Five. Dr. Garcia was already yelling about the chart.”

You gave him a look. “Did you forget to mark the drains again?”

“I swear I didn’t—okay, maybe I did one, but—”

“You get one more maybe today, or I’m taping a checklist to your forehead.”

He saluted dramatically, then broke off in a little jog ahead of you. But before he turned the corner, he spun around, shadow-boxing in the air like some scrappy middleweight on caffeine. “I’ve been working out, by the way.” He flexed one arm, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a modest bicep. “You’re gonna have to start calling me Big Fin.”

You arched a brow. “I’ll consider it. Right after I get my hearing checked.”

“Brutal,” he called back, grinning as he disappeared into Recovery.

You passed Jules, the surgical scrub nurse, reviewing trays with the precision of a jeweler. “We’re short on curved hemostats,” she muttered without looking up. “Already paged Central Supply twice.”

“I’ll give them a call,” you said, adjusting your clipboard. “They listen when I growl.”

“That’s because they think you could shank them with a suture needle.”

You just smiled.

And then, as always, Margot appeared like clockwork.

She was the charge nurse for the surgical wing, older than you by a few years, and about twice as loud. Silver-streaked curls piled into a bun, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, Margot ran the board like a general and swore like a sailor with a grudge.

“Someone better have coffee for me or blood will be spilled,” she barked as she stepped into the unit, already scanning the whiteboard.

“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” you quipped, handing her a small to-go cup you’d filled back in the break room.

She paused. Narrowed her eyes at you. Then smiled—really smiled. “You always take care of me, you old softie.”

“I’m just trying to prevent a homicide before noon.”

The two of you had worked side by side for almost a decade now. Margot was the only one who knew when your laugh wasn’t real, when your tiredness was more than just a long shift, and when something was bothering you even if you hadn’t said a word. She kept the unit on its feet and your spine straight on the rough days.

And you did the same for her.

“You see the supply tray?” she asked, flipping through her pages.

“Yeah. Jules is about ready to fight someone. I’ll call Central again.”

“Tell ‘em we’re not slicing open anyone with Fisher-Price tweezers,” Margot muttered.

Then there was Tasha, one of the newer float nurses, still finding her rhythm. You made a point to check in on her mid-morning, offering her a granola bar and a steadying word after a rough debridement assist.

Then the surgeons—Dr. Miller and Dr. Garcia.

The day moved with precision. Rounds. Preps. Walk-throughs. Checklists. Blood draws. Verifying scripts. Comforting scared patients with a hand on the shoulder and a warm, quiet voice.

You were good at your job. You didn’t miss much.

So later, when you came back from a break and found your clipboard slightly askew on the nurse’s station, you paused long enough for a single pulse to drum behind your ear. Nobody touched your clipboard—everyone in the surgical wing knew that rule as surely as they knew where the crash cart lived.

Maybe someone had needed a room number. Maybe it had slipped. You inhaled, nudged the board flush with the counter until the metal lip kissed the laminate, and forced the unease to flatten into habit.

You’d barely slipped your pen back into your chest pocket when the hallway exploded with noise. Fin came tearing around the corner, long legs pumping, one gloved hand slicing the air.

“Teen male, abdominal stab, BP tanking,” he barked, breathless but ready. “Ortho tried Versed, he blew right through it. They’re wheeling him to OR Three.”

You asked, checking the boy's vitals. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. “Jules on instruments?”

“She’s setting up—missing a couple clamps, but she’ll find ’em.”

“Manny?”

“Grabbing blood.”

“Tasha?”

“Down in pharmacy, checking meds.”

“Good. Let’s move.”

The doors to OR Three burst open just as you reached them. Fluorescent lights bleached the boy’s skin to paper.

Dr. Miller was already scrubbing, calling for suction. Across from him stood Dr. Garcia, eyes snapping behind her shield. She glanced at the vitals and muttered, “Whoever dosed him with sedatives barely touched the pain.” Miller shot her a look. “Less commentary, Garcia. Let’s save him first.” She fired back, “Then cut faster, sir—the vein’s not going to tie itself.”

Sanitized and ready, you slid into place opposite her, tilting the overhead lamp. Fin fitted an oxygen mask; Manny rushed in with the first bag of blood; Jules appeared at your elbow, tray shining, somehow already stocked with the clamps she’d been missing. Tasha sprinted in last, waving a sheet. “No allergies, no meds except a pain shot!”

Dr. Miller opened the wound and a sheet of bright red flooded the field. Dr. Garcia’s tone dropped to steel. “Big vessel—clamp.” She stretched out her hand. You slapped the clamp into her palm, then lifted the suction hose to clear the view.

Suddenly, the boy’s pressure plummeted; alarms wailed. “More blood." You called. Manny twisted the valve; Fin squeezed the bag. The heart monitor flatlined. Dr. Garcia snapped, “Paddles—now.” Before anyone moved, you had already grabbed the paddles and passed them to Fin. One jolt. The screen flickered, steadied, beeped. Dr. Garcia’s stitches flew; Dr. Miller tied off the last thread, shoulders sagging as the bleeding finally slowed.

What followed was practiced choreography: gauze when asked, retractors nudged, light shifted a hair. When Dr. Miller clipped the final knot he let out a long breath that was half a laugh. “Daylight shifts are never dull,” he sighed.

Dr. Garcia peeled off her gloves with a snap, fogged goggles hiding everything but the warmth in her eyes. “Couldn’t have done it without our guardian angel,” she said, tilting her head toward you. It was half tease, half something softer, and it landed heavier than you expected.

You counted sponges—perfect, as always—then wiped a smear of blood from the boy’s cheek, smoothing a cool cloth across his brow. He’d live. That was enough.

The team rolled him toward recovery; Jules rattled off instructions so crisp the transport nurse only nodded, wide‑eyed. Behind them, the OR lights dimmed, and the sudden hush felt almost holy.

The rest of the shift unwound in a gentler rhythm.

You rounded on post‑ops, double‑checked Fin’s drainage labels, helped Tasha master a tricky IV start, and caught Manny slipping in a whole-ass Subway when he thought you weren’t looking. Every time you passed Dr. Garcia, she either offered a nod or a salute with her pen, the gesture equal parts respect and camaraderie.

Evening sunlight slanted gold through the clerestory windows by the time the last chart closed. You ducked into the staff fridge, retrieved your two lunch bags—yours scraped clean but for a few strays crumbs.

Margot was at the whiteboard, bun unraveling yet posture unbowed. She glanced up as you approached, empty Tupperware clacking in your tote. “Board’s balanced, rooms stocked, staff fed,” she said. “You leaving us to the wolves?”

“Night crew can handle a few cubs,” you replied, shrugging into your jacket.

She eyed the way you fastened the zipper to your chin. “Stopping at your perch first?”

“Ten minutes. Clear the head.”

Margot clicked her pen, lips twitching. “Wind’s vicious tonight. Button that collar or you’ll fly off the roof like Mary Poppins.”

“A spoonful of heparin helps the blood flow,” you dead‑panned.

Margot’s raspy laugh chased you down the hall while you zipped your jacket to the chin and patted the bulging side pocket that held your small contraband: half a dozen foil envelopes of strong black tea.

Two flights up you eased the rooftop door open. Evening air—cold, river‑raw—rolled across the tar. The skyline glimmered; the last blush of sunset clung to the horizon like a fading bruise.

And there he was, exactly where you’d hoped: Dr. Jack Abbot, fresh from the locker room and on his way into the night shift. He wore his usual charcoal‑black scrubs —pockets already stuffed with trauma shears and a folded set of gloves—plus a worn bomber jacket. Short curls, dark but mostly silver, were still damp from a quick sink‑splash. A dusting of stubble shadowed his jaw, the kind that looked deliberate until you noticed the faint razor burn along his throat.

Jack never quite smoothed out the edges; he just learned to carry them.

He was screwing the lid onto an empty steel thermos when he spotted you. A crooked, lopsided smile tugged one corner of his mouth—as if he were never entirely sure you’d show up and was always pleasantly surprised when you did.

“Hi,” he said, voice a notch too loud over the wind before he caught himself and dropped it. “Shift treat?”

“Only if you call boiled bean water a treat,” you answered, nodding at the thermos. “Lucky for you, I brought an intervention.”

You pulled four packets of Earl Gray from your jacket pocket and offered them to him. Up close you saw how the overhead flood‑light silvered the gray in his curls and picked out the faint hollows under his eyes.

“What’s this now?” he said, accepting the packets and turning them between roughened fingers.

“Operation Convert the Coffee Addict,” you confirmed. “Side effects include better sleep and a 50 percent reduction in eye‑twitch.”

He huffed a laugh, half embarrassed. “You sure you’re not secretly cardiology? Because you’re going after my heart.”

You arched a brow. “That a complaint?”

“No,” he said quickly, then scrubbed a hand over his stubble—awkward tic when he realized he’d spoken faster than he could think. “I mean—no complaint at all.”

He cleared his throat and stepped back to the parapet, gaze flicking to the river lights.

“Heard about your stab victim,” Jack said, voice pitched just low enough to keep the compliment private. “Your wing turned him around in record time.”

“Dr. Garcia turned him around,” you corrected. “I just kept the stage lights on.”

His smile widened, steadier than before. “Modest again. The residents swear you’re the northern star—nobody gets lost on your watch.”

“Only because I feed them,” you said, lifting the tote. “Nothing inspires devotion like carbohydrates.”

He chuckled, a warm sound that rumbled more than it cracked. “Well, you’ve got my devotion for the tea.” He tucked the foil packets into his breast pocket, giving them a single decisive pat as if confirming an IV line.

“For the record,” you added, “nice work stabilizing the kid before he came up.”

Jack shook his head, curls stirring in the wind. “That was Robby. I’m just here to steal the credit and the glory hours later.”

You smirked. “At least you’re honest.”

“Path of least paperwork,” he said, a faint twinkle in his eyes.

A hush settled, broken only by the distant wail of a siren and the hum of rooftop fans. He rocked once on his heels—not fidgeting, just feeling the wind—then fixed you with a look equal parts grateful and teasing.

“So, tonight I try the tea,” he said. “If the caffeine drop puts me in a coma, you’ll swing by Resus and shock me back.”

“I’ll set the paddles to extra smug,” you promised.

His laugh came easy and full. “Deal.”

The hospital PA crackled below: “Trauma team to bay one, ETA two minutes.” Jack’s shoulders straightened; night‑shift instincts sliding into place.

“That’s my cue.” He lifted the empty thermos in salute. “See you tomorrow—tea in hand.”

“Four‑minute steep,” you reminded, backing toward the door. “Boil it and I’ll know.”

He gave a quick, confident nod—less scout’s honor, more a promise between friends—then turned for the stairs, jacket snapping in the wind. You watched until the door clanged shut behind him, the faint crinkle of tea packets trailing off into the night.

Somewhere below, monitors beeped, lives tilted, and the clipboard sat perfectly square on the counter where you’d left it, but up here there was only wind and the faint scent of river water. You breathed in, held the air until your heartbeat matched the city’s distant pulse, then turned for the stairs, ready to go home, ready to return tomorrow and do it all again.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #dr. jack abbot #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #older reader #small age-gap

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callalillywrites · 4 months ago

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Allergies and Cuddles

Allergies have been kicking my butt lately. Height of that came a couple days ago when high winds really pushed around a lot of dirt and pollen. All I wanted was a nap and someone to cuddle with. Hence, the creation of this story.

Who better to cuddle up with than two super soldiers?

Relationship: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes (Stucky) x Female Reader

Word Count: ~1800

Summary: Steve comes home to find you curled up on the couch with Bucky, napping to reduce the affects of your allergies. Fluff and more cuddles ensue in this slice of life piece.

Warnings: Slightly worried Steve and Bucky; (over)protectiveness activated; comforting each other; teasing; established relationship; lots of fluff; Steve POV

A/N: As stated above, this story was wholly inspired and written quite quickly, so any and all mistakes are my own. Just wanted a bit of fluff to make myself feel better and this is what came out of that.

Stucky Masterlist | Main Masterlist

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

A too-quiet apartment greeted Steve when he came home that evening.

When he would've called out, his enhanced hearing picked up the faintest of hums. Following it, he soon found himself upon a scene that tugged at his heartstrings.

Bucky lounged across their over-sized sofa with you laying across him, completely dead to the world. If he squinted, Steve could almost imagine the thinnest, cutest line of drool seeping from your slightly parted lips onto Bucky's shirt. One of your arms rested somewhere between yours and Bucky's body, but the one Steve could see had sneaked its way under Bucky's shirt, caging Bucky under you. No doubt you sought the warmth of his skin, something you often did when you weren't feeling well.

While you slept, Bucky had one arm draped protectively across you while the other held one of his favorite books. The book had pages threatening to leave what little binding kept them in the right place, but that never stopped Bucky from picking it up again and again. From the looks of this one, Steve would be searching out a replacement soon enough. Bucky's gaze would drift over to you every other line or so, just because he could.

The TV played some show that you'd gotten into recently, replaying one of the older episodes. The volume turned down low so it wouldn't bother your rest. Knowing you as he did, you probably had it up while you fought to stay awake, leaving Bucky to lower it once you were completely out.

Leaning against the wide opening from the hallway, Steve crossed his arms and just enjoyed the scene before him. If he had his sketchpad, he might've taken up residence in the nearby chair and sketched until he had both of you permanently down on paper, a memory no one could take from any of you. But, he didn't so he settled for mentally drawing this moment to revisit later.

"You gonna keep staring at us, or you actually gonna say something, punk?"

"Admiring the view." Steve pushed off the wall and crept closer, taking care not to disturb your slumber. "How long has she been out?"

Bucky closed his book though his attention focused solely on you for a moment. The arm holding you drew soothing patterns on your back as he mumbled, "About an hour or so. Found her trying to fall asleep at her desk in the office."

Sinking into a squat, Steve dropped a quick kiss on Bucky's forehead before turning his full attention on you. He could make out your red, slightly swollen nose as well as the puffiness that lingered around your eyes. The softest snores left you, telling him that your allergies had truly gotten the best of you.

"Her meds not working?"

Bucky shook his head. "I don't think she's been keeping up with them like she should. Her bottle's almost full, and it's almost a month old."

Steve's brows drew together. It wasn't a secret that your allergies could get bad, and you were usually on top of taking your medication to keep them from overwhelming you. Plus, you knew they worried about you whenever you weren't feeling up to your usual self.

"She took some before I made her lay down with me." Bucky's voice broke through Steve's thoughts. His own worry peeked through despite usually being the more level-headed of the group when it came to these matters. "Maybe it wouldn't be the worst to take her in and see if there's something a bit stronger out there. Nothing over the counter seems to help her anymore."

"I'll call Dr. Cho." Steve pushed to his feet, pulling his phone from his back pocket. "If she can't help, then she'll know who we can talk to."

"Tell her our girl didn't sleep well last night either. She tossed and turned pretty good. I'm that didn't help."

"Or you two can stop worrying and just let me sleep for a little longer," you groused, having been roused by your bladder to hear your boyfriends fretting. "It's the wind. Once it stops blasting away and blowing pollen around, I'll be back to normal."

"Sweetheart," Steve started.

Having had this conversation before, you lifted your head until your gaze could meet his. A steely determination stole over your features that had Steve stopping in his tracks.

"I'm going to be fine," your tone softened as you moved to capture Bucky's eye as well, "I promise."

"One week," Steve vowed.

You nodded, knowing he meant it. One week to get better, or they'd be taking you to the doctor. The last thing they wanted was to lose you when they'd worked so hard to rebuild their lives after having their old ones ripped away from them.

"Now, that's settled," you pushed up from your position against Bucky, "I'm going to the bathroom. Then, we're going to discuss dinner. I'm too gross to be touching food, so I'll let you two roshambo to see who's got kitchen duty tonight."

The bedroom door had barely closed behind you when Bucky turned towards Steve. His expression morphed into one of the softest looks he kept solely for his two loves. "Don't worry about it. It's my turn to cook anyway. Besides, you look like you could use some of her cuddles."

"You sure?" Steve couldn't help asking.

While the day hadn't been bad per se, it hadn't been a great one, either. So many reports had been perched on his desk first thing. All needed his immediate approval before missions could move forward. Sure, that was typically either Fury's or Hill's job, but they'd both gone on some mysterious vacation, leaving him to handle it.

Then, there'd been a small crisis or two where Tony's latest invention had gone a bit awry. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't set Banner off, transforming him into the Hulk. A quick call in to Nat had helped, but it'd taken some time for Hulk to fully retreat and allow Banner the chance to return.

To say Steve was a bit wired would be an understatement.

Bucky tapped his shoulder, pulling Steve from his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm sure. Let her help you."

As if summoned, you stepped out of the bedroom. Your appearance looked a bit more put-together than it had when Steve first arrived home. Hair dampened and your face scrubbed. While your eyes still retained a bit of puffiness, they remained bright and alert as you closed the distance between you and Steve.

A cheeky smile flitted over your features as you asked, "Bucky lose, or did you pull rank on him?"

"He offered actually," Steve huffed, shooting you his best glare.

It had little effect as usual, but that didn't mean he didn't try now and then.

Your fingers slid between his and gently tugged him closer.

He went willingly.

His free hand dropped to your waist when you rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his jaw. Your gaze roved over his features. A soft frown formed as you murmured, "You're looking a little piqued yourself. Off day?"

"Something like that, sweetheart."

A soft noise escaped you. Your hand tightened around his as you tugged him toward the couch.

"Koala or weighted blanket?"

Steve's entire being sagged at the way you so easily read him. He honestly had no clue what he'd do without you and Bucky in his life, and he really didn't want to find out.

Bending slightly, he pulled his hand out of yours so he could grip you around the waist and lift. Your arms and legs wrapped around him without hesitation, allowing him to do what he wanted most. He dropped onto the couch, his legs stretching out on the floor. His arms snuck around you to hold you as close as he possibly get you while his head sank to your shoulder.

Your fingers inched their way up his neck until they scraped against and through his hair. Soft kisses pressed into his shoulder and neck where you could reach within the cocoon of his arms.

"I'm sorry," you whispered at some point, breaking the silence that had settled between you. "I'll do better about taking my allergy meds. It's just been a crazy week, and I hadn't meant to forget. It honestly didn't hit me that I had until the winds kicked up a few days ago. Please, don't worry about me."

Steve tightened his hold. "Always gonna worry about you, sweetheart. That's what you do when it's the people you love."

"Okay, that's a fair point, but I'm still going to do better. I don't want you to worry unnecessarily." You pulled back enough to meet his gaze. In the same cheeky tone as earlier, you added, "How's that?"

"Better," he murmured, shaking his head and huffing with pure affection.

You must've been satisfied because your cheekiness turned impish. "You are quite tense, Captain, and Bucky missed his workout because of me. It seems only fair after dinner that we have a special training session. Get all these kinks worked out and make sure you both stay in top physical form. What do you say?"

As if to further your suggestion, you wiggled in his lap until Steve moved his hands to grip your hips. A groan slipped past his lips when you managed to wriggle once more before he could fully keep you still.

Stealing a quick but searing kiss, Steve's grin grew. "I'd say I hope you've kept up your stretching routine, sweetheart, because it's going to be a long training session tonight. May even last until the early morning before I'm fully relaxed."

"Oh, my poor Captain," you crooned sweetly, pressing a kiss to his lips. "We won't stop until you and Bucky are fully satisfied."

"And what about you, sweetheart?"

"Oh, don't worry about me," you pressed another quick kiss to his lips before trailing down his jaw towards his neck, "I know I'll be properly taken care of in more ways than one tonight. My two super soldiers never let me down."

"Damn right, we don't," Bucky said from the doorway. "Dinner's ready. Better eat up fast because that special training starts in an hour."

Steve let you scoot out of his lap after claiming one last kiss, patting your butt as you moved towards the kitchen.

You tossed Bucky a salute, saying, "Yes, sir, Sergeant."

Steve's heart had never felt so full as he watched Bucky sweep you up, your giggles spilling out as you traded kisses with him before he sat you like the precious being you were in your spot. All three places had been set while he'd held you with the small candelabra his mother had left him burned brightly with the new candles you'd chosen a few weeks ago.

Home.

He was home.

#steve rogers x bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x bucky barnes #established relationship #fluff #steve rogers fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #x female reader #female reader

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months ago

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Bridget Read’s ‘Little Bosses Everywhere’

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. More tour dates (London, Manchester) here.

Pyramid schemes are as American as apple pie. If you doubt it, just read Little Bosses Everywhere, Bridget Read's deeply researched, horrifying, amazing investigative book on the subject, which is out today from Crown:

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/715421/little-bosses-everywhere-by-bridget-read/

Read, an investigative journalist at Curbed, takes us through the history of the "industry," which evolved out of Depression-era snake oil salesmen, Tupperware parties, and magical thinking cults built around books like Think and Grow Rich. This fetid swamp gives rise to a group of self-mythologizing scam artists who found companies like Amway and Mary Kay, claiming outlandish – and easily debunked – origin stories that the credulous press repeats, alongside their equally nonsensical claims about the "opportunities" they are creating for their victims.

In Read's telling, there's only two kinds of MLM participants: suckers (who lose lots of and lots of money) and predators (who rake in that money). MLMs pretend that they're doing "direct sales," cutting out the middleman to peddle vitamins, household cleaners, cosmetics, tights or jewelry. But the actual sales volume of these products rounds to zero. The money in the system – tens of billions of dollars per year in the US alone – is almost entirely being spent by "salespeople" who are required to buy a certain amount of "product" every month, either as a condition of membership, or in order to attain some kind of bonus or status.

The "salespeople" in these systems are effectively in a cult, and the high-pressure techniques that Read describes will be instantly recognizable to anyone familiar with cultic dynamics, or even just a casual listener to the Conspirituality podcast:

https://www.conspirituality.net/episodes

And, as with other cults, MLM members are tormented endlessly by other cult members into trying to recruit their friends and family-members. Sometimes, they succeed, and the cult grows a little – but usually not for very long. Most people who get recruited into an MLM quickly figure out that it's impossible to make any money – indeed, it's impossible to avoid losing a lot of money – and bail.

The meat-and-potatoes of the MLM industry are the minority who don't see through the scam. They believe that they are deficient, because everyone else is reporting such incredible returns from "the program." They charge more product to their credit cards, insisting to their "uplines" that they are selling machines (and not that they are filling their garages and attics and living rooms and kitchen cupboards with unsold, unsellable junk). What they don't understand is that all the "successes" in the cult are either scammers who are getting rich off people like them, or they are people like them, going deep into debt and desperately trying to pretend that they're selling as well as those uplines.

The US government and various law enforcement agencies have taken various runs at these cults, but they cults have always won. That's down to enforcers buying into the cult leader/scammers' essential lie: that, at the end of the day, MLM is a system for selling things to people. That isn't true, has never been true, and never will be true. But by crafting rules and tests that attempt to sort the "legitimate" MLMs from the "scam" MLMs, enforcers fall into the scammers' trap. The scammers welcome rules that distinguish "good" MLMs from "bad" MLMs, because it's trivial to create the superficial appearance of adherence to these rules while flouting them. For example, if the rule says that "independent sales representatives" must sell to at least ten outside customers, they can simply make up the names of ten people and charge it to their card. This happens routinely, but there's no auditing, and besides, the MLM victims are all "independent business owners," so if there were any penalties for these violations, they would fall to the victims, not the cult.

Meanwhile, the scammers know it's a scam, and the failure of their victims to sell the useless "product" the cult is nominally organized around is a feature, not a bug. The hordes of indebted, cost-sunk, self-castigating failures are suckers for yet another scam: selling victims "training" to improve their sales technique. After all, if everyone around you is selling this crap without breaking a sweat, the failing must be your own. You need coaching, training, seminars, cassettes, books, retreats, all of it piling debt on debt.

The internal operations of these cults are shrouded in mystery, but Read lifts the veil and makes masterful sense of the horrors lurking beneath. In this, she is somewhat aided by MLM cult leaders' propensity for suing one another, as various sub-bosses build up massive followings of their own and seek to usurp the cult leader by founding their own parallel cults or sub-cults. These lawsuits sometimes drag the cults' dirty laundry out in public, and Read sorts through these court filings very carefully. Unfortunately, the cults' propensity for suing also helps suppress a lot of dirty laundry, because MLM leaders love to sue ex-cult members who participate in online forums where they document their expenses, and they use these cult victims' own money to pay for the court cases that silence them.

MLMs aren't just cults, they're religious cults. Since the very earliest days, pyramid scheme runners have declared themselves to be engaged in an extension of their Christian (mostly Calvinist) faith. The engine of a pyramid scheme needs social capital for fuel: to bring in new recruits, a cult member has to draw on the bonds of trust, fellowship and solidarity in order to convince their targets that this is a bona fide enterprise (and not a cult). Faith groups – especially fringe faith groups – have this kind of capital in spades. This goes double for faiths that demand large families (which is why we see such deep penetration of MLMs into Mormonism and orthodox Judiasm). If your faith demands that you produce a "quiverfull" of mouths to feed, then the chances are that you will not be able to survive without being enmeshed in a mutual support network with your co-religionists. MLMs convert this trust, generosity and mutual dependency into cash (at a ruinous exchange rate) and then funnel it "upline" the cult leaders, who reap billions.

Of course, those kinds of bonds are not solely forged on the basis of faith: racialized people, women, and other groups who face systemic discrimination depend on one another for mutual aid, which makes them vulnerable to another MLM pitch: "predatory inclusion":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/27/predatory-inclusion/#equal-opportunity-scammers

Predatory inclusion is when scam artists adopt the language of social justice to pitch their cons – think of all the crypto bros who sold their ripoff schemes as a way to "achieve independence for women" or "build Black wealth" (thanks, Spike Lee):

https://www.vice.com/en/article/spike-lee-made-an-ad-for-cryptocurrency-atms-and-its-bizarre/

Predatory inclusion is parasitic upon the bonds of solidarity forged in adversity, and this goes double for the MLM variety. As MLMs cut away the strands of the web of mutual support, the cult leaders replace them with rabid anti-Communism, the kind of far-right rhetoric that brought Christian conservatives into the Reagan coalition and ultimately led to Trump's fascist takeover.

Here's how that move works: "You are a small, independent businessperson, the backbone of America. You will realize the American dream through your own backbone and work ethic (and therefore your current failure is due to your own lack of both). People who want to shut down pyramid schemes say they want to protect you, but really they want the government to decide who can and can't own a business. They're Communists, and in coming for MLMs, they're coming for America itself."

Some of America's richest family dynasties owe their wealth to pyramid schemes. They are dynasties of fraud, and they funneled their criminal gains into far right political projects. The Heritage Foundation – the authors of Project 2025 and Trump's master strategists – got their start with money from Rich DeVos (father in law of Betsy DeVos, who served as Secretary of Education in the first Trump cabinet). The far-right dark money machine runs on MLM money.

In fact, there's a good case to be made that everything rotten in today's world is built on the tactics of MLMs. Take the "gig economy." Companies like Uber promise drivers a high hourly wage. A small number of drivers are randomly allocated extremely large payouts by the system, in order to convert them into Judas goats, who fill gig-work message boards with tales of their good fortune. As Veena Dubal documents in her seminal work on "algorithmic wage discrimination," this tactic is devastatingly effective, convincing other Uber drivers to put in extremely long hours for sub-starvation wages, and then blame themselves for "being bad at Uber" – just like the downlines at Mary Kay and Amway who think the problem is with them:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Trump, of course, is the ultimate expression of the MLM grift – and not only because he licensed his name to two different pyramid schemes. Trump embodies the MLM ethic of lying about how rich you are so that marks send you their money to get in on the "opportunity" and then blame themselves when the promised riches never materialize.

Erik Baker once described MLMs as a kind of bizarro-world version of unions. In the world of labor organizing, success lies in finding the people with the most social capital, the ones who are trusted by their coworkers, and teaching them to have a structured organizing conversation. This is exactly what MLMs do – but the difference lies in the goal of that structured organizing conversation. For union organizers, the goal is build solidarity as a means to improving the lives of everyone in the community. For MLM organizers, the goal is to destroy solidarity, atomizing the community, shattering its bonds, leaving its members defenseless as they are fleeced by the cult's leaders and their henchmen:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/05/power-of-positive-thinking/#the-socialism-of-fools

Neoliberalism's war-cry is Thatcher's "There is no such thing as society." The past 40 years have been a long process of tearing us away from one another, teaching us to see one another as marks, to mistrust systems of mutual aid as Communism. Read's Little Bosses Everywhere is a brilliantly told, deeply researched history of the past and present of the ultimate business model for late-stage capitalism: destroying the lives of everyone around you while pretending to be a small businessperson.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/05/free-enterprise-system/#amway-or-the-highway

#pluralistic

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huntandhunt · 2 years ago

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#huntandhunt #houston #machine shop #high volume machine shop #contract high volume machining #perforating gun

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liketolaugh-writes · 1 month ago

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Danny's medical tests

Vitals and thresholds:

Age: 16

Pulse: 20 bpm resting, 54 bpm active (54 atrial, 30 ventricular), grayout at 80/35, blackout at 90/35. (Can stop heart for up to three minutes without repercussions; becomes painful after two)

Respiration: 6 breaths per minute resting, up to 30 active, no more than 15 resting. (Can slow to 1 breath per minute for up to half an hour; strain sets in after twenty)

Blood pressure: 90/40 (blood reaches his brain with Magic)

Temperature: between 50° and 80° (human) or 0° and 32° (ghost) Cold tolerance is no lower than 3° in human form, heat tolerance no higher than 90°

Height: 5’3’’

Weight: 101 lbs (3/5 what his weight should be by build)

Ectoplasmic purity: between 80% and 90% (low, normal for halfas)

Core pitch: 29 kilohertz (low, normal for halfas)

Power level: 214 (out of 300)

Aura brightness: 154 (low, lack of obsession fulfillment)

List of tests, results, and consults:

ECG shows a third degree AV block with a ventricular escape rhythm.

Echocardiogram shows no physical abnormalities.

Event monitor shows mild strain (palpitations, discomfort) with normal exercise and stress, moderate strain (chest pain, shortness of breath, dizziness) with high activity and stress.

(“No, this is pretty much what I remember exercise feeling like.”)

Blood reacts violently to all potential donors

Blood tests:

>Complete blood count:

>>White blood cells: slightly elevated, also weird (green, have faces)

>>Red blood cells: low (thinner blood)

>>Hemoglobin: high (red blood cells carry more oxygen)

>>Hematocrit (percentage red blood cells): 29%

>>Mean corpuscular volume: slightly low (smaller red blood cells)

>>Mean corpuscular hemoglobin: high

>>Mean corpuscular hemoglobin concentration: high

>>Red cell distribution width: low

>>Platelet count: low and also they are all green

>Comprehensive metabolic panel:

>>Glucose: 50 mg/dl (low)

>>Blood urea nitrogen: low (good kidney function)

>>Creatinine: low (good kidney function + can indicate low muscle) (this is not because of low muscle this is because of Ghost)

>>Estimated glomerular filtration rate: high (good kidney function)

>>BUN/Creatinine ratio: 12:1 (normal)

>>Sodium: high (electrolyte)

>>Potassium: very high (ectoplasm component) (electrolyte)

>>Chloride: very high (ectoplasm component) (electrolyte)

>>Carbon dioxide: low (waste product)

>>Calcium: high (electrolyte)

>>Protein, total: normal (plasma)

>>Albumin: slightly low (should be normal) (sign of malnutrition)

>>Globulin, total: high (high immune function)

>>Bilirubin, total: normal

>>Alkaline phosphotase: low (slow metabolism)

>>Aspartate aminotransferase: low (no liver damage)

>>Alanine transaminase: low (no liver damage)

>Lipid panel:

>>Cholesterol: normal

>>Triglycerides: low (dietary)

>>HDL Cholesterol: slightly low

>>VLDL Cholesterol Cal: normal

>>LDL, calculated: normal

>>Chol/HDL ratio: normal

>Thyroid tests:

>>Thyroid-stimulating hormone: low

>>Thyroxine: low

>>Triiodothyronine: low

DNA test: Takes an extremely long time to fully process, but early results show that Danny’s DNA is covered in a thin layer of ectoplasm, making the underlying structure difficult to decipher. Programming a machine to recognize it could be difficult.

Urine tests: normal

Pulmonary function tests: normal

Allergy panel shows no reactions.

Hypermobility test shows hypermobility in spine, elbows, and knees. No other signs of EDS, tentatively ascribed to his abilities.

Dietitian consult: nothing concrete yet. They discuss Danny’s eating habits, deal frankly with the fact that they don’t know what his exact dietary needs are, and talk about intuitive eating. Danny gets a list of signs to look out for and things to try.

Endocrinologist consult: they discuss Danny’s concerns and assess his current stage of puberty. Danny states (visibly mortified) that he has grown two inches since his accident, no vocal deepening, no facial or body hair, no reproductive function benchmarks. They discuss various possible causes of delayed puberty (excessive exercise, psychosocial problems, physical trauma, irradiation) as well as treatment options. Danny asks what circumstances would normally have them recommend inducing puberty (bullying, ostracization, distress) and they finally decide to go ahead and induce it.

Semen analysis: Danny is producing normally but the sperm die before exiting.

Slit-lamp exam shows tapetum lucidum in human form and odd eye structure in ghost form.

Autonomic nervous system tests:

>Gag reflex: Sensitive in human form, inactive in ghost form

>Motor reflexes (jaw jerk, biceps, triceps, brachioradialis, finger jerk, knee jerk, ankle jerk, superficial abdominal): hyperactive, forceful, but controlled. Identical in both forms.

>Pathologic reflexes: None present

>Cardiovagal function:

>>Heart rate variability: [not applicable because of heart condition]

>>HR response to deep breathing: exaggerated. This is how he stops his heart.

>>Valsalva: perfect adaptation. (blood pressure self-regulates rapidly)

>Vasomotor adrenergic function:

>>BP response to standing: perfect adaptation.

>>Tilt table testing: perfect adaptation. (blood pressure self-regulates rapidly)

>Sudomotor function:

>>QSART: Exaggerated in human form, not present in ghost form. (sweat response)

>>Silastic sweat test: Exaggerated in human form, not present in ghost form.

>Salivation: Normal in human form. No response in ghost form.

>Pupillography: rapid in human form, not present in ghost form.

>Cold pressor test: done with salted ice water. Reduced response. (sympathetic nervous system test)

Human CT scan was normal.

Ghost CT scan was semitransparent but otherwise normal.

Vaccine test shows good immune system function.

Human fNIRS, EEG, and MEG brain scans were used primarily for mapping. Showed normal activity for motor function and sensory activity, slightly reduced activity for memory exercises and problem solving, and substantially reduced activity for emotional responses.

Ghost EEG and MEG brain scans were used primarily for mapping. Showed no activity for motor function, mild activity for sensory and memory functions, and moderate activity for problem solving and emotional responses. No brain stem activity. (fNIRS not performed because it monitors blood oxygen activity in the brain and his ghost form doesn't have that)

Human MRI scan is largely normal, but shows darkened nerves on the left hand.

Ghost MRI scan indicated that his insides are abnormally malleable but highly coherent. Nerve damage is much less apparent owing to minimal function.

Human EMF reading showed increased activity corresponding to reduced brain activity.

Ghost EMF reading showed moderate activity for everything except emotional responses, which indicated strong activity.

Nerve conduction study shows severe nerve damage in ulnar and median nerves in human form, no nerve response in ghost form.

Electromyography shows that very few electrical signals are being transmitted in his left hand, Danny moves his hand with Magic. Otherwise normal readings in human form, ghost form shows no readings at all.

Polysomnography shows several signs associated with hibernation, making Danny’s sleep deeper, but his brain waves still indicate REM sleep in a normal pattern.

All biopsies normal except the inclusion of ectoplasm.

Microneurography was for mapping only.

The doctors manage to create an external device that can monitor the EMF activity of Danny’s core in milligauss, as well as his core pitch. It outputs it as a graph. Danny’s core EMF is 3,210, and his resting surface EMF in ghost form is around 2,000, with a total range of 200 feet. In human form, this is significantly reduced to 800 mG at the surface, and a range of 80 feet. (GIW sensors only detect as low as 900 mG, while the Fentons’ goes as low as 750.)

Core EMF level varies from ghost to ghost, measured on a scale that goes from 1 to 300. This is found to be equivalent to 15 to 4500 milligauss. All but around 2/3 of radiation is naturally contained, but the amount rises rapidly with power use.

#sorry when i saw today's dannymay theme i had to lmao #these notes are for 'more like home' but it's still just danny's baseline biology so #also i know this is SO dry but i thought some people might be interested anyway #dannymay2025 #danny phantom #danny fenton #halfa biology

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rosierin · 3 months ago

Text

volleyball shenanigans | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; atsumu just wants to blow off steam, osamu wants a free meal, suna wants to stir the pot, and (y/n)? she just wants to go home.

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

The apartment was alive with the sounds of a lazy afternoon. The low whirl of the washing machine hummed in the background, accompanied by the gentle rustling of fabric as freshly laundered clothes were folded and hung up. The faint buzz of a documentary played on the TV, filling the space with a monotone narration, occasionally interrupted by the distant honk of a car outside their open window.

At the laundry rack, (y/n) and Osamu worked in an easy, practiced rhythm. She passed him a shirt, and he clipped it up without looking. She handed him a pair of socks, and he tossed them over the line with minimal effort.

Osamu worked leisurely, half-focused, while (y/n) was a bit more meticulous, straightening out creases before passing him the next item. Every so often, their hands brushed briefly, but neither acknowledged it, too used to their shared routine.

Meanwhile, Atsumu had claimed the couch, stretched out like a king, tossing a volleyball into the air and catching it with practiced ease. He’d been doing mini sets against his fingertips for the past ten minutes, shifting positions every now and then, rolling onto his side, then his back, then propping himself up on his elbow just to keep himself entertained.

Across from him, Suna had made himself comfortable in the armchair, legs stretched out over the armrest, hoodie half pulled over his face. His eyes were locked on the TV, where a true crime documentary played at a low, almost eerie volume.

The narrator’s voice was flat, clinical.

"At approximately 3:42 a.m., the body was discovered in the alleyway—"

Suna tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing as crime scene footage flickered across the screen. His fingers idly tapped against his knee, his only real reaction to the gruesome details being described.

Atsumu suddenly spoke, cutting through the stillness.

"Dunno what it is, but I feel alive today. Like I could take on the world. Know what I mean?"

Suna barely looked away from the screen, too engrossed, nose wrinkling ever-so-slightly at the gory reconstruction of the crime scene.

"When don’t you?" he muttered.

Atsumu sat up, bouncing the volleyball once against his palm. "Nah, I’m serious! I got so much energy, I need to let off some steam. Let’s go to the gym.”

Suna finally peeled his gaze from the TV, glancing over with a slow blink. His expression was idle, half-lidded with disinterest.

"And do what? Run a few laps?"

Atsumu rolled his eyes, catching the ball with a sharp slap against his palm. "No, dumbass. Let’s play some volleyball. Get some light practice in."

Suna’s lips quirked at that. He considered it for a second, then shrugged, stretching his arms over his head.

"I’m down. After I finish this, though."

He then winced as the documentary replayed real-life crime scene footage, a woman’s piercing screams filling the room.

"Jesus Christ..."

Atsumu grimaced, glaring at the TV. "I dunno how ya watch this stuff."

Suna just smirked, unfazed, and went back to watching.

Atsumu chose to ignore the massacre on-screen and instead leaned over the couch, cupping his hands around his mouth.

"Oi, ‘Samu, (y/n)! Me and Suna are headin’ to the gym for some v-ball practice. You guys comin’?"

Osamu, still folding a pair of sweatpants, popped his head into the living room.

"Sure, I don’t mind."

Beside him, (y/n) paused, pressing her lips into a thin line as she clipped up the last of the shirts.

"Guys, you know how much I suck at volleyball. I’d hardly call it practice."

Atsumu waved a hand, already dismissing her concerns.

"We don’t expect an Olympic-level game. S’just for fun."

(Y/n) gave him a weak stare, flicking a few droplets off a damp sock.

"I don’t even think I’d class it as high school level..."

Atsumu, grinned, completely undeterred.

"Then it’s just some light cardio! C’mon, get ready. I’ll buy ya dinner afterwards."

Osamu perked up at that, eyes glinting with interest. He turned to (y/n), his voice suddenly way too persuasive.

"C’mon, (y/n), don’t ruin a free meal."

(Y/n) groaned, throwing her head back in exaggerated defeat.

"Fine, I’ll play. But no making fun of me. You know I’m not very good."

She heard Suna's condescending chuckle from the next room.

"No promises."

Atsumu clapped his hands together, triumphant, and bounced off the couch with a 'whoop!'.

He whizzed past (y/n) and Osamu with a grin, earning a quiet laugh from (y/n). She had to admit, his energy was contagious, even if it was exhausting to witness at times.

Osamu shook his head, chuckling as he grabbed the empty laundry basket.

"He’s such a kid, ain’t he?"

(Y/n) smiled fondly, smoothing down a crumpled towel before stacking it neatly.

"I know. He’s so cute, bless him."

Osamu’s movements stilled for a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, he turned toward her with a knowing smirk, one eyebrow arching.

"Yeah?"

(Y/n) froze.

She could practically hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

She scoffed, shaking her head.

"Oh, hush up. S’not like that."

Osamu chuckled, clearly unconvinced, but he let it go, stuffing the last of the laundry into the basket.

As they finished up, Suna finally stood, stretching his arms overhead with a sigh.

"Let’s go before golden boy dies from pent-up energy."

(Y/n) huffed a laugh.

Atsumu’s voice echoed from his room.

"I heard that!"

The familiar scent of polished wood, faint sweat, and rubber sneakers filled the air as they stepped inside the gym. High ceilings loomed overhead, the bright fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, casting a stark glow over the smooth volleyball courts. In the distance, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers and the hollow thump of a bouncing ball echoed from another section of the gym, but otherwise, the place was quiet—just the four of them and an open court.

Bags hit the ground with various levels of enthusiasm. (Y/n) let hers slip from her shoulder with a sigh, while Osamu lazily nudged his toward the bench with his foot. Meanwhile, before she could even straighten up, Atsumu had already bolted.

Practically sprinting onto the court, his sneakers skidded slightly as he came to a halt, already bouncing on his toes, rolling his shoulders, practically vibrating with anticipation. His energy was almost tangible, buzzing in the air as he rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms, stretching like a fighter about to enter the ring.

(Y/n) watched in amusement, arms crossed as she took in the sight. “He's really in his element, huh?"

Osamu, moving nowhere near as quickly, stretched his arms over his head with a yawn, his shoulders popping audibly. "He’s like a dog that ain’t been walked all day."

Suna smirked, his pace unhurried as he wandered toward the court. "Better to let him run it out now than deal with him at home later."

(Y/n) followed them onto the hardwood, watching as Atsumu immediately launched into a full, intense warm-up. His movements were fluid, controlled, every stretch and pivot a reflection of years of training. Suna followed suit, dropping into a deep, effortless stretch, his body moving with the kind of ease that made (y/n) question if he even had bones.

Meanwhile, she just… stood there.

“…What am I supposed to do?” she asked, blinking at them.

Osamu, who had barely moved, shrugged. "I usually just do a couple arm circles and call it a day."

Suna, mid-stretch, tilted his head at him. "That’s why your knees crack every time you stand up."

Osamu shot him a flat look, but before he could fire back, (y/n) squinted at the two professionals. Their stretches looked… excessive. Atsumu had just dropped into an impossibly deep lunge, one arm hooked under his leg, his face set in complete focus.

"Is this really necessary?" she asked, watching him twist slightly to the side. "I mean, it's just practice, right?"

Atsumu didn’t even look up. “Don’t matter. Stretches are important.”

His head turned toward Osamu, eyes narrowing. "’Samu, yer barely movin’! Coach would be appalled."

Osamu let out a dramatic sigh before plopping down onto the floor. "I don’t even play volleyball anymore. I don’t have a coach."

Atsumu, suddenly straightening up like he was about to give a TED Talk on sports performance, pointed at him with conviction. "Today, I am yer coach. Now stretch."

Osamu groaned, throwing himself backward onto the court in defeat. Eventually, after a few seconds of staring at the ceiling, he sat up and begrudgingly pulled his arm across his chest.

Atsumu, satisfied, then turned to (y/n).

"You too."

(Y/n) hesitated, then glanced at Osamu for guidance. He was barely trying. That seemed like a solid approach. Mimicking his movements, she half-heartedly stretched her arm out, rolling her shoulders a little.

…It was not going well.

“God, I’m so stiff,” she groaned, trying to press her arm further but feeling like her body was just not made for this.

Suna, still in a perfectly relaxed stretch, looked over and smirked. "Old lady."

Osamu, now sitting with his legs stretched out, attempting to reach his toes, let out a deep groan. "I ain’t as fit as I used to be."

Atsumu, watching the mess unfolding before him, looked absolutely offended. "Guys, c’mon. Ya both look terrible."

He pushed himself to his feet and marched over to (y/n), who was sat like Osamu, also struggling to lean forward in a simple stretch.

"Yer supposed to get lower," he announced, placing his hands on her shoulders.

(Y/n) barely had time to react before he pushed her forward, forcing her into a deeper stretch.

Instant regret.

“OW—OW—OW—”

She immediately flailed, slapping his hands off her. “STOP, STOP, STOP—WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”

Atsumu took a step back, hands raised in defence. “What? I was helpin’!”

Suna, now leaning lazily against the net, watched with an amused glint in his eyes. "Alright, that’s enough for now. You’re gonna break her."

(Y/n) shot a heated glare at Atsumu, still rubbing her back. “I told you I don’t do this sports stuff.”

Atsumu, completely unfazed, just shrugged. “Yer not dead. That’s progress.”

Osamu groaned as he rolled onto his feet. “Can we start already? The sooner we finish, the sooner I get my free meal.”

That, apparently, was enough to get Atsumu back on track.

He grabbed a volleyball from the pile and tossed it at (y/n), who—somehow—actually caught it.

"Alright, lemme see ya serve."

(Y/n) stared at the ball in her hands. "...Oh, boy, here we go. Prepare to be blown away."

She took a deep breath, lifted her arm, swung—

—and completely missed.

The ball dropped to the floor with a sad little bounce.

Silence.

Then, (y/n) barked out a laugh, brushing off her shoulder like she was the next big volleyball prodigy.

Suna laughed at her antics. "Guys, I think we found the next Yuji Nishida."

Osamu burst out laughing. Atsumu chuckled despite himself, but he still dragged a hand down his face like he had just witnessed a crime.

With an exhale, he walked over to retrieve the ball before tossing it back to (y/n).

"Okay. New plan. We teach (y/n) how to hold a ball first."

(Y/n) whipped her head toward him. "That sounds awfully condescending."

Suna, barely looking up from where he leaned against the net, scoffed. “It was.”

Atsumu planted his hands on his hips, exhaling sharply through his nose like he was preparing himself for battle. He squared his shoulders, then began pacing in front of (y/n) like a coach about to deliver the ultimate game-changing strategy.

“Alright, listen up,” he announced, pointing at her like a novice soldier. “Clearly, ya got no idea what yer doin’, so we’re startin’ from the basics.”

(Y/n) crossed her arms. "Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence."

Atsumu ignored her completely. “Hold the ball like this,” he said, palming the volleyball and tossing it up effortlessly. The ball landed back in his hand with a smooth rhythm, perfectly controlled. “Ya gotta make sure yer toss is clean, controlled, right in front of ya—so ya ain’t chasin’ it all over the place like some sorta stray cat.”

(Y/n) grabbed the ball and mimicked his movement, but her toss was wobbly and off-center, the volleyball floating through the air with zero sense of direction. It landed nowhere near her striking hand.

Atsumu blinked.

Suna, watching from the side-lines, let out a low whistle.

Osamu chuckled under his breath, but (y/n) was too focused on Atsumu’s expression—which was slowly morphing from patient teacher to deep, internal suffering in real time.

Atsumu rubbed his temples. “Okay. Again. But better.”

(Y/n) huffed, adjusting her stance before trying again. This time, she threw the ball too high.

Atsumu, quicker than she expected, snatched it out of the air before it could even come back down.

His eyes narrowed. “No. Stop. What was that?”

(Y/n) threw her hands up. “I don’t know! A toss?”

Atsumu inhaled sharply, then exhaled through his nose like a bull trying to contain its rage. He placed the volleyball gently back into her hands.

“One more time,” he said, his voice tight, his patience hanging on by a fraying thread.

(Y/n) pouted. She could tell he was five seconds away from completely losing it.

Atsumu was never known for his patience.

This time, she managed an okay-ish toss, but when she went to swing—

She completely missed the ball. Again.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. (Y/n) braced herself. Then, he snapped.

"ARE YA EVEN TRYIN’?!"

(Y/n) flinched. “YES?! STOP YELLING AT ME!”

Atsumu threw his hands in the air. “I’M NOT YELLIN’—” He paused, caught himself. Realized he was yelling. He took a deep breath, pressed his fingers to his temples, and lowered his voice.

“I’m just… deeply, deeply concerned.”

(Y/n) crossed her arms, glaring. "You’re a terrible teacher."

Osamu, who had been enjoying the entire trainwreck, finally stepped in, shaking his head. "Yeah, don’t be an ass, ‘Tsumu. She’s tryin’ her best."

(Y/n), sensing an opportunity, pouted, playing up the victim act. “Yeah, ‘Tsumu,” she mimicked, voice full of mock hurt. “Why are you bullying me? I’m just a girl."

Suna, joined in on the pity party, playing up the theatrics. "You’re really gonna yell at the worst player here? Have some tact, 'Tsumu."

Atsumu pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god. Fine. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

(Y/n) turned her nose up with a prim little huff. Then glanced at the blonde twin. "Apology accepted."

Atsumu exhaled sharply. He already regretted agreeing to this.

But after a few more painful attempts, something finally clicked. (Y/n) managed a decent toss, swung her arm properly, and—miraculously—made contact with the ball.

It sailed over the net, wobbly but successful.

"OH MY GOD, SHE DID IT!" Osamu gasped dramatically, hands flying to his head like he had just witnessed a divine miracle.

Suna nodded slowly in approval. “Hallelujah."

(Y/n) held one hand to her chest, pretended to wipe a tear from her eye with the other. “Guys—I’d like to thank my family, my supporters—”

Osamu and Suna snorted, but Atsumu cut her celebration short with a single clap of his hands.

“Alright, that’s enough. We’re movin’ on.”

Finally, with (y/n) just barely competent enough to participate, Atsumu finally deemed her worthy of playing a real game.

He rubbed his hands together, grinning like a menace. "Alright. Time to pick teams. ‘Samu, you take (y/n). Me and Suna’ll go together."

Osamu let out a long, suffering sigh, hands on his hips. "Wow. Stuck with the weakest link. Love that for me."

(Y/n) gawked. “How’s that fair?! You two are going PRO, hello???”

Suna, rolling his shoulders as he got into position, smirked. “Prepare to get dominated.”

(Y/n) let out a dramatic groan, dragging her feet toward Osamu like she was being led to the gallows. She turned to him, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“‘Samu, I’m sorry in advance. Please be more patient than your brother.”

Osamu huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but his smile was easygoing. "Yer all good, (y/n). Let’s just have fun."

(Y/n), feeling slightly reassured, nodded.

From across the court, Atsumu—hands on his knees, practically vibrating with anticipation—called out with a cocky grin.

"Alright, let’s see what ya got, rookies."

(Y/n) inhaled sharply.

This was going to be a disaster.

Game on.

The game started exactly how anyone would expect—with Atsumu and Suna absolutely wiping the floor with them.

Atsumu was everywhere, light on his feet, quick with his reflexes, and—more annoyingly—running his mouth the entire time.

"C’mon, (Y/n), ya gotta move faster than that!"

"‘Samu, I thought ya used to be good at this!"

"You guys suck! You call this a match??"

He was having the time of his life, grinning ear to ear, bouncing on his toes between plays like he was born for this.

Suna was calmer but no less ruthless. His plays were, smooth, calculated and frustratingly effortless. He barely looked like he was trying—he just moved instinctually, flicking the ball into just the right spots like he had a sixth sense for openings. Every spike, every set, perfect placement, no wasted effort.

Osamu, to his credit, wasn’t bad. Once his body shook off the rust, he moved sharper, hit cleaner. His blocks were strong, his sets precise, and every now and then, he even shut Atsumu down at the net, much to his twin’s frustration.

But it didn’t matter.

Because he had (y/n) on his team.

And (y/n)… was a disaster.

She wasn’t completely useless—there was effort, for sure. But her reactions were a half-second too slow, her footwork an uncoordinated mess.

She wanted to contribute, she really did. But—

The ball sailed right past her.

She twisted to follow it—tripped over her own foot—

And hit the ground with a graceless thud.

Atsumu was caught between bursting out laughing or shouting at her lack of athleticism. "I can't even—"

(Y/n) pushed herself up, glaring, her cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment and frustration. "Don’t you dare laugh at me!"

Suna, watching the whole thing unfold, jogged over to her to, concealing his grin. "You okay?"

Osamu sighed, rolling his shoulders. "S'all good, (y/n). We’ll get ‘em next time."

Spoiler: they did not get them next time.

The onslaught continued.

After a solid fifteen minutes of absolute destruction, (y/n) was gasping for breath, hands on her knees.

She wasn’t built for this.

"This is abuse," she wheezed.

"This is fun!" Atsumu corrected, barely winded, cheeks flushed with the thrill of the game.

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes at him. Sadist.

And then—

The miracle happened.

The ball hurtled toward her like a meteor.

She braced herself. This was it. Her moment.

She swung—

—missed entirely—

—but the ball ricocheted off her foot.

It soared over the net, completely by accident, and landed in Atsumu and Suna’s court.

Atsumu, Suna, and Osamu stared at the ball.

(Y/n) blinked, her jaw going slack with utter disbelief. “...Did I just—?”

Osamu was the first to break.

He broke into loud, infectious laughter, slapping her on the back with such force it nearly knocked her over. “Holy shit, way to go, (Y/n)!”

Suna snorted, shaking his head. "What a fluke."

(Y/n), still processing whatever just happened, pumped a fist in the air anyway. “A point’s a point, baby! Let’s goooo!”

Atsumu scoffed, torn between being offended or impressed.

"Yer tellin’ me… that's how ya score on us?"

(Y/n) grinned, crossing her arms over her chest with pride. “Yup. Suck it."

Half an hour later, the game ended exactly how it was always going to end.

With Atsumu and Suna winning, obviously.

Atsumu ducked under the net and strode over to the losers, hands on his hips. He looked at the duo with a condescending grin— toothy and frankly quite slappable.

“How’s defeat taste, guys?”

(Y/n) blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Hmph. Nothing to be proud of, Miya.”

Osamu stretched his arms over his head, unbothered by their loss like it had been written in the stars.. "Was hardly a surprise, was it?"

Suna nodded solemnly, pulling somewhat of a pained expression. "You can say that again."

(Y/n) threw her hands up. "Guys, I’m literally right here."

Osamu gave her a consoling pat on the shoulder.

Suna, on the other hand, draped an arm over her shoulders with practiced ease, leaning in just enough to feel cocky about it.

“How ’bout me and you this time?” he said, tone casual, but his smirk said otherwise.

(Y/n) tilted her head up at him and smiled—too fondly, too easily.

Behind them, Atsumu froze mid-swipe, towel stalled against his cheek, suddenly forgotten.

His gaze flicked toward Suna’s arm, lingering a second too long.

His jaw clenched—barely. But just enough to notice.

Then, with a heavy roll of his shoulders, he huffed, clearly unimpressed but playing it off.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Me ‘n Samu, then.”

As they headed to their new sides, Osamu shot his twin a sideways look, smirking.

“Yer not jealous, are ya?”

Atsumu scoffed. "What? No. S'just teams."

Osamu chuckled as he got into position. “Whatever ya say, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu’s eye twitched.

The game started again, but this time, something was… off.

Atsumu’s plays were different now—harder, sharper, more aggressive. His serves weren’t just fast; they were shockingly precise, almost cutting, the kind that would leave a stinging echo in your arms if you tried to receive them. And yet, it wasn’t the intensity that stood out.

It was where he was aiming.

Or rather, who he was aiming at.

Because every single one of his serves, his spikes, his attacks—all of them were directed at Suna.

At first, it might’ve been coincidence. A hard serve straight at Suna? Okay, that happens. Another spike in his direction? Fine, sure. But then another. And another.

(Y/n) had barely even touched the ball.

By the fifth or sixth clearly targeted attack, Suna was starting to feel it. His breath came out heavier than before, hands dropping to his knees as he wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. When Atsumu sent yet another bullet-speed serve at him, he barely managed to receive it, hissing slightly at the sting in his arms before finally standing up straight, eyes locking onto his opponent.

“The hell, Atsumu?” he exhaled, stretching out his wrist. “You good?”

Across the court, Atsumu only grinned—a grin that was just a little too sharp, a little too forced, his golden eyes gleaming with something downright sadistic.

“Just playin’ the game,” he said casually, tossing the ball between his hands like he hadn’t just been hunting Suna down.

(Y/n) watched from afar, narrowing her eyes.

Osamu, perched near the side-line with a towel draped over his shoulder, caught onto it immediately, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

(Y/n) folded her arms, stepping forward. “You’re totally targeting him.”

Suna pointed at Atsumu, letting out a dry and breathy laugh. “Exactly. What gives?”

Atsumu only shrugged, playing coy. “Just tryna keep things interesting.”

(Y/n) didn’t buy it for a second. “No, you’re being weird.”

Suna ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, eyeing Atsumu curiously before his expression flattened. “Yeah. Why do I feel like I just pissed you off somehow?”

Osamu chuckled under his breath. "I can think of one reason."

Atsumu shot him a warning look.

And that was when (y/n) saw it—the exact moment Suna put the pieces together. His initial irritation melted away, replaced by something far more dangerous.

Amusement.

A slow, smug smirk curled at the corner of his lips. He let his eyes flicker back to Atsumu, observing him for a second longer before turning his gaze onto (y/n).

“Oh, I get it,” he murmured.

(Y/n) frowned. “Get what?”

Instead of answering, Suna just chuckled to himself, then jerked his head toward him in a silent beckon. She hesitated for a beat, but curiosity won out, and she padded toward him.

The moment she was close enough, Suna leaned down, his palm cupping over his mouth as he whispered something into her ear.

(Y/n) barely had time to process the words before she let out a giggled reaction.

Atsumu snapped.

A ball came flying toward them with way too much force.

Suna, completely unfazed, deflected it effortlessly, then went right back to whispering something else to (y/n), his voice lower, slower, just for effect. She covered her mouth to stifle another laugh.

Atsumu couldn't take his eyes off them.

Suna leaned back, letting his gaze settle on (y/n) with a mischievous glint. She returned it with ease, a silent agreement passing between them.

And that's how the war begun.

At first, they played it cool. Small things. A little extra laughter at each other’s jokes, lingering glances that lasted just a second longer than necessary. Nothing drastic. Nothing overt.

But when they got back into position on the court, the teasing went from subtle to lethal.

Suna propped his hands on his hips, scanning the court before humming in appreciation. “Y’know, (y/n), your form’s actually looking real nice. You’re almost a natural.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, smiling sweetly. “Aw, really? You think?” She let out a dramatic little sigh, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Maybe I should get you to train me instead of Atsumu.”

Atsumu nearly choked on air.

“EXCUSE ME??”

Osamu, standing nearby, turned away immediately to hide his growing smirk.

Atsumu’s scowl deepened, his grip tightening on the ball as he muttered under his breath, “Like he’d know how to train ya properly.”

Suna’s grin widened as he overheard. “Dunno, man. She’s already lookin’ better than you.”

Atsumu spiked the next serve way too hard.

And missed.

(Y/n) gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Wow. Maybe you should let Rin train you too, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu looked like he wanted to throw her into the net.

And yet, that was only the beginning.

Every time (y/n) and Suna scored a point, they launched into some ridiculous, over-the-top celebratory handshake—the kind that was way too long, obviously improvised, and filled with unnecessary twirls and high-fives.

Suna kept leaning in to whisper things into (y/n)’s ear, his lips just barely brushing against her skin. Each time, she laughed, and each time, Atsumu saw it.

At one point, (y/n) flicked some imaginary dust off Suna’s shirt, her hand lingering against his chest for a touch too long.

Atsumu stiffened.

Osamu could barely contain his laughter despite the murderous vibes radiating off his twin. “Those two are evil."

Then came the final, fatal blow.

Suna was standing behind the net, hands protecting the back of his head as (y/n) prepared to serve. But instead of doing so, she stopped. Pursed her lips, and thoughtfully tapped her chin as if she was appraising fine art.

“Y’know,” she mused, eyes raking over him with exaggerated admiration, “I never realized it before, but your shoulders are really broad."

Suna glanced back at her with a smirk, highly entertained. Then he looked over at Atsumu, relishing his gobsmacked reaction.

How could he not play along?

“Oh? Only just now noticing?”

Atsumu's voice boomed around the gymnasium.

“OH, COME ON—WHAT IS THIS?! ARE WE PLAYIN’ VOLLEYBALL OR GOIN’ ON A DAMN DATE?!”

(Y/n) and Suna turned to each other in perfect sync, as if genuinely considering the question.

Osamu, who had been holding it together by a thread, eventually cracked—bracing himself on his knees as he broke out into a fit of laughter.

Atsumu saw red.

Without thinking, he launched the ball straight at Suna. No mercy.

It shot over the net like a bullet—but Suna didn’t even flinch. He raised one hand and once again deflected Atsumu's attack with ease, sending it right back with a bored flick of his wrist.

“Wow,” he said dryly, his voice flat with mock disappointment. “So aggressive.”

(Y/n) bit her lip, eyes glinting like she was genuinely impressed. She drifted toward him with the kind of deliberate slowness that made Atsumu's blood pressure spike.

Then, with all the flair of a soap opera star, she pressed herself lightly to Suna’s side, trailing a single finger up the front of his shirt.

“Y’know,” she purred, tilting her head to look up at him, “I’ve always had a soft spot for middle blockers.”

Atsumu nearly passed out on the spot.

He stared, slack-jawed, hands twitching at his sides as his brain completely failed to form a rational response.

Osamu was already doubled over nearby, half-giggling and far too distracted by his friends silly antics to actually play the game.

Then, without straightening up, he lifted both hands to his face in mock embarrassment, peeking through his fingers.

“Guys,” he gasped between laughs, “yer almost makin’ me blush.”

Atsumu threw his head back with a tortured groan, dragging both hands down his face.

He hated them.

He hated this game.

He should've invited Bokuto instead.

Between Atsumu’s absolute meltdown and Suna being a total ASSWIPE, (y/n) and Suna somehow won the game.

(Y/n) threw her arms into the air, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “WOO! FINALLY!”

Suna flashed her a lazy grin, lifting his palm for a victorious high five. “Good teamwork.”

Their hands smacked together with a satisfying clap, and for a second, the smugness in the air was palpable.

On the other side of the net, Atsumu stood frozen in disbelief, hands braced on his knees, panting. His bangs clung to his forehead, sweat dripping down his temple. His expression radiated pure betrayal.

“WHAT EVEN WAS THAT?!” he demanded, flinging his arms out. “YA WEREN’T EVEN TAKIN’ IT SERIOUSLY!”

Osamu glanced down at him, failing spectacularly to hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess they just had better chemistry.”

Atsumu whipped his head up, glaring in a way that screamed, shut the hell up.

(Y/n) giggled, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulder as she sauntered over beside him. “Yeah, don’t be a sore loser, ‘Tsum.”

Suna lurked behind her and leaned into her again with zero shame—shoulder brushing hers, voice casual. “Yeah. Guess we’re just a perfect match."

Atsumu’s blazing stare could have set the whole gym on fire.

“I’m never playin’ with ya again.”

Osamu stretched his arms over his head with a relaxed yawn, the picture of calm. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Maybe next time, we can try teams based on actual skill.”

(Y/n) hummed to herself, mischievous eyes drifting up to meet Suna's before giving a little shrug. “I dunno, I kinda like this setup. Me and Rin just… get each other, y’know?”

Atsumu inhaled deeply, eyes closed, head tilted back back as if praying for patience. His fingers flexed like he was physically restraining himself from strangling Suna.

Then, without another word, he spun on his heel and stomped toward the bench.

“Aight. Practice is over. Let’s head home.”

He yanked his duffel bag off the floor with enough force to rattle the water bottles beside it and aggressively slung it over his shoulder.

Then, without missing a beat—

“Actually, Suna, ya can stay here.”

(Y/n) and Osamu immediately cracked up—their laughter echoing through the gym like a victory bell.

Suna, completely unbothered, just shrugged. “Yeah, nah. I’m comin’. Don’t wanna miss whatever tantrum you're gonna throw at dinner.”

Atsumu let out a loud, theatrical groan and shoved the gym doors open with far more force than necessary. The metal squeaked in protest as he stormed through, and the trio trailed after him, now snickering amongst themselves.

The cool night air swept over them as they stepped outside, cutting through the leftover heat clinging to their skin. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance. The sky had that soft, bluish tint that only came after dusk—quiet and calm, in contrast to the chaos they’d just left behind.

(Y/n) nudged Suna with her elbow, smiling. “That was fun. We make a good team.”

Suna hummed, returning the sentiment. “Mhmm. I'd say so."

Up ahead, Atsumu stomped along like the brat that he was. His duffel bag bounced against his back with every step, his whole body radiating the energy of someone who had suffered a deep and personal injustice. He refused to look back.

Osamu watched him with a grin, then jogged a few steps forward to sling an arm around his brother’s shoulders. He gave him a firm shake, deliberately jostling him.

“Aw, c’mon, ‘Tsumu. What’s wrong with you and me, huh?”

Atsumu didn’t answer.

But the way his shoulders eased, just barely, said enough.

(Y/n), walking behind them with Suna, watched the interaction with a fond smile. Then, on a whim, she looped her arm through Suna’s. With a little tug, she pulled him along as she skipped ahead, her sneakers thudding softly against the pavement.

Before Atsumu could protest, she grabbed his arm too, linking them all together in one warm, swinging chain.

“Aw, don’t be mad, ‘Tsumu,” she cooed, leaning her head against his shoulder with exaggerated sweetness. “You still played amazing. Like, really amazing.”

Atsumu huffed, glancing down at her out of the corner of his eye. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

(Y/n) giggled, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “And, y’know… I think you were the most fun to play against.”

That perked him up a bit.

His steps slowed a fraction. He didn’t say anything right away, but his grip on his duffel loosened, his jaw unclenching. His scowl remained fixed in place—but (y/n) caught the way his lips twitched at the corners.

“…Damn right I was,” he muttered, voice lower now, almost bashful.

Behind them, Osamu snorted. “So easy to please.”

(Y/n) laughed, hugging both boys’ arms tighter. “C’mon, let’s go home. I dunno about you guys, but I’m starving.”

Suna hummed in agreement, casting a side glance at Atsumu. “Yeah. Someone owes us dinner.”

Atsumu groaned but didn’t argue, grumbling something under his breath about betrayal and snakes and whether they even deserved a treat.

But even as he complained, he let (y/n) keep her hold on his arm, allowing himself to be pulled along without resistance.

And if his pout wasn’t quite as deep anymore…

Well.

She wasn’t gonna call him out on it.

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alloftheimaginesblog · 2 years ago

Text

holding on {alex karev}

plot: you and alex aren't friends but he's the person that sits by your hospital bed day and night until you wake up.

character: alex karev (early seasons) x reader

The steady beeping of the various machines was something that Alex had grown tired of two days ago, the machine's volumes had been turned to 0 but his anxious eyes kept flickering to them every few seconds just to be sure. The background noise of the hospital was something he was used to and it was an oddly comforting sound. Now, the silence of being in the room with you had been nice at first but now that he was here, with you, waiting... just waiting... the silence was unnerving him.

He tapped his foot, checking the clock on the wall. Bailey should've been here by now, she promised him that she'd check on you every two hours. She was late. Anger surged through his body causing his heart to pound and his fists to clench.

"You're such an idiot," he could hear you scolding him in his mind, "if you just stopped dealing with your problems with sheer anger then maybe, maybe people would actually start to like you."

He scoffed.

You and him had hardly been friends. You and the rest of Bailey's interns were the best of friends, all living together in Mer's mom's house so why wasn't George or Izzie or Cristina or Mer here? Why was it Alex? That's all the four of them had been whispering about. Cristina asked Alex, Izzie asked Alex... hell, Bailey even asked Alex. Alex had ignored each of their questions and instead gave some snarky asshole comment with an eye roll. Alex didn't even know why he was here - why he'd purposefully demanded the week off to be by your bedside day and night sleeping on a camping bed with the scratchiest sheets in the world. He didn't know and yet, here he was.

You were annoying. You annoyed him. But since the news of the accident and since you'd been in a coma, Alex couldn't stop thinking about the way you laughed as you teased him. He couldn't get one specific moment out of his head.

You and Alex had been working on a case together - much to your dismay - and Alex had opened up slightly, letting you see that he was much more than what you previously thought.

"So... you're not just an asshole with the emotional range of a teaspoon, who knew?" You helped yourself to the bar stool next to Karev. Joe glanced at you, asking if you wanted your usual to which you nodded.

Alex rolled his eyes, "Whatever."

There was silence for a few seconds before you tried again, "I know you have this hard 'I don't care' exterior," you started, "and I know it's probably because of some past trauma in your life, Karev - believe me we've all got some shit - but..."

"Are you gonna keep giving me a stupid high school girl pep talk or are you gonna shut up and drink?"

It was your turn to roll your eyes now, "Joe, another round please."

As Joe poured the two of you more drinks, Alex sighed and looked at you, "Thanks," he murmured quietly, "I'm not- I don't..." he cleared his throat, "I don't mean to be an asshole all the time... I don't really know... Social shit isn't really my thing."

"Now who's acting like an emotional high school girl?" You teased. Alex laughed, a genuine smile stretched onto his face. Yeah... maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

So after the accident, Alex stayed.

It was then Bailey strode in, chart in hand, "Karev," she said glancing up for a second, "you look like hell. Don't you think you should go home get a proper sleep? Take a damn shower?" She could see the worry in him, she could see how stressed out he was; the dark circles under his eyes, his nails chewed down. Alex might not even know it yet but he cared about you.

"I'm staying," he said with a nod standing to look over her shoulder at your chart, "Any updates?"

"You tell me, you're the one who's been here since she got admitted." Bailey moved to you, turning the volume up on the machines, checking your levels.

"Oxygen levels were a little low at 3am, managed to level them out... No issues since." He nodded, arms crossed with a hand rubbing at his jawline, "Why hasn't she woken up yet, Bailey? She should be-"

"Karev," Bailey said, voice strong, "Go get yourself a cup of coffee, now."

"I don't-"

"Now, Karev. Let me do my damn job and stop hanging over me. Coffee."

With a few harsh words which made Bailey surprisingly laugh, Alex stormed out of your hospital room, storming past O'Malley and Stevens who had come to check in with Bailey on how you were doing.

Bailey leaned down closed to you, "If you die, god help us all... that boy..." she looked to the door where Alex had left from, "he'll be lost forever. So don't you dare, you hear me?"

The coffee machine was a minute's walk away from your room so Alex would know if anything were to happen to you, he would know but he kept checking over his shoulder anyway just in case. He was exhausted, he couldn't remember the last time he'd drank or even the last time he'd eaten. You had consumed him for the last two days; making sure that you were okay was his first priority.

He stopped at the coffee machine punching the button for a crappy black coffee that he wasn't going to drink anyway, "Come on," he grumbled as the cup dropped and the coffee began to pour in slowly, "Damn piece of crap machine, hurry the hell up!" He yelled suddenly, slamming his fist into the plastic front. Around him, people stared but he didn't care. When the coffee finally stopped, he pulled the cup out when he heard it.

"Code blue! I need a crash cart! Room 2203!" It was Bailey. It was you.

Boiling hot coffee splashed over the floor, the cup dropped and on the ground as Alex Karev took off running.

His heart pounded, usually the thrill was the thing he loved the most but this wasn't a thrill, no, this was dread. When he burst into your room, the first thing he heard was, "Clear!" and heard the noise of the defibrillator.

"What's going on?!" He yelled over the chaos.

"Get him outta here!" Bailey yelled, "Charge to 200! Get him outta here, O'Malley!"

George tried but a determined Alex was a strong Alex. He resisted George's grip, shoving him back every chance he tried to take him out. It got to the point that George gave up, "Dr Bailey!" He exclaimed, hopelessly as Alex barged to your bedside. Bailey couldn't do anything, she was busy trying to save your life, she couldn't deal with Karev as well so she let him be.

"Don't you dare die on me," Alex hissed, eyes flooding with tears, "don't you dare. Can't do that to me, (y/n). Can't have me sitting here waiting for two days to just die on me-" he looked to Bailey, "Save her... please."

Bailey's eyes met Alex's and she found a lump in her throat, "You hear him?" She asked you as the paddles charged, "don't you dare die on us, (y/n)." With one final shock, the monitor started to beep again, "Heart rate is coming back up," she said with a relieved sigh, "Thank the Lord. Levels are stabilising."

Alex collapsed into the chair at your bedside, hand clamped around yours, as his eyes closed, letting the relief wash over him. You were alive; you were stable.

"What- what caused it?"

Bailey shook her head, "Don't know, levels were fine but as soon as you left the room they started to drop so do me a favour, Karev," she looked pointedly at him, "don't leave this room again." Normally he would've bit back, said a comment about her forcing him out but instead, he just nodded falling back into his chair, hand still in yours, "I'll check every hour, okay? You page me immediately, got it?" Again, he nodded and then the room cleared out.

Alex didn't turn the monitors down, he needed to hear the steady beep to know that you were okay, you were alive and you were breathing. For the last three hours that he'd sat here, he had prayed to every god he could remember the name of - he didn't know if it counted but even started praying to some Greek Gods as well. Why have God in the title if it doesn't count? His hand was still firmly in yours.

Bailey had checked five times in the three hours, checking on you but also on him. She brought him a soda, a sandwich and a muffin and didn't leave until he'd drained half the can and eaten one of the sandwiches. He hadn't realised how hungry he was until he'd started eating, he devoured the rest of meal once she'd left. You were still stable but you weren't awake yet. Bailey was optimistic but Alex wasn't. He was dreading the worst, expecting your levels to become unstable again but as he was dosing off, he felt your hand twitch in his.

He shot up, "(y/n)?" He asked staring at your hand and then at you and much to his relief, your eyes began to flutter open. He let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. Utter relief crashed over him, "You're awake," he grinned, "you're actually awake."

"A-Alex?" You croaked.

"Here," he said gently as he grabbed a plastic cup and straw and filled it with water from the jug on your bedside unit, "Drink up. How you feeling?"

"Sore."

"Multiple ruptured organs and a few broken bones'll do that to you," Alex teased with a smile. You noticed his hand was still in yours, warm and strong. He saw your eyes narrow at your joined hands and he was quick to pull his back despite everything inside him not wanting to, "I- I'm gonna page Bailey, you drink up." He helped you take the water and left. He was just outside, close enough to make sure that you were still safe - still alive.

It was as he left you looked around the room and you noticed the camping cot which was set up on the floor next to your bed. You frowned. Someone had been staying here. Was it... no, it couldn't have been Alex; Alex hated you.

Your thoughts were cut off by Bailey bursting into your room, "Oh thank the Lord," she grinned, "it's good to see you awake. You scared us." As Bailey checked you over, Alex returned to the seat next to you. Bailey saw your confused expression seeing him sat there, normal clothes not working, "Karev," she said, "go and get (y/n) a sandwich, will you? She's hungry." Alex went to argue, to tell Bailey she told him not to leave your room but Bailey's pointed look made him stop and nod. He left a second later giving you one last worried look, "She's fine now go."

You looked up at Bailey who sighed and looked down at you, "You had that boy scared to death, you know."

"Who? Alex?!"

Bailey nodded, "You're not the only one who's surprised. As soon as you were admitted he was here. It was his day off and he was here. Soon as you got outta surgery he was set up in your room. He hasn't left since Tuesday."

You looked down to the cot next to you, "He's been here the whole time?"

Bailey nodded, "I don't know what's going on between the two of you - if anything - but I'd say that there's something." Your frown deepened and Bailey smiled, "Just... be patient with him."

When Alex came back, Bailey gave you a secret nod with a knowing smile before she left promising to come check on you every hour and to not dare think about going back into a coma otherwise she would kill you. "I'm a doctor, I know how to save people but I know how to kill them too."

"Hey," Alex said as he placed a sandwich and soda on the unit beside your bed, "You okay?"

You nodded, finding yourself rather overwhelmed and touched by his actions. He - Alex Karev - had stayed by your side since the accident. What did that mean? What did Dr Bailey mean? You nodded quickly, "Yeah," you said softly, "just tired."

Alex puffed out a long breath as he sat in the seat next to your bed, "Yeah, you must be. Gave me- gave us all a fright."

Silence fell and the two of you fell into the comfort of the sounds of the hospital. You sipped at the soda Alex had brought before curiosity got the better of you, "Alex... why did you stay with me?"

You could've sworn his cheeks flushed a darker shade of pink but he rubbed his hands over his tired looking face so you couldn't have been sure, "Hell if I know," he muttered, "it's not like we're friends but... I didn't want you to be alone. You're the only one that's almost like a friend and... I dunno." He shrugged, "I don't really understand it myself." Maybe there was something deeper lurking under the surface but he didn't know. That was something you'd have to navigate together, "I know you'd have probably preferred Cristina or Mer-"

You took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, "Thank you, Alex," you whispered, "for everything. Thank you." Now, this time you could see the tips of his ears go pink. You smiled, "Now when are you going to shower cause boy you are looking rough-"

"Shut up!" Alex rolled his eyes but he laughed with you and for once, it felt nice to joke around with him. It felt normal. You didn't know what was going to happen but you somehow knew that he would be beside you, figuring out this crazy journey together and somehow, that made it a little less scary.

#one shot #grey's anatomy #grey's anatomy imagine #grey's anatomy one shot #os #reader insert #alex karev x reader #alex karev #alex karev imagine #imagine #prompt #alex karev x you #greys anatomy

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