#Surgical Tool Management

[creativeera]

Surgical Instrument Tracking: Revolutionizing Modern Surgery The Indispensable Role of Minimally Invasive Techniques

The Importance of Instrument Tracking in Surgery Surgery is an intricate and complex medical procedure that requires precision from medical professionals. From the first incision to the final stitch, countless surgical instruments are used inside the sterile operating field. With so many tools being passed between surgeons and nurses, it’s easy for an instrument to get misplaced or left inside the patient unintentionally. This presents serious risks to patient health and safety. To mitigate these risks, hospitals have increasingly adopted surgical instrument tracking systems. Surgical sponges and other small items left inside patients after surgery, known as retained surgical items or “gossips”, remain a serious problem. Studies show retained items occur in about 1 in every 5,500 to 18,000 surgeries performed. While rare, when they do happen the consequences can be life-threatening or disfiguring for the patient. Not only that, but unintentionally retained items also expose hospitals to legal liability and malpractice claims amounting to millions of dollars each year. Comprehensive surgical instrument tracking helps prevent such incidents from occurring in the first place. How Instrument Tracking Systems Work Modern Surgical Instrument Tracking systems use advanced radio-frequency identification (RFID) or barcode scanning technology to account for each instrument used during a procedure. Small RFID or barcode tags are attached to individual instruments. As instruments are brought into and out of the operating room, they are scanned into a dedicated tracking computer or software system. Before closing the surgical incision, staff perform a final instrument and sponge count using the tracking system. Any discrepancies between what was scanned into the room versus what is accounted for after surgery trigger an alert. This final count helps provide a clear audit trail confirming all items were properly removed from the patient’s body before stitching up the incision. The Benefits of Instrument Tracking Implementing a comprehensive instrument tracking solution yields several important benefits for hospitals: Patient Safety - As mentioned, accurate accounting for all items used during surgery helps prevent life-threatening retained surgical items. Instrument tracking adds an extra layer of safety for patients. Reduced Risk of Liability - Clearly documenting the use and removal of all items helps protect hospitals legally if questions ever arise about whether something was unintentionally left inside a patient. Increased Revenue - Fewer medical malpractice lawsuits related to retained items means less payouts and legal expenses for hospitals over time. Less time is also spent managing liability issues. Process Efficiencies - Automatic identification and counting of instruments streamlines perioperative workflows. Less time is spent manually counting items, searching for missing objects, or filling out paperwork. Staff can instead focus on direct patient care tasks. Asset Management - Tracking technologies provide real-time visibility into instrument locations and usage. This information helps with equipment maintenance planning, usage reports, and inventory management across the hospital system. Overall, a well-designed surgical instrument solution should save hospitals money in the long run through reduced risk and greater process efficiencies, while more importantly enhancing patient care and safety. When implemented and utilized comprehensively, these systems have been shown in studies to virtually eliminate unintended retained surgical items.

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About Author:

Ravina Pandya, Content Writer, has a strong foothold in the market research industry. She specializes in writing well-researched articles from different industries, including food and beverages, information and technology, healthcare, chemical and materials, etc. (https://www.linkedin.com/in/ravina-pandya-1a3984191)

[whisperedmeg]

COUNTER SERVICE ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x BAU!gf!reader

summary: spencer kissed you like a promise and fucked you like a prayer — right there on the kitchen counter, while dinner nearly burned behind him.

genre: smut, fluff

w/c: 2.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, kitchen counter sex, teensy bit of praise kink/soft dom spencer, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader sweetheart/angel/good girl, established relationship, they drink a lil wine, lovey dovey spencer, unrealistic risotto recipe (def would’ve burned in real life but just pretend ok), no use of y/n

a/n: personally I was envisioning later seasons spencer as I wrote this but could also see early seasons spencer so imagine what you wish 🙂‍↕️ also, if you enjoyed this, my requests are open!

The moment you saw the glint in Spencer’s eye, you knew you were in trouble.

He appeared in the doorway holding a folded sheet of printer paper like it was a briefing file, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a kind of casual precision that made it very difficult to focus.

“I’ve made a decision,” he announced.

You looked up from the couch, where you’d been reading a book with a cup of tea balanced precariously on your thigh. “Should I be nervous?”

“Definitely,” he said. “We’re making lemon risotto for dinner.”

“We?” you echoed, setting the book aside. “Spencer, you know I’m a terrible cook. And risotto is an hour-long, elbow-grease, constant-stirring kind of situation.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “It’s the culinary equivalent of an FBI stakeout. I thought you’d enjoy the teamwork.”

You stared at him. “You planned a date night that involves fifteen minutes of zesting?”

He shrugged. “The recipe says the aromatics really come out if you’re patient.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He grinned and extended a hand to pull you off the couch. “Come on. I already started getting out the ingredients.”

—

Twenty minutes later, you were in full prep mode: barefoot, stirring lazily while Spencer hummed Debussy and lined up lemons like surgical tools. He measured everything with the precision of a neurosurgeon while you chopped shallots by feel, refusing to follow any of the instructions he kept reading aloud.

“The recipe says to use only the outermost zest,” he said.

“It also says to stir clockwise, which is insane. I’m winging it.”

“Winging it? While making something as delicate as risotto?!” he asked, clearly a little horrified.

“You knew what you signed up for.”

He passed you a glass of white wine. “True.”

You argued over whether the wine should go into the pot or your mouths first. He poured a little into the rice; you poured more into your glass. And somewhere in the middle of Spencer’s incessant reading of the recipe instructions, you managed to flick a bit of zest in his direction. It landed on his lower cheek.

“You’ve been tagged,” you said.

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “That’s food-grade sabotage.”

He stepped closer as you reached up to brush it away. Your fingertips grazed the soft skin beneath his cheekbone, and for a moment, everything else faded.

His eyes caught yours.

“Think you missed it,” he said quietly.

The air shifted. Something unspoken and familiar threaded between you, slow and deliberate. The kitchen wasn’t quiet — the stove was still bubbling — but it felt like the world had narrowed to this: you, him, the warmth between your bodies and the lemon-scented air.

He moved first, turning the burner down to low heat. One step, then another, until your back hit the counter and his hands found your hips.

“This feels like a dangerous way to cook,” you murmured, breath hitching.

“Who said we’re still cooking?”

His mouth met yours before you could answer — slow at first, exploratory. Then hungrier.

You reached up, fingers threading through his hair as he deepened the kiss. The countertop pressed into your back, cool against your overheated skin, and Spencer’s body curved in close, bracketing you in with careful hands and a hunger that was anything but cautious.

He tasted like citrus and something warmer underneath, and his mouth moved like he was trying to memorize you. His hands slid beneath the hem of your top, reverent and warm, fingers spreading across your waist like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

“Can I…?” he murmured, already kissing along your jaw as he tugged at your shirt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “All of it.”

Clothes came off piece by piece. Your shirt first, then his, then the rest of your clothes. He stepped between your legs and lifted you onto the counter with ease, his hands never leaving your body. Your thighs parted for him instinctively, knees hooking around his hips, and he settled there like he belonged.

“You’re so soft here,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers just beneath your breasts. “Every time I touch you, I forget how to think.”

“Lucky for you, I like the rare occasions when you forget things.”

He smiled and bent to mouth at your collarbone. “Dinner can wait.”

“Mhm. Until much later,” you breathed, tugging him even closer by the waistband of his pants. “Much, much later.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Spencer looked up at you like you were a miracle. Like he had all the time in the world. His hands curled beneath your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the counter, his thumbs brushing soft, dizzying circles into your skin. You were already wet, aching, trembling — and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re already dripping.”

“Spence—”

“I know.” His voice was low, coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

His mouth met you slow and steady, the first broad lick making you shudder. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, hypnotic patterns that made your spine arch and your hands fight for purchase in his hair. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He devoured you like he was studying the effect of every single flick and swirl, listening for the change in your breathing, waiting for the exact sound you made when he—

“Oh—fuck, right there, don’t stop,” you whined.

He groaned into you, the vibration ricocheting through your whole body. One hand tightened on your hip while the other slipped lower — fingers teasing at your entrance, then easing inside, slick and perfect and deep.

“Spence,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it.”

That was all you needed to hear. You came hard, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath catching on his name like a prayer. He worked you through it and didn’t stop until you tugged at his hair, until you were too sensitive to bear it, until you gasped his name again.

When he stood, his face was flushed, mouth slick, eyes blown wide with want. You pulled him in and kissed him — messy, grateful, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Need you,” you said against his lips. “Now.”

He helped you unbutton his pants, pulling them down just enough, and you reached for his cock the second you could. It was already hard and leaking, flushed red at the tip, thick in your palm.

“Jesus,” you whispered, stroking him once. “All this, just from going down on me?”

He moaned, twitching into your grip. “You have no idea.”

You stroked again, a little firmer, thumb circling the head. “I think I do.”

He cursed softly, pulling your hand away and nudging your thighs apart. “Need to be inside you.” He pressed himself forward teasingly against your entrance, dragging the tip of his cock through the mess he’d made of you.

“Let me see you,” he said. “Look at me.”

You did. Eyes locked, he slid into you in one long, slow thrust, filling you so deeply it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, clinging to his shoulders.

“Shit, you’re so tight—so warm.” His head dropped forward, forehead resting against yours. “You always take me so perfectly, angel.”

He stayed there for a beat — buried to the hilt, breathing hard, like he was trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. You curled your legs around his waist and rocked your hips, coaxing him into motion.

“Move,” you whispered. “Please. I need you to move.”

He did — Spencer always did exactly as you asked, especially when it came to this.

The first few thrusts were slow, exploratory. Deep. He rolled his hips like he wanted to find every new angle that could make you fall apart, and god, did he find them. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to the edge of the counter, and started to fuck you in a rhythm that was steady and filthy and simultaneously so fucking tender it made your chest ache.

You felt every inch of him — every drag, every push — and you moaned into the open space between you as he pulled back almost entirely before sliding in again, harder this time.

“You feel so good like this,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

His lips brushed yours between words — a soft kiss, then a firmer one, then a pause where you just breathed each other in. You could feel him everywhere. The stretch. The weight. The press of his body into yours, solid and overwhelming in the best way possible.

You slid a hand between you and traced your fingers across his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. “You always fuck me like you love me.”

He stilled for a moment — just to get a good look at you — and then his mouth was on yours, kissing you like a promise, like that was the answer.

“I do,” he murmured into the kiss. “I love you so much.”

Then he thrust into you harder, deeper, making you cry out. His rhythm picked up — more urgent now, more desperate, hips snapping forward in a way that made you clutch at him, panting into his neck.

“Tell me what you need,” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint.

“You,” you gasped. “Just like this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He groaned — a raw, helpless sound — and adjusted his angle, shifting his hips just enough to brush something deep inside you that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh god—fuck. Spencer, I—”

“Right there?”

“Right there.”

His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, the pressure just right, the rhythm relentless. Pleasure climbed fast and hot, coiling tight in your belly, stealing your breath.

Spencer kissed you deeply then pulled back to watch the way your expression was twisting. “That’s it, angel. Good girl. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

Your climax crashed through you harder than the last, raw and overwhelming, your body tightening around him in waves you couldn’t stop. You were still coming when he groaned and fucked into you deeper, faster, chasing his own high through the pulse of yours.

“Fuck, you’re still coming, aren’t you?”

You were. Still trembling, still squeezing around him when his rhythm broke. You managed a nod in response.

“Come with me then,” he gasped, fucking you through it. “Please, sweetheart—oh, fuck.”

And you did.

Your orgasms crested over each other like lightning striking twice — sharp and hot and completely blinding. You held his face in your hands and kissed him as you both fell, his hips grinding into you, cock pulsing deep inside as he came with a groan that sounded like surrender.

And when it was over, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other, shaking and breathless, his chest heaving against yours.

—

Somewhere during the haze of afterglow, the pan on the stove let out a loud, angry hiss.

Spencer’s eyes flew open. “The risotto!”

You burst into laughter, still wrapped around him. “Oh no.”

He gently lowered you off the counter, half-dressed and glowing, and the two of you stumbled over each other trying to get to the stove. He grabbed a spoon and stirred furiously while you added a splash of broth, then another.

Miraculously, the rice hadn’t burned. Browned a little — okay, maybe a lot — but not beyond saving.

“I think we stirred just enough before we got distracted,” he said, a little breathless, still flushed from everything that just happened.

You leaned against the counter beside him, giggling. “Are you saying we successfully had kitchen counter sex without totally ruining dinner?”

He grinned, nodding. “We’re a statistical anomaly.”

Spencer helped clean you up before you both redressed in scattered pieces of clothing, keeping close watch on the pot and on each other. Spencer stayed barefoot in his dress pants, and you pulled on his button-down, which hung past your hips and still smelled like him.

He stirred the rice while you read aloud from the recipe, skipping half the steps and adding your own commentary.

“‘Let simmer on medium-low until the remaining liquid is absorbed,’” you said, voice exaggerated. “Or until one of us gets impatient and turns up the heat.”

“Do not mess with the starch development, woman.”

You laughed, stealing a spoonful when his back was turned.

—

When it was finally done, you both sat on the floor with the pan between you, backs against the cabinets, legs tangled, sharing bites straight from the wooden spoon. The risotto was shockingly good despite the way it had nearly burned — creamy and bright, with just the right amount of lemon.

“I hate that you were right about this,” you mumbled around a mouthful.

“Victory tastes like Meyer citrus,” he said smugly.

You nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He wiped a bit of risotto from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then kissed the same spot. “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re still here.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I’d cook with you again,” you said quietly. “Even if you do read recipe blogs like crime scene notes.”

“That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given me.”

He rested his cheek against your hair. Around you, the kitchen smelled like butter and lemons and wine and something warmer you couldn’t quite name. The dishes could wait. The future could wait.

Tonight, you had warmth, and starch and citrus, and even better — each other.

ᝰ.ᐟ

[rahulcmi]

The Operating Room Integration Market has witnessed significant technological advancements in recent years, revolutionizing the way surgical procedures are conducted and enhancing patient outcomes.

[lovezbrownies]

Speed dating. (Yandere!Racing driver.)

Masterlist.

Synopsis: Everyone still wonders how you, an average smartass, managed to enamour the heart of the cold and ruthless number 2 Ferrari driver.

PAIRING: Lena Montgomery x GN!Reader.

CW: Lena is british, word arse is used unwillingly, obsession, aggression while driving f1 cars, a lot of Formula one terminology, Lena’s embarrassing and you’re embarrassed, justified ferrari formula 1 team slander.

Lena Montgomery isn’t known for kindness. She isn’t known for generosity, either. Lena is known for being cutthroat — for snatching victories in the final seconds, for hunting her prey on and off the track. She’s notorious across the Formula 1 grid, hated by fans and rivals alike. But what people whisper about most is her strange, obsessive affection for her race engineer.

You’ve only held the title for a year now — the youngest race engineer in Formula 1 history — but the moment you were told you’d be paired with Lena Montgomery instead of her teammate Red Ludenhart, every instinct in your body screamed that you’d made a grave mistake signing that contract without actually reading it. Ferrari played it dirty, they never specified which driver you’d be assisting, only hinted at a dream position beside the golden boy of the sport.

You were beyond nervous. Sure, you were professional — ready to give your all — but being tethered to the most aggressive driver in the game? That wasn’t what you signed up for. The only small comfort was Lena rarely disrespected her race engineers. She only ever yelled when they dared suggest giving up a position… or, god forbid, letting Red win while she fended off the rest of the pack.

What Lena adored about you, however, was the fact that you let her win. Not in the way that implied favoritism or cheating — but with strategies so sharp, so flawlessly executed, that she could slice past Red or anyone else in her way with surgical precision . You gave her the tools to dominate, and she wielded them like a blade. It didn’t take long before she started to stick to your side like glue — pulling you aside for quiet strolls around the paddock, dragging you away from your other responsibilities just to bask in your presence a little longer before the race weekend ends.

Your team principal hated it. The nagging, the veiled threats of termination — it all became background noise the moment Lena stepped in. She made her stance clear: if they fired you, she was walking. And not alone — she’d take you with her, contract or not.

The two of you were unstoppable. A perfect storm of calculation and aggression, bringing home wins and championships with frightening consistency. Somehow, impossibly, you were also the only person who could rein her in. When Lena pulled a dirty overtake, it was your voice in her ear that made her give the position back. When the team begged her to play fair, she ignored them — but she always listened to you. You were the one who could convince her to settle for second place. That Red deserved the first place position once in a while. That victory wasn’t worth it if it meant burning everything else to the ground.

The internet, of course, was feral over the two of you. Lena, flirting with you through the radio, in the middle of a race, no less. The way she looked at you on media days — not just admiration, but something warmer, more dangerous. The way she stormed past fans, staff, even her eventual close friend Red, after every win, just to find you first.

And now, after six years of Lena and Red dominating the sport together — two rookies turned titans — everything has shifted. Red’s younger sibling, the quiet, unreadable rookie named Siolis Ludenhart, has stormed onto the grid and done the unthinkable in the last race of the 2024 season: outmaneuvered them both. A fresh and young rookie, in a car that shouldn’t be capable of doing what it just did, Siolis slipped past Lena and Red like it was easy. Like it was inevitable.

A new prodigy had entered the scene. And just like their father Grim before them, Siolis didn’t just win — they increased the stakes. They were in imending storm, ready to reel in championships as soon as they can, as their father, brother, and aunt did before them.

Watching the new rookies of the year — fast, hungry, unshaken by pressure — Lena felt something she hadn’t let herself feel in years: exhaustion. Not the kind that from long raves or endless interviews. No, this was something deeper. A quiet, creeping sense that her time was up. She’d had her fun— clawed her way through the ranks, carved her name into the sport’s history books, collected more trophies than she had shelves for. But lately, her edge had dulled. The thrill of the fight was fading, and the Ferrari name was becoming less of a legacy and more of a punchline.

The car couldn’t keep up. The strategy calls were archaic, stubborn ancient men clutching to strategies that just won’t hold up in modern times, men too peoud to admit the sport had evolved past the,. And Lena? She was done playing damage control for a team that refused to change. Red had already made the switch to Mercedes, thriving under the glamor and hopes of new wins, as Lena stupidly stayed back, now having to deal with teaching her new teammate the ropes.

She had money — more than enough. Investments tucked away like aces up her sleeve, real estate in four countries, and a retirement fund that looked more like a billionaire's savings account. She didn’t need this anymore. Not the politics. Not the paddock games. Not even the glory.

So she made the call. Quietly. Privately. The team was informed: her contract would be terminated by the end of the 2025 season. The press get their headline when she was ready — not a second before. And you? You wouldn’t hear a word of it until she told you herself. She made that part very clear.

Now it’s a lazy afternoon. The sun casts long golden streaks over the Ferrari hospitality, and Lena is lounging outside in one of the padded seats, hair damp from Monaco’s moist weather, sunglasses slipping slightly down her arched nose. She’s dressed in casual team attire, legs crossed over one another, posture relaxed — the picture of someone who should be carefree.

But her eyes were on you. Always on you.

You’re sitting across from her, absorbed in your laptop, typing furiously — probably running simulations, tweaking setups, or analyzing data that won’t matter in a year. You haven’t even touched your drink yet. Lena watches the way your brows furrow, how your fingers hesitate for a fraction of a second when you’re deep in thought.

She smirks to herself.

You don’t know it yet, but you won’t need to stress about any of this next year. Not strategy, not tyre wear, not back-to-back triple headers. You won’t be her engineer and her secret lover, you’ll be her lover, her retired and spoiled rotten partner. She’ll plaster you all over her instagram, brag about you in her tweets, buy you whatever you shall desire. As soon as you retire alongside her, because no way in hell would she let you go and become another driver’s race engineer.

You sat oblivious to her line of thought, your attention was laser-focused on your laptop, eyes scanning spreadsheets and outdated strategy notes handed down by the team’s half-senile strategists. You were deep in the numbers, trying to thread the needle between possibility and fantasy — somehow, somehow, making Monaco work in your favor.

The Grand Prix was prestigious, yes, but painfully dull when you knew your car couldn’t compete. Red Bull and Mclafen had left Ferrari in the dust this season, their machines sleeker, faster, smarter. Still, this was your job — to play the hand you were dealt with and bluff it like hell.

You let out a quiet tut, clicking your tongue, then a sigh that turned into a half-whispered groan of concentration as you massaged your temple. You barely registered the soft tap against your foot — at least, not until you looked up.

Lena.

She sat across from you, slouched in that effortlessly arrogant way that only someone like her could pull off. One arm resting along the chair’s edge, her chin balanced against her fist, her legs crossed. Her entire posture screamed lazy royalty. But her gaze — piercing green eyes that had through the fiercest rivals on the grid — was soft now. Fixed on you. Her lips curved in a quiet, knowing smile as she watched you unravel over the Monaco race plan.

“Well, aren’t you just adorable, darling?” She purred, her voice low and warm with amusement, “You don’t need to be so… zoned in. I can live with placing outside the podium, you know. Let the young blood have their little moment in the spotlight, hmm?”

She shifted then — slow and deliberate— sitting upright as she uncrossed her legs and spread them with no shame at all, a move bold enough to make your breath hitch. She patted her thigh with a smirk, fingers tapping against the red of her team pants. A clear invitation. A reminded of how you sat so obediently on top of her, the shy look you gave her, the way you buried your face into her strong neck when the embarrassment got to the best of you.

However, you sputter, mortified, as Lena breaks into a fit of loud, unrestrained laughter — the kind that echoes off every damn corner of the hospitality lounge. Your face heats up immediately, and when you glance around, your stomach drops. Great. Now everyone’s staring. Team members, media staff, even a few drivers across the courtyard — all eyes are on the two of you because Lena Montgomery, the hyena that she is, has decided to turn your entire existence into a comedy special.

You kick her leg under the table, leaning in close, hissing through clenched teeth, “Oh my god, shut up! People are looking! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

You snap your laptop shut, more flustered than you’ve been in weeks, and shot straight to your feet. There’s no way you’re staying seated near her another second. Not with the way your pulse is hammering. Not with the smug loom on her face.

But before you can take two steps toward the hospitality building’s entrance, a firm grip coils around your wrist. Fast — too fast. Lena’s reflexes, honed by years of high-stakes racing, strike like a viper. You barely register the motion before you’re being yanked back.

“Jesus—!” You flail instinctively, panic kicking in. For a horrifying second, you think she’s about to drag you into her lap right there in front of everyone, but she doesn’t. Instead, with far too much ease thanks to her athletic training, she pulls you past her spread legs and into the chair beside her.

Her arm snakes around your shoulders, drawing you into her warmth, into that signature scent of leather and engine oil that clung to her like perfume. She leans in close — so close her breath grazes the shell of your ear.

“As much as I love the feeling of your arse squirming on my lap,” she murmurs, voice low and thich with amusement, “I’d rather be the only one to see it.”

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Ferrari media day — “A day in the life of the youngest Formula 1 race engineer. 🔴 LIVE.”

Official team content. You agreed to it only because they promised Lena wouldn’t be there to humiliate you live. You were lied to.

The Ferrari social media team had decided to broadcast a “day in the life” livestream of the unfiltered and harsh realities working as a race engineer in a competitive playing field, featuring yours truly, the youngest engineer of Formula 1 history, doing your usual prep work ahead of a big race weekend.

It was meant to be a sleek, professional insight into the work behind the scenes with live commentary and quick answers to any kids aspiring to be a race engineer in the future. The team broadcasted what they could without leaking out any strategy information in fear of rival teams watching.

Everything was going fine at first. You explained the process of tire selection, how you communicate with strategists and drivers during and before a race, and even pointed to your favorite spreadsheet programs like you weren’t dying inside from the attention of thousands of people watching you live. You answered questions to the best of your ability as you went on.

But then of course, Lena waltzed in like she owned the room.

Clearing her throat loudly so the cameras would pan over to her as she strode towards you, “Don’t mind me,” She said with that wolfish smirk on her face, grabbing a protein bar and hovering right behind you as you dead pan into the camera, already tired of her shit. Though the cameraman was having a field day as he zoomed in.

“Just checking in on my favourite engineer. Still saving my career?” Your eyes rolling were definitely not missed by the camera.

“Still trying to ruin my public image?” You blurt out, looking back at her with your body still facing the camera. You can see the live chat blowing up on your phone from the corner of your eye, but you’d rather not see the ship name they’ve adorned you and Lena today.

Lena only chuckled and leaned in closer towards you and the camera ahead of you, “can i ruin it more?”

You froze. The silence that followed was ungodly.

Yet she took your silence as permission — of course she did — and casually draped an arm around your chest, enveloping you and drawing you close to her, she rested her chin against your head as you felt the rumble of her voice, “You know, they only asked to mic you up because they wanted to hear what I hear every day,” she murmured, clingy and affectionate so shamelessly, “That sexy little brain of yours is working its magic!”

That was your last straw as you pushed off of her and panickedly rushed yourself and the cameraman to another room, ignoring the barking laughter of Lena in the back.

The following few hours the Formula 1 fanbase could only talk about the interaction from the live.

@/LenaMonLM12:

THE ENGINEER TRYING TO HOLD IT TOGETHER WHILE LITERALLY CUDDLING THEM LIVE??? HELLO.

@/lena_monhoery:

her voice. the proximity. the ‘can i ruin it more.’ please. i have a family.

@/badferraristrategies:

lena has no media training and i pray she never does omg shes so whipped

@/(shipname)updates:

you can literally see the moment their soul left their body 💀💀💀

@/lena_step_on_me332:

where can i apply to be a race engineer fuck

> @/galex_supporter:

dont think she would fw anyone other than y/n atp 😭

Lil visual of how she looks like :3

[moonmaiden1996]

Love at First Sight (According to Nagumo, Anyway) Part 8

Warning- Reader in shock/trauma. Long chapter

The world blurred around you, the chaos of the alley melting into a fog of numb disbelief. Nagumo carried you easily, his grip unyielding yet careful, as if you were made of glass. You could feel the damp warmth of his coat around your shoulders, the scent of blood and steel clinging to the fabric. But it wasn't just the blood that haunted the air—there was a certain heaviness to it, a weight of all that blood and death.

You should have struggled. You should have demanded he put you down. But your body refused to obey, locked in the weight of everything that had just happened. The suddenness of it all—your ex-boss's lifeless eyes, staring into the void. They weren't even looking at you. No, they looked past you, beyond you. And that thought, that chilling thought, made it all feel even worse. Those eyes would haunt you for a long time. Maybe forever.

Nagumo was silent as he carried you through the empty streets. His pace was steady and purposeful—each step echoing in the silence of the night. Still, something in the way he held you made you feel safe, even if the world around you was falling apart. You were drained, weak, exhausted. The pain from the bruises and cuts was a dull throb, but nothing compared to the emotional toll that seemed to suffocate you. Your breath came in ragged gasps, and you could feel tears slipping down your face—silent tears, almost as if you were too tired to make any noise. It felt like a dream or, more accurately, a nightmare that terrifies you even when you are awake. But this was no dream. This was reality. A reality that made your chest ache and your throat tighten. It was too much. Too unreal.

The next thing you knew, you were being managed through a door. The dim glow of warm light wrapped around you, a stark contrast to the dark streets outside. It was silent. There was no hum of city noise here, no honking of cars or distant chatter. Just silence. A thick, suffocating silence that left you feeling exposed, like you were in a space too big to fill.

Carefully, he lowered you onto the plush couch, his hands lingering just a second too long before pulling away as though reluctant to let you go. His eyes—those sharp golden eyes—scanned your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle. There was no smirk, no playful edge; his movements were calculated and purposeful, like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

"You haven't said a word," he said, his voice low, coaxing, but there was something else in it. Something almost… disappointed. "Not a word. After everything that happened."

You swallowed the dry rasp of your throat, feeling like a weight in your chest. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You couldn't find the words—not now, not when everything felt so wrong. You couldn't even meet his gaze, the intensity of it too much to bear.

Nagumo exhaled sharply, filled with quiet frustration, before his fingers brushed gently against your chin, tilting your face toward him. His touch was light but carried an undeniable weight, demanding your attention.

"You're shaking," he murmured, more to himself than to you. His eyes flicked to your cheek, where the sting of torn skin still throbbed. The blood had dried, but the pain was still fresh. His gaze darkened, the flicker of something dangerous stirring in the depths of those golden eyes. "You're not okay. I can see that. You're still shaking."

Without another word, he stood, disappearing into another room. When he returned, he carried a small first-aid kit, setting it down beside you quietly. You couldn't help but notice the other items stashed in the kit—vials of adrenaline, morphine, surgical tools that could do far more than just heal. He really was an assassin. Not just a crazed psychopath. Truly, you wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it, but you couldn't bring your body to move. Not that you didn't want to laugh, it was insane, the fact you had an actual assassin saving you from a hoard of gangsters, your body simply wouldn't comply. 

"Stay still," he ordered, his voice gentle but firm.

You didn't have the strength to do anything else. You didn't even know what you wanted. 

He knelt beside you, his fingers unnervingly soft as he cleaned the wound on your cheek. The sharp sting of alcohol made you flinch, but he didn't pull away. If anything, his touch softened, his fingers gliding over your skin as though trying to erase the damage.

"They hurt you," he whispered, his voice barely audible, but there was fury hidden beneath the softness, barely contained. "Those bastards. They hurt you." The words weren't really meant for you, more like for himself.

He continued to work silently, his fingers deftly wrapping a bandage around your cheek with meticulous care. When he was finished, his hands lingered on your face, thumbs brushing your jaw in slow, deliberate strokes. His gaze didn't leave yours, his golden eyes burning into you like he was searching for something.

Then, he tilted his head, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Did I break you?"

You blinked, your breath hitching, your heart skipping a beat. His grip tightened just a little as he cradled your head in his hands, his touch possessive now, holding you in place. His voice softened, almost coaxing, but still laced with that dangerous edge. "You haven't moved. Haven't fought. You've just… let me take care of you. Why? Why aren't you fighting, little one? Scared of the big bad assassin?"

You didn't know how to answer. Were you scared? No. You were too tired, too lost in the fog of everything that had happened. The words didn't come, not because you didn't want to speak, but because you didn't know what to say.

Nagumo's lips curled into a soft smirk, but it wasn't playful. It wasn't teasing. It was dark, almost possessive, like a predator who had found his prey. "No," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "I didn't break you. You're still in there. You're just… processing. Aren't you?" His tone softened, almost gentle, as he leaned in, his breath warm against your forehead. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here. I'm looking forward to having my feisty wife back."

The finality in his words sent a chill down your spine, a sense of something inevitable settling in your chest. But before you could react, he shifted beside you, pulling you into him with a casual ease that belied the weight of his actions. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other tangling in your hair, guiding your head against his chest.

"Shhh," he murmured against your temple, pressing you closer to him. "It's alright. You're safe now. You don't need to do a single thing."

Safe.

That word again. You wanted to believe it. But how could you be? With him?

Nagumo's fingers combed through your hair with slow, deliberate motions, tightening every now and then as if checking that you were still his. His presence surrounded you, enveloping you completely, and despite everything—there was something strangely comforting about it. It wasn't normal, but it was something you craved. Something you needed. Just for now, you told yourself.

"You don't have to think," he whispered, his voice dripping with something dangerously sweet. "Not right now. Let me take care of you."

Nagumo's arms enveloped you, holding you close as if you might slip away otherwise. You were confused and scared, but most of all, you were just… tired. You didn't have the energy to fight, think, or question. All you wanted was to curl into yourself, to forget, even for a little while.

Nagumo's fingers slipped from your hair, and his voice was soft, coaxing. Let me take care of you now." His gaze softened for a fraction of a second. "You need a shower. Get the filth of you," he said, his voice soft, almost gentle, in a way you didn't expect. There was no edge to his usual taunts, no mocking tone. It was simply… practical. His eyes swept over you, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you before he continued, "And medicine. Your throat won't heal on its own."

You hesitated. Your whole body was a chaotic mess—trembling from the inside out, from the fear, the violence, and the blood still clinging to you. But he had seen it, too. He had caught the flicker of doubt, the hesitation in your eyes. And like a cat with its prey, his smirk returned.

"You'll feel better," he promised, holding his hand.

With a sigh, you took his offered hand. It was warm. His grip was firm, not aggressive, but with a quiet strength that suggested he wouldn't let you fall. You let him lead you toward what you assumed was the bathroom, feeling the exhaustion pulling at your bones with every step. The moment you stepped inside, the clean, sterile smell of the room hit you like a wave. The gleam of the marble countertops, the glass shower with its perfect lines, and the pristine stack of towels all felt alien to you at that moment. Too perfect. Too untouched. It made your skin crawl in contrast to the blood-streaked reality you'd just lived through.

Nagumo, ever practical, didn't waste a moment. He reached past you, twisting the shower handle. The hiss of steam filled the air, curling into the warm room as the water cascaded down, steaming and inviting. The warmth hit you almost immediately, wrapping around you like a blanket, and for a moment, you let it. Let it drown out the cold and the sharpness of your thoughts.

"I'll get you some clothes," he said, leaving. Then, his sharp gaze flicked back over his shoulder. "Don't lock the door."

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. The edge in his voice left no room for argument or hesitation. It wasn't a suggestion—it was an order. 

"Nagumo—" you started, but he interrupted you before you could finish, his tone flat but firm.

"Just in case. That's all. Just in case."

In case, what? You fell? You can't find the soap? You try to escape? You didn't know, but your brain hurt trying to think. Simply, you swallowed hard and nodded, defeated. His gaze lingered for a moment before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that tightened your chest.

All you could do for a moment was stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Your breath came out in shallow, uneven gasps as you looked at yourself, barely recognizing the person staring back at you. You were pale; you looked sick. Blood was smeared across your arms, streaked down your collarbone, and stained the space under your nails. But the worst part—what you couldn't tear your eyes away from—were the bruises on your throat, the fingerprints that had been pressed into your skin. The memory of the chokehold, the panic, flooded your senses again, and you felt the blood rush to your head.

The blood. It was everywhere.

Your chest constricted as a sob clawed its way up from your throat. Your breath came faster, erratic. You could feel it, the weight of it—the blood, the suffocating presence of it. You wrapped your arms around yourself as if to hold your broken body together, but it wasn't enough. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in. It was too much.

Before you could think better of it, you stepped into the shower, clothes still clinging to your body like a second skin. The water hit you in a rush—scalding, sharp against your chilled skin. The fabric of your clothes grew heavy with the weight of it, but you couldn't bring yourself to take them off. Not yet. You needed to scrub away the evidence, all of it—the blood, the violence, the pain.

Your hands moved mindlessly over your body, scrubbing your arms, chest, and hands. The water turned red, swirling around your feet, but it wouldn't come off. No matter how hard you scrubbed or how much pressure you put against your skin, the stains wouldn't leave. It was in your mind, in your lungs, and suffocating you.

A broken sob escaped your lips, and your knees buckled beneath you. The cold tiles met you before you could collapse fully, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. Your chest refused to rise and fall properly, your hands trembling violently as you continued to scrub, scrub, scrub—but nothing changed. The water, the blood, the smell of it—it was choking you. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think.

Then, the door creaked open. You barely registered it before you felt his arms around you—strong, steady. Panic surged through you, and you twisted in his grasp, trying to push him away. Your nails scraped against his arms in desperate defence, but he held on. He didn't flinch. His grip was unyielding, his presence a constant force you couldn't escape. Finally, you calmed, sobbing against him.

"Shhhhhh," Nagumo murmured. His voice was low, steady, and unbothered by your frantic state. "You're okay." he soothed.

You shook your head violently, tears streaming down your face. "It's still there, I can feel it—" The blood. The choking feeling.

His grip shifted, becoming less forceful and more… guiding. Slowly, he lowered both of you to the shower floor, his hands still steady on your body. The coldness of the tiles beneath you was a harsh contrast to the searing heat of the water, and it helped just a little.

Nagumo didn't let go. He didn't push. He just held you while the sobs wreaked you.

"Do you want help getting the blood out of your clothes?" he asked, his voice soft but pragmatic as if the question was the most natural thing in the world.

You didn't respond with words. Instead, you let out a strangled sob, the fight draining from your body. You curled forward, pressing your forehead to his soaked shoulder. He didn't pull away. He didn't say anything. His hands moved, methodical and slow, as he reached for the soap and began to rub it into the fabric of your sleeves. His movements were deliberate and gentle, as if each stroke of his hand tried to convince you that you weren't alone.

The scent of soap, the rhythmic motions of his hands. Slowly, your breath began to even out, the frantic edge softening into something closer to exhaustion. Your fingers curled into his jacket, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to reality.

"It's okay," he murmured, voice barely louder than the sound of water running. "I've got you."

Nagumo kept working, never rushing, never forcing you to move faster than you could handle. Even when the stains were gone, he kept rubbing as if trying to convince you that the blood wasn't something that would haunt you forever. His hands were there, warm and present, steady against your trembling form.

Eventually, the panic ebbed, leaving behind a deep, exhausted stillness. Your breath steadied, your grip loosened, and Nagumo, satisfied that you were finally coming back from the edge, turned off the water smoothly.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then, with a small shift, Nagumo pulled away just enough to look at you. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was unwavering, waiting for you to answer the question without words.

"Better?"

It wasn't fixed. But it was better. You swallowed and nodded weakly, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

Nagumo didn't say anything but helped you up, his hands firm but careful on your arms. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your body. The fabric was thick and warm, soaking up the last of the water from your skin.

"You're gonna be alright," he said quietly as if it was as much for him as it was for you.

He disappeared for a moment, only to return with dry clothes. He set them beside you and crouched down, meeting your eyes, his gaze softening ever so slightly.

Nagumo handed you a set of clothes, his at a guess. They were oversized, warm, and faintly scented of spice and herbs. A simple black hoodie and soft sweatpants, too big for your frame but comforting in their own way. 

Nagumo had stepped out of the room, leaving you with only the faint sounds of movement beyond the door—quiet footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the subtle clink of something being set down. You listen for a moment, hearing him move from one place to the next till you feel safe enough to peel yourself out of your soaked suit.  The fabric felt like a shield as you slipped into it, the weight of his hoodie settling over your shoulders, engulfing you completely. The sleeves draped far past your hands, the hem hanging low over your thighs, but you didn't mind. If anything, the sheer size of it made you feel hidden, tucked away from the world. 

When he returned, a towel in hand, he didn't say anything, just crossed the space between you with effortless ease. Without hesitation, he reached for your damp hair, slowly running the towel through it.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice low but firm. He didn't give you a chance to argue; he just placed a hand on your back and guided you out of the bathroom and up the stairs. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with a quiet stillness. The bed was neatly made, the blankets plush and inviting. 

You hesitated at the edge of the bed, but Nagumo didn't. He pulled the blankets back effortlessly, then gestured for you to lie down. When you did, he tucked the covers around you with a surprising gentleness, his hands lingering just long enough to ensure you were completely warm.

"You're exhausted," he said simply, standing at the bedside. His gaze softened for a moment before he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "Get some sleep."

You blinked up at him, the weight of exhaustion finally settling in, dragging you under. But before your eyes could fully close, you felt the mattress shift slightly—Nagumo perching at the edge, not quite leaving yet. His presence was steady, unwavering, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that you were safe.

"Rest," he murmured, his voice the last thing you heard before exhaustion claimed you.

@yomsy @noodle81937

So what do you think? I sort of got carried away with this one. I really love how sweet he turned out but I am ready for more possessive deludedly in love Nagumo next chapter. Let me know what you think! Love hearing you comments.

LIKE. COMMENT. REQUEST

[damnfeelings09]

DNA - Shadow's version

A.N: Hey! just so you know, this is pt. 2 of E.T

“Does he tell you he loves you when you least expect it? Does he flutter your heart when he kisses your neck?”

They had approved Shadow for field missions. The presentation at the HAR training center and the fact that he had healed so quickly had convinced Commander Hillsprung that it was time to explore his abilities. The first mission was merely for reconnaissance. They would send Shadow to Prison Island, the GUN research cradle that had been destroyed years ago, or at least that’s what they thought until they started receiving signs of life two weeks ago. You were happy; Shadow wouldn’t be locked up in those four walls 24/7 anymore, but that also meant you wouldn’t see him anymore. Your role in the investigation was complete, and your services were no longer needed. Now, they would focus solely on military training.

“and my heart won't beat again If I can't feel him in my veins” A month had passed since the last interaction you had with Shadow, the memory of his kiss still fresh in your mind. How you managed to attend, check patients, clear medical records, and keep the GUN clinic’s inventory was still a mystery to you. You’d only crossed paths with the hedgehog twice.

“And he just takes my breath away B-b-b-breath away I feel it every day And that's what makes a man Not hard to understand”

The first time was when you were on your way to the clinic after registering your entry. Shadow was walking with a group of soldiers, a bat named Rouge, and a giant robot. For a second, he looked at you, stopped as if he wanted to walk towards you, but his companions called him to leave the building. Oh how you wished he had come and get you. It was inexplicable what he caused in you, a feeling so foreign.

“Nothing more to say It's in his D-D-D-D-DNA”

The second time was when you were having lunch, sitting in the GUN garden while reviewing the Gamma team's follow-up studies. He walked right in front of you, not paying attention to you. You wouldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt, but what else did you expect? Now Shadow was a GUN agent, and there was no time for anything else. Still, how would you explain to your body what was happening? How could you make it understand that you weren’t in danger and stop the tachycardia before your heart ran out of your chest after him? It didn’t make sense. You had only kissed once, so why couldn’t you forget it?

“Fingerprints that leave me covered for days, yeah, hey, yeah Now I don't have any first degree But I know, what he does to me”

Friday night, you were finishing the paperwork for the week. The fatigue and stress were killing your shoulders, and you were ready to go home. You turned off the light in the office and were about to close the door when a loud noise made you open it again. There was a mess; your stationery shelf was on the floor, and surgical clamps were scattered everywhere. You followed the trail of chaos and found the black hedgehog leaning on the examination table, with one of his hands covering his left arm.

“What the heck… Shadow?”

“I’m glad to see you too, doc”. Shadow looked tired, dust all over his fur. He glanced behind you, acknowledging the mess he had made “Sorry”. he said, shaking his head toward the papers on the floor.

“What happened?” you asked, approaching slowly, moving cautiously as if you feared breaking something fragile, but at the same time, you didn’t want to pull away from him. You knew what that small gesture of closeness meant for both of you, and although you tried to stay professional, you couldn’t help but feel the proximity between you two as something more “Weren’t you supposed to be on a mission?”

“Tch, ‘ve been in Prison Island, for three days. It wasn’t my best moment, I must admit, I underestimated the area.” – He removed his hand, revealing an arrowhead embedded in his flesh. You quickly asked him to get on the table while you gathered the necessary tools to remove the object.

Although Shadow wasn’t bleeding, he wasn’t regenerating as he usually did either. You took the Kelly clamps and carefully removed each piece of the material, placing it in a jar for reaserch. You could feel his intense gaze on each of your movements, his warm breath making your bangs fall over your eyes. Your hands trembled as you remembered the last time you both had been so close. Trying to shake those thoughts from your mind, you looked up, only to find his pure red eyes staring at you, examining you.

“Perfect in every way I see it in his face Nothing more to say”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you said, looking away to return to your task of bandaging the wound. “I’ve seen you, even with your eyes covered and hands behind your back, you can feel danger from miles away.” Shadow sighed, turning his face toward the wall. “I did it for you. I wanted to see you.” Your heart skipped a beat, almost dropping the extra gauze in your hands. Shadow’s hand gently positioned itself under your chin, lifting your face so your eyes met. With every passing second, your cheeks felt hotter and hotter.

“It's all about his kiss Contaminates my lips”

“I missed you,” Shadow said. His voice as soft as velvet, enveloping your ears in a delightful way. At that moment, it felt as though the world had stopped existing, like a bubble surrounding you both, a little world where it was true that the ultimate lifeform, had fall for you. The glow in his eyes was hypnotizing as they moved from your eyes to your lips over and over again. Oh, how you wished he would take the first step, that he would press his lips to yours once again. You longed for the sensation, the pressure of his lips on yours. Shadow had the power to make your legs turn to jelly with just a glance, and how you loved it when he looked at you. The hedgehog slightly curved the corner of his lips, probably reading your thoughts, slowly getting closer to you, shortening the distance between you more and more. In a moment of clarity, you pulled away from him.

“Our energy connects It's simple genetics”

“Wait,” you said. – “This can’t be. We are… coworkers. If anyone finds out about this, all of GUN will come after us.” You lowered your gaze, a silent tear running down your right cheek. Shadow stood up from the table, now a bit taller than you. He grabbed your shoulders and faced you. “To hell with GUN and the planet. Nothing matters if you’re not with me.” His voice was fierce, the fire lighting up his eyes. It was then that you stopped resisting the desire of your heart and gave in to him. Shadow initiated the contact, placing his lips on yours.

“I'm the X to his Y It's the color of his eyes”

You had never been struck by lightning, but you were pretty sure this was what it felt like. Thousands of volts instantly running through every inch of your body as Shadow wrapped his arms around your waist. Your hands searching for the crook of his neck deepening the kiss. A warm sensation like tingling crossing your fingers. Orange sparks coming out of Shadow's quills, small electric currents making their way through his fur looking for a home.

“He can do no wrong No, he don't need to try” His tongue breaking through your lips, linking with yours, starting a battle you could not win. It was intense, both trying to devour each other's mouth. His grip becoming stronger at your waist, you could feel the vibrations of his body with the little moans that Shadow released. The ecstasy of the moment only equated to the energy accumulating between you, going from being soft, light and warm to a stronger discharge, a feeling that did not cause damage, but if it activated every fiber of your being, as if all you needed to live was this… was him. Little by little strands of your hair were lifted thanks to the static between you. The tips of your fingers curving inwards product of electricity.

The lack of air causes you to pull away from him, taking a deep breath, gasping, feeling the relief fill your lungs. You watch him, his quills raised, the reddish tips glowing under the light of the lamp. How can he look even more handsome like this? A few seconds later, Shadow is once again devouring your lips, your chest hitting against his firm one, holding you, the cold of his inhibition rings sneaking down your back. His canines fit gently into your lower lip causing a groan on your part, and a growl makes Shadow’s chest vibrate

“Made from the best He passes all the tests”

Suddenly, the tips of your fingers burn, the stings causing small burns, your heart races uncontrollably, and you could swear it will stop at any moment, but it wouldn’t matter if you died of a heart attack in the middle of the kiss.

“Got my heart beating fast It's cardiac arrest”

It was too much, the emotions, the beating of your hearts, the taste of your lips. Shadow’s  spikes channeled all that energy, illuminating his body with a reddish-orange hue like the sunset, the pressure accumulating in the air. In a second, a spark flashes, the atmosphere seems to compress, as if everything were about to break. Then, a blinding flash lights up the surroundings, and the sound of the explosion is deafening. The reddish light overflows, sweeping everything in its path, each of the lights in the office exploding, leaving the entire city in darkness.

“What the hell…? Did you do that?” you ask incredulously to the hedgehog who has you trapped in his arms.

“Well, you made me,” he whispers. You couldn’t see him clearly, but you knew, from the tone of his voice, that a big, mocking, triumphant smile was spreading across his face.

“He's from a different strain That science can't explain I guess that's how he's made In his D-D-D-DNA”

[sadslay]

- NEED YOU ⋆☆ 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

warnings - inspired by, mentions of scars & blood, nsfw content, this is short im so sorry

the first time you saw abby was when her and her people came to the seattle claiming to be fireflies. you had only heard whispers about the group, but no more then a week later abby was sitting in your waiting room with a bloodied face and fists. when you called her in she sat down quietly with her hands gripping onto the bed. the first thing abbys eyes stared at was the scar sitting in the base of your neck.

“abigail right?” you asked, beginning to gather what supplies you needed to clean her cuts.

“just abby.” she corrected, watching you closely as you spun back around with some clean water and a rag.

you knew exactly what brought abby here. an hour or so earlier there was an altercation with one of the young soldiers and it resulted in them getting up on medical leave while abby only came out with a few cuts and some bloodied knuckles. although you didn’t know the exact reason as to why abby lashed out, you were able to put together the pieces. from what you had read on her file and what you had heard around the base, abby was a fifteen year old ex-firefly that had recently just lost her father. you knew what headspace abby was in right now and it was not something that could be ignored.

“how long have you been at the base for?” you asked, fully knowing she had been here for nine days.

abby sat in silence as you cleaned the sticky drying blood from her left eyebrow before quietly replying, “just over a week.”

once you had cleaned the blood you were able to see the small cut running through the end of her eyebrow. lucky for her, it didn’t need stitches only a bit of medical tape to prevent infection. the silence between you and abby was heavy but surprisingly not awkward.

as you taped up her eyebrow, she asked, “i don’t need stitches?”

you shook your hear as you grabbed a near by cloth to begin cleaning the cut on top of her cheek. “no.” you spoke softly. “but your cheek’ll need stitches.

the rest of her visit she didn’t talk. you told her that the stitches were not dissolvable so she would have to come in a weeks time to get them removed and at the end of it all, she quietly thanks you and left swiftly.

⋆☆

carefully removing her stitches with a pair of tweezers and surgical pliers, you put all your focus into making the whole process as pain free as possible. you had noticed abby fiddling with her hands, most likely to keep herself distracted, and you could feel her eyes lingering on the base of your neck. no doubt she was intrigued by your scar, just about everyone was, but abby was different. abby hadn't once asked about your scar or looked at it in a disgruntled or disgusted way, in fact she rarely looked at it, but when abby did, she looked at it with intrigue.

"did you pick a job yet?" you asked quietly, managing to pull her eyes away from your neck.

"no." she replied quietly. "the job i wanted was taken." she added, the disappointment in her voice was so clearly evident.

you removed the last stitch, allowing abby to take in a deep breath as you put your tools down on a near by table. "n'what job was that?" you questioned.

“anythin’ in medical.” she shrugged as you began to clean your station. you let out a soft chuckle as you peeled off your rubber gloves making abbys eyebrows furrow. “whats so funny?”

you weakly shrugged as you turned back to abby, subtly assessing her face to see if she needed a cover while it continued to heal. “just didn’t expect that from you.” you mumbled, beginning to gather a small amount of medical tape to cover the cut on her cheek. “thought you’d wanna be a solider.”

abby scoffed. “just cause i’ve gotten into a few fights?” she asked as a smirk began to ghost over her lips.

gently applying the medical tape to her - mostly - healed cut you tried your hardest not to smile. “well yeah, ‘nd from the looks of it you can throw a good punch.” abby grinned, clearly proud of herself. “i treated her ya know?”

“you put her medical leave?” abby asked, raising an eyebrow as she watched you closely while you began to pack up your station.

“god no.” you chuffed. “i’ve sent worse injuries back into the field, it was issac that put her on medical leave.” you explained, beginning to take off your green medical apron and hanging it on the back of your office door. “it’s ‘cause he realized that if she couldn’t handle a civilian then she shouldn’t be a solider.”

abby thought for a moment, eyeing you up and down as this was the first time she had seen you out of uniform. “he’s got a point.” she mumbled nonchalantly as she remained completely focused on you.

“i could put in a good word for you ya know?” you mumbled, leaving up against your desk. “he owes me a favour.” you added as a soft smirk began to creep onto your lips.

“you think i’d be a good solider?” abby asked, pushing herself away from the medical bed to stand opposite to you.

you nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “i think if you got into gym and really trained you’d be one of our best.” you admitted. “then you get some good benefits around the base.” you added. abby folded her arms across her chest and thought for a moment. “maybe you can tag along with me one time.” you shyly suggested.

“i like the sound of that.”

⋆☆

as seasons passed you and abby grew incredibly close. first it started as weekly catch ups at the gym and the odd visit to your office after hours as she’d refuse to have her medical done by anyone else, and then it became more frequent. abby would stop by your office before she would get sent out to do a run for issac and any chance she got she would invite you to lunch in the food hall or even drop off lunch right to your office.

with all of abby’s attention you quickly become infatuated. abby had a way of making the simplest things give you butterflies. you quickly realized that your feelings towards abby were not just platonic and after years of fighting you had come to terms with the fact that you had fallen in love with her. so when she asked you to travel halfway across the country - on a limb that the man that you had only heard stories about- to hunt down the man had killed her father you had to go with her.

while the group had stopped in butte for a few days, you found yourself scavenging around the rundown motel when you overheard abby talking to owen. you stopped in your tracks, quietly listening as the pair hadn’t spoken in months.

“‘cause she’s fuckin’ useless.” owen muttered in a hushed whisper.

you heard abby let out a sigh causing your eyebrows to furrow. “we needed her hear incase we got into trouble. she’s a good nurse.”

were they talking about you?

“what about mel?” owen asked. “just cause you wanna fuck her-”

“watch it!” abby snapped. “i brought her along because your fucking girlfriend can barely do her fucking job.” abby quipped her voice was stern as she grew more frustrated at own. “i bought her along because shes fucking useful, no other fuckin’ reason.” she spat.

after that owen stormed off, walking out into the hall were you stood opposite to each other. he gave you a pathetic smile before walking straight past you. slowly you began to fill with frustration as you march towards the door own had just walked out of.

“you know if you wanted a fucking medic to come on this fucking scouting mission then i would have sent one of my students with you.” you snapped bitterly as you slammed the door behind you.

abby frowned as she realized you had heard her conversation with owen. “come on,” abby groaned. “you know i didn’t mean it like that.” she mumbled, looking down at you as she inched closer to you.

you rolled your eyes at the blonde, coming to your wits end with her as she had been distant from you for weeks. “how’d you mean it then?” you quipped.

“it means i like you dumbass.” she smirked, taking that final step to bring the two of you together.

scoffing at the idea you tried to step back, “if you like me so much, how come you’ve been avoiding me?” you asked, bumping into the door behind you.

abby smiled at your naivety as her arm rose, boxing you in against the wall. “because i can’t control myself around you anymore.” she spoke barely above a whisper.

chocking on your words only made abby’s smile grow. “shhh,” she coed. “i know you like me too baby.” abby hummed, her nonchalant cockiness about the whole situation made your cheeks flush pink.

“do not.” you tried to protest, even you could hear the bullshit making abby chuckle under her breath. “fuck off.” you spat, barely louder then a whisper.

“you really want me to go?” abby asked, her head dipping slightly to be at your eye level, only for you to avoid her eye contact all together. her hand parted from the wall before shortly reconnecting her hand with the the bottom of your chin. “look at me.”

only abby could make a demand sound so soft you thought. you hesitated for a moment, knowing what would happen if you did look at her, but you were weak at the knees and desperate for any attention from abby. your eyes finally met abby’s turning your stomach into knots.

“you really want me to leave baby?” she asked again, her breath kissing your ear.

looking up at her, you began to feel light headed as something you had dreamed about for months, maybe even years was finally beginning to come true.

“please don’t make me say it.” you shamefully whispered, as abby slowly combed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“oh baby.” she snickered, her soft seductive chuckle gave you goosebumps. “but i want to hear you say it.” abby smirked.

there was no point in fighting it anymore, abby knew you liked her, there was no more denying it. “i want you to stay.” you spoke ever so softly. abby grinned as you took in a shallow breath before continuing to whisper, “i want you.”

that was all the confirmation that abby needed, to hastily press her lips against yours. it was so messy and polarizing to anything you had ever experienced before. abby’s hands grabbed firmly onto your hips as she pulled you against her, her touch alone was enough to make your knees buckle. your hand grasped onto the base of abbys neck as you almost felt light headed. the whole experience was so euphoric but ethereal at the same time.

“so needy baby.” abby breathed into your neck almost making you audibly moan.

desperate for some friction, you pulled yourself even closer to abby. “shut up.” you breathed, barely able to have a coherent thought as you began to rub against her thigh.

abby let out a breathy chuckle as her hands dipped down to your thighs before hoisting you up to sit around her waist. her hands held onto your ass firmly, relentlessly squeezing as she slowly lowered herself to the ground. as she sat down with her back pressed up against the door your legs knelt on either side of hers.

her hands roamed up and under your thin singlet, scratching at your skin before her hands returned to your ass. you rolled your hips against hers making your core tighten as your hand snaked up her arms to her neck. you slowly pulled away, leaning in close to abbys ear as she continued kissing the soft spot of your neck. your breathing was heavy and everything that abby was going made you feel so, so good.

as you leant up against abbys ear, your finger tips scratching the back of her neck you whispered, “i need you.”

[imsryyimlate]

trafalgar law x reader that matches his intellectual freak. he gets giddy bc she listens to his ramblings and vice versa🥹specifically an anthropologist or like archeologist nerd reader! thank u🫶🏻

yes! law needs someone to match his inner, smart, depressed soul ❤️ btw it was years since i took anthropology so i had to do some internet digging to refresh my memory and write this 😂

— pairing: law x anthropologist!reader

one day on the polar tang, you settled into a corner of the mess hall, a hot cup of tea next to you accompanied by a messy stack of books and folders. law wasn’t normally one to seek out conversation, but when he saw a title on the spine of one of your books, he couldn’t help but approach you and ask.

“interested in medicine?” he asked nonchalantly.

not looking up from the textbook you replied, “not medicine itself, but medical procedures.”

“enlighten me.” law challenged, standing in front of the table.

looking up from your texts, you rested your elbow on the table and rested the side of your head on your open palm. “well, this text says,” you replied, flipping the book in front of you, “that way back when, humans would sharpen rocks to create scalpels from the grand line waters because they’re ‘blessed’. a surgical knife with these ‘blessed properties’ supposedly caused successful procedures, not the skill of the doctor or surgeon alone.”

“so you’re saying that the environment was the cause of a person not dying?”

you nodded enthusiastically. “yes.”

“what about now?” he asked. “as in, with current medical technology?”

“well, you’re the doctor. you tell me.” you smiled. “do you think your scalpels and medical tools are blessed?”

law scoffed, pulled the chair back in front of the table, and turned it around so he could sit on it backward, resting his forearms on the backrest.

“i wouldn’t say blessed,” he started, “but i do so happen to be blessed with the skills of being an actual doctor.”

“well then, dr. trafalgar,” you smirked, “enlighten me.”

law raised an eyebrow. “on what?”

“how you can successfully manage surgeries without a blessed scalpel.”

and that invitation was all he needed.

“first of all, how well a scalpel works has nothing to do with superstition but instead with what it’s made of. dull scalpels can cause more damage than good. surgical steel is ideal because it stays sharp.” he started.

“so you’re saying the guys who sharpened the rocks were lucky?” you smirked.

“yes…in a way.” he admitted. “but, were their tools sanitized? that alone can cause infection.”

“of course they did their best to clean them,” you defended. “but these humans had limited resources so mistakes are bound to happen—unintentionally, doctor.” you quickly added.

law blinked and slowly nodded his head. the way you countered his points were seamless. he was finding himself dangerously close to liking this conversation.

“yes, but advancements in what tools are made of make surgery easier and safer. without technique, any tool is useless.” he scooted closer to the table. “may i?” he asked, motioning to the books.

“proceed.” you chuckled.

“if you really want to look into this seriously, i’ll find you a book that doesn’t revolve around superstitions…”

and just like that, hours slipped away and law found himself not only grateful, but enjoying a conversation without someone other than himself.

[aestas---estas]

Working hands

MDNI 18+ | Series Masterlist | Previous | Next | Read on AO3 Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | ~4,6k words | fem!reader, assistant!reader, reader described as shorter than Simon, suspend your disbelief for how long it is inbetween missions, basically all fluff | divider by @cafekitsune

It's early Saturday morning and you get woken up by a strong fist incessantly knocking on your front door. It's pointed and regular, military in its consistency. While Price knows where you live — it's on your paperwork after all — and you have no doubt in your mind that both Johnny and Kyle could've easily found out, you know in your bones that it's Simon.

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you quickly find a pair of sweatpants to throw on; it would probably be in bad form to open the door in only a washed-out shirt and underwear. You stop in front of the bathroom mirror to quickly fix your bed hair as much as possible, splashing some cold water on your face in an attempt to look more awake than you feel. Simon’s still knocking intermittently and you can practically hear the irritation he’s starting to feel through the door — the man does not like to be ignored or left to wait.

“Good morning,” you say as you finally fling your door open, annoyance at having been so rudely interrupted clear in your voice despite the amicable words. He’s standing with his fist raised, ready to knock once more, a tool kit gripped in his other hand and you eye it curiously. “What-?”

You don’t really know how to end the sentence — what is he doing here? What’s with the tool kit? What makes him think he can wake you at 7:30 in the morning on your day off? — but you’re cut off before you manage to get another word past your lips, as he’s already made his way into your flat and toward the bathroom.

In confusion you close the front door and follow behind, your bare feet padding against the cool wooden floor, making you wish — not for the first time — that your landlord allowed heated floors. Simon’s courteous enough to have already toed off his boots by your shoe rack, so at least you don’t have to clean up dirt and grime, but the barging his way inside your space only worked to further annoy and confuse you.

“Simon, it’s not even 8,” you say as you lean against the doorframe of your bathroom, watching as he gets down on his knees in front of the broken washing machine you still hadn’t had a chance to look at. The annoyance seeps out of you as you remember the conversation you had that Monday; about how you wanted to return his jacket washed, but hadn’t been able to do your laundry. It’s a thoughtful gesture, one you can’t help but smile in appreciation at.

“I’m an early riser,” is all Simon says in return, not even glancing your way. He’s already busy with turning the machine on and off, looking at all the hoses and pipes, to try and discern what the issue might be.

For a moment, you just stay there, watching him quietly. He’s not wearing the skull mask or printed balaclava that had become synonymous with his alias, but rather a more simple black surgical mask. You don’t really know what you expected Simon to look like; you knew he was blonde, something Johnny had once shared with you to tease his Lieutenant, yet the sight of the surprisingly well groomed tresses on his head make something inside of you stir. His hair is just long enough for you to be able to card your fingers through it, and his left eyebrow is cleaved in half from a faded scar. You can’t see his jaw or chin properly, and the only time you remember him ever lifting his mask in your presence was to drink his beer in the pub all those weeks ago before he walked you home. You’d been drunk back then, hadn’t had the sense of mind to memorise his visage, and you mentally kick yourself about it now.

“It’s the water,” you supply, wanting to be helpful and hopefully distract yourself from thoughts of how it would feel to pet his hair and trace his scars, and Simon turns his head to glance at you. “It doesn’t drain properly, overflows about half the time too.”

Simon nods before turning back to the washing machine, pulling it away from the wall with little effort. “Sounds like the hose, or maybe the drainpipe. Could also be the lint trap. If there is one.” He’s mumbling more to himself than to you at this point, craning his neck to look at the backside of the machine all while nodding or shaking his head, making mental notes of possible solutions.

“Might be a while, love. Why don’t you go make us some tea?” It’s the out you didn’t know you wanted, but the second the suggestion leaves Simon’s lips you pounce on it, leaving the bathroom for the kitchen with no words or fuss.

You make two cups of some berry blend one of your friends got you as a birthday present — the mugs are white, bland, a little too boring for your liking, but they get the job done. And besides, you have more important things to spend your money on than crockery.

When you return to the bathroom, two steaming mugs in hand, you can’t help but stare at Simon for a moment before making yourself known. While the hoodie he’s wearing doesn’t provide you with much, his jeans are tight fitting around those muscular thighs of his, especially with the way he keeps crouching and kneeling. God, he’s got an ass too. The thought makes heat race to your face and you pull your eyes away from the enticing view of his rear.

“One cup for you,” you say, placing the tea down on top of the washing machine for whenever he feels like taking a sip. He sends you an appreciative look before focusing back on the task at hand; you’re both relieved and disappointed that he didn’t remove the face mask to have a taste of the drink right then and there. But then again, if he did, you’re more than sure that his uncovered visage would haunt your dreams in the best way possible.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it then,” you say when he makes no move to speak again. 

It’s odd having Simon in your space like this. Sure, he spent the night on the couch that night after the pub. But you had been drunk then, had thought of nothing but the soft embrace of your bed that awaited you. Now you’re both sober, both clear minded and both all too aware of whatever it is that’s been growing between the two of you. 

Usually on your days off you would sleep in, would take a long shower so hot the fog on the mirror wouldn’t disappear for over an hour afterwards, would even make a proper breakfast if you had the energy for it. But Simon was currently occupying your bathroom, so a shower was out of the question, and while a short nap as he worked didn’t sound so bad it felt almost rude to go back to sleep as long as he was still there. He was doing something sweet for you; fixing something you hadn’t had the time or money to fix yet yourself.

So instead of your usual routine, you plant yourself under a blanket on the sofa with a new book you’d been meaning to read but haven’t had the chance to just yet and turn on some music. You can hear Simon in the bathroom, the clattering of tools and humming of the washing machine as he starts and stops new cycles every so often. The whole thing feels almost domestic, and it tugs on your heart in a way you don’t want to look too deep into.

---

“Can I ask you something?” you question and Simon grunts in that affirmative way he always does when you knock on his office door in the mornings. He had felt you coming back into the bathroom five minutes ago, leaning against the door frame, watching him with inquisitive eyes; but he had kept his attention on the washing machine. “Why do you wear that mask?”

If you hadn’t been studying him so intensely, you might’ve not noticed the way his shoulders and back tensed for half a second; it’s gone before you even have a chance to ponder about his reaction.

“Anonymity,” he answers at length, but you can tell there is more to it. Most of the other operators don't wear facial coverings — and if they do, it’s only while in active combat.

You understood wanting to keep his identity anonymous in the field, not letting the enemies know his name or face, it was dangerous work what he did after all, yet you couldn’t help but press. “Everyone on base already knows your name. And besides, there’s no one around but me right now.” Who are you hiding from? is what goes unasked, but the question still makes the air around you both feel heavy.

“They know what I want them to know,” he supplies, as if that would be a satisfactory answer. And it is, you suppose, at least somewhat. It doesn’t answer why exactly he keeps himself closed off, why no one — not even the men he fights beside — knows what he looks like. But it does tell you that he’s deeply paranoid and near obsessive with personal security. It tells you that he’s willing to show more of himself to the few he deems worthy; god, you want to be worthy.

“When’s the last time you took it off?” It’s a gamble of a question, but you know if Simon wants to leave the conversation he’ll let you know it in no uncertain terms.

“Last night.” You roll your eyes at that, because of course he doesn’t sleep with a stupid balaclava or face mask — maybe in the field, but you don’t know what goes on during their missions if it’s not in the reports.

“I meant with someone else in the room, Simon,” you tell him and cross your arms over your chest.

It’s quiet for a few moments, seconds stretching into minutes as Simon gives no indication of giving you a reply. Just as you let out a sigh, ready to give up on the conversation and walk back to your living room, he speaks. “It’s been… a while. Years.”

You don’t feel sorry for him, you have a feeling Simon wouldn't take kindly to pity, but empathy courses through your veins at the pain evident in his voice. He puts down the tool in his hand, turning his head just enough to make you appear in his vision, but makes no move to stand up. You realise he’s studying you, your reactions, your body language, every micro expression you don’t have the education to hide like he does.

“That sounds lonely,” you eventually say, taking the few steps from the doorway to where he’s kneeling beside the washing machine, lowering yourself until you’re eye-to-eye. “If you ever…” you hesitate for a second, but the fact that Simon has yet to end the conversation makes you power through. “I’ll be here, if you ever want to show someone.”

It’s not a demand or a manipulative tactic to get him to feel secure before ripping the rug out from under him; you genuinely want to be there for him, face or no face, want him to not go through his life with that crushing loneliness that’s been making it hard to breathe freely for years. Your eyes shine with open honesty and it’s almost too much for Simon to bear. He nearly tells you everything then; about his past, his family, Roba, everything. But you seem so innocent, untouched by the cruel reality of the world. And although he’s destroyed more uncorrupted and pure lives than yours, he wants you to keep living in the bubble of life is worth living for as long as possible.

“It’s not pretty,” is what he says instead. It — his life, him. A sad smile passes your lips as you nod your understanding.

“I’ll be here,” you repeat, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before standing and leaving him alone in the bathroom to work.

Simon stays there for another half hour before packing everything up and making his way towards the door. Truth be told he had figured out the issue after only ten minutes, had fixed the problem — a clog in the drain pipe — as slow as possible just to be in your presence for a few minutes longer. He knew he had disrupted your morning, had woken you up too early on your day off just to selfishly indulge his own need for your warmth, and now you were offering him unadulterated support without demanding anything in return. He didn’t deserve your kindness, had used your predicament to satisfy his own wants. It made him feel low, dirty, unworthy. 

“It works now,” Simon tells you as he walks past your spot on the couch, heading towards the front door without a second glance back.

Quickly you scramble from the couch and follow behind him, the blanket once more wrapped around your form. “Thank you,” you say, your eyes tracking his movements as he pulls on his jacket. “I’ll get your jacket back as soon as it’s washed.”

Simon shakes his head. “Told you, love, keep it.” There it is again; love. Before that weekend he had never called you that, and in the moment you had assumed the nickname had slipped from his lips the same way you had called him baby — simply to sell the illusion of a relationship so the creepy guy at the club would leave you alone. But now you couldn’t be so sure.

“At least let me buy you lunch or something as a thank you,” you insist, catching him by the wrist as he reaches for the door handle, grasping at straws for anything that would allow him to stay in your life. You had always done a good job at keeping your private and professional lives separate; but that was before Simon.

Simon’s eyes flicker down to where your fingers envelop his wrist, but he does not shift out of your grasp nor tell you to let go; so you don’t. “It doesn’t have to mean anything other than thanks,” you say, hoping the reassurance will help him decide.

Something indescribable passes through his eyes before he gives a firm nod. “I’m not much of a restaurant guy, but… a lunch sounds nice.”

“Great!” You beam, something akin to butterflies fluttering around inside your chest. “We can order in if that makes you more comfortable.”

Simon nods and it feels like he wants to say something, but no words leave his lips before he’s out the door.

---

As the hours of the day tick by, you find yourself glancing over to the hook where Simon’s jacket hangs. He said you could keep it, that it looks better on you. It feels wrong both to keep it — like you're owed something when you're not — and to give it back — like you don't appreciate his gesture of friendship.

It's a tightrope, one you can't navigate properly, one that wobbles and every step threatens to topple you over. It's anxiety inducing yet the most excited you've been in a while.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you send him a text.

Hope I didn’t scare you away with the invite to lunch.

You chew nervously on your bottom lip, already dreading his reply, but before your inevitable anxiety can spin out of control, your phone buzzes in your hand and the screen lights up with a new message.

You have plans tomorrow?

You don’t, actually, and tell him as much. It’s a few, short back and forths after that — Simon is concise even in text — but you have an official game plan that involves takeaway from the Indian place down the street and Simon showing up at your place around noon.

---

Simon had left the ordering up to you, having no idea what was good at the chosen restaurant — but he trusted you to guide him. He shows up just as you hang up on the Indian place, a can of WD-40 in hand, and you raise an eyebrow in question.

“Heard the god awful squeaking of the hinges on your bathroom door yesterday,” he explains with a shrug before making his way over to it without invitation.

You follow behind with a soft smile on your face, watching with more fascination than really necessary as he sprays the hinges and moves the door back and forth a few times until satisfied.

“Thank you. You didn't have to,” you say, giving his bicep a quick squeeze in gratitude. You'd lived with those squeaking hinges for months now, it had annoyed you in the beginning but it quickly fell into the background and it just became a noise you now ignored. 

“The food should be here in fifteen minutes,” you add.

“Alright.” Simon gives you a short nod, not quite meeting your eyes. If you hadn't known him, you would've thought he was uncomfortable or seeking an escape — but you did know him, knew that he would just up and leave if that was his prerogative. But he was here. He brought lubricant for your door without prompting. He entrusted you to pick the restaurant and the food. 

“Do you wanna sit?” you ask, gesturing to the couch; a fluffy blanket was draped over one of the armrests, embarrassing really how many times you folded the damn thing while cleaning up to make everything look presentable.

You were nervous, buzzing with both excitement and anxiety. You had hung out with Simon one-on-one before, a few times where he had walked you home from the pub, that time you called him after being ditched by your friends at the club, every single morning when you brought him a cup of tea in the office, and just yesterday when he had showed up unannounced to play handyman. But it had never been anything preplanned, you had never had time to rethink your decor and spend hours meticulously vacuuming and dusting and rearranging everything. And the realisation from the day before, about how kind and strong and capable and downright attractive he was, did not help.

You knew you wanted this to be a date, but there had been no clear confirmation from either side whether it was or wasn’t. Maybe he just saw this as lunch between co-workers, or as some sort of indebted meal because he fixed a problem that was entirely yours to sort.

It comes as no surprise when Simon spreads his legs wide on the couch when taking a seat, one arm on the armrest, the other slung lazily across the back. You knew if you sat down next to him, his knee would press against yours and his hand would be dangerously close to falling around your shoulders.

It was an easy choice, really, to plop yourself down beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, one topic blended into the next, Simon relaxed fully in his seat and you found yourself smiling enough to make your cheeks ache. It wasn’t until after you had thanked the delivery driver for the food and was starting to unload the various dishes you had ordered onto the coffee table, that his previous visible trepidation came back.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” you explain nervously, eyes downcast as you organise and open the boxes of food. They smelled delicious, and steam was rising from all of them; it nearly made your mouth water. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything.”

It’s good to have left-overs, your brain chimed in in defence of your own actions.

“‘S not that,” Simon replies, reaching for one of the dishes. You study his movements from the corner of your eye and as he stops his hand mid-air to his face you realise what the problem is — the mask.

“I can… turn around or something,” you supply, hoping to be helpful, to ease his nerves. But Simon just shakes his head and pulls the band away from behind his ear, letting the mask dangle for just a moment before unhooking the other side too.

You try not to stare — it’s obviously a big step, something significant that he chose to do with you — but it’s hard to tear your eyes away when the image in your head of what he looked like was actively being shattered and reformed.

There’s a raised, jagged line across his right cheek, a bump that makes his nose just a little crooked from where it hadn’t set properly after being broken, another smaller scar down the left side of his jaw. But the one mark that rocks you the most is the Glasgow smile. It’s only one side, but it’s clear as day that it wasn’t just someone getting a little too close with a knife in the field; it’s meticulous, sharp, someone with a steady hand had held his face still enough to carve it slowly. Not a battlescar, but rather one from torture.

You shake your head slightly, forcing yourself out of the spiral you’re otherwise likely to go down, and grab one of the boxes at random. “Let’s eat.” You hope your voice doesn’t shake, but when Simon raises an eyebrow you know you’ve failed.

“It’s okay to say it. It’s ugly. Told you it was.” He doesn’t sound mad about it, more exhaustedly used to it. Like it was an inevitability you would find him unattractive once he showed you everything.

As if instinctual, your hand shoots out to cup his knee. You can’t give him reassuring words, because the scars are awful, and you know Simon would see right through you if you try to lie and say you barely noticed. But they don’t take away from his attractiveness; rather, they make you sad at everything he’s gone through and angry at every person that’s inflicted pain upon him and forced him into the hard shell he now hides behind.

For a split second, Simon freezes, the unexpected touch sending adrenaline coursing through his veins as his body gets ready for a fight that never comes. He’s unaccustomed to friendly and harmless touching, at least the kind that lingers. The occasional congratulatory pat on his shoulder from his captain and teammates, but never one from someone like you.

“Let’s eat,” you repeat, giving his knee a quick squeeze before resituating yourself on the couch and digging into your food.

---

It becomes a form of routine after that; Simon showing up at your place the weekends he has off. More often than not he’s got a toolbox in hand, fixing small things around your flat that he grumbles that your lazy landlord should’ve already fixed ages ago. You always say it’s not his job, that you’re used to the leaky tap and squeaking hinges and uneven shelves, and then thank him with the offer of lunch, trying a new restaurant every week; he seems particularly fond of the various noodle dishes they provide so you order those more than anything else.

Eventually he starts placing the black KN95 on your entryway table when the front door closes behind him. You never mention it, and neither does Simon. And even when there’s nothing left to fix (apart from completely ripping the floorboards up and installing heating, but you vehemently refuse to let him do that in fear of being kicked out), he still shows up for lunch and just a conversation. Most of the time he lets you ramble on about whatever you please, chiming in with hums of acknowledgements and one-worded replies — if he was being honest with himself he could listen to you talk for hours and be satiated.

You kiss his cheek goodbye every time before he shrouds his features again with the mask; your lips are soft and reverent, right over the scar that gives him a perpetually lopsided smile. It takes Simon four goodbyes to let his hands rest, warm and heavy with intent, on your waist, and it makes butterflies flutter to life in your stomach.

It’s a simple gesture, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it’s also a big step. While you haven’t shied away from physical intimacy — a hand squeeze here, a bumping of shoulders there, all the cheek kisses — it was the first time Simon allowed himself to reciprocate.

It takes him two more goodbyes to finally angle his face enough to let your kiss catch the corner of his lips.

“Sorry,” you mumble and try to take a step back, but Simon’s grip tightens and keeps you firmly in place.

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Oh.

Oh.

Carefully you raise your arms to wrap around his neck, going slow enough that even just a twitch from Simon would stop you in your tracks. But he stays still as a statue, eyes flickering between yours before settling at your lips.

“Is this okay?” you ask, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching his scalp.

“More than,” Simon replies, his breath washing over your face as he dips down, letting his lips hover over yours, his every exhale intermingling with yours.

You press yourself closer and in turn his hands slide from your sides and around your back, holding you in place firmly against him, his touch leaving a scorching trail on your skin despite the fabric that separates you.

You don’t know who moves first, who closes the small distance between you, but suddenly his lips are on yours and the butterflies in your stomach metamorphosize into fireworks and you can feel your heart race against your ribcage. His lips are warm, softer than you'd imagined, and you can still taste the cigarette he smoked before entering the building. Your fingers tug gently at his curls, angling his face to your liking so you can easier slot your lips over his.

A broken moan leaves your throat as Simon’s tongue finds yours and it’s all he can do to not push you up against the wall and fuck you right then and there. God knows he’s fantasised about it enough, fisted his cock to mental images of how you’d sound as he punched the air out of you with every thrust, how you’d look with his cum dripping down your thighs, how your eyes would roll to the back of your skull as he wrings out another orgasm from your already spent body. But he knows that’s not the way to go about this, not if he wants to keep you.

He licks into your mouth, exploring and teasing all at once, indulging in the sounds you let slip from your lips. His hands twitch, eager to wander over your body, but settles on curling his fingers in your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you trying to kill me?” Simon rasps when you eventually break to catch your breaths and your teeth nip at his lower lip.

“No,” you hum and trail a hand down his face and neck, smoothing your thumb over every risen scar in a show of unadulterated affection that makes him preen under your touch. “Quite like you alive. Like you a lot actually.”

Simon surges forward again, captures your lips in another bruising kiss because, fuck, if that doesn’t make his heart soar.

He doesn’t know what the future holds, how this will affect both his and your work, neither of you do. But he knows he’d rather be right here, with you in his arms, kissing you senseless, than anywhere else in the world.

--- CoD Masterlist

[jedipoodoo]

Ruthlessness (Sergeant Hunter x fem!Reader)

"After everything you've done...how will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

Notes: Feral Hunter, above-average bloodshed and violence. Reader is implied to be a Jedi but it's never explicitly stated, inspired by that line from Epic: The Vengeance Saga.

Hunter tore through the base. He could smell your fear and terror, and he knew you were nearby. He didn't even need Tech's directions.

This is what he was made for.

He hadn't slept since he'd heard you'd been captured, and he wouldn't rest until you were safe in his arms.

He quickly dispatched the two TK Troopers at the door with blaster and knife. Before the first body could hit the floor, he snatched the key card from their belt. He could hear your heartbeat just beyond the door, sluggish and slow, along with one other heartbeat and the deadly hum of an interrogation droid.

The moment the door opened, Hunter found his target, launching his vibroblade at the droid.

The blaster shot took him by surprise. Hunter managed to dodge so that it grazed him just below the ribs, but it burned. Every nerve in his body screamed out in pain,but he had to keep moving forward Hunter dropped to his knee, holding his wound, and looked up at the blaster pointed at his face.

"Doctor Hemlock warned me you'd come after her," the Imperial officer said, his voice low and lethal. He sounded just like Hemlock and Rampart, a controlled calm with a storm seething beneath the surface.

Hunter had no use for control. Not when he saw you hanging limp in the officer's arm like the damsel in distress in some cheap holo novel.

"Let her go, and I might let you live." Hunter growled, pushing himself to his feet.

The blaster followed his every move, and the officer chuckled as if he hadn't just been threatened.

"That's not an option here. She's a traitor, as are you."

Hunter took a step forward, only to stumble against a table littered with surgical tools. The officer kept the blaster trained on him, smart man.

But not smart enough.

"You're a stubborn one, aren't you?" The officer chuckled, "You clones just don't know when to quit."

"Hun'red percent success rate," Hunter bragged through gritted teeth, forcing his legs to support him.

"And vain too," the officer scoffed.

Hunter turned his body just enough that the officer couldn't see him grab the scalpel, still trying to make his way to you. Your heartbeat was growing slower with each passing second. He had to get you out of here.

"And what do you call your Emperor, then? An empire that'll last a thousand years? The Republic's been around longer than that."

"The Republic is gone!" The officer snapped, "That is the difference between the Galactic Empire and your precious Republic!" He jabbed the barrel of his blaster against Hunter's chestplate, sealing his doom.

Hunter moved too fast for anyone but Crosshair to have really noticed. The scalpel met its target in the vein of the officer's wrist, and he dropped the blaster with a scream. Hunter grabbed the wound and twisted it, forcing the officer to drop your body. Hunter only took his eyes off the officer to make sure you were safe, but he recovered quickly. He reached for the blaster with his non-dominant hand, and Hunter kicked it out of reach. The officer went for Hunter's wound, digging his hand into the wound. The air was ripped from Hunter's lungs as he tried to focus his vision. He couldn't let you die here, not as a trophy for some fanatic Imperial sycophant.

He still gripped the scalpel in his hand, and as the officer grinned sadistically Hunter drew it across his face. Blood splattered everywhere, and the officer reeled back with his face in his hands. Hunter didn't let him recover. He stomped his booted foot on the officer's shin, shattering his bones. The officer writhed on the floor as he tried to crawl away, dark blood from his face and wrist staining his gray uniform and slicking the tile floor.

Hunter held his side and adjusted his hold on the scalpel for a firmer grip, standing above the insignificant worm of a sentient that had dared to lay a hand on his Cyare.

"You clones-" the officer spat, coughing on his own blood.

"Scraping by, betraying the glory of the Empire just to live hand to mouth..."

"How how do you live with yourself?

"How do you sleep at night?"

Hunter grabbed onto the officers hair, yanking his head back so that the last thing he ever saw was the clone who would kill him.

"Next to my wife."

He drove the scalpel into the monster's chest, over, and over, and over again, until he heard the silence of its heart.

Hunter heaved a deep breath, tasting the coppery tang of blood at the back of his throat. It took a moment, but Hunter knew it wasn't his own.

A shuddering breath echoed through the room, and Hunter turned to you, crouching in between you and the officer so that you wouldn't have to see him as you woke up.

"Cyare? Cyare, can you hear me?" He called your name, cradling your head in his lap.

You mumbled something unintelligible, eyelids twitching.

"Hun'er?"

"Easy, easy Cyare, you're safe. It's over," He said. He gently pressed his fingers to the spot below your jaw where he could feel your heartbeat. It was delicate, like the flutter of a bird's wing, but it was there all the same. He needed to get you to the ship.

Hunter lifted you into his arms and though you raised your arms to hang onto his neck, they weighed as much as a starcruiser.

"I've got you," He whispered, "You're gonna be alright."

Your knee hit the blaster wound in his side, and he winced.

"You're hurt," You gasped, still drugged but now worried about him.

He shook his head and straightened his shoulders, "Don't worry about me. You're safe now. That's all that matters."

@photogirl894 @meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender @emperor-palpaminty @clonethirstingisreal (I just thought y'all would enjoy ✌️)

[sunbl3achedfly]

Do the dead comfort you? Pt.2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer does all he can to save you from the hands of a psychotic unsub, and he makes a promise to remain by your side in the aftermath of the ordeal.

Content: Dead bodies once again, (tw) torture, stalking, breakdowns, hospital visits, blood, (tw) sexual assault, trauma, Spencer to the rescue & being a tad protective of the pretty girl he only met once before, the reader realizes she can't use her morbid sense of humor to cope with everything, hurt/comfort I guess?

Author's note: Here’s part two!!! I was listening to Ethel's new album while writing this and holy moly I was in the zone and wrote most of it in one go. (Pulldrone is exactly what was playing when I wrote the scenes while she was kidnapped and I feel like the eery ambiance encapsulates the utter sense of dread and despair that hits the reader once she realizes how serious the situation is). Hope you all enjoy <33

Let me know if you guys want a part 3!!

5,331 words (it’s a long one aha)

part one

masterlist

When you finally managed to open your eyes again, a sharp, dull pain radiated through your skull. The harsh fluorescent lights above didn't help as they glared down at you. At least you weren't on the floor. Nope, just restrained to an ice-cold metal slab. Fancy that. This must be how all my patients feel before I embalm them.

You attempted to look around the room but the bright lights from above prevented you from doing so. As you regained consciousness, you began to realize that both your wrists and ankles were restrained to the embalming table. And you were only in your underwear. The panic had begun to set in and you tugged at the restraints, but to no avail, they wouldn’t budge.

"Struggling won't help", a voice echoed through the room, "I made sure of that."

Your head snapped to the right as you took in the man who now began leaning over you. At first, he didn't even look real. He stood over you, bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the morgue’s overhead lights, his figure stretched and distorted by your disoriented mind. A nightmare stitched together from shadows and flesh, from surgical steel and the sickly scent of embalming fluid. His eyes—God, his eyes—weren’t just looking at you; they were studying you, cataloging every inch of your body as if you were a specimen he was about to dissect.

On any normal day, his face may have been forgettable, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second thought. But at this moment, in this place, it was the only thing in the world. The sharp angles of his cheekbones cast deep, skeletal hollows in his skin, making him look half-dead, like something that had crawled out of the very slabs you worked on everyday. His mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer—just wrong, like he wasn’t used to making expressions that mimicked human emotion.

Then came his voice, it slithered into your ears, so sickly sweet that it made you nauseous, "You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you? But they all stop fighting eventually.”

You tried your best to focus on anything else at that moment, the details of everything else but him. The thin, latex gloves that he wore, they were stretched way too tight across his knuckles. The way his coat —a pristine white lab coat, because of course it was—fluttered slightly as he moved, the motion strangely elegant. You could smell him too. He smelled clean, too clean, like antiseptic and soap, but underneath that all was something rotten, something decayed. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.

As he began mulling over which embalming tool to pick up first, his fingers hovering over them as if one of them was beckoning to be chosen, you realized just how exposed you were. For the first time since waking up, at the mercy of this thing, wearing a man's skin—you started to believe you might actually die here.

The sound of splintering wood as the mortuary door crashed open was deafening. You flinched violently, your body instinctively pulling against the straps that pinned you to the cold metal table. Relief and terror fought for dominance in your chest.

They’re here. Oh God, they’re finally here.

But then, just when you had begun to relax for the first time in hours, you felt the scalpal press harder against your neck. The tip of it broke through skin, not deep, but enough to make your breath catch.

"Don’t move,” the unsub growled under his breath. His voice was sharp, his calm façade cracking under the pressure. You could feel the tremor in his hands now, the desperation radiating off him.

Your pulse thundered, the pain from the cut on your arm flaring as you tried to keep still. The various cuts and injuries that littered your body were nothing compared to the fear the tiny blade at your neck instilled in you. You bit down on your lip to stop it from trembling. Don’t panic. Don’t make this worse. They’re here. They’ll get me out of this. Please let them get me out of this.

"FBI! Drop the weapon!" A commanding voice filled the room.

"Come any closer and I slit her throat!" The man bellowed. Up until this point he had not raised his voice once, and the sheer volume caused you to flinch again, the scalpal breaking through more skin. You could feel a warm liquid trail over your collarbone.

Your eyes darted to the doorway, tears stinging as you caught sight of the dark vests, the guns, the agents—saviors. But the unsub only pressed closer, his body partially shielding you. The scalpel was an unrelenting threat, cold and unmoving against your skin. The sharp sting at your neck anchored you to the moment. A hot tear slipped down your temple. I’m going to die here.

From Spencer's position in the doorway, his sharp eyes took everything in. The unsub’s trembling hands, the scalpel pressed against your throat, your bloodied arm, and—God—your state of undress. His chest clenched painfully, guilt and anger battling inside him. He only hoped the unsub hadn’t gotten too far before they arrived.

She’s absolutely terrified. One wrong move and she’s dead. Come on Spencer, think!

His jaw tightened as he saw the unsub’s gaze flick toward him, possessive and unhinged. Spencer’s hands twitched, his instinct to charge forward barely restrained. Stay calm. She needs you to stay calm.

"You don’t want to do this,” he finally said, his voice softer than usual. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands visible. Carefully, he raised them, shifting the gun away from the man. He was acutely aware of the five other guns trained on him, ready to fire if he made a wrong move, which was why he was willing to take the risk. “This doesn’t have to end badly. Let her go, and we can talk this through."

There was a slight pause in the unsub's movements.

“You’re in control right now,” Spencer continued, his tone gentle, almost soothing. “But if you hurt her, that control is gone. You don’t want that. You don’t want to make this worse.”

Spencer’s gaze flicked to yours, meeting your tear-filled eyes. You looked at him like he was your only lifeline. The desperation in your expression hit him like a punch to the gut. The only thought running through his mind like a mantra was that he needed to get her out of there, fast.

The tension in the room was suffocating, each second seemed to stretch on for eternity. Then, the unsub shifted slightly, but it was enough for Derek Morgan to lunge forward like a strike of lightning.

The scalpel hit the floor with a sharp clang as Hotch slammed into the unsub, yanking him away from the table. Chaos exploded around you—shouts, the scuffle of bodies struggling—but it barely registered. Your chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, your throat raw as you fought for breath, tears blurring your vision.

Spencer was at your side in an instant, undoing the restraints that held you down, while simultaneously giving you a once-over to take in any serious injuries he may need to keep in mind for the first responders.

You were in such a state that you barely registered whose hands were touching you and your heart rate immediately spiked. Your eyes were shut and you began thrashing on the table whilst whimpering loudly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s over,” Spencer’s voice broke through the haze.

You blinked, realizing he was kneeling beside you, his hands moving to undo the straps that held you down. You flinched as his fingers brushed your wrist, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “He can't hurt you anymore. I promise.”

As the final strap came loose, you tried to sit up, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your legs felt weak, your hands trembling so badly you couldn’t push yourself upright.

“Here—let me help you.” Spencer’s hands were gentle as he guided you into a sitting position, his movements careful, almost hesitant.

The moment you were upright, you instinctively reached for him, clutching his shirt as your body shook with silent sobs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. His vest felt stiff under your cheek, but his touch was warm, steadying. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe now.”

You couldn’t stop crying, the reality of everything crashing over you. His hand rested lightly on the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles on your back.

Spencer’s heart twisted at how small you felt in his arms, how vulnerable. Gone was the sarcastic, spunky girl who had left such a strong impression on him after just one meeting. He held you tighter, his own breath uneven as he fought to keep his emotions in check. She’s okay. She’s okay now. But she’s so scared. I need her to know she’s safe.

When you finally managed to speak, your voice was barely a whisper. “He almost…” Yet another sob prevented you from continuing.

Spencer shook his head, cutting you off gently. “But he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? You’re here. You’re safe.”

You buried your face in his chest again, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And in that moment, he didn’t care about protocol or what anyone else thought. All that mattered was comforting the girl with the shattered spirit in his arms.

The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital was the first to hit you as the nurse wheeled you through the emergency room doors. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, their clinical glow exposing every bruise, every scrape, and every jagged line of your vulnerability. They reminded you of the lights in the embalming room. The embalming room. That man. The tools piercing your skin.

You were vaguely aware of Spencer at your side, walking just close enough that his hand occasionally brushed against the armrest of the wheelchair. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that he didn’t have to stay, but every time you opened your mouth to speak, the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't want to do this alone.

The nurse guided you into a small room, where a doctor was already waiting. Spencer stopped just outside the doorway, shifting awkwardly, his hands buried in his pockets.

“We’ll take it from here,” the nurse said gently, giving him a polite but firm smile.

Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting between you and the nurse. You could see the conflict on his face, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for an argument.

You managed to find your voice, though it came out weaker than you intended. “Spencer…”

His gaze snapped to yours expectantly, his features softening.

“Can you… stay?” The words were barely a whisper, but the way his expression shifted—relief, determination, and something almost protective flashing across his face—made you feel a little steadier.

“Of course,” he said without hesitation, stepping into the room. He pulled up a chair near the bed, sitting close but giving you enough space not to feel overwhelmed.

The doctor began her examination, her voice calm and clinical as she asked you questions. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Are you in pain anywhere besides your arm?”

You answered automatically, your voice hollow as your mind wandered. The doctor’s questions blurred together with the sting of antiseptic on your wounds, and the rustle of the hospital gown you’d been asked to change into felt deafening in the quiet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the unsub’s hands on you, the way his gaze had stripped you of every ounce of dignity. The memory was suffocating, curling around your chest like a vice.

Spencer’s voice cut through the fog, grounding you. “Hey,” he uttered softly, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”

You blinked, realizing the doctor had finished and was watching you with the same concerned expression.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.

Spencer didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he waited until the doctor left the room before leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied you.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up again, "You're not fine."

You looked down at your hands, the hospital gown feeling too thin, too revealing, despite being more covered than you were earlier. You didn't know how to respond.

Spencer hesitated, noticing the sudden vulnerability in your expression. “I uh... I need to ask you a few questions… about what happened. It’s just procedure—to make sure this guy gets what he deserves. We don't have to do it now, but I'm here when you're ready.”

The sincerity in his tone made something in you crack. You weren’t ready to talk, not yet, but the way he said it—as if there was no question that he would be there for as long as you needed—made you feel a little less alone.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly, though the thought of him leaving made your stomach twist.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “Not until you’re ready for me to, at least.”

You glanced up at him, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but all you saw was quiet determination. It made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected.

You took a shaky breath, your hands clenching into fists as you tried to steady yourself. “Ask the questions,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm with determination.

Spencer’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to right now. We can wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to rush through it.”

But you shook your head, a flicker of something fierce in your eyes. “No… I want to do this now. If I don’t… I won’t ever.” The words tasted bitter in your mouth, but you pressed on, your heart pounding as the weight of what you were about to do sank in. “I need to nail this bastard. For me, for them… for everyone he’s hurt.”

Spencer remained quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, weighing your words. Finally, he nodded, his expression unreadable but softening with understanding. “Alright..." he hesitated, "This is going to sound silly, but can you close your eyes for me and tell me... what he did to you?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the request. For a moment, you didn’t know how to react. But the quiet, sincere way he asked you made something inside you settle, just a little. The room felt quieter now, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Closing your eyes, you tried to push the memories to the surface, to bring them into focus. Your heart beat faster, but you steeled yourself, knowing this was the only way to make him pay.

"When I woke up from being knocked out… I was tied down to the embalming table in my underwear, the straps were tight," you began slowly, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly. The sensation of the straps still lingered, and it made your skin crawl. "I couldn’t move."

Spencer stayed silent, his gaze never leaving you, his presence grounding you even as the weight of the memories pressed in. "Take your time," he said quietly, voice gentle but firm.

You took a shaky breath, nodding, trying to find the strength to continue. "He... he just stood there for a while, watching me. I could feel his eyes on me, like... he was enjoying it." You paused, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. "I couldn’t even scream. I just had to wait for him to decide what he wanted to do next."

Spencer’s jaw tightened, his mind was piecing it together, filling in the gaps even if you didn’t want him to. But he said nothing, giving you the space to speak. You appreciated that more than you could express.

There was no avoiding it. You had to talk about it. You had to say the words, had to help the FBI put together the full picture. You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“He—he used different embalming tools.”

Spencer looked up sharply, he noticed the pained expression on your face and realised just how hard this was going to be for you.

Your heart started to pound. As soon as you said it, the memories came rushing back.

The metal table was freezing against your bare skin, your body trembling with something beyond the cold. You pulled at your restraints, but they were too tight, digging into your wrists and ankles.

“I’ve always been fascinated by preservation,” the unsub mused, his fingers trailing over a set of gleaming instruments. “The way death can be… delayed. How a body can be made beautiful again.”

You didn’t say anything. Your throat was raw from screaming earlier, and you were running out of ways to keep yourself from panicking.

The unsub turned, holding up an embalming trocar—long, sharp, and glinting under the fluorescent light. “Did you know this is used to remove fluids and gases from a body before preservation?” He traced the tip lightly down your abdomen, not pressing hard enough to break skin. “It’s important to prepare the body properly.”

Your breathing hitched, and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to react.

His expression darkened. “You’re supposed to be still,” he murmured, and without warning, he pressed down.

Pain flared white-hot in your side as the tip of the tool pricked your skin, just enough to draw blood. You gasped, your body instinctively jerking against the restraints.

The unsub sighed, shaking his head. “Messy,” he muttered, wiping the small bead of blood with his gloved hand. “I’ll have to try again.”

You inhaled sharply, coming back to yourself. The hospital bed, the warmth of the blanket, the steady presence of Spencer beside you—it was enough to pull you out of the memory, but your skin still burned where the tool had touched you.

Spencer’s knuckles were white where he gripped his knees. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were burning with something deep and unsettled.

“He used a trocar,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “He—he didn’t go deep, but he wanted to see me flinch.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to will away the image forming in his mind. “And the other injuries?” he asked, his voice strained.

You swallowed. “A needle. He… he injected something into my leg. Some kind of preservative, I think. It burned.”

Another flash—

The burn spread up your thigh, a fire beneath your skin. You cried out, muscles seizing, your entire body locking up.

The unsub tilted his head, watching with interest. “Formaldehyde is quite versatile,” he said conversationally. “It won’t kill you. Not yet. But I wonder how much your body can handle before it starts shutting down?”

You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste blood.

You took a slow, shaky breath, forcing yourself back into the present. The hospital bed. The warmth of the blanket. The steady presence of Spencer beside you.

Spencer’s hands had curled into fists. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching.

“What else?” he asked, voice strained.

You hesitated again. “He used the embalming pump.”

Spencer’s breath audibly caught in his throat.

The hum of the embalming machine filled the room, a steady, mechanical noise that only added to the horror of the moment.

You were still strapped down, too weak to fight, but your breath was coming in panicked gasps as the unsub adjusted the tube connected to the pump.

“This is a test,” he murmured, almost absently. “A small amount, just to see how the body reacts.”

You barely processed his words before you felt the cool sensation of liquid seeping into your veins.

Your vision blurred for a moment. It wasn’t enough to kill you—not yet. But it left you dizzy, sluggish, your limbs feeling even heavier than before.

“Fascinating,” the unsub muttered to himself. “I wonder how much you can take.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The last thing he did... he told me exactly what he was going to do to me. Everything he'd done to his other victims—every single cut, every injection, every—"

Your breath hitched, your throat closing around the words.

"But I—I was going to be his favorite," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Because I had spunk. Because I fought back."

A shudder ran through you, your entire body recoiling from the memory. You couldn't say the rest. You didn't need to say the rest. The way his voice had darkened, the way he'd described it, savoring every detail like a promise—

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could block it out.

Spencer's hand closed over yours, grounding you. His grip was firm, steady, as if willing you to feel something other than that sickening sense of violation crawling under your skin.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but unwavering.

You shook your head, your breathing uneven. “But you need to know—”

“I do know,” Spencer cut in, his voice sharp but gentle. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with something unreadable—but underneath it, there was a quiet, unshakable promise. “You’ve given us enough.” He exhaled, slow and controlled, but his next words carried the full weight of his conviction.

“He’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. I swear to you—I’ll make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life.”

A sob caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t ready to cry—not yet. But for the first time since it happened, you felt the faintest flicker of relief.

Spencer wasn’t just listening. He was hearing you. And he was going to make sure you got justice.

You weren’t alone in this.

And for now, that was enough.

As the night wore on, the hours began to blur together. You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep that night, and as guilty as it made you feel, Spencer didn't seem to mind. Throughout the night, nurses came and went, checking your vitals, re-bandaging your arm, and murmuring reassurances that didn’t quite reach you. And through it all, Spencer stayed.

The hospital room had settled into an almost eerie calm. Machines beeped softly in the background, and the dim lighting made everything feel slower as if the world outside had paused. You were sitting up in the hospital bed, the scratchy blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Spencer sat in the chair beside you, his legs crossed, thumbing through a book he’d found somewhere in the waiting area at a speed you didn't think was humanly possible.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. The FBI agent that had first pushed the unsub away from you in the embalming room stepped inside. At first, his presence intimidated you, his muscular frame and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure, but there was an undeniable warmth in his deep brown eyes. His smooth, dark skin contrasted with the sharp angles of his jawline, and a hint of stubble shadowed his face. He was holding two cups of hospital jello, one red, the other green.

“Thought you two could use a little pick-me-up,” He said, holding the cups aloft with a charming smile. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s better than nothing.”

You managed to return a weak smile back, taking the red jello as he handed it to you. Spencer set his book aside and accepted the green one without hesitation.

“Thanks, Morgan,” Spencer said.

Morgan gave you both a once-over, his gaze softening when it landed on you. “If you need anything, just holler. But I’ll give you two some space.” He gave Spencer a pointed look as if to silently remind him to keep an eye on you, then slipped out of the room.

You began poking at the jello with the plastic spoon. The silence stretched between you and Spencer, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken things.

"You know", you said finally, your voice a little raspy, “jello might be the most depressing food ever invented.”

Spencer glanced up from his cup, his lips quirking in a faint smile. There she is. “It does have a strange texture. Did you know it’s made from gelatin, which comes from—”

“Animal bones,” you finished for him, giving him a sidelong look. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

He blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Right. I guess... you would know that.”

You smirked faintly, the smallest flicker of your usual sarcasm peeking through. “What can I say? I'm full of fun facts. Comes with the job, really.”

Spencer tilted his head, studying you once again. "Your job... I can't imagine it's easy," he said carefully, his voice gentle.

You hesitated, your spoon hovering just above the jello. For a brief moment, you considered brushing him off with a joke or changing the subject like you usually would. But when you met his gaze, there was something about the way he was looking at you. God, stop looking at me like that. His unwavering, earnest stare made you feel safe enough to answer honestly.

“It isn't most of the time” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But it’s worth it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he kept his gaze on you, his expression soft yet intent—like he was trying to unravel everything you weren’t saying. His eyes, sharp with quiet intelligence, searched yours as if they could decode the weight you carried, the thoughts you never voiced, the depth you kept hidden from the world.

There was something about you that fascinated him—not just your words, but the silences between them, the guarded way you spoke about things that mattered. He could tell there was so much more beneath the surface, layers of emotion and experience you refused to share. And yet, just for a moment, it felt like he could see them anyway.

He finally spoke, "Why?"

You sighed, setting the jello cup on the bedside table. “Because… when I embalm and prepare a body, when I make someone look like the person they were before…” You paused, swallowing hard. “I get to give their family one last chance to say a proper goodbye. One last moment where they can see the person they loved, not the person the world left behind.”

Spencer kept his gaze steady as he took in your words. He could tell how much those words meant to you. Surprisingly, his expression held a little bit of understanding and even awe.

"That's... incredible." he said finally, "I had never thought of it that way."

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well… not everyone thinks it's incredible. Most people just think it’s creepy."

Spencer’s lips quirked into the smallest smile. "I mean, technically, you do spend a lot of time with dead bodies."

You gave him a pointed look. "And you spend a lot of time profiling serial killers, but you don’t see me calling you creepy."

Spencer tilted his head, considering that for a moment. "Fair point."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the heaviness of the conversation lifting just a little.

Before the conversation could continue you blurted out, "Thank you."

Spencer glanced at you, “For what?”

“For staying,” you said simply.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I couldn’t leave,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Not when you…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “I just couldn’t.”

You nodded, understanding more than words could convey. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone.

As you leaned back against the pillows, your eyes growing heavy, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were going to be okay.

After your third day in the hospital, you were finally discharged. The hospital doors slid open with a quiet hiss, letting in a crisp evening breeze. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with fresh air—something that didn’t reek of antiseptic or overcooked hospital food. The gauze beneath your shirt still tugged slightly with each breath, but the soreness was manageable.

Freedom. Finally.

Beside you, Spencer hovered with the same quiet intensity he’d had when you arrived at the hospital, arms crossed like he wasn’t entirely convinced letting you leave was a good idea.

“You know, I appreciate the escort,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your good shoulder, “but unless you’re planning on kidnapping me back to my hospital bed, I think I can manage from here.”

Spencer blinked. “I just— I wanted to make sure you got out okay.”

You smirked. “What, did you think I’d trip over my own feet and fall into traffic?”

“I— statistically, you’re not at full mobility, and with your pain medication, your reflexes might be slightly impaired—”

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not going to faceplant into the street.” Then, after a beat: “At least, not immediately.”

The corners of his lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile but failing miserably.

The silence stretched for a moment. For all his intelligence, Spencer still looked like he wanted to say something but hadn’t quite figured out the words. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was debating reaching out.

You tilted your head at him. “You okay there, Doc?”

He cleared his throat, straightening. “I just— I hope you know that you, um… don’t have to go through this alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I was alone in the embalming room with a serial killer, so technically—”

Spencer shot you a look.

You snorted. “Okay, okay, I get it. Not the time."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… I know how trauma can make people isolate themselves, and I just wanted you to know that you have people who care.”

You nodded slowly. There was a warmth in your chest at the sincerity in his voice—softer, earnest.

“Well, in that case,” you said, shifting your weight to your good side, “since you care so much, would you... wanna get dinner sometime?”

Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, you know. The thing where people sit at a table, order food, and consume it?” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, unless you don’t want to—”

“No! I mean— I do! I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking both overwhelmed and adorable in a way that made you bite back a grin.

You decided to put him out of his misery. “Spencer," your voice softened, "I’m trying to ask you on a date.”

He froze.

“Oh.”

You smirked. “Yeah. Oh.”

Spencer’s brain seemed to reboot in real time. “I—yes! Yes, I would like that.”

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Good. You can pick the place.”

He nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Right. I, um, I’ll text you.”

You chuckled, stepping back toward the curb where your ride was waiting. “See you soon, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer stood there as you got into the car, still blinking, like he was trying to process what had just happened.

As you pulled away, you saw him through the rearview mirror—standing there, hand running through his hair, a small, boyish smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time in a long time, despite everything that had happened, something felt right.

[ginnsbaker]

prophylaxis

Summary: The most powerful Avenger is afraid of one thing: dental appointments, or the one where you're a dentist and Wanda is a baby about seeing one

Word count: 2.6k | Warnings: None. This is just good ol' fluff

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Author's note: This has been sitting in my drafts for some time, and while this is a one shot, I might follow up with more :)

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Next part: the follow up

--

Steve and Natasha are barely done with their own routine dental check-ups when the notification of an emergency mission comes through. The Avengers' annual dental visit is typically swift and uncomplicated, but the arrival of their urgent mission turns the day into something far more chaotic.

“Where is Wanda?” Steve asks, scrolling through the mission details on his phone.

Natasha shrugs, sipping on her post-check-up glass of scotch. “I haven't seen her since breakfast.”

Vision appears in the room at that moment, his face expressing the closest thing to exasperation an android can manage. “She’s only now on the chair,” he says, glancing at Steve, whose eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Now? But everyone else is done!”

“I had to convince her to come,” Vision sighs. “I found her hiding in the back library. It took me the better part of an hour to persuade her to face the dentist.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at the revelation, trying to suppress her chuckle. The most powerful Avenger, avoiding a simple dental prophylaxis. “We don't have all day, Steve. The mission is critical.”

Steve nods, sliding his phone into his pocket. “We'll leave a note for her. She should meet us ASAP once she's done.”

Natasha gets up from her chair, glancing one last time at Vision, as she quips, “Good luck to whoever is the dentist working on her this year.”

As you approach the dental chair, you take note of the apprehensive figure occupying it. You've already seen a dozen Avengers today, each with their unique quirks and idiosyncrasies. 

But Wanda Maximoff, her gaze filled with clear distaste for the situation, seems to take the cake. She's curled in on herself, making her seem smaller than she actually is. The sight of her alone would have been enough to unnerve you, but the intermittent quivers of your dental tools due to an unseen force send a cold shiver down your spine. You can't help but wonder if you've drawn the short straw when they assigned you the patients for today.

You try your best to project an air of calm. Inside, though, your nerves are jangling like alarm bells.

“Wanda, right?” you confirm, trying to keep your voice steady.

She nods, her eyes wide as saucers.

“I promise this won't hurt,” you reassure her, even as your tools continue to rattle on the tray. “It's just a routine check-up.”

A skeptical glance is thrown your way but it's at least some reaction. Her gaze is piercing, and it takes every bit of your collected facade to keep from faltering. An absurd thought flashes across your mind: if you were to meet an untimely demise in your line of duty today, who on earth would inherit the numerous houseplants that have taken over your apartment over the years?

With a nervous smile that Wanda can barely make out behind the surgical mask you wear, you gently ask, "Shall we begin?" Your tone is soothing, carefully modulated to put her at ease.

The poor Avenger takes a deep, long breath before giving you the go-ahead to proceed with the checkup. 

For her part, Wanda begins to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of your gloved fingers in her mouth. Her gaze settles on your oversized prescription glasses that lend an air of professional yet friendly vibe. And there’s something about the clean, familiar scent wafting off your white coat that comforts her more than she's willing to admit.

She can’t help it when her mind starts drawing comparisons with last year's dentist—a gruff, no-nonsense man whose hands always seemed cold and who lacked any bedside manner whatsoever. You, on the other hand, are like a breath of fresh air with your calming demeanor and reassuring approach. Wanda blushes at the thought that, admittedly, you’re kind of a nice upgrade.

You begin the examination with meticulous care, your movements deliberately gentle to assure Wanda of your sensitivity to her obvious anxiety. As you carefully check her teeth and gums, you're acutely aware of how much trust she's placing in you, despite her apparent discomfort.

Glancing into her eyes as you angle your dental mirror to inspect her molars, you're suddenly struck by the piercing green of her irises. Even under the harsh clinic lights, they appear incredibly vibrant. Framed by the dark eyeliner she wears, her eyes are sharp and arresting. They follow your every move, staring up at you with an intensity that causes your skin to perspire under your uniform.

You've dealt with many patients over the years, some with eyes equally as fascinating, but something about Wanda's gaze is different. It's as if she's not just watching you but reading you, understanding you in a way that makes you feel exposed.

Your focus starts to waver under her scrutiny, and that's when you notice something strange. The dental tools on the tray beside you begin to quiver more violently, vibrating with an unseen force. Your heart skips a beat, realization dawning on you that Wanda's powers are reacting to her nervousness.

But it's not just her nervousness; Wanda's face takes on a look of surprise, her eyes widening momentarily. You can almost feel her presence in your mind, a subtle brushing against your consciousness. 

She's read your thoughts, albeit accidentally. 

She knows how captivated you are by her eyes. 

Catching yourself, you quickly shift your thoughts to a safer topic–your plants. The vibrant green of Wanda's eyes morphs into the various shades of green gracing the leaves of your beloved indoor jungle. Your Monstera, your string of pearls, your peace lily–

And yet, none of them are a match for the pair of green orbs that your mind keeps going back to. A flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck as you meet her gaze, the unspoken understanding between you making the air in the room feel charged. Wanda's cheeks take on a hint of color, and her control over her powers seems to falter, your tools–and a chair behind Wanda–now levitating a couple of inches from where they originally sat.

“I'm sorry,” she stammers, wide-eyed and apologetic. You barely make out what she’s saying with her mouth still wide open. “I didn't mean to…”

“It's okay,” you reply in a comforting murmur, pausing your examination. The room fills with the soft humming of the overhead light and the subtle scent of sterilized equipment. “I'm here with you. We'll go at your pace. Just breathe.”

Giving Wanda a few moments to calm herself, you pull back, placing the dental tools on the tray beside you. You keep your eyes on Wanda, a soothing smile hidden behind your mask. Her chest rises and falls steadily as she follows your instructions, taking deep, calming breaths.

However, you can't help but glance at the floating items around you, fearing that one of them might go straight for your heart that’s thudding loudly in your ears now. They seem to be suspended in mid-air, almost like a magic trick. Wanda catches your gaze, following it to the levitating objects. The already present color on her cheeks darken, and with a flicker of her gaze, your tools reintroduce themselves to gravity once again.

You don't comment on it. Instead, you simply offer another encouraging smile, masked by your surgical mask, but visible in your eyes. You extend your gloved hand towards the once again earthbound dental tools, feeling the cool metal against your palm. 

“Are we good to proceed?” you ask in a soft voice, patiently waiting for her agreement before picking up where you left off. 

Wanda doesn’t move, seemingly hesitant to say yes or no.

“Will it help if I talk to you?” 

She gives you a small nod in response this time.

“Alright,” you say with a hint of a chuckle. “Don't judge me if I start to sound silly, okay?”

And so you start to speak as you get back to work, recounting random memories and thoughts as you continue with the examination. You talk about funny incidents at work, share stories about your beloved plants, and even admit to that time you almost killed your favorite fern with coffee instead of water. At first, you feel slightly ridiculous, babbling about the care of succulents to an Avenger, one of the most powerful beings on the planet. But as the minutes tick by, you see a change in her. The initial terror in her eyes fades into curiosity, her body relaxes, and she even smiles at some of your sillier anecdotes.

You get lost in talking to Wanda, feeling both delighted and somewhat ridiculous that you're enjoying this one-sided conversation. You're fully aware that she can't respond with an excavator in her mouth, but it doesn't feel like she's just tolerating your chatter. Her eyes are attentive, following your movements, reacting every now and then. Her body language is open, receptive, almost as if she's hanging onto every word.

As for Wanda, something unexpected is happening. She finds herself liking your voice more and more, feeling an unfamiliar pull towards it. It's warm, comforting, and filled with a sincerity that she didn't expect. She even finds herself slightly attracted to it. But it's a foreign feeling, one she doesn't quite understand, especially in this setting.

As you conclude your examination, you realize that one of Wanda's molars needs a filling. It isn't urgent, a situation that could be deferred to another appointment if she wishes.

“Looks like you have a small cavity,” you inform her, meeting her eyes. “It's not of immediate concern, but we should schedule another appointment if you'd like to have it filled.”

To your surprise, Wanda agrees, not just with a polite nod, but with a subtle hint of anticipation lighting up her eyes. She agrees to another date, another round of you poking around her mouth with your scary dental tools. And yet, there's a hint of eagerness that surprises even her.

As you finish your work, you lean back, pulling off your surgical mask and gloves. For the first time, Wanda gets a full view of your face. It's like a silent reveal, one she hadn't been expecting, and it takes her aback.

She finds herself caught in a subtle admiration, a feeling that quickly intensifies as she takes in your features. There's something about your face that she finds herself drawn to, the warmth of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the soft contours of your cheekbones.

And when you smile, her breath hitches slightly. It's a simple gesture, but one that lights up your face, reaching your eyes and causing them to crinkle at the corners. It's genuine, open, and a little bit contagious.

“Thanks for your patience, Doctor...?” Wanda voices, feeling a tad awkward. It occurs to her belatedly that she didn't have the foresight to ask for your name before you started the check-up. 

“Just call me Y/N. It's my pleasure,” you reply, your smile deepening, unaware of the effect it's having on the Avenger before you. “I'll see you for that follow-up appointment, then?”

As soon as Wanda is escorted outside by Vision, you release a breath you didn't know you've been holding. Leaning against the counter, you try to calm the racing of your heart, which beats as if you've just run a marathon.

Wanda Maximoff is... quite a surprise. Her beauty, her vulnerability, the way she seemed to really listen to your inane chatter–it's all unexpected, disarming even. You find your mind drifting back to the way her eyes softened, the almost shy smile that graced her lips.

You quickly shake your head, trying to dispel these thoughts. This is unprofessional, you think. She's your patient. A patient who just happens to be one of the world's most powerful individuals. It's nothing more than that.

You glance at the clock on the wall, realizing you've spent more time with Wanda than any other patient today. You should be moving on to your paperwork, getting ready to call it a day.

But as you sit down at your desk, the fluttering feeling in your stomach doesn't subside, and Wanda Maximoff's haunting green eyes remain etched in your mind.

Walking down the corridors of the Avengers compound, Wanda finds herself in step with Vision. As they pass various agents and fellow Avengers, Vision turns to look at her.

“Wanda,” he starts, his voice taking on that concerned lilt that she's grown accustomed to. “I'm detecting unusual signs in your vitals. Your heart rate is elevated, your body temperature has slightly increased, and your pupils are dilated.”

Wanda blinks, feeling an unexpected heat crawl up her neck. Her palms are also feeling slightly clammy, and she has this weird fluttering sensation in her stomach. She tries to brush it off. It must have been the anxiety, right?

“Are you not feeling well?” Vision probes further, halting in his tracks to face her. His eyes scan her face, looking for any visible signs of discomfort. Wanda's mind races, trying to figure out how to downplay her seemingly irrational reaction to a denti–a dental appointment.

“No, Vision. I'm... I'm just fine.” Her voice sounds surprisingly steady to her own ears. She forces a smile onto her face, aiming to reassure her friend.

Vision doesn't seem fully convinced but doesn't push further. They resume their walk, but Wanda can't shake off the feeling that something has changed, something she doesn't quite understand yet. And for some reason, her thoughts keep drifting back to a certain dentist with a soothing voice, warm eyes, and a love for plants.

How did it happen that a dental appointment, of all things, has turned into the highlight of her day?

The kitchen is dimly lit when Vision enters, the only illumination coming from the withdrawn overhead lights. Natasha is there, assembling her favorite late-night snack, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She looks up as Vision approaches, her eyes curious.

“I trust the mission went well?” Vision inquires, noting the subtle signs of fatigue in Natasha's posture.

She offers a half-smile, nodding. “It did. It's all sorted now. How's Wanda after the check-up?”

Vision's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates for a moment before responding, “She is... well. The new dentist was quite effective in putting her at ease.”

Natasha smirks, spreading the jelly onto the bread with precision. “Told you a change would do the trick. I still can't believe you managed to convince Tony to switch dentists.”

“And find the perfect replacement,” Natasha adds after some thought, licking the jelly from the knife.

“It was a logical choice. The previous dentist was less than satisfactory, particularly with Wanda.” He pauses, considering something. “But this one... she seemed to have a rather profound effect on her.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, looking up from her sandwich. “Profound effect?”

“Yes,” Vision says thoughtfully. “I detected unusual signs in her vitals afterward. Increased heart rate, heightened body temperature, a certain... excitement in her demeanor. It was quite unexpected.”

Natasha's eyes widen slightly, and a mischievous smile begins to form on her lips. “You don't say?”

Vision gazes at the digital interface on his palm, a soft hum of approval in his voice. “Indeed, she has also filed for a leave of absence a week from now. She has another dental appointment, but this time at the doctor’s private clinic.”

Natasha pauses, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. 

Vision meets her gaze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Do you think it could mean something?"

Natasha shrugs, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Who knows, Vis?” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwich. “Maybe it's just a good dentist.” And then with a wink and a knowing smile, she adds, “Or maybe…”

She leaves the thought hanging, deliberately ambiguous, and exits the room, her satisfied crunching echoing down the hallway.

Vision is left standing in the kitchen, confusion etched across his synthetic features. He considers the day's events, attempting to analyze how Wanda suddenly managed to conquer her most irrational fear.

Humans really are something.

[sabrinajenre96]

Little Scrubs and Sweet Spooks

Pairing: Conrad Hawkins x Resident!Reader

Word Count: ~3,000

Setting: Chastain Park Memorial, Hawkins home, Halloween night

---

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of baby powder and pumpkin spice as Y/N Hawkins adjusted her newborn son's soft, pumpkin-themed beanie. Five days past his one-month mark, baby Eli Hawkins blinked up at her with sleepy honey brown eyes that looked just like Conrad’s.

"Alright, Eli," she whispered, adjusting his snug orange onesie with “Cutest Pumpkin in the Patch” stitched in bold letters across the front. "You're all set to melt hearts at Chastain today."

From the hallway came the thunder of twin footsteps.

"Mom! I can’t find my stethoscope!" Ava Hawkins, the more spirited of the five-year-old twins, came barreling in, her little white coat flapping. She had a toy surgical mask pulled under her chin and a miniature ID badge that read "Dr. A. Hawkins — Future Cardiothoracic Surgeon."

"You left it in the kitchen next to the apple slices, remember?" Y/N said with a knowing smile. "Try not to misplace your tools, Doctor."

Behind her came Lily, more serene, already perfectly dressed in her pink scrubs and a toy badge that read "Nurse Lily Hawkins — Care Extraordinaire." Her blonde hair, tied in two neat buns, peeked out from under a toy nurse's cap.

"I helped Eli get dressed," Lily declared proudly. "He smiled at me."

"You both did an amazing job this morning," Y/N said, wrapping an arm around each twin. “Your dad’s going to lose it when he sees you.”

Before she could wrangle the girls into their jackets, the doorbell rang. Y/N opened it to reveal Marshall Winthrop, impeccably dressed in a dark blazer, holding a bag of treats in one hand and a cup holder with two lattes in the other.

"Thought I'd drop in early," he said. "Figured you'd need caffeine, and these two might like a ride in Grandpa’s car."

"Grandpa!" the twins squealed, launching into his arms. Marshall laughed, managing the lattes with surprising agility.

"Hey, hey, careful—these are hot!" He turned to Y/N with a wink. "You’re going to Chastain anyway. Why don’t I take you all? I’ve got a board meeting in twenty minutes, and I could use the company."

Y/N hesitated, but only for a moment. "You’re sure you don’t mind?"

"Of course not. Besides," he added, looking down at baby Eli now tucked into his car seat, "I haven’t seen this little guy in costume yet. My grandson is a pumpkin. That’s historic."

---

At Chastain

The main atrium of Chastain Park Memorial buzzed as always with a mix of urgency and calm. But when Marshall stepped through the glass doors, flanked by two tiny medical professionals and a pumpkin-shaped newborn in his daughter-in-law’s arms, heads turned.

"Excuse me," murmured Nurse Hundley, nearly walking into a cart. "Are those mini… uniforms?"

"They’re adorable!" exclaimed the front desk attendant.

The twins beamed, basking in the attention. Ava struck a pose with her toy scalpel. "I'm like Dr. Mina. She’s the best."

Lily chimed in, standing straighter. "I’m like nurse Nic. Nurses keep everything together."

Y/N laughed gently. "That’s completely unprompted."

A round of coos came from the nurses’ station as AJ Austin, walking past with Devon, paused mid-stride.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," AJ said, blinking. "Is that… is one of them dressed like Mina?"

"And the other like Nic," Devon added, leaning in to take a picture with his phone. "You win Halloween, Y/N."

Y/N smiled, bouncing Eli gently. "It was their idea. Ava’s obsessed with Mina, and Lily basically worships Nic."

As if on cue, Mina Okafor herself turned the corner and came to a screeching halt.

"What the… Is that—?"

"Ava Hawkins, Future You," Y/N teased.

Mina’s eyes scanned the child’s attire, from the expression to the confident stance. Then she slowly looked at Y/N.

"I’m flattered. Slightly disturbed, but flattered."

Then, without warning, Mina picked up Ava and twirled her.

"You're coming with me. I’m keeping you."

"No fair!" Lily cried.

"Sorry, kid," AJ said, laughing. "Surgeons steal things. It's part of the job."

"Should’ve gone into orthopedics," Devon said sagely.

---

Down the Hall

Conrad hadn’t seen a break in nearly five hours. Between consults, a trauma code, and the usual mountain of paperwork, he hadn't even looked at his phone. So when he finally emerged from a patient’s room, rubbing at his temples, he had no idea what was waiting just outside the nurse’s station.

"Dr. Hawkins," Voss called, smiling as she stepped aside. "Didn’t know we hired new staff."

Conrad turned—and froze.

There, standing side by side with absolute pride, were Ava and Lily. Ava immediately launched herself into his arms.

"Daddy!"

Conrad crouched down, overcome with a laugh that broke the tension of the day. "What—? You guys look incredible!"

"I'm Dr. Mina!" Ava said, puffing out her chest.

"And I'm Nurse Nic," Lily added sweetly, slipping her small hand into his.

"You nailed it," Conrad said, kissing them both before his eyes finally lifted—and softened—at the sight of Y/N holding their son.

"Eli," he murmured, already reaching. Y/N carefully handed over the bundled newborn.

"Did you dress him like a pumpkin?" he asked, chuckling.

"Pumpkin with hospital-grade snuggles," Y/N replied.

He stared down at the baby in his arms, overwhelmed by warmth. Eli gurgled in response, content as ever in his father's embrace.

"God, I love you," Conrad whispered into the baby's hat, before stealing a kiss from Y/N.

A small crowd had gathered at this point. Voss leaned in toward Y/N.

"I want one."

Y/N arched a brow. "A baby?"

"No. A mini-Mina. She can run the ER."

Mina appeared, arms crossed, Ava now clinging to her leg.

"You joke, but I’ve already started training her."

---

Later That Evening – The Suburbs

The Hawkins household stood proudly at the end of a winding cul-de-sac now aglow with Halloween decorations. By dusk, the neighborhood had transformed into a wonderland of skeletons, cobwebs, candy bowls, and excited children.

Conrad’s shift had ended just in time. After a quick change into jeans and a sweatshirt, he joined Y/N outside as she adjusted Eli in his stroller, now sporting a soft fleece pumpkin cover.

"You sure you don’t want to dress up?" he asked, nudging her.

"I’m good playing security and snack patrol," she replied. "This night’s all about the kids."

Ava and Lily were already darting from house to house, waving at neighbors and proudly declaring their names and costumes.

"I’m Dr. Ava Hawkins!"

"I’m Nurse Lily Hawkins!"

"And that’s our baby brother, Pumpkin Eli!" Ava yelled.

Y/N grinned, looping her arm through Conrad’s. "You know, they’ve been talking about this for a month. And it was your dad’s idea to bring them to Chastain."

"Yeah?" Conrad said, surprised. "Marshall actually did something thoughtful today?"

"Don’t push your luck," she teased. "He was good. Even brought coffee."

Conrad nodded, looking out over the happy chaos of children weaving through the sidewalk. “I needed this. After today? This is everything.”

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder. “Happy Halloween, Dr. Hawkins.”

He turned, smiled softly, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Happy Halloween, Dr. Hawkins.”

They stayed there like that, under the flickering glow of porch lights and jack-o-lanterns, watching as their daughters giggled and held hands, their newborn son quietly snoozing in his stroller—each one a reminder that even in the chaos of life and medicine, moments like these made everything whole.

---

End.

[inky-duchess]

WIP Hospital: Surgery

*Meredith Grey monologue voice* Writers really batter their characters and sometimes the damage is so great that they have to be seen to by the professionals and if you've really messed them up, they may need surgery.

Before Surgery

Before any surgery, the patient must be prepared for the procedure. They will be prepped by nurses and doctors but there are things every patient must go through before the surgery especially if they undergo general anesthesia.

No drink/food for a set period of time before the surgery.

Removal of necessary hair

Possible enema but not always necessary

Thoroughly bathed and cleansed, the patient should not use any makeup, nail varnish or perfume

Tests maybe run prior to surgery such as blood tests

All piercings, protesthetics

The preparation of advance directives such as DNRs and wills etc

What is in an OR?

OR or operating room is where operations take place - or would be if your character was having surgery at hospital (they aren't, are they?)

Surgical Lights: Surgeons have to see why they are doing so high powered lighting is used to illuminate the patient and cavity.

Operating Tables: Operating tables are where the patient lies while the surgeons are trying to save their life. also known as surgical tables, are essential to any operating room.

Surgical Displays: These are screens that magnify the cavity for the OR, sort of like tvs that allow everyone a view of what's going on.

Blanket Warmers: Or warming cabinets. These are where the IV fluids, linens, and blankets are kept.

Scrub Sinks: This is where the surgeons abd nurses and technicians get washed up, sterilised and gowned.

Vital Signs Monitor: This is a machine that tracks the patient's heart rate, oxygen saturation, breathing rate and blood pressure.

Ventilator: A ventilator helps the patient breathe while on anesthesia.

Anesthesia Machine: This machine delivers anesthesia to the patient and monitors the level.

Diathermy or Electrocautery Machine: This is used to cut tissue and control bleeding

The Surgical Team

These are the people present in the OR besides the patient. It is up to them to keep the patient alive of course but to also ensure that safety and cleanliness are upheld.

Surgeon: Is the lead of the team and responsible for the planning and cutting of the patient. Most surgeons are specialists.

Surgical Assistant: They work alongside the surgeon, helping the surgeon.

Scrub Nurse: Scrub nurses are in charge of making sure everything stays sterile. They sterilise the surgical instruments and are in charge of minimalising contamination.

Anesthesiologist: The doctor who specialises in anesthesia who monitors the use of anaesthesia.

Circulating Nurse: Circulating nurses manage supplies, equipment and may run messages if needed outside the OR.

Observer: Sometimes med students or other surgeons will observe the surgery. They aren't essential.

General Surgerical Tools

These are just a few tools used with surgeries.

Scalpel – These are the blades used to cut into tissue.

#10: Scalpel with a large curved edge used for making large incisions.

#11: Scalpel with a triangular blade used to make short, shallow cuts.

#12: A small, crescent-shaped blade used to cut sutures

#15: used for short, precise cuts because of its small blade. Ideal for making short, precise incisions because of its small, curved cutting edge. Mostly used in cardiac surgery.

#17: Flat, chisel-like blade for narrow cuts

#18: Narrow, chisel blade for deep cuts and scraping

#20: Large curved blade, used when making a puncture or cut.

#21: Large curved blade, for slicing tissue and puncturing. commonly used for cutting tissue and other procedures that require a puncture or cut.

#22: Like the #10, it is flat and curved cutting edge, used on thick skin.

#23: Large blade that is slightly narrower but pointier

#24: Wide, flat blade with an angle used to make cuts at the corner, used to trim and strip

Forceps - are a gripping tool. Not to be confused with hemostats.

Allis Forceps: Have little teeth running along in them and are for firm tissue such as fascia.

Babcock Forceps: Smooth ended jawed forceps that are used for delicate tissue.

Dunhill Forceps: Small curved, serrated forceps used to hold vessels before ligation.

Lane Tissue Forceps: Forceps with interlocking teeth used to hold tough tissue

Littlewood Forceps: These forceps have blunt teeth, used for tough tissue as well as gaining entry through the umbilicus in laparoscopic surgery.

Sawtell Forceps: curved serrated forceps with a serrated end used to grip vessels

Spencer Wells: Can be curved or straight. They are used to clamp medium/large vessels before ligation

Debakey Forceps: Smooth forceps used for many things but used to grip tissue

Lanes Forceps: Toothed forceps used to grasp most tissues but not the bowel.

Gillies Forceps: Narrow forceps with teeth used on skin.

Scissors - are used to cut sutures and snip things during surgery.

Mayo Scissors: Heavy scissors with blunt ends, either curved or straight, used to cut thick tissue and sutures.

McIndoe Scissors: Curved scissors used to cut/dissect tissue

Hemostats - these are used to clamp vessels to prevent blood flow into the cavity the the surgeons are working in.

Adson Forceps: Can be straight or curved, with either semi-serrated tips or toothed tips, used to clamp vessels and tissues.

Artery Undermining Forceps: Toothed forceps, with ratchetted ringlets. Can be straight or angled, used to hold thick tissues during cardiothoracic surgeries

Bainbridge Forceps: Forceps with long jaws with serrated tips, used to clamp the bowel.

Crile Forceps: A clamp with horizontal, serrated jaws, that can be curved or straight. These are used in laparoscopical practices, for clamping tissue and vessels for cauterization and ligation.

Dandy Forceps: These forces are curved, with half-serrated jaws. Used to control the flow of blood.

Ferguson Angiotribe Forceps: Interlocking blades, curved or straight, used to clamp vessels to control blood flow.

Gemini Mixter Forceps: Curved and serrated, used to hold damaged and delicate vessels during cardiothoracic surgery.

Hartman Forceps: These are narrow, serrated, straight or curved but used primarily for left-handed surgeons. They are used to clamp small vessels.

Jacobson Forceps: Forceps with serrated curved jaws. Used for closing a wound or in tonsillectomies.

Kelly Forceps: Forceps with half-serrated jaws, either curved and straight. They are used for clamp

Kocher Hemostatic Forceps: Has serrated jaws and toothed tips. Used for grasping large blood vessels to control blood flow and holding dense tissue.

Lovelace Forceps: Forceps with fully serrated jaws, used for clamping vessels in gynecologic procedures.

Mikulicz Forceps: Half-serrated jaws with curved tips. Used for clamping the peritoneal sac during abdominal wall closure and the peritoneal tissues in the pelvic cavity.

Mixter Forceps: Right-angled jaws with longitudinal serrations, straight, curved patterns which can be half and fully-serrated. These are used for hard to reach places, used to hold tissue, blood vessels and stitches.

Mosquito Forceps: Short, serrated jaws used for incisions and thin tissues, usually before cauterization.

Rochester Carmalt Forceps: Long, wide serrated jaws. Used for grasping blood vessels.

Rochester Ochsner Forceps: These are used to objects and blood vessels during orthopedic procedures.

Retractors - used to pull back the flesh so the surgeon has better view

Langenbeck Retractor: Hook-shaped retractor, used to separate the edges of wounds. They can come in different sizes depending how deep you want the wound tract.

Norfolk and Norwich Retractor: This retractor is self-retaining, used to keep deep wounds open.

Travers Retractor: Also a self-retaining retractor, but used for much shallower wounds

Other Tools

Cauterization device: used to cauterizate blood vessels to prevent bleeding.

Needle Holder: Used for holding needles while suturing, it looks like a pair of scissors

Rampley Sponge Holding: used to store sponges and gauze

Towel clips: Used to keep towels and drapes in the place

Suction: This machine is sort of like a hose that sucks up blood and other fluids.

Surgical Stapler: Sort of what it says on the tin, a device that staples wounds together quickly.

Laparotomy Sponge/Lap Pad: Is an absorbent pad used to keep the cavity free of excess blood and fluid or to prevent too much bleeding.

Drapes: This is the cloth used to cover the patient and the operating table.

What to Wear to Surgery?

In surgery, contamination is always a fear so the surgeons and their team must dress accordingly in the OR. Most times the patient is draped or wearing a hospital gown.

Protective Cap: This is a cap that covers the hair. Worn by everyone.

Surgical Masks: Worn over the mouth and nose. Usually worn just by the surgical team.

Protective Eyewear: To shield the eyes from blood and debris. Usually worn just by the surgical team.

Gloves: Worn by the surgical team.

Gowns: These are long gowns worn over the scrubs. Worn by the surgical team.

Protective Shoe Covers: Worn over shoes of the surgical team.

Phrases used in the OR

Operations are high stress situations. Often communication is shortened to quick phrases.

Scalpel: Give me a scalpel

Clamp: Give me a clamp

Suction: Suck up this blood/liquid for me.

Retract: Hold back the tissue

Bovie: Give me the cautery equipment

Sponge count: Count the sponges and towels in case we left one in this here guy

Close: Stitch up the patient

Irrigation: Wash out the wound with water

Intubate: Insert a tube in the patient's throat to help them breath

Extubate: Remove the breathing tube

Airplane: Tilt the bed to expose a lateral portion or change the patient’s hemodynamics.

Donut: A support for the patient’s head after anesthesia.

Jump Room: Another OR prepped and waiting for the surgeon for another surgery

Types of Surgery

Surgeons don't just perform every kind of surgery. Most surgeons stick to a practicular specialty.

General Surgery: General surgery focuses on the abdominal organs.

Cardiothoracic Surgery: Deals with everything in the chest, eg. heart and lungs.

Orthopedic Surgery: Focuses on bones and muscle

Neurosurgery: This surgery focuses on the brain, spinal cord, and nervous system.

Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery: This surgery focuses on cosmetic surgery but also reconstructive procedures.

Pediatric Surgery: For babies, children and teenagers.

Vascular Surgery: Focuses on arteries and veins, everything on the vascular system.

Urology: Focuses on the urinary tract and male reproductive organs.

Otolaryngology (ENT): The ears, nose, and throat.

Gynecologic Surgery: Surgery focusing on the female reproductive system.

Examples of surgery

There are thousands of kinds of surgery but I've just listed a few well known ones here.

Appendectomy: Removal of the appendix

Cholecystectomy: Removal of the gallbladder

Coronary Artery Bypass Grafting (CABG): Bypass surgery performed to improve blood flow to the heart

Cesarean Section (C-section): The removal of a baby from the womb surgically.

Hysterectomy: Removal of the uterus.

Mastectomy: Removal of one or both breasts

Tonsillectomy: Removal of the tonsils.

Biopsy: Removal of tissue for examination.

Carotid Endarterectomy: Removal of blockages from in the arteries.

Debridement: Surgical removal of skin that is damaged or infected.

Dilation and Curettage (D&C): Removal of tissue from within the uterus.

Skin Graft: The planting of healthy skin over areas of damaged skin

Spinal Fusion: Joining two or more vertebrae

Rhinoplasty: Surgery to reconstruct or reshape the nose

Prostatectomy: Removal of the prostate gland

Hernia Repair: The repair of a hernia

Total Knee Replacement: The replacement of the knee with artificial components

Hip Replacement: Replacement of hip with artificial components.

Heart Valve Replacement and Repair: The repair of valves in the heart.

Aortic Aneurysm Repair: Repair of enlarged aorta to prevent rupture.

Pacemaker Installation: The installation of a pacemaker to regulate heartbeat.

Craniotomy: Opening up the skull to treat the brain for tumors, aneurysms or repairing damage.

Spinal Decompression: The relieving of pressure on the spinal cord.

Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS): This is the treatment of the brain with electrical pulses.

Breast Augmentation and Reconstruction: The implantion of artificial breasts for cosmetic reasons or to replace them after trauma or removal.

Liposuction: The removal of excess fat in the body.

Ovarian Cystectomy: Removal of ovarian cysts.

Endometriosis Surgery: Removal of endometrial tissue outside the uterus.

Nephrectomy: Removal of kidney

Ureteroscopy: Removal of obstruction in urinary tract

Vasectomy: The clipping of the male reproductive tracts to prevent fertility.

Colectomy: Partial or total removal of the colon.

Gastrectomy: Partial or total removal of the stomach.

Esophagectomy: Partial or total removal of the esophagus

Septoplasty: The correction of a deviated or damage septum.

Cochlear Implantation: Surgery to grant the hard of hearing or deaf to hear without hearing aids due to an implanted device.

The Winchester Method

Let's be honest your character is likely not going to hospital for their needed surgery. That bullet is going to be removed elsewhere and that appendix is coming out on the run. We're writers, we sort of use medicine like a fucking jump rope. THIS IS FOR FICTIONAL PURPOSES ONLY. The basic needs of make your own surgerical tools:

Sterilisation: You need something to sterilise your "tools". You can use alcoholic spirits or boiling water or open fire.

Needle and thread: You have to close yourself up, both need to be sterilised. See my post on stitches.

Cauterization: You need may need something to cauterise the wounds or stop bleeding. Something hot, sterile and metal like the flat of a knife can work short term.

Scalpel: You will need a sharp knife, sterilised and appropriately sized like a small paring knife or the blade of a Swiss army knife.

Bandages and towels: Something to soak up blood and cover. Torn up clothes or sheets can be used but most be sterilised.

Anesthesia/Pain Management: Something for the pain. Strong drink can be used to dull the pain but so can over the counter meds.

[nurse-floyd]

Carlos Motherfucking Sainz

This man. I cannot. Also, these men also keep putting my love of nursing and my love of F1 together so let's get into it! How did Carlos Sainz manage to win 2 weeks after having an appendectomy?

In the UK, at least, you can leave the hospital the same day you've have an appendectomy as long as there are no complications as long is it was done laparoscopically and there were no complications (burst appendix etc)

Carlos had his appendix removed laparoscopically (which I predicted considering how quickly he was back at the paddock to watch the Grand Prix!) you can tell by the incisions - 3 small ones for the camera and tools rather than one long incision for an open appendectomy.

Usually after an appendectomy you can go back to work after 1-2 weeks. IF YOU HAVE A NON-PHYSICAL JOB. We know this man was back training and strengthening as soon as he could. You can usually start to work out after 2 weeks, depending on wound healing. Those sit ups would have been agony!

That alone would have had him in a lot of pain, let alone the amount of g-force the drivers encounter when they're driving around the circuits - up to 5G in some cases. That's 5x their body weight.

On his latest Instagram post you can see him in a weird glass tube - this presumably is a hyperbaric chamber. There are multiple studies investigating the effectiveness of hyperbaric oxygen therapy in the speedier healing of surgical wounds and reduction of post-operative infection.

In short, this type of therapy can reduce inflammation and boost the formation of white blood cells (the cells that protect the body against infection and defend it from attack of unknown organisms) to improve healing and lower the risk of infection.

Overall, we know he wouldn't have been able to drive unless he was safe to and he said himself they made sure he could get out of his car in the required time and padded his wound and made adjustments to ensure his comfort but you could see the pain he was in after and Lando helping onto the podium.

That man deserves his seat.

[pancake404]

Well that now that Sunny has finally started crashing out, I think it's only fair that Sunny gets a voodoo doll of CatNap. Use it wisely, Sunny.

Also what will happen if I give Yarnaby catnip?

(On top of that idk if I should be proud or concern that I managed to impress 1354)

“I struggle to tell who’s in control. Is it the mirror or 1185? Perhaps both? Maybe the mirror influencing 1185. Either way, an interesting tool to summon in 1185’s hands. He’s showing signs of drunkenness almost. 1185 doesn’t seem interested in answering any questions evidently.”

“Regardless, it seems like you assistants had made your choice on the vote. As expected, you chose dear Hoppy.”

“Very well then…as promised.”

“Convincing him shouldn’t be too hard. Quinn is still Quinn after all.”

“To answer some of your questions, I suppose I could…Catnip doesn’t have too much of an effect but could make Quinn nauseous, smell colors, roll around a lot, and often hit his head on walls. It’s kind of unpredictable and it often varies so I can give you too much of straight answer.”

“About any regrets? What I would change? Hmm…then I’d say not fall into those backstabbers’ trap. To get experimented. I remember it all. My organs being removed surgically yet roughly, my mind being trapped in those screens, and my golden path of glory all crumbled in front of my now many eyes. It was admittedly painful to watch. But there is no use moping about it. Not when there’s more opportunities soon to come. Possibilities with the mirrors. I’ll eventually figure it out…”

You hear laughter from the Doctor