#green nitrile gloves

[321spongebolt]

Fluttershy reaching her hand out, but now with Fluttershy in her scientist outfit, just without the safety goggles. Fluttershy wore this particular outfit during the song, “ACADECA” from “My Little Pony Equestria Girls 3: Friendship Games”.

Credit for the Fluttershy character base goes to DeviantArt user   yaya54320bases.

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt.4

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3][Pt.5][Pt.6][Pt.7]

Danny was sitting in the back, his backpack obnoxiously taking up the seat next to him, when the door to the lecture hall creaked open near silently.

“What are you in here for?” Danny asked the guy who crept into class. He sympathetically took his backpack off the Seat of Shame and allowed the guy to sit down. Funnily enough, they had the same hair and eye color.

“Gen Ed. Undecided. You?” The guy grunted quietly back.

“Environmental studies. I’m Danny.”

“Tim.”

With the implicit understanding of two people in a required class they could not give less than two fucks about, Tim and Danny tuned back into the lecture. When the class was assigned group work, Danny looked over to see Tim softly snoring, head slammed down on the table.

“Tim. Wake up, dude.” Danny poked his shoulder.

“Huh? Class over?”

“Nah, we got group work. Discussion board.”

“Oh shit, thanks for waking me up. Wanna team up?”

Danny shrugged. “Sure. We should aim to post it in the middle so the professor doesn’t read our answers to the class.”

“Yeah, sounds like a good idea. Any idea what we’re talking about?”

“Kind of?”

“Good enough for me.”

——

Tim Drake kept seeing Danny Fenton around on campus.

“Danny! Dude, what are you doing?”

Danny turned, gloved hands full of crumpled trash. “Picking up after the student population, apparently.”

“Didn’t think environmental studies was that serious.”

“Global warming is very serious, you jerk,” Danny smirked at him, crossing the grass to put the trash into the trash can. “Reduce, reuse, oil shouldn’t be spilled in water and all that.”

“Basic stuff,” Tim grinned. Nice, he basically had a friend past Bernard now!

They were friends, right?

“And yet humanity fails to comprehend it. Incredible. Incredibly stupid that is.”

“They get it. Major corporations just don’t care.”

Danny sighed. “True that. You on your way to your next class?” He took off his biodegradable gloves off (nitrile and nylon, baby!) and chucked them into the trash.

“I’ve got free time, actually. Prof cancelled for his daughter’s surgery.”

“Oh, shit, that’s rough! You wanna go downtown and join the strike?”

“A strike? What for?” Even as he asked, Tim hiked his bag higher onto his shoulder, ready to go. They fell into step as the two left campus.

“Apparently, Quillan Pharma was doing some shady shit at their manufacturing plants. I think it’s like killing kids, and pouring toxins into the ground.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. Oh! Poison Ivy’s gonna be there!”

Tim blinked. He casted a sideways look at Danny. Sure he’s been here long enough to know… but it couldn’t hurt to check. “You know she’s an eco-terrorist, right?”

“Okay, but like… people suck sometimes. And all she’s asking for is like don’t kill the planet. And she doesn’t do that whole mind control thing too much anymore! The Sirens are so cool. Plus, one of my best friends at home might actually kill me if I don’t try to get her autograph. Poison Ivy is like, Sam’s personal hero.”

Tim snickered. “Yeah, okay. Mind if one of my friends join? His name’s Bernard.”

“The more the merrier,” Danny nodded. “Ooo! Hot chocolate. Want some?”

Danny bought three drinks as Tim trailed behind, texting Bernard.

“He said yes.”

“Cool! We should meet up somewhere before the drinks get cold.”

Well, Danny got the autograph. Tim got a new friend, and Bernard got a drink from his crush.

——

“Oh, you’re the glowing dude that Batman always talks about!”

Danny blinked, eyes scanning the wing-like cape and the yellow emblem on the hero’s suit. Danny was indeed glowing, stars and nebulas freckling across neon green skin, and glowing hair the color of a white dwarf star, tinged with the blue from his ice core.

“I… have absolutely no idea who you are,” Danny lied, like a liar. He’s found a surprising niche of entertainment in messing with the local vigilantes and he’ll be damned if he missed this opportunity.

He heard a snicker from the comm lines as Red Robin visibly brushes it off.

“I’m Red Robin. Why are you picking up trash?”

“Picking up after you humans, apparently.”

The both of them blink, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu. A moment of awkward silence passed before they both shook it off.

“Are you here to help? No offense, but the track record for you people is terrible.” Danny strode over and grabbed a bag. He opened it, and shook it at Red Robin’s face. “See? Batarangs, these odd bird looking ones, the R’s. Seriously, pick up after yourselves!”

“Oh, woah, can we have these back?”

Danny yanked the bag back before Red Robin could get close. “Pay me. These were incredibly tedious to pick up. Especially the batarangs. I mean, I even found a whole bunch of old rusted ones in the middle of the bay. What did you do, dump an entire bag in there from the air?”

Red Robin sighed and took out a wad of cash, with tracking fluid all over it. Danny grimaced, smelling the odd scent on the money. “That’s not real cash. It smells off. Are you trying to give me counterfeits because you’re broke?”

Red Robin gaped, oddly offended. “No! They’re real!”

“Doesn’t smell like it. It’s stinkier than the trash. Go get the one with the money, the litterer. Tell him I’ll be back the next full moon. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Danny grumbled, disappearing on the spot to watch Red Robin flounder with the stack of cash and the piles of dead bodies on the shore.

“What the fuck even is my life these days?” Red Robin wondered out loud, stuffing the cash back into his pocket. He looked over the plastic wrapped bodies and slumped, sighing.

Oddly enough, Danny felt a sense of sympathy. Well, he’s not getting paid for sympathy. He’s not getting paid at all tonight, actually. Danny flew off, plunging once more into the depths of the significantly cleaner waters, and used his ice to scoop out oil stains.

Danny glanced around and sighed. He had a lot of work to do.

——

“So you’re saying he’s like a werewolf mermaid fae child immortal god thing, right?”

Bruce grunted.

“B, what the hell are you smoking these days? You know drugs are bad, right? Do we need Superman to give you that PSA?” Jason snickered.

Tim, massaging his arms from having to haul an ungodly amount of dead bodies, grunted. He’s so similar to Bruce that it gave the people currently in the cave hives.

“He said full moon. I don’t think we can track him with regular stuff. The bugs kept shorting out.”

“Oh boy,” Dick sighed. “Don’t fall off the spiral cliff, Tim. You’ve got midterms to think about so no stalking the guy.”

“Yet,” Tim shot back, changing out of his suit.

Bruce grunted, setting aside a huge stack of cash.

[beansprean]

My fav thing about the classic flowershop / tattoo parlor au is assigning the objectively wrong roles for no reason other than my own enjoyment. ID under cut!

[ID: 1. Full body of a modern flowershop / tattoo parlor au with Stede and Ed. They are standing together in the wall space between their shops, meeting for the first time. Stede’s shop on the left says “tattoo” in large red letters on the window as well as a sign with their hours. Inside there is a small piercing display. Ed’s shop on the right has “flowers” in blue lettering on the window as well as the beginnings of a phone number with area code 246. Inside there is a tiered display of various types of flowers including sunflowers, roses, lilies, and carnations. Stede has three studs in his ear and snake bite hoops in his lip and is wearing a dark gray blouse with frilly sleeves, a purple waistcoat with silver detailings, a silver pocket square, a cravat pinned with a large purple jewel, and black trousers. He has several rings on each hand and black nails and is holding a cardboard box labeled “gauges.” He turns with pleasant surprise to look at Ed, smiles, and says “Oh!! Hello!” Ed, on a smoke break, just stares at him with pink-cheeked surprise in response. He has his long hair up in a bun and is wearing blue jeans and a pink tee shirt over a pale green apron with “Queen Anne’s” stitched on the breast. In his left hand is a lit cigarette, and the right is in his apron pocket fumbling with a red cloth. All his usual tattoos (save for the eagle on his chest and the marae on his wrist) are now floral designs, including a long leafy vine winding down his right arm, several pink carnations and falling petals, palm leaves on his left bicep, and a patch of sunflowers on his left shoulder and neck.

2. A new day, Stede now in a blue waistcoat with embroidered fleur-de-lis and light blue blouse and cravat and Ed with his hair half up in a bun, wearing a red tee shirt, apron, and brown gardening gloves. Stede is leaning toward him looking excited, declaring, “Lilac?? I would love to design that for you!” Ed, leaning back and looking flustered as he blushes and avoids eye contact, flexes his hands at his side and laughs nervously. “Uh, haha, really? Idk if my artist would like that.” To the side, we see a small drawing of a sullen Izzy with large gauges and a vee neck shirt, holding a buzzing tattoo pen. Text next to him in parentheses reads “current artist.”

3a. The same day; Ed sitting on a tattoo chair with his left arm extended while Stede, wearing nitrile gloves, doodles a lilac branch onto the blank spot on his forearm with a tattoo pen. Ed, staring at Stede shyly but warmly from the corner of his eye, offers a small smile and says, “You’re always so covered up, I’ve never even seen any of your tattoos.” Stede, smiling absently as he works on Ed’s tattoo, responds, “Oh! I don’t have any.”

3b. Ed whips his head toward Stede in shock, forgetting his shy attempt at flirting in favor of gaping openly at him. Stede, none the wiser, continues to draw and hum to himself.

3c. Close up of Ed’s face from the previous panel zoomed in, hearts popping up in his eyes and cheeks going a dark red. Text next to him reads “you are so fucking fascinating”

/end ID]

[consult-sherlockholmes]

Hello, Mr. Holmes! How are you?

So, long story short, I ended up with an optical microscope in my room more or less 4 months ago, with 200 previously made slides (secured in a proper box), and lots of new ones too, for me to prepare myself. I love microbiology (it's one of my hyperfixations, curse my neurodivergency) and now I love it even more (my mother has had to drag me away from the microscope - I named it Wesley - in the middle of the night multiple times now).

After much conversation, I finally convinced my mom to buy me the proper equipment to prepare the slides!

So, I'm sending this ask to you, as I know you also have a microscope and that you use it a lot: what kind of equipment do you recommend me buying (gloves, scalpel blades, tints, etc), while still remembering that all of the stuff needs to stay in my room (properly taken cared of by me, of course)?

For example, I'm unsure if different dyes are used for different smears and specimens due to it's affinity (I've noticed that on 'organic matter' slides, images are usually tinted purple or pink, while on plant-based slides, images are usually tinted green and blue, with a few red structures.) Considering that I don't have access to a mortuary, I will mostly make plant slides. There must be a difference in the dyes then, right?

Sorry for the long text! Hope this isn't too much of a bother.

- a 17-year-old :)

Congratulations on your new light microscope. I do hope you get the best out of it. I am overjoyed that someone else appreciates the art of microscopy and microbiology.

However, you need to be careful to not strain your eyes. It is recommended to take breaks every 15 minutes to close your eyes or focus on something in the distance to reaccommodate your eyes. And get up every 40 minutes, stretch and correct your posture. And it is recommended to not use a microscope more than 5 hours per day. John has to chase me away from my microscope sometimes to take a break when I sit there for hours, my posture like a Caridea.

Concerning equipment, you will obviously need a scalpel or other sharp blade to make very thin slices of your specimen, as thin as possible. And forceps to move your samples (best just get a whole dissection kit it has everything). Obviously slides and coverslips, pipettes for the stains or water, maybe some tubes. A pen to label your slides. In many staining procedures ethanol or acetone is also used. A waste jar to safely dispose of any chemicals, but be careful what you mix. A rack for staining and containers. I would recommend nitrile gloves, some people are sensitive to latex.

The dyes you use depend on the specimen. For example in histological slides of tissues hematoxylin and eosin are most commonly used (short HE-stain). That's what you most likely saw on your slides, it's blue, purple and pink. Hematoxylin is a basic compound extracted and oxidised from the logwood tree (Haematoxylum campechianum), and it stains acidic compounds in the cells (or basophilic because they have an affinity for basic substances). For example nucleic acids like DNA or RNA get stained by hematoxylin because they are basophillic. And where are lots of nucleic acids? In the nucleus and ribosomes, that is why they appear blue to purple in the staining because they bind hematoxylin. Eosin is an acidic compound, and stains basic or acidophilic compounds red or pinkish, like proteins, collagen, cytoplasm, extracellular matrix.

(Ductus epididymidis with HE-stain)

(Tongue HE-stain, pointer marking a ganglion; that is my picture)

Of course there are more specific stains for specific tissues like Golgi's silver staining for neurons.

For plants toluidine blue is often used, high affinity for acidic tissues, and can stain blue to green to purple. It is often combined with safranin, a basic azine, which is probably the red stain you saw. It stains polysaccharides and lignin, woody parts of the plant. Safranin and astrablue is also often combined, astrablue stains non-lignified parts of the plant.

(Ulex europaeus stem; not my pictures I don't have any samples currently, source Atlas of plant and animal histology)

Safranin is also used in bacteriology, in the famous Gram staining. In Gram staining you use crystal violet (blue/purple), Lugol's iodine solution, then wash it with ethanol and add safranin (red) as a counter stain. Bacteria is gram-positive if the crystal violet stays in their thick murein cell wall, can't be washed out with the ethanol and the bacteria stays blue. Gram-negative appear red because of the counterstain.

(Staphyloccocus aureus (violet, gram positive) & Escherichia coli (red, gram negative); not my picture, source Wikipedia)

However, I am not sure whether you have access to any of those substances, if they are too expensive for you or if they are too hazardous if used in your own room for a prolongued time. Of course those substances need to be stored properly, and your own room is probably not a good place, especially for ethanol or acetone. The fumes. I would recommend to ask your biology or chemistry teacher whether they can recommend anything further and where to buy said solutions in your area, and if they can't they are idiots. There are also many useful resources and tutorials on Youtube.

Another fascinating experiment for your microscope, that you can perform without buying any chemicals, is a hay infusion. You put hay into a container filled with water, and let it sit undisturbed for a week in a sunny area but not in direct harsh sunlight. During that time the microorganisms in the hay are reproducing in the solution, feeding on the polysaccharides of the hay. Protozoans also flourish in the hay infusion and eat the bacteria. It might get cloudy and a bit foul smelling (best not do it in your own room if you don't want to sleep next to a rotting smell). When you put a drop of the solution onto a slide and look at it in the microscope, you should see a variety of microorganisms like bacteria (like Bacillus subtilis), amoeba, ciliates, heliozoa, algae et cetera. At different depths of the liquid you should find different kinds of organisms, because of differing oxygen content. However, pathogens can also occur in the hay infusion so handle it carefully and work sterile, wash your hands properly.

And even if you don't work at a morgue you can still get tissue samples to experiment on, after all meat is sold in supermarkets, basically the same as a human body. And at the butchers they even sell organs like chicken hearts, pig kidney, liver, blood et cetera. Or observe your own hair under the microscope.

Which kind of samples and slides were included in your starter kit? Be careful to not leave them lying around in the sunlight, or the stain might fade. Always store them in the proper box.

[wmarximoff]

DFTR! How would WANDA react to R Carving her Initial into her skin? I feel like Wanda would go Feral and Desperate for it like realising that R is finally warming up and just being as equally obsessed with her as Wanda is with her?

cut me up | w. maximoff

summary: Wanda finds out that it wasn't just your initial that ended up carved into her skin.

warnings (18+): serial killer!reader, stalker!wanda, graphic depiction of injury, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), heavy degradation, slight breeding kink at the end, face slapping, daddy kink, choking, toxic relationship, bottom!Wanda, top!reader.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 3k

A/N: this is so twisted and sick and sinful i'm genuinely ashamed omg

|main masterlist| |series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

“Okay, stay still.”

The beam of pale alabaster skin glistening beneath the digits of your industrious fingers, soft to the touch and tender in temperature, was glimpsed through the thin strap of the warm red lacy lingerie that Wanda draped around her torso; the pair of breasts shyly tucked into the microfiber bra, the piece that hugged the mounds and made them look just as inviting to knead and squeeze in between your palms.

Long strands of ebony dark hair brushed her sharp collarbone beneath her skin, and with your right knuckles gently tucked into the palm of your hand you swept that lock behind Wanda's shoulder, moving your elbow joint, revealing in that region a piece of porous gauze screwed tightly to the skin by strips of tape in a well-made bandage. A pair of emerald eyes blinked at you from behind long, thick lashes.

Both you and Wanda were snuggled into the center of the bed in your bedroom, your legs crossed inside your thighs, your ankles draped over the pearly vanilla-cream satin sheets. Her dark miniskirt left the tops of her thighs exposed to your watchful gaze, and it would take very little effort to find a red lace there between her skin that matched the bra worn by Wanda.

Next to your right thigh, there was a small white plastic square suitcase, the lid open and tilted to the side, revealing, inside that box, a handful of the most varied items related to immediate first aid in the face of a possible daily injury – inside there was 10 ml saline ampoules, a package containing disposable nitrile gloves, one or another long rectangular box containing plastic tubes of ointment, and small and variegated silver cards containing several polychromatic pill tablets.

“Don’t move.”

“But I wanna see–” Wanda whimpered.

“No,” you asserted sharply, your eyes raking the height of her pale collarbone, “I told you not to move.”

With the expert fingertips of an avid med student you peeled the tape off Wanda's skin, and a detachment sound could be heard. A nervous caesura was then revealed, inflecting the skin of the region in shades of reddish pink, about three centimeters long. Your irises gleamed in identification with the mark carved with a knife's edge into the velvety flesh just below the collarbone that protruded hard beneath Wanda's epidermis.

“Well look at this. I did a great job with this one,” you hissed in a delightful whisper, a gleeful shiver that almost made you nibble the skin of your lower lip with your incisors.

“Does it look pretty?” Wanda asked, her gaze trying to search for the mark beneath the hanging gauze soaked in a thin layer of dried pus.

“Oh it does look pretty, dear. It's healing very, very well,” and then the phantom touch of your index finger traced the regular cut marks on Wanda's skin, as lingering in your actions as you'd allow yourself to be, only to sip the benefit of that moment to the last possible drop, “For sure this will leave a very nice scar.”

“Of course it will be pretty,” she smiled then, in a slow and jovial way, rapture traced by the purest and most genuine love glistening in the jadish green of her irises turned towards you, “It's the mark you left on me, Y/n. The mark of your love.”

“Yeah,” you smiled back at her, “You're right, I think. You look beautiful with my brand on you, so everyone knows you have an owner. Though I would really like to see you on a leash...”

It was that symbol the first letter of your own name, ingrained in open, red flesh for all eternity in your girlfriend's existence, like branded cattle—a reminder to her of who she belonged to (nothing Wanda really needed, though), while a warning to the other prying eyes that might someday come to look at her with glances of concupiscence. If something belonged to you and only to you would be exposed, then it was only right for you to point out to other possible admirers of your girlfriend's beauty the fact that that body was already someone's possession. Your possession.

“You're mine, right Wanda? Mine. Only mine. Mine to have,” you whispered, your gaze never leaving the outline of the letter etched into her skin, “And mine to do with what I want to do. I own you.”

Wanda smiled so that her upper teeth sank against the length of her pink lower lip, leaning with her spine to run the tips of her nails along the line of your neck. Slowly she slid her pale, bare thighs, which rubbed and bumped with impatience, over your own knees, then settled herself snugly on top of your lap; her crossed legs with her heels brushing the hem of the shorts you were wearing. And you were able to take advantage of the position to brazenly stare down the length of Wanda's breasts squeezed so appetizingly in that lacy red bra.

“Oh, I'm surely yours,” she mussed, smiling against the pulp of your lips, her hooded emerald eyes staring into your pupils from behind lashes mottled in a lustful sheen, “Completely yours, daddy. My soul. My body,” and then, she moved closer to the shell of your ear, breathing warm air against your skin, “My pussy. All of this is yours.”

“Good,” your steady hands, slow and studious, ran over the girl's silhouette brushing the tops of your thighs, “Because you'd be in serious trouble if it weren't mine. Now hold still,” you deferred two light taps with your fingertips against her left knee as a pair of hands touched the bottom of your shirt, “We need to change your bandage.”

“No, we can do that later,” she moaned against your left earlobe, the tip of her nose tucked between your strands of hair, her fingers encased in a handful of silver rings fidgeting with the hem of your white cotton shirt, “Let me play with you Y/n, please? C’mon, I wanna feel you inside me.”

“Wanda,” your right fingers, steady from wielding tennis rackets to hit green balls (or raising and lowering axe-handles), screwed into the outline of her thin, gnarled wrist, catching it in midair before for her to complete the action of lifting the fabric hem, “Your bandage. Now.”

“Baby,” she pouted like an upset child, “It's been so long since you let me see your body. I wanna see you! You don't even let me shower with you lately! I like to see your body, Y/n. You are so beautiful. So, so beautiful baby...”

And she started to move that wrist one more time, but your grip was even more pressurized on her skin, holding her in place.

“It's nothing you haven't seen before,” you grumbled grudgingly into your girlfriend's face, “And I never let you shower with me, every time you just walk into the shower without even asking first.”

“But now you lock the door.”

“Because you aren’t exactly known for respecting boundaries, are you now Wanda?” your irises dipped into Wanda's emerald gaze, who pressed her lips together in a slightly limp line, yet without untying her hard gaze from yours, “Now stop being an annoying fucking brat and let me change your damn bandage. C’mon, now.”

But she looked at you in silence, a contemplative silence. She just looked at you, as if something in her was processing a command, as if something inside her was reprogramming itself to externalize a thought that had germinated deep inside the walls of her skull, emerging into explosive abstractions that pressed something icy into the pit of her chest. Her jawbone twitched into a sharp edge.

And then the well-shaped dark brows creased between them a crack of furrowed skin, and Wanda's chin turned at a half-broken left angle as she tilted her head vaguely to the side, the emerald color inside her irises eclipsed by that haze of opaque darkness that could always be pointed out the moment her mind began to conspire with itself, overgrown fears that so tormented her twisted spirit. Her hands hardened into a firm grip over the cotton of your shirt, pressing the fabric stiff between her rings.

"You're hiding something from me," was a shrewd, guarded statement, said in a low, lugubrious tone of voice, not in the form of a dubious question, “There's something about you that you don't want me to see.”

“Wanda,” a warning tone was employed in your hard voice, your eyes hooded like an angry dog's before her, like the terrifying thunder harbingers of a cataclysmic storm, “Don't you even fucking dare to start. I'm not in the mood to put up with your childish tantrums right now, so stop being so annoying and just do what I’ve told you to.”

“You're fucking hiding something from me,” she reiterated just as pointedly, disregarding everything about his scolding admonition, “I know you are. I know everything about you. I can see right through you, Y/n. And unlike the others around you I know when you lie, because you do it all the fucking time—”

A sharp slap crackled hot against the skin of her left cheek, jerking her chin away, causing such violence to ruffle the strands of her dark hair, which all swung to cover her face in one swinging motion. From the side, through slits of long hair, Wanda's green irises flickered in a dark glow toward you.

“So it's true,” she hissed in an icy voice, “You're hiding something from me, I fucking knew—”

The words were constricted in Wanda's throat as your right hand screwed your fingers in an upright violence against the pale skin of her jugular, squeezing the oxygen into her pharynx as you jerked your wrist up, “Ungrateful fucking bitch.”

A sudden dry choking sound crashed through her partially parted lips, and then your vigorous forearm slammed her back against the length of the mattress in an uncomfortable thud, the insides of her thighs hooked to the sides of your hips, your nose almost touching hers over the top due to how close you forced your faces to be. Your fingers were still solidly squeezing the soft flesh of your girlfriend's neck like it was a thread you meant to snap soon – the weight of your body pressing hard against her ribs.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Huh, who do you think you are to talk to me like that, you fucking slut?!” you spat in front of her sharp cheekbone, pressing the back of her head against the mattress.

“I can just squeeze the life out of you if I want to now, do you hear me you ungrateful brat? I owe you Wanda, your life is mine, everything about you is mine. And I do whatever the fuck I want with what's mine, and you don't complain! Ever! You don't question me! Do you fucking understand me?!”

But a mischievous smirk appeared between her lips, the insides of her thighs pressing tight against your hip bones.

“Harder...” Wanda moaned looking at you from under hooded eyelids, hooking her left fingers on the length of your forearm from that hand that was squeezing the outline of her neck, “Squeeze harder daddy...”

You looked at her for a second (dark hair splayed across the sheets, tight pink mouth glistened with a thin layer of saliva, red bra and so tempting). How she seemed to want to beg so much for something only you could give her. She didn't scream in fear or terror. She just moaned and asked for more.

Something about her passive submission urged you to stop and reason like a functioning human and not an untamed, primal animal. It urged you to breathe, to breathe in her crimson scent, to think about her, really think about her – how different she was, how it was just transiently pleasant to ruin other girls who came and went and left behind only the emptiness that would just grow and burst in you; and then there was Wanda, beautiful and sycophantic and soft, just a little pestilent. How she truly satisfied you, with immeasurable delight, a creature as twisted as you could be.

How she knew how to keep up, ever so willing to submit to your most sadistic disturbances, attend to your needs, satiate your desire without giving up on doing so at any time. How she pushed your buttons and urged you to do more and just be worse. You didn't need to mold her because her defect came from the cradle, something had gone wrong with her long before you did – just as your evil was also paramount. Sick, obsessive and ill. And then, you blinked once at the emerald desire bubbling within the darkness of her eyes. And an incredulous smile spread across your face.

“You really are so beautiful… and so fucking sick in the head,” and then, again bending down in front of her, bringing your face closer to her hot face, you placed a warm little kiss on the tip of Wanda's nose that scrunched up involuntarily in the face of your action like a curious little bunny, “It makes me want to fuck that madness of yours out of you, you crazy bitch.”

Your hand was still squeezing the skin of her throat as fingers hooked into the nape of your neck, nails cut short, coated in a peeling black, digging in poignantly as they pierced your skin there just below your hairline.

“So fuck me, Y/n,” Wanda mussed, her mouth throbbing dangerously close to yours, breathing in the hot air that wafted from your nostrils, “Fucking ruin me daddy.”

Something bristled inside you in need and hunger. And you looked at Wanda's grim face down at you – you just wanted to feel her close, all to yourself, dismantled in your needy grip. It scorched you with will and greed sharpened by your veins, and your hands just wanted to rip her apart completely, leave her in ruins, destroy and tear everything inside of her. And then you had been compelled, in an act permeated between needy demand and execrable eagerness, to postpone the detachment that compromised your lips and Wanda's, thrusting your tongue firmly through the velvety commission of her mouth with a taste of passion and her madness.

Through a set of rosy lips on the part of the girl below you a tongue was broken, and that tongue laced itself with yours tenaciously, needy and passionately. It was bestial and shameless. It was carnal. It was animalistic. She bit your bottom lip until the metallic blood she had dissolved from inside your mouth drained from it. The taut palms of your hands pressed her swollen breasts hard into her red bra as you both let go for air; but you didn't want oxygen, you wanted her. And she wanted you. She craved for you.

You saw, beneath dark, voluminous lashes, two dark spots of green immersed in wild labor, overflowing with liquid pleasure. Desire bubbled in your guts invaded and screeched by Wanda's red color that, like the most noxious of plagues, infected your bloodstream, hypnotized you according to the erotic whims of the demanding and sinful libido of that girl lying beneath you.

“C’mon daddy,” Wanda whimpered performatively, “Wanna see you.”

The silence was momentary and fleeting because unimportance soon took possession of you. All right, you thought, fuck it. You dropped back to your knees in the mattress and, perhaps using a purposeful and provocative delay to rouse the sensitive dark-haired girl below you, you crossed your arms as you gripped the hem of your garment and pulled the shirt over your head, then unbuttoning the clasp of your own bra, exposing, to Wanda's in-need-to-touch glow, your mesmerizing, alluring figure—a dangerous bandage attached to the side of your left breast, just above your ribs.

Your hunger raced up your spine like an electric shock, driving you to want more, to want her all to yourself. Wanda wanted you, and you wanted Wanda. With your fingertips you removed the gauze stuck to your own skin.

“Is... Is that…?” Wanda's gaze strayed to the side of your breast, where a large W was etched into annoyingly reddened, jittery skin, a healing self-inferred scar like the one that marred her own skin. Her index finger lightly brushed in admiration the silhouette of that three-pointed letter forever embedded in you.

“I’m yours,” you stated, firm in your words, “As much as you are mine. Never forget that.”

“You're mine,” Wanda repeated, full of feeling in those inflated words that made her mouth tingle, “You… you're mine. Only mine. My everything. You are everything I need in my life.”

She was the one who reached for the scarlet silicone strap-on from the dresser drawer next to the bed and buckled it just above your pelvic bone. Panting hungrily against the bristly skin of her ivory neck, teeth scraping the battered, reddened skin, you shoved yourself against the inside of Wanda's wet, hot cunt, who immediately felt a comforting sensation in her belly, you biting a small, barely audible “Mine” out of your nose as you sank deeper and deeper into her womb.

Wanda moaned during penetration, “F-fuck daddy!” she suddenly screamed when you, without even giving her time to get used to the sensation, constantly moving inside her, touched a specific spongy spot within her velvety walls.

“Take it,” you groaned, “Take my cock, you slut. Take my cum. Take my bones. Take my blood. My meat,” and then, you growled like a ravish dog, “I'm gonna mark you in a way that not even your dead fucking body will forget how I feel inside your worthless hole.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck– daddy!” Her black-painted fingernails raked the length of your back to your tailbone, leaving in their wake a hotly pleasurable sensation, “You're mine! You are fucking mine! Please tell me again!”

“I'm yours!” you scolded against her ear, “I'm yours! Yours!"

“A-again!”

“I'm yours,” you gasped, “And you're mine. Mine and no one else's. I'd gouge out the eyes of the motherfucker who even dared look at what's mine.”

And Wanda smiled against your shoulder just at the thought of you hurting someone for her. That certainly wasn't the first time she wished you could come inside her.

[copperbadge]

[ID: A large black minivan parked on a street in Chicago; the van has a bright logo painted on the side that reads "Brush Hour: Mobile Car Wash and Auto Spa" with a red, white, and green racing-stripe style border beneath the name. This is a play on the term "rush hour" implying that they will do a great fast job on your car.]

Didn't really have anything to show for NaClYoHo today, so here, have a photograph of a local business with a great pun in the name.

I had to go in to the office for work today, and I'm traveling from tomorrow morning through Sunday evening, so I didn't put much on my to-do list today. I did a bit of tidying, but mostly so that the catsitter doesn't think I live in filth. (Vacuumed, swept the bathroom and kitchen floors, put away all the weird shit I normally leave lying around because I live alone, etc.)

The plan for the next few days is, if I have the time, to do digital "housecleaning" like sorting files, answering emails and asks, finishing posts in draft, etc. And if I don't get anything done, the plan is also to be okay with that, because I'm traveling to see a friend and have a good time, which is important for the mental health. Visiting with her is more important than sorting my photos, and I don't want to lose sight of that.

In any case, I may be more quiet than usual for the next few days, but also possibly not, these things always depend :) But I hope you guys have a great weekend if I'm not around much, and good luck to everyone who is keepin' on!

Disposable nitrile gloves used: 6 (couldn't bring myself to use my bare hand to clear out the shampooer-lint balls that were clogging the vacuum's nozzle)

Trips to the hardware store: 2, but only because I blew off trip #3 that I'd planned for today. I'll go Monday. I wasn't planning to use anything I was going to buy before then anyway....

[theclairvoyage]

Centrifugation: Chapter 1

plasmadonor!Joel x f!reader

You’re the star phlebotomist at the local plasma center, and the job has been increasingly mundane as of late… until a new and handsome Texan donor comes to the center and changes that, and the rest your life.

Series Masterlist

Series warnings:

AU, M/F, Age gap (20 years)-reader’s YOB is 1995 (purely coincidental lolol), eventual SMUT, blood, needles, & plasma talk (nothing too graphic, I promise!), a bit of blasphemy, criticism of religion, mentions of death, divorce, angst, fluffity fluff fluff, alcohol consumption, violence.  Individual chapters will have specific warnings.

FYI – this work contains criticisms of religion and reader is atheist/agnostic.  Feel free to scroll if this offends you.  If you decide to read, remember that even if you are religious, this is not an attack on you, but rather ideology.  And remember the tenets of religious freedom.  Everyone has the right to believe – and NOT to believe – in the things you do.

Plasma Center UrbanDict:

Stick = venipuncture

PR = permanent rejection, aka permanent deferral

Reception = where donors have vitals taken to determine if they are suitable to donate

Donor Floor = where the magic happens, baby! Where donation occurs, aka sticks with big 17G needles

 Processing = where units of plasma are sampled and frozen

This is my first ever fic! Excited to share all of it with you. I'm new to posting this kind of stuff on Tumblr, so please forgive rookie formatting and whatnot. Hope you enjoy! As of 03/10/24, I have 6 chapters written - I'm juggling my writing with finishing my MPH degree, so my schedule might be a little spotty until mid-May.

Chapter 1

Chapter warnings: blood, needles, & plasma talk, light violence.

WC: 3.7k

Friday, October 15th | 0755

You turn into the parking lot at the plasma center, a little later than your usual 10 minutes early.  Your shift is at 8, so you don’t have much time to walk to the center, clock in, grab your coat and face shield and get to work.  Thankfully, the parking lot is just across the street.  As soon as you step out of your car, downtown Omaha greets you with the familiar scents of cigarette smoke and fall air, along with the sounds of the city buses and commuters chugging along.

It’s a nice morning.  Living in Nebraska means you get to experience the peaks and valleys of all four seasons, and during fall, this means the leaves of what few trees are in the downtown area are painted lovely hues of orange, yellow, and even red – if you’re lucky enough to find a scarlet or pin oak tree.

The plasma center parking lot is shared with employees and donors, and it’s packed this morning.  Not a great sign.  You walk up to the back employee entrance and punch in the code.  The keypad beeps and lights up green and you pull open the ages-old, heavy-as-hell door and make your way to the break room.

The donor waiting area is just outside the break room door, and you can tell by how full it is that it’s going to be a long day, confirming your earlier suspicions in the parking lot.  Somebody definitely called in, you think.  Great.  Punching in the same code as before, you enter the break room, throw your stuff in your locker, and clock in.

As soon as you’re on the Donor Floor, donned with your white lab coat, blue nitrile gloves, and face shield, one of your best phlebotomists and good friend Keri approaches, looking flustered as hell.

“Jesus, thank fuck you’re here,” she sighs, taking a deep breath and raising her eyebrows at you.  She smooths back her frizzy hair and sets down her face shield on the counter next to you.

“Are we short today, or did corporate send out some bonus texts to half of Omaha?” you say, checking the Donor Queue on the computer.  15 people waiting, average wait time of 43 minutes.  Fucking clean up time, I guess.

“Two call-outs, but they’re newbies, so it wouldn’t have mattered, really,” she says.  “Definite yes on the bonus texts.  Regulars are all pissed off because they didn’t get any.”  You roll your eyes and sigh.  To get more donors in, the company you work for has been sending bonus texts to donors that haven’t been in in a while, which really ticks off the regular, twice-a-week donors.  It’s all about meeting that liters budget.

“Where do you need me?  Breaks need to be sent?” you ask her.  You’re the lead phlebotomist, but you always check in with whoever opened before you make any decisions.  Keri nods.  “Send Blake to break, he’s got an open section now and we’ve got to get these wait times down.”  You grab your mobile phlebotomy device and head that way.

Each phlebotomist can have a maximum of 6 donors in their section.  You see Blake cleaning up the machine from his last disconnect, leaving you an empty section.  “You can head to break, I’ll take over here,” you say, helping him wipe down the now-empty donor bed.

“Thanks… really happy that you’re here.  It’s been a shit show today,” he says, walking away from the section toward the break room.  You groan and head up to the front near the waiting area, grab a chart, and start climbing the mountain.

Thursday, October 15th | 1230

The morning turned out to be an absolute disaster.  You quickly filled up your section once you sent Blake to break, apologizing to every donor you sat for the wait times.  Most were understanding.  There were a few that gave you an eye roll or a shrug.  A few left the center, not wanting to be late for work.  The fall is generally a busy time at the center, with people seeking extra money for football tailgates and games, college students needing extra money for just about everything, and parents stocking up early on holiday savings.

Thankfully, Keri, you, and the rest of the morning Donor Floor crew knocked the Queue down to 3 donors and wait times down to 10 minutes.  Once the last morning break was done, they came over and sent you to your lunch.  Delighted, you took off your sweaty coat and hung it up, washed your hands at the sink by the coat rack, and headed to the break room.

Before you’re able to punch in the door code, a deep, velvety voice stops you.

“Uh, miss?  Can you point me in the right direction?”

You turn and look in the direction of the voice and see a taller man with dark, silvery-streaked curly hair, tanned skin and pensive brown eyes staring at you.  He’s donning a red flannel that squeezes his broad shoulders and ropy arm muscles, and dark wash Levi’s that have the outline of his wallet imprinted in the front right pocket.  He’s definitely a blue-collar guy, not unlike a lot of the current donors.  Must be a new donor, you think.  Damn, he looks good.  You feel a little zap in your chest, not unlike the fingerstick donors get during screening.

“Hi!  Are you a new donor?”  You ask, turning on your customer service voice in hopes of calming your nerves.  You step back from the door and walk toward him.  He’s got a small white paper slip in hand, which tells you he needs his veins checked, so he must be new.

“Yes ma’am, need someone ‘ta look at my veins.  Been here before, but it’s been a long time,” he says, watching you approach him and giving you the once-over.  Twice-over.  Your pulse quickens.  His voice is like icing, dripping with a sweet Southern accent and mushing your insides.  You smile and take the paper from him, hoping that you aren’t blushing.

“Roll up your sleeves for me and let’s take a look,” you say, watching him roll up the sleeves of his red flannel.  He’s got thick, veiny forearms that are tanned and covered with freckles.  He wears a watch on his left wrist that you assume hasn’t been removed in years, judging by the pure white skin peeking underneath.  His hands are big and scarred.  Definitely works with his hands, you think.  He has a small, circle-shaped scar on his right arm near the venipuncture site, so he was telling the truth about donating plasma before.  You grab a tourniquet hanging on the cabinet near the chart area, wrap it on his upper arm, and feel.  His veins are huge and muscular, and you realize you didn’t need the tourniquet in the first place.  Rookie mistake.

“Guess I really don’t need this,” you say, removing the tourniquet and feeling his ropy veins with your index finger.  His skin is warm under your clammy finger.  He chuckles.  “Heard that one before,” he says.  You laugh and make eye contact with him, noticing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his salt and pepper beard.  His gaze is amiable and filled with something else you can’t quite pinpoint, and your stomach twists.  You look away before you can decipher it.

“I don’t think you’ll have any issues with the stick,” you say, and he laughs.  “Are you hydrated?  Had a good meal in the last hour or two?” You ask, writing your name on the vein check slip and circling “Pass.”  You see the name Joel Miller written at the top.

“Yes ma’am, I do a lot of workin’ outside and with my hands, so I know better,” he says, confirming your earlier assumption.  His voice is sending a wave of tingles from your ears to your neck, and you feel goosebumps start to erupt in their pathway.

“Good man, Joel,” you say, noticing him perk up at you saying his name, “Take this back to the front desk and we’ll get you processed as quickly as we can.”  He nods, gives you a handsome-as-fuck lopsided smile, and walks back to the front.  You head back to the break room and turn to glance at him once more to find that he's already looking at you.  Fuck, you think, looking back at the door.  Don’t need a hot donor making me feel nervous like this.  He’s older than you, but he might be the most handsome guy you’ve ever seen.  You can only imagine how homely you look, clad in your scrubs and sweaty from the morning hustle and bustle.

You see every part of humanity at your job: young and old, foreign and domestic, all races and ethnicities, handsome and near homeless.  There have been a few men that have caught your eye, and a few that you’ve met up with outside of the center, but none like this one.  As tedious and mundane as the job can be, it’s the people that make it exciting, especially attractive ones.  Well, hopefully he passes screening so I can see him on the Donor Floor, you think, contemplating what you’re going to get for lunch in the short time that you have.

Thursday, October 15th | 1430

Your break went by too fast.  You decided on some fast-food place just across the street from the center.  It’s good and cheap, but you know the greasy food is going to put you in a late-afternoon lull.  Oh well.  After you got back, the lobby was still relatively empty, so you started working on doing the monthly machine cleanings in the meantime.

The plasmapheresis machines are complicated and like everything else in the plasma center, they come with lots of rules and regulations.  You’re a seasoned pro, though, so the cleaning and documentation are a breeze.  You’re heading over to clean the last of the machines in the third row of the Donor Floor when you see a familiar, handsome head of dark salt-and-pepper curls walk behind Keri to one of the donor beds in the first row.  He smiles at you as he lies on the donor bed, and you feel your cheeks heat and curl up into a smile of their own.  Get a fucking grip.  You’re relieved that Keri is taking care of him, because you’re nervous just seeing him in your work area.  You can only imagine how shaky your hands would be with a needle if you were the one sticking him.

While cleaning the machines in the third row, you periodically look over at Joel and Keri.  Keri is great with the donors, and it’s evident when you see Joel laughing with her.  Each time you look up, he’s either already looking at you or looks up right after you do.  You try to play it off like you’re scanning over all the donors, making sure everything is going as it should, but the sweat sheen forming on your face and neck betray you.

You see the light on his machine turn green, indicating he’s been stuck and is running smoothly.  You imagine what it would’ve been like to feel his veins again, feeling his warm, tan skin underneath your fingers… and underneath other things, like—

“Oh my god, that man is such a charmer… and asked about you at least three times,” Keri states, snapping you out of your horny daydream.  Your eyes widen and you turn so he can’t see your face from where he’s seated.

“Shhh!  Keep your voice down!”  You hiss, making both of you giggle.  “What was he saying?”

“Oh, nothing much, just asking what the cute girl that checked his veins was doing all the way over here,” she smirks.  “He used to donate here over 25 years ago when the center first opened up.  Can you believe he’s that old?  He does NOT look like it.”  Odd, you think.  He didn’t sound like he was from here when you spoke to him earlier.  Wait, did he say I was cute?  Blushing at his remark about your appearance, you remember the scar on his arm and think he’s probably telling the truth.  “Wow, he looks good.  How old is he?”  Keri pulls him up on her mobile phlebotomy handheld and you see he was born in 1975.  Damn.  20 years older than you.

Before you and Keri can gush further about Joel, the front door slams shut, echoing throughout the center and catching everyone off-guard.  You watch as one of the younger regular donors, Cedric, storms past Reception and the donor waiting area over to the Donor Floor front desk, near where you checked Joel’s veins earlier.  He practically spits your name, his brows pinched in a rage.

“Cedric, is everything alright?”  You ask, approaching the front desk slowly.  The once-noisy Donor Floor is quiet, save for the quiet whirring and clicking of the machines.  Donors not wearing headphones are anxiously watching the front desk.  You give Cedric the once-over and notice that his arm wrap is soaked with blood, and some of it has gotten on his white shirt and shorts and the floor around him.  First rule of donating: Never wear white to a plasma center, dude.

“Does it fucking look alright?  My arm wasn’t wrapped right and now I have blood everywhere!”  he fumes.  The entire Donor Floor is watching, including Joel and poor Blake, who must’ve disconnected Cedric.  Blake approaches tentatively, tail between his legs, but you put your hand up to him, saying I’ll take care of this.  Blake gives you a thankful nod and tiptoes back to his section.

“Cedric, I’m sorry about that.  Come over to the sink and I’ll rewrap it for you,” you say, putting a fresh pair of gloves on.  “Keri, can you clean up the blood spots with bleach, please?”  You ask.  She nods and grabs a Clorox bottle near the front desk, putting her face shield on and quickly walking around Cedric to search for the path of blood droplets.  Cedric raises his voice again.

“Not good enough.  I need that kid fired for his incompetence!” he points aggressively at Blake, flinging some blood droplets on the arm of your coat and on the front desk.

“Everybody makes mistakes, Cedric.  Blake is a great employee.  We can fix this.  Let’s get you cleaned up, and maybe we can compensate you a little extra on your next donation,” you offer.  But Cedric isn’t having it.  He rips off the arm wrap and gauze and throws them at you while screaming expletives.  The bloodied wrap nearly hits your face shield.  Oh, hell no.  He’s a long-term donor, so he’s probably clean, but it’s too close for comfort.

“Blake, call Trina and call the cops.  Get this guy out of here.  Cedric, don’t ever come back to this place,” you calmly instruct, walking backwards to find a biohazard container a safe distance from Cedric, never turning away from him.  Trina, your manager, doesn’t put up with this kind of stuff and will make sure he’s permanently deferred.

“Fuck you, bitch!”  Cedric yells, sprinting out of the center with two fingers on his free hand holding his venipuncture site, some blood dripping underneath.  Once the front door slams shut, you turn around and take off all your PPE and toss it in the biohazard container, saving your nametag and pen.  Frustrated and tired, you walk to the sink to wash your hands.  Keri and Trina approach you.

“You alright, hon?” Trina asks.  She’s a good manager, always looking out for her employees.  She used to work on the Donor Floor, so she’s no stranger to these kinds of mishaps.  Tensions can be hefty in this area – some donors are desperate for money, some fear needles more than death itself, and some are just grumps.  Phlebotomists usually get the brunt of it.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just need to cool off.  I told Blake to call the cops.”  She nods.

“Go ahead.  When the police get here, they’ll want your statement, so I’ll come find you then… I’ll put in the PR now,” she says, giving your arm a supportive squeeze before walking back toward the offices.  You give her a pained smile and look to Keri, equally concerned as Trina.  “Take your afternoon break, love.  I’ll handle everything else,” she says.  “Thanks, Ker.  I’m gonna step in the freezer to cool off and then I’ll go.”  She nods.  You head toward Processing, located at the opposite end of the center.  Processing has two giant walk-in freezers that always maintain temps of -40ºC – great for keeping fresh plasma frozen solid and an instant cool down.

You step in one of the freezers, shutting the heavy door behind you.  You walk over to the fans and stand underneath.  The sweat on your neck and back quickly freezes in its downward track, leaving behind a sting that could soon turn to frostbite.  It doesn’t take long to cool off here, and anybody staying in for longer than a minute is supposed to put on a heavy coat, gloves, and a ski mask.  It’s a popular spot for blistering summer days and after heated interactions like this.  Satisfied with the pink blooming on your fingers and the crunch of your frozen, sweaty hair, you step out of the freezer and make your way outside for your break.

Once at the picnic table at the outdoor employee break area, you do a quick scan for Cedric.  You can see the trails of blood drops leading to and from his car, and an empty space where his car must’ve been parked.  Heaving a sigh of relief, you plop down at the table and massage your temples.  Fuck… glad this day is almost over.

“Sweetheart, you alright?” A soothing, Southern voice rings in your ear and you look up, seeing Joel approach from his truck.  He says your name, surprising you.  Keri must’ve told him it while she was going through the process with him.

You take this moment to return the once-over he gave you earlier.  Twice-over.  His sleeves are still rolled up and you can see his arm wrap.  His jeans crinkle at the hip with each step, his strong, toned quads flexing as each foot contacts the pavement.  You can only imagine what he looks like from behind.  His cowboy boots are worn, the leather cracking around the toes.  He’s probably the type to wear a pair until they crumble to bits.  He walks with a quiet bravado, taking long, smooth strides until he reaches you at the table.

You’ve no doubt you look exhausted.  Though your sweat has frozen, you can feel how frizzy your hair is, especially around your face.  Your eyes sting with fatigue and the skin underneath your eyelids tug downward.  Your throat feels dry and tight, like you might cry soon.  He must notice because the look in his eyes morphs from concern to anger.

“Hi, Joel,” you state, forcing a smile.  “I’m okay.  Not my first rodeo,” you wink, giving him a sarcastic “yee-haw” motion.  He laughs, but his eyes betray him, still showing anger.

“Mind if I sit?” He motions to the spot across from you.

“No, go ahead, but the cops are on their way and who knows if Cedric will be back,” you caution him.  He waves you off.

“That fuckin’ kid don’t scare me, and I saw everythin’ anyway.  I can talk to the cops if you ain’t comfortable,” he says.  He puts his hands on the backs of yours, and you feel another zap in your chest like you did when you first saw him earlier.  You notice now that he doesn’t have a wedding ring.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to.  I’m well versed in this department,” you say, feeling the tears reaching their boiling point.  You do everything you can to keep them in, but one betrays you and falls down your cheek.  Angry that you’re crying in front of Joel, you try to move your hand out from underneath his to wipe the tear, but he beats you to it.

“It’s okay, darlin’.  You did the right thing, stickin’ up for your people,” he soothes, his thumb wiping your tear from your face.  He moves his hand to cup your jaw and swipes his thumb gently over your cheek.  His angry eyes softened back to concerned.

For what feels like an eternity, the two of you stare at each other, exchanging more communication nonverbally than words could ever.  He’s looking at each of your eyes back and forth, and you feel yourself start to get embarrassed under his hot stare.  You try to turn your head away from his gaze, but his hand stops you.  “You’re alright, darlin’, got nothin’ to be ashamed of here,” he says, reading your mind.  You bring your hand up from the table to gently grasp his arm as a sign of appreciation.  His gaze follows and he swallows loudly.

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a genuine, close-lipped smile.  His eyes move to your lips and then quickly dart back to your eyes, like you caught him doing something forbidden.  He removes his hands and stands up, walking over to your side.  He offers a hand to help you up and you accept, letting him pull you to your feet.

“Sorry your first visit back here was so crazy,” you say, and he laughs.  “Hopefully next time it’s not so… exciting.”  He moves his hand up to your shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze before dropping it.  A tingle rips up your spine.

“Oh, I’m sure it will be.”  He gives you that same look that he did earlier, the one where you couldn’t quite figure out what it meant.  This time, though, you think you know exactly what it means.  Your stomach somersaults.

“I’ll see you soon, darlin’.  Hopefully your day gets better,” he says, turning to walk toward his truck.  Once he gets to the driver’s side door, he turns to look at you again and pauses.  You stand and stare at him, wanting to say something in return, but too overwhelmed by all your emotions.  He smiles and gets in the truck, starting it and driving off while watching you with a small wave.  You smile as he leaves.

Fuck.

Next Chapter

[goldenavenger02]

Cant rlly decide which one but what ab the ninja helping each other tend their wounds?

I put a lot of thought into this (and if you're seeing this and sent an ask, I'm working on the rest of them. I just don't really have time to write except at night right now) so I hope you enjoy, anon!

“Guys, do you feel that?” 

“Feel what?”

“It's so warm.” Jay sighed contently with a smile on his face and despite rolling her eyes, Nya still wrapped her arm around his hip and pulled him closer to her.

PIXAL couldn’t help but wonder what had happened in the Never Realm without her assistance but, given the bright pink tint to all of their cheeks as well as the gash across Lloyd’s forehead and bruising on Cole’s arms, it looked as though it had not been a very pleasant experience.

In fact, the only one who looked somewhat normal was Zane, who she had been unable to stop herself from jumping into his arms and yet, even he looked worse for wear; something in his bright blue eyes ached of a sadness that she couldn’t understand nor wanted to dissect in front of the others for his sake.

“While I am glad to see all of you,” Wu finally broke the greetings, turning all of their attention towards him, “perhaps all of you making your way to the medical wing would be a good idea.”

“In the nicest way possible,” PIXAL added, her hand grasped tightly around Zane’s, “all of you are looking a bit worse for wear.”

“Good idea.” Kai agreed, his vision obviously fixated on Lloyd and Nya despite his raw palms, which was only made more clear by his gentle nudging against their shoulder blades.

Jay and Cole followed suit with Wu trailing behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the courtyard, her hand still tightly gripped in his.

“Are you in need of repairs?” She finally asked as she let go of his hand to fully focus her green eyes on him, trying to look past his blue eyes to figure out just what was bothering him.

“I do not believe so.”

“Good. Are you able to be of assistance with the others, then?”

“I’m afraid not,” Zane shook his head, “I need some time to myself, I think, to regain my bearings.”

“Very well. But, when you are ready to talk, I am ready to listen.”

“Thank you, PIXAL.” Zane nodded before making his way towards his sleeping quarters which gave her no choice but to make her way toward the med bay and the workload that lay before her in the form of varying degrees of frostbite at the very least.

It wasn’t unusual for Kai’s concern over the others, especially Nya and Lloyd, to echo throughout the hall leading to the medical wing; after the haunting silence that had filled the monastery for the last couple of weeks, the ruckus was welcoming.

Sure enough, when she stepped through the sliding doors, Kai was sitting on the edge of the cot that Lloyd had taken residence in with Nya and Jay sitting together on the one a few beds down with Nya resting her head on Jay’s shoulder as her glance was firmly fixated on Cole, who had already taken one of the pillows and covered his eyes with it.

Despite the circumstances, seeing all of them together made her smile for a moment before she ran her hands under the running water and donned a pair of nitrile gloves; she turned away from the counter and made eye contact with the five ninja as she asked, “who’s first?”

After some insistence on everyone’s end, trying to get someone else to be the first one, PIXAL decided on Cole so he could go ahead and get what looked like some much needed sleep; he had been uncharacteristically quiet since he had stepped through the portal but she also knew that if she needed to know what was going on in his mind that he would come to her in his own time.

Despite having been a part of their group for a few years now, she still did not feel comfortable pressing any of them to speak to her. Not that she usually had to, with how often they would come to her and vent their individual issues to her as she repaired yet another vehicle or mech.

Maybe it was the fact that she spent a good chunk of time behind Zane’s eyes, with no one speaking directly to her except for Zane until she uploaded her subconscious into The Bounty’s computer while she continued to rebuild herself into the best version she could be.

But Cole didn’t have any severe injuries and was sent out of the med bay to go lay down almost as soon as she started to prod at his unnaturally cold skin. The same was true of Jay, who was the least injured and exhausted of the group, and Nya, who had the familiar dark circles of exhaustion weighing her under eyes down.

Kai’s eyes followed Nya as she walked out of the room, but he quickly snapped his gaze towards PIXAL when she started to examine the red, puffy skin that covered his hands and tried to pull away from her.

“I’m fine, I didn’t hit my head on a tree trunk after being in a different realm for less than twenty four hours.” He insisted, his gaze pointedly on Lloyd as he pointed out the comparison, who flipped him off in return as exhaustion weighed heavy on his face.

“I will address Lloyd’s injuries as well,” she insisted as she pulled out the tube of burn cream and started to apply it to Kai’s injured palms, “but these need to be wrapped up if you do not wish for them to become infected.”

PIXAL didn’t mention that the look of guilt engrained in Lloyd’s features was making her wonder if she knew what had resulted in Zane being so distant when he stepped through the portal after weeks of being alone in a cold, foreign realm.

It didn’t take long for her to wrap up the burns that made their way up Kai’s lower wrists, despite how extensive they were, and send him to his room to get some much needed rest with a promise of checking on how the wounds were healing in a few hours.

She couldn’t help but wonder what Kai said to Lloyd in a whisper just loud enough that it hit his ear before making his way through the sliding doors and leaving the two of them in the room alone; she was quiet as she worked, gently wrapping his cold fingers in loose bandages, cleaning the gash on his forehead and checking the dilation of his pupils which revealed a mild concussion.

It wasn’t until she asked if he had any other injuries and he tugged off the top half of his jade green gi that she found herself holding back a gasp of shock.

The rest of the ice that had remained from the Never Realm had been white and tinged with snow, but PIXAL recognized blue-tinged ice all too well; it was the ice that came from her boyfriend’s fingertips, proving her correct in her hypothesis about Lloyd knowing why Zane had been so distant.

When she finally found the courage to make contact with the green eyes, she could see the regret spilling off of him as she spoke while gently examining the sides of the burn that trailed down most of his right side.

“I think it would be wise for you to tell me why this burn was caused by elemental ice.”

“It’s not-” Lloyd flinched away from her gloved hands with a hiss through his teeth while he gripped the side of the cot tightly in his left hand, “it’s not my place.”

“Lloyd, you are injured and I am doing my best to help you heal,” she explained calmly as she pulled her hands away and approached the counter again to soak one of the compresses in warm water, “that being said, knowing how you obtained the injury will allow me to determine if there is a need to be on the lookout for internal damage.”

He remained quiet as she continued to prepare the compress, making sure that it was warm enough to rewarm the skin but not so hot that it would only cause more harm than good; while she worked, she couldn’t help but wonder why.

Why had Zane attacked Lloyd? Just how distraught was he when he was finally found by the others? And to her, possibly the most worrying thought that made its way to the forefront of her mind was how upset was he with the others now?

“It wasn’t his fault,” Lloyd blurted out with another hiss of pain as she pressed the compress onto his skin, “all of it, it wasn’t…he was lied to.”

“Please, Lloyd. I wish to know exactly what happened, for everyone’s sake,” she stopped to maneuver the compress so it covered the entirety of the burn, “and it’s not like you do not have the time to speak to me.”

It seemed to PIXAL that her words were the final push that Lloyd had needed to finally give her all of the details. About the Ice Emperor, about the final message he found in the cave and about Vex and how he had twisted Zane’s erased mind into a ruler set on destruction and control.

“That’s how I got this,” Lloyd finished with a gesture to his side, “I was trying to stop him and because he had that scroll, I…I wasn’t able to keep him busy for long.”

“I never did like holding that scroll.” PIXAL pressed her lips together tightly in order to keep her thoughts about what she would have done to Vex if she had followed them to herself, all while gathering the supplies to loosely wrap the burn.

“You and me both.” Lloyd’s chuckle was dry as it hit her ears but not surprising, given what Nya had told her about both Lloyd’s experience holding the scroll as well as the mirror that sat inside of the Explorer’s Club.

“I require you to sit up, if you are able,” she spoke, unable to keep herself from gritting her teeth in sympathy as he pushed himself upright with his brows furrowed in pain, before she was able to start wrapping the large burn loosely, “I will speak to Zane if you wish, he might be more receptive to my interpretation of the situation.”

“Which is?”

“That he was brainwashed into going against his programming and that I have some very strong choice words for this “Vex” for what he did to him as well as the others.”

“Good inter-” a yawn cut him off, “interpretation.”

“You should get some rest,” PIXAL insisted while pulling the clean, white sheet over him, “I shall return in around an hour to see if I need to continue to treat your burn with the compress. Would you like me to ask Kai if he will keep you company?”

“Nah, he needs the rest.” Lloyd mumbled as he rested his pink-tinted cheek against the white pillowcase, his hair sprawling around his head.

As soon as she could hear the snoring, however, PIXAL knew she couldn’t rest and made her way out of the medical wing of the monastery towards the individual sleeping quarters.

After all, she still had to speak to Zane.

[the-slasher-files]

[CALL OF DUTY]

A LIFE WITH HER

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY x FEM!OC

Hello friends! It has been a while, but I'm excited to return and do more exciting things! So, this piece is an introduction to a new oc I have been working on, Simon's girl. Her name is Cholena "Raven" Belanger, name is pronounced Ko-LEE-nah. A beautiful, powerful and now civilian Metis woman. This fic is angsty comfort with hints of smut and gore... I hope you enjoy as much as I do 🔪🤍 MASTERLIST

A long sigh departed from rose tainted lips, the breath was deep and bone rattling. Almost 40 hours straight in the hospital, running around to codes of all types, tending to wounds, directing 3 teams beneath her, and doing all the paperwork as coworkers shifts changed over and over again.

"... Fuck..." Green eyes cascaded down to the blue gloves that were now drying in deep brown once bright crimson.

"Stay with me now, solider," the thumping of the helicopter blades above you drowning out your strained voice. The words were more for yourself as you held your teammates shoulder together. You could feel his heart pounded with the blood that drenched the bandages. "... Almost there"

He was fading and you didn't have enough medical supplies here, not in the air, all you could do was give directions through the radio for the medical staff on the grounds to be prepared for 3 soldiers you saved. You saved them. You hoped you did as the man's breath below you wanned. "Come on... fuck..."

Finally, the helicopter landed. It had felt like hours, painful, hopeless hours sitting in that plane, and you were left there. Slumped on your knees as the men were taken away, your men that you prayed to any god listening that they would go home to their families, but you knew that there was no god above you as the red faded to brown.

"Cholena?" There was a faint voice, "... Hey, Cholena?"

Keen emerald eyes flew upwards as the gentle hand squeezed her shoulder, flinching it off in the wake of a flashback.

It was her coworker, the one who was her equal and switching her out on the shift, took a step back with his hands face up in defence and presenting no threat. Jonathan knew of your past, obviously not understanding it completely, but there were times she spilled the truth of her PTSD.

"Sorry," He whispered, "...hey, it's ok. He lived,"

There was a held breath that she released, one she wasn't aware that was held. Relief washed over her tense frame as an innocent man riding his motorcycle home and was struck by a car could go home tonight. But, she couldn't ease the tension as that feeling of relief was quickly numbed. This woman lived through wars, saw death more than anyone in her team would ever know, and faced it multiple times herself, somehow living today. She was numbed to this. It was just another day.

"Co, please go home... get some sleep and long shower, okay?" Jonathan stared at the dried blood on the once sterile gloves, then back to her eyes. "Text me tomor—"

Interrupted by the coder on his lanyard going off, quickly giving a pat on her shoulder and running off down the white-walled hallway, "Go home! Get sleep!" He yelled back, trying to be some type of light to get her to smile... and it worked.

With a shake of her head, the smile slowly faded, peeling the nitrile gloves off and getting herself ready to go home. Home. A strange word to her as she spent the past 2 months more between the cold cement walls of the hospital than in the comfort of a home she shared, half the time alone. One more week. It repeated in her head, that British accent across the gritted phone lines.

Tense muscles guarded by heavy black tactical gear stood in front of the sink, emerald eyes, bloodshot and staring as the water washed you clean. It was too hot but you couldn't feel it. Just scrubbing over and over again the pores of your skin, rubbing them raw and steam coating your face. The water ran clear long ago, but all you could hear was the screams calling your name to help, to save them.

"Raven... Raven, shit" A voice lay unheard.

Quickly shifting around your frozen body, he turned off the tap, grasping your shoulders and turning you to look at him. Look within the deep amber masked in smeared paint. Grounding you as your hands shook desperately clawing at his vest, tears streaming heavy and collapsing within solid arms that held you up.

"I couldn't save them... I could've. I-I could've... Ghost" Your body broke against him, sobs caught into him like he could take care of it all, and he wished he could. On days like these, he wished you never thought about being in the military, you should be home, nestled in the arms of your lover and watching some dumb tv show and falling asleep in peaceful bloom.

"I know angel, I know," He clenched tightly around your frame, protecting you "One more week, just one more week"

Throwing the bloody scrubs away into the neon hazard bins, Cholena changed into some jeans and just threw on a larger, much larger hoodie that kissed halfway down her muscular thighs, the smell faded but it was still his regardless. Saying goodbye with silent waves, the exhaustion began to creep in as each step led her closer and closer out of the god-forsaken building.

Shrugging her military-issued backpack on one shoulder, she walked through the automatic sliding doors and stepped into the pitch-black night as it was softly raining. Rounding to the back of the hospital and towards the train station, beaming street lights above had her attention drawn to a black truck and a man leaning against it, cigarette in hand.

"No trains tonight, sweetheart," The familiar voice, one of comfort and home, hit her like a bullet, a gunshot clapping like thunder, it made her stop for a moment to process that he was actually here.

"Simon..."

He walked forward, tossing the cigarette to the cold, wet pavement and she walked faster, meeting him more than halfway under the warm glow of the lamp above. Reaching only a foot apart, Simon's body covered in hers in an everlasting shadow, his phantom that she welcomes whole. Sweet lotion of shea butter and coconut met fire and metal that mixed together in cascading rain making reflections at their feet.

This was something they always did when meeting again and again, no matter the territory, sand, snow, rain, concrete, rubble, blood and gore. They let their senses adapt to each other before utter absorption.

"You're home," Soldiers don't have homes, but he made one in her.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be" Simon admitted the truth openly for her to bare and she took it all without question.

Wrapping her hands around his thick neck, green eyes meeting warm hooded amber, easily, as if she was nothing, he lifted her with strong hands supporting her thighs. As many times as he would hold her, she never failed to seem so small. At first, it was out of place when Ghost held her, like a rabbit seeking comfort within the paws of a wolf, but something in their souls fit together in a bloody puzzle and now it was home.

"God, I missed you," she exhaled all her stress as if he could ease all her pain and tucked into his neck, shuttering with exhaustion and the overwhelming feeling of having him back.

He didn't respond, and he did not need to. The rumble of a storm at sea grew within Simon's chest, and she heard it, clinging closer as if it was possible. Slowly, the scent of tantalizing pine and musk sprouted as her nose brushed under the mask. It was just the simple balaclava allowing you to see the shape of his face and the yellow that brushed through brown wartorn eyes. She never pushed for him to take it off. It was his security and his alone. When Ghost was ready to fall into the shadows, he would, always there beneath the skin, but that was when she would protect him the most.

Secure gloved hands began to wander, muscles flexing each time he could feel her shake within his hold, and Simon brought his head back, about to speak, but she beat him to it, tensing slightly, "J-just a long shift,"

Another rumble, softer this time, rolled through him, "Well, let's get you home, pigeon,"

Whenever Simon called her that, he knew it would earn a smile, perhaps a huff of sweet laughter, one that he wished he could hear forever. Everyone called her Raven. It was her call sign. Even her family used it as an honour, and no one questioned it. The onyx long hair, her feather-light touch even while stitching brutal wounds, the way she was ever graceful with sniper and was a beacon of life and death altogether. Not to count out her indigenous roots calling to her the title, a feather often within her hair on the battlefield, creative, cunning with an intuition like no one else on the team. She was a raven, glorious to him in every way, so the fact that he called her pigeon would almost be an insult.

Moving effortlessly, Simon placed her in the passenger seat of his truck, the leather slightly squeaking when Cholena took off her backpack. Eyes watching as the love of her life got into the seat beside her, a warm smile gracing her as he looked massive within the closed space.

The armoured truck was parked in the dimly lit garage of the safe house. Everyone had found a spot in the old farmhouse to settle in for the night, but you couldn't sleep, and neither could he.

"Ghost," Your moans filled the truck. Trying to stifle the noises begging you to scream, "Please. Fuc-"

"That feel good, huh?" Accent thick with pleasure as he leaned across the middle console, your head buried within the crook of Ghost's neck. His devastating hands taking what he wanted and giving what you needed. "So fucking needy for me,"

He hummed lowly, sounding more like a growl as calculated eyes watched his fingers slip in and out of your cunt, dripping on the seat and cascading along inked skin. Curling knuckle deep inside sent a shockwave through you, shaking and biting his jacket with gentle mumbles and whines. Ghost could feel you were close, fisting your soft black hair to make you pull back with a hiss.

"Look at me when you cum," He groaned feeling your walls clench tightly around strong fingers and you let go. Your teeth biting hard on your bottom lip to not make a sound, your legs shaking and dark brown eyes observing you, eating you whole as you came undone. "Such a good girl"

Ghost whispered now, the hard skull of his mask bowed against your forehead. You saw him, not the commanding force but the man beneath the bones and viscera of a legend, and he allowed it. He was safe with you between the fogging windows. It was just you and him in your world, cupping his jaw as he mirrored the actions.

"Such a beautiful girl," Simon spoke, barely above a whisper as Cholena nuzzled into his hands. Green eyes speaking to his brown in a dead language they brought back to life.

"Such a handsome man," She replied smoothly "my handsome man"

His eyes crinkled with a smile beneath the mask, placing a kiss on her forehead. Simon was still adjusting, not quite ready for his lips to feel hers, for him to feel 100% human yet. His mind was still half inside the battlefield being the embodiment of his callsign and haunting over the ones he protected with his life.

Cholena's soft fingers grazed down Simon's body, releasing her own tension and grounding him back to her at the same time. "Let's go home," She found herself whispering, eyes becoming heavy and body letting go in his presence, relaxing and easing, slumping into the seat as he gruffly nodded.

As he drove away from the city, the rain and darkening of fewer city lights lulled her into a soft sleep. Their fingers interlocked naturally together the whole drive, brown eyes floating over to watch her peaceful state reminding him that he was safe, he was home and he was hers.

Pulling into the driveway of their forested home just outside of the busy city, Simon turned off the truck and released a sigh. A shutter rolled through him this time, sharing a similar exhaustion and flood of relaxation. It was time to be a man again. Pausing for a quiet moment, his eyes closed, the freehand holding the steering wheel reached up to the soft fabric on his face and pulled the balaclava off. Strong, chiselled features made his face, scars and healed broken bones made him who he was, a man she loved wholeheartedly, but someone he strayed away from most of his life. Keen amber caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror and he stared almost as if he couldn't recognize who he was without the skull mask.

"Simon," She whispered groggily, even half asleep she could feel himself begin to crawl within his own head and her small hand flexed on his.

Cursing lowly he got out of the truck, rounded the vehicle and opened her door. Simon grabbed her bag first before he picked Cholena up bridal style trying not to shift or wake her much.

Flashes of fire, blurred black and white melted together in your vision. You could taste the copper and feel the smoke burning through you. It was hot, pure violent hellish heat consuming your soul. Were you screaming or crying as your breath felt like broken glass slicing through your ribcage? No one was listening except the reaper. It didn't matter.

It was a landmine that went off and no one could see it until bodies were broken and the building beside you had collapsed. Concrete, rebar, wood, and electrical had all come down within seconds and you were gone. The world turned and your team was gone.

Blood seeping through your gear made wide streaks in the dirt around you, barely able to lift your head, but your body tried to crawl away on pure instinct. In and out, the world faded. Tasting your life force being torn away so brutally. And you couldn't hear the voices on the radio anymore, no screams or calls for you, everyone checking on position and counting the injuries.

"SHE'S HERE"

A black shadowy figure stood before you, it was him, death coming to take you and your lids closed.

"S-stay, NO, STAY WITH ME. RAVEN... Cholena, keep those eyes open!" A barking scared tone made your eyes flutter open, only seconds at a time before falling back into darkness.

A white skull now covered in soot, bore down at your helpless frame that was clinging to life. He kept talking, orders yelled and words directed at you that were no longer understood, Ghost had never spoken this much in war but the rumble in his chest kept you sane. With every jostle of your body, you felt something horrid, it would catch on soaked clothes and send violent shocks through you. It was bone being held together by your gear. It was your spine.

"Simon..." Your voice was weak but you whispered his name, his real name over and over. He wasn't your reaper.

"Simon..." Cholena whined, nuzzling into his hoodie as she was set down on the big comfy bed, "don't go"

"I'm not going anywhere, angel... Never"

"I'm not going anywhere, angel... Never"

[321spongebolt]

Fluttershy reaching her hand out while wearing just her gloves from her scientist outfit. If you ever wanted to feel her hands, the palms of her gloves are soft and smooth, while the fingertips are rough and textured.

Credit for the Fluttershy character base goes to DeviantArt user   yaya54320bases.

[anthrofreshtodeath]

P FKN R Intro

I'm at work, sort of working, sort of tinkering with some writing stuff at lunch, especially the beginning of P FKN R in hopes that I might manufacture some inspiration. Too soon to tell, but maybe if I share it here that will spur me on some more. Here we go!

___

Jamaica Plain’s cars were jammed onto its narrow streets, effectuating a one-way rule by default; those that did crawl through broadcasted an amalgam of sounds into the Latin Quarter: Spanish talk radio, classic rock, and of course, full and knocking reggaetón beats.

Jamaica Plain’s three-story homes groaned as they expanded at high noon, stacked and running from one end of Chestnut Avenue to the other, one of those narrow streets in the time-honored New England style. In another facet of that tradition, its air rippled in a summer scorcher, wafting smells over from La Isla café on the corner: the strong oil-sweet of fried plantains and roasted pork, the kind Jane Rizzoli liked to order with a side of rice when she sat down at one of their vinyl-topped, worn-in, peach-colored tables. 

JP pulsated at lunch time. 

Jane’s stomach gurgled when she remembered her last meal: a chugged cup of coffee at the marble counter in the Beacon Hill home of the woman kneeling over the body they’d been called to investigate. The image of it was made more grotesque by the contrast of her Aeron skirt and Bottega Veneta heels with the contorted limbs of the man on the walkup in broad daylight. 

Jane still liked it, Maura Isles’ high-class wardrobe and the attitude it brought to neighborhoods like this, neighborhoods like her own. That attitude, the I’m the hottest in the room chest-beating, shoulder-brushing mindset, matched what Jane always knew about Boston’s real cultural pockets. The ones with subsidized housing and community gardens and spots like La Isla. “Watcha got for me?” Jane said by way of greeting.

Maura looked up, her long, highlighted hair swishing to the other shoulder when she shook it out. Her green eyes shimmered and she smirked when Jane winked. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Saw ya like thirty minutes ago,” said Jane. “And if we hurry this up, cut the pleasantries, I can take you right on over to that restaurant and introduce you to the best lunch you’ll ever eat in JP.” She pointed to the wide-open window view of the restaurant just a football field away.

“Hmm,” Maura replied, “I could be persuaded, I suppose. Penetrating wounds to the chest and abdomen, surrounding shell casings would indicate he was shot.”

Jane pursed her lips and smiled at the same time. She crossed her nitrile-gloved hands over her hips and shrugged under her blazer for some relief from the beads of sweat rolling down her back. She should not have worn black in late June. “You don’t say,” she teased. But then, quickly back to business, she pointed to the decedent’s broken ankle, distorted and impossibly angled toward midline. “That from this fall?” She asked.

Maura stood, narrowed her brows at Jane’s narrowed brow. “Can’t say right now,” she answered. “But these steps are narrow and uneven. It’s possible.”

“Even if it isn’t, he wa’n’t goin’ very far,” Jane commented. She clenched her jaw, and her masseter muscle clicked in investigatory concentration. “What’s on his hand?”

“Burns,” Maura said. They shared a look, one that only experience, only dozens and dozens of murders, could engender. A car door slammed and footsteps approached as they communicated about the man on the ground without words.

Maura never went to JP unless there was work to be done, and Jane? Jane really only traveled out this way for murder anymore, which was a damn shame because the food was good, and so was the company - even if that company happened to be related to the asshole walking up to them now. “Hey oh - the hell are you doin’ at my crime scene?” barked Jane.

Rafael Martinez, lieutenant of the Drug Control Unit.

Tall, dark-skinned, in a baby blue v-neck stretched against his defined chest, with a Boricua jawline that showcased his trimmed beard like art. He ran his hand over his shaved head once, and licked his lips on his way to the woman shouting at him. “I could ask you the same thing, Rizzoli,” he said through a wicked smile, all white teeth and innate pride. Just as he held out his arms to really rub in his obtusity, a lowered, electric green and black Impreza roared past them, changing Martinez’s mirth to ire, now directed entirely to the street. “Ey!” he shouted, the car already long gone. Then he stepped onto the sidewalk and dusted his dark, slim fit jeans. “Swear to god if one more lowrider tries to run me off the road, I’m outta this city.”

Jane scoffed. “You already were outta this city, remember? Almost a decade. They ain’t got those in New York, Mr. Hot Shot?”

Martinez stared at her, awed by both her attitude and her mouth, until he shook his head of its disbelief. Maura smiled at him as if to commiserate, and held her medical bag in front of her as she faced him. “Not that we’re not happy to have you-”

“We’re not,” Jane interrupted.

Maura glared with a good-natured, nonverbal shut up that worked, at least for the moment. “Like I said - not that we’re not happy to have you, but a federal task force in New York City with the chance for so much more? What brings you back to Boston?”

“Homesick, I guess, doc,” Martinez replied with a cheeky grin. Maura nodded and out of habit, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Jane was unmoved by his obfuscation and his easy Boston-Latin accent. “Bullshit,” she said, “you live for that. You live for the thrill. And the juice.”

Rafael shrugged. “Whatchu want me to say, Rizzoli?” he overtrilled the r of her surname on purpose, in the way that both Italians and Puerto Ricans do. “Me voy a caballo y vengo a pie, eh? Didn’t turn out, no matter how bad I wanted it. When you come from the neighborhoods that Paddy Doyle runs, the Bureau gets certain ideas about where your loyalties are. Especially if you BPD.”

Maura bowed her head in embarrassment, and Jane actually twitched her nose at that one. A droplet of perspiration ran down it, a sign that she’d been in the sun too long. “Well that sucks. Sorry. Still don’t answer why you’re here, steppin’ all over my toes.”

“That,” he started again, pointing to the victim sprawled on the porch of the house they surrounded, “is one of the main earners of the Kill Shot Gang. New crew muscling their way into JP. And I…” he drew out the pronoun for emphasis, “needa find out who did it. I already got your bro out there runnin’ ops for me.” He threw his head in the direction of the strip mall at the intersection of Chestnut and Weaver, a block that saw a lot of traffic. Literal and metaphorical.

“You got an Italian infiltrating the Latin drug trade? Sounds like all you’re doin’ is lookin’ for ways to get him killed,” growled Jane. She marched her long body toward him, her posture designed for intimidation. 

Martinez laughed. “Would you calm down? I know what I’m doing,” he told her, stepping into her aggression, opening his chest to it, bringing his face close to her hers. He smiled when she glared. “And other Rizzoli’s a grown man. Despite you and your ma’s best efforts.”

Just as Jane initiated her lunge, Maura caught it, her fingers wrapped firmly around Jane’s bicep. “Jane-”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Jane, body bridled for the moment, unfurled some biting words, “don’t think I don’t remember your mommy comin’ down the station with sack lunches for all of us.”

“Alright, alright, listen,” Martinez put up his hands when he acquiesced, because she had a point. “One: I don’t remember you complaining about all that food when it was put in front of you. Two: I will personally make sure that he stays safe. You got my word.”

Jane pulled out of Maura’s grip and sighed. Rafael’s deep and steady voice, when divorced from deceptive intent and real life experiences at his side, inspired faith. It made people want to believe. But Jane had been his partner for too long. She had been in his bed for too long. “Yeah, that’s my worry,” she grumbled quietly. She took stock of his eyes one last time, brown and expressive and alive, and let them give her that little jolt they had before all the history came seeping in. 

He took stock right back, and the passion that had always burned in him shook her, passion for her that she could never reciprocate. She broke first, turning her head to Maura at her side - Maura, who had a pretty indulgent grin on her face. “It seems you have business,” Maura said, hand on Jane’s back. “I can take a rain check for lunch. Meet me for the autopsy?” 

“Y-yeah,” Jane stuttered. 

“But don’t wait up for her too long,” Martinez butted in. He winked at Maura, in a way that reminded her of Jane. “Because I’ve got a task force on KSG that I have a feeling Detective Rizzoli here is gonna want in on.”

Maura regarded him for a long time, without regard for the social rules on how long a person should stare, before she decided on a smile of her own. “I’m the Chief ME, lieutenant. I’ll wait for whomever I want, however long I want.” She winked back, clearly in mockery of his previous display, and then bid them her goodbyes.

Jane held in her laughter as Martinez withered under both the midday sun and Maura’s retort. “Man it’s hot. Let’s get this processed so we can get back to the ranch.”

[scopostims]

yi suchong (bioshock) stimboard with science-y stims for 🗺️ anon :•]

[ID: A 3x3 stimboard themed around Yi Suchong from Bioshock, the center image being a torn poster of him. Clockwise from top left, the GIFs show:

GIF 1: Someone putting on purple nitrile gloves.

GIF 2: An Erlenmeyer flask filled halfway with blue liquid being swirled around while being held at the neck.

GIF 3: Someone piping measurement lines onto a cookie shaped like an Erlenmeyer flask with a purple liquid and green bubbles inside.

GIF 4: Red liquid being drawn out of a beaker with a large food syringe.

GIF 5: Someone wearing a labcoat and latex gloves standing behind a test tube behind held by a metal arm, putting a liquid into it with a pipette.

GIF 6: Fluorescent blue liquid being swirled around inside a boiling flask.

GIF 7: Two Erlenmeyer flasks, one with a green liquid and ice inside and one with a blue liquid and ice inside, and a white liquid is poured into the blue one, clouding and slightly mixing with it.

GIF 8: A close up of a row of test tubes, two already filled with blood and a third being filled with blood.

End ID]

[dontfeeltoohot]

Have a little 2k thing I wrote for my YTAU. Steve and Eddie are both sick, set in March 2023, 7 months into their relationship.

XXX

Eddie presses his face to his shoulder, rubbing his nose into his black Helloween tee. He’s over halfway done with his second client; some girl in her twenties who wanted flowers on her collarbones- how original. Sniffling, he wipes down the tattoo with his green soap solution and then goes back to shading the side of a leaf. His throat’s worse than earlier back at home, when he’d been curled up with Steve, both of the men sick and tired. 

Sometimes the tattoo artists wishes work didn’t exist, as he scrunches his nose up when a tickle winds its way through his sinuses. Picking up the gun and turning as far away as he possibly can, craning his neck, Eddie brings his arm up to his face. 

“iiHGkSH’ew! hihKTchuhEW! hh’GKtSCH’uhew!” Sniffling soupily, the long haired man grabs a paper towel from his station and blows his nose, wincing at the noise. “Let’s take a five minute break sweetheart, I need to wash up, and it’ll give you a rest from the pain,” he smiles.

“Yeah, sounds good. Bless you, by the way.” 

The way she looks him up and down has him giving her an awkward nod, knowing now that she’s flirting with him. Clearing his throat and wincing as it scrapes, he stands and throws the paper towel and his black nitrile gloves away in the wastebasket, then heads to the back where the bathrooms are. Yanking his phone out, Eddie clicks quickly to his and Steve’s text thread, then hits the voice message button, nostrils twitching. 

“hiKTsch’ew! snf! huhIhGKschEW! eh’IGkTCHew! SNDF!” He sneezes into his shirt so the sound isn’t as muffled, then clicks the stop button on his phone. 

Hope you enjoy, princess. Couldn’t catch a couple a few minutes ago, but hope these make up for them. 

Pressing send, it’s then he notices there’s an audio from Steve, too. Biting his lip, he makes sure his sound is down almost all the way, then puts the speaker up to his ear. 

“huhRESHHH’uh! EISHHuh!” There’s barely a pause between the loud, harsh sneezes, and Eddie squirms, imagining his boyfriend snapping at the waist, completely at the mercy of his worsening cold. 

“Fuck, Steve,” he grumbles, sniffling and scrubbing his nose with his wrist before looking back at the screen and typing. 

Also, bless you. Those sounded like you needed them. Can’t wait till we’re home and I can coax more out of you 😏😏

Peeing and washing his hands, Eddie sighs at the throbbing in his sinuses and the sluggish mess that’s making its way closer to the edge of his nostrils. This cold is by far the worst he’s endured in the string of Steve-born illnesses in the past seven months. 

The walk back to his station includes Peter stopping him and asking him if he’s free tomorrow; his day off, to be an extra set of hands for walk ins. 

“Oh, uh…” Eddie scrubs at his face. “Lemme get back to you? Think I’m comin’ down with something man, don’t wanna spread it around.” 

“Steve really is a germ magnet isn’t he?” Bryson pipes up from his station a few feet down, working on a man’s back. 

“Yeah, it’d be endearing if I could side step getting it too,” the artist jokes, even though realistically he doesn’t mind. 

“Oh well, maybe it’ll end up building up your immunity in the long run.” 

“My immune system was perfect before him,” Eddie chuckles. “But it’s ok. Just means spending time with my boyfriend curled up on the couch. He’s not a terrible patient like Alyssa is,” he gives Bryson a look, referring to the man’s girlfriend. 

“God she’s the worst. Like just rest for twenty damn minutes!” 

Eddie heads back to his area, pulling more gloves on. “You ready to finish up? We should be done soon.” 

“Yeah! But it’s really not that bad. I don’t know why people claim it hurts so much, it feels good to me.” She shimmies her shirt off again, revealing just a bandeau top, easy access to her clavicle. 

“Mm, probably just have a higher pain tolerance,” he explains, not wanting to play into her games. He starts his tattoo gun back up, dips the needles into the ink again, and goes to work. 

An hour and a half later, the musician is saying goodbye to Anna, smiling at the $80 tip she’s just handed him. At least that’s a plus. Shoving it into his pocket, he switches the money for his insulin pump, checking it quickly. When his numbers seem good, Eddie blows his nose again and coughs, shivering. A noise from his phone grabs his attention and he unlocks the screen. 

Audio message- 4 seconds

Audio message- 11 seconds 

Audio message - 7 seconds 

Audio message- 22 seconds

Jesus Christ. 

You trying to kill me at work? I can’t even listen right now. 

Just thought you’d wanna hear how my cold is 😇

Harrington, you little shit, you’re going to be the death of me. 🍆👅🤤

Nose running, Eddie sighs and rips yet another paper towel from the roll, pressing it right to his pink, oversensitive nostrils, blowing thickly. He can feel the paper get wet and grimaces- he finds mess from other people hot, but himself? Not so much. He drops down into his chair and lets his forehead thunk against his table, curls falling everywhere around his face. 

“Maybe you should head home early,” Liz, their only female in the shop, observes. 

“Nah, s’just a cold, don’t need to leave for it,” Eddie picks his head up slowly, feeling congestion shift as he does. “F-Fuck hold ohhhn-“ the tattooist turns away and pulls the neck of his shirt up over his face, aiming downward towards his chest. 

“hihGhKschew! sndf! Ugh, s-sorry that wahhs hehIHGKshhuhew! iiEIshuhew! Fuck! snfSNDF! That was gross.” 

“Yep,” Liz grimaces. “But like, also who cares? You’re sick, what’re you meant to do? Those tiny little kitten sneezes? Gotta at least get that shit out,” she shrugs.

Eddie’s acutely aware of how weird this conversation is. Either the woman is just that vanilla, or she’s fucking with him and into it. Because no regular person is going to just…say those words. Right? He rubs at his nose with the inside of his sleeve cuff, nose too sore to want to bother with another paper towel. 

“Stop germing your shirt up,” the bright pink haired girl rolls her eyes fondly. 

“Quit being a mom, I get that enough from St-sndf! Steve.” 

“Then quit being a bad sick person.” 

“Fuck you, I’m an Angel. I’m the best sick person.” 

“Says the guy who just rubbed snot all over his shirt.” 

Point 1- Liz. 

XXX

Steve’s been holed up in the back office of Not Just Coffee all morning with his tissues and cough drops, trying to reorganize some of their recipe files they’ve been keeping. As he squints at the computer screen, his nose scrunches up involuntarily and he scrubs at it with his knuckles. This fucking cold is going to make him lose his mind. It’s constantly teasing him, buzzing in his sinuses and head in a way that’s keeping him on edge. Slowly he inhales through his stuffy nose, triggering yet another itch to ignite. He taps the record button on his phone that’s been open to his messages all morning. 

“eHISHHooh! hhrIHDSTCHuh!” He rubs his nose harshly with the back of his hand, jiggling the tip and his septum, desperate for even slight relief. Steve’s sure Eddie will hear him rubbing at it. He stops it after a sickly sounding sniffle that makes him cough. 

Robin comes in looking worried a minute later, carrying a large mug full of something steaming. 

“I know you hate tea, but you should drink some. Will even made it special for you,” she says pointedly. “Stop being an idiot and try to not wallow in icky germs.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow, laughing a little. “Icky germs?” His voice is raspy and congested and Robin screws her face up, setting the mug down and backing up dramatically. 

“Just…drink the tea, and try not to infect every inch of the office,” Robin walks out quickly. 

“Great best friend you are!” He calls after her, but starts coughing by the last word. 

Glancing at the tea when his throat throbs, the barista sighs and brings it close, sipping on it. His face still screws up at the bitter taste, but even he can admit it feels good on his swollen throat, the warmth of the cup even feels good on his hands. Throughout the day, he manages to catch several more sneezes, even a few that turn into full blown fits, and the texts he gets back from his boyfriend make him blush. 

The brunette is half asleep in the desk chair when Robin comes in again, holding the till in her hands hours later. 

“Dingus, wake up enough to count the till. I’m not touching the keyboard,” she says resolutely, prodding Steve’s shoulder with her finger. 

“Nngh, fi’de…” Steve sits up and starts going through the task of counting the till, making change, sealing the money bag and putting everything in the safe. 

“You know you’re not coming in tomorrow right?” 

“Honestly? Wasn’t even gonna ask,” he admits, snuffling into a couple of tissues in his hand, blowing his nose and wincing as his ears pop. “Ugh, let’s get out of here.” 

By the time Steve’s walking into Eddie’s apartment; Robin’s up with Chrissy, he’s ready to collapse. Shutting the door behind him, Steve coughs and throws his bag by the couch, debating if he wants to shower or lay down. His boyfriend's big couch and cozy blankets win out, and soon the barista is burrowing under them, sweatpants and sweatshirt now replacing his work clothes. Not ten minutes into Hunger Games, he’s asleep. 

XXX

They need more medicine, Eddie realizes as he backs out of his parking spot behind the tattoo shop. Medicine, tissues, tea, soup. This morning they were sick but sure as hell not this sick. He makes the three mile drive to Target, slipping his sweatshirt on before he heads inside, knowing he probably looks awful. Oh fucking well, he can cough on anyone who might look at him wrong. 

He grabs both DayQuil and NyQuil, Tylenol, sugar free cherry cough drops, tissues, some earl grey tea, and then the musician stands in front of the ridiculous number of soups, staring blankly at it. Steve likes tomato soup and grilled cheese, so they can do that tomorrow. Eddie doesn’t really want anything tonight, let alone soup, but he grabs two cans of chicken noodle and a can of vegetable, head aching too much to try and focus more. 

By the time the artist is heading to the register, a few people around him have given him looks as he’s sniffled and coughed. His nose is running and he can feel the same coldish tickle that’s been bothering him all day start to grow. There’s a couple people in front of him for the self checkout line, so he pulls the neck of his dark grey sweatshirt up and his eyes flutter shut. 

“ihIKtSCHuhew! hh’Igkshuhew! ih’IHgKSHuh!!” The last one is louder than he means it to be, and the sniffle he gives after makes him cringe at how wet it is. 

Twenty minutes and six sneezes later, he’s walking inside his apartment, happy that Steve’s there. All he wants is to cuddle, which, yeah alright, maybe that’s a little sappy but he’s so damn tired and he feels gross and cuddling Steve always helps. When he sees a lump on the couch, he sets the bags down on the table and moves straight for the other man. 

“Stevie…baby I’m home,” he murmurs to the business owner, sitting on the very edge of the couch. “Steve, sweetheart. Come on…there we go, I’m sorry I woke you,” he smiles at Steve’s pouty huff, head barely peeking out of the blanket nest. 

“Y’home?” 

“Yeah baby, m’hone,” Eddie nods, bending closer so he can rub his face into Steve’s shoulder. 

“Mm, come join me. Think this cold is kicking my ass.” 

“Doin’ the same to me. I’ll change and be right with you okay? Don’t fall back asleep till I’m with you.” 

By the time Eddie’s back in the living room, Steve’s asleep, drooling on his pillow. Eddie chuckles and snaps a photo, setting it at his Lock Screen before crawling in next to him. 

[hungerpunch]

yuki/your choice + knife hehehegegeye

why youuuu--!! ,,ԾㅂԾ,, this got so long for no reason

yuki is confused as all hell when he heaves open the reinforced door of his atelier—

("it's a hovel," pierre says.

"no," yuki says, "it's an atelier. a workshop!"

pierre looks around the cramped space and then drags the toe of his combat boot through the dirt, literal dirt, on the floor pointedly. "yuki," he says, the thin rim of his eyewear changing from a soft white to a sassy orange around his left eye, "it's a fucking shed.")

—to see a short, kinda lanky… guy. just some guy. with an unkempt beard and wild hair that is not contained at all by a very grimy headband.

they look human—only human, that is, from what yuki can see. and are entirely without armor. no mask or helmet of any kind. a dark green hoodie and cargo shorts adorn a slight, soft build rather than the kevlar kits and polyethylene plates that yuki sees on his high-end clients and the battle vests full of cheap screwback steel studs and spikes on everybody else.

he knows he's gaping but that's because he's wondering if this person is lost. they did knock using the assigned passcode, though…

"can i come in?" the person—yuki's appointment log says seb—asks, wincing. "it's loud out here."

yuki is so acclimated to the airships coming and going from the nearby docks that he doesn't notice them anymore. he also lives his life in noise-control earwear, though.

"yeah," he says quickly, remembering himself. he steps back and ushers seb inside. "sorry, come in, come in."

"no problem," seb says, moving past him. yuki's space is so small that there's not even a suggestion that there is anywhere to go besides the work table, so that's where seb gravitates as yuki shuts the door and does up all his locks: biometric, button electronic, and a good ole thumbturn deadbolt to boot. when he turns around, seb is pouring over his admittedly chaotic array of tools. yuki calls it organized mess.

"seb," they introduce themselves casually as they look, hands still tucked in the safety of their hoodie pouch. "i'm your two o'clock."

"yeah," yuki says again, "i was expecting you." well. expecting a client. not necessarily expecting this. "i'm yuki."

(pierre says yuki is foolish for giving his government name to clients. in return, yuki says pierre is overbearing.)

"yes," seb says, spinning to face him with a bright smile. "the best of the best, i've heard." before yuki can blush or deflect or even avert eye contact, seb is continuing: "shall we get started?"

yuki flourishes a hand toward the single stool adjacent to his work table. "let's."

seb sits primly on the stool and yuki slides into his usual chair, outfitted with every mod he could think of for ergonomic comfort. being an only human himself, he started noticing his body's aches and pains more and more as his book of business grew and his days got longer.

once seated, he removes a fresh set of black nitrile gloves from their sterile packaging where seb can see him and rolls them on. as he's fussing with getting them perfectly comfortable around each of his fingers, he asks, "may i ask your pronouns, seb?"

seb beams. "you may!" he says cheerily. "he/him, please. and you?"

yuki inclines his head. "same." gloves in place, he extracts a small, square sheet of sani from its case of fluid disinfectant for seb's skin before he realizes he doesn't know what he needs yet. clearing his throat, he makes a show of using the sani to wipe down the metal tray he'll use to keep selected tools for whatever they do—tweezers, pivots, files, pliers, lasers; you name it, yuki has it. "what can i do for you today?"

"ah," seb starts and only now withdraws a hand from his hoodie pouch. he moves to hold it under the bright, white light of yuki's attending shadowless lamp.

not only human, then.

"got a nasty jam," seb says, voice a wince as he tries to flex the robotic digits of his hand. the plates that hover protectively over the mechanical innards click against each other unhappily. "i get them now and then, but this time nothing i tried fixed it. and i really can't afford a new one."

yuki slides his loupe glasses down from their mount on his forehead and leans forward to take a close look. the extreme magnification helps him spot signs of stress but what he really needs is to get inside the hand.

"i'll have to open it up," he says, apologetic. he can turn off touch sensation so that seb won't be in pain, but it still won't be comfortable. he's already piling tools onto his tray; precision demagnetizer, calipers, one two three four five screwdrivers, a very tiny golden hammer… and both his utility cutter and his jeweler’s bench knife.

the bench knife is a friendly shape, yuki thinks, but the blade still gleams like a threat under the shadowless lamp. "let me turn off haptics first," yuki says as he holds up the demagnetizer, yanking it open wider so it's big enough for seb's hand to pass through, "that way, nothing hurts."

seb's smile doesn't waver. "nah," he says. "don't worry. i want to feel it."

[antilocaprine]

For the kiss prompt: frenrey, 19? 🥺

(Kiss Prompt List)

This might be the shortest length of time between getting the ask and posting the prompt fill so far. Go team.

19. ...for luck.

Most of the patrons had cleared out of the casino, but Gordon still checked under the tables as he sauntered through the card room. Alarms were ringing on the floor below where Dr. Coomer and Bubby had the cutter set up, drilling through the main safe door. He’d left Tommy glaring at a slot machine, and Benrey was clearing the next room over.

Gordon shook his head. He still didn’t know where Benrey had come from, but Darnold was able to hook him into their radio channel nearly instantly, so he must have had the right earpieces and shit ahead of time. They’d been careful in the lead-up, but technically, Benrey was around back when they were making vague plans to rob banks if they ever got out of Black Mesa alive. Maybe he’d been talking to someone else in the Science Team. Tommy had been looking around a lot before the heist - Gordon thought he was just being cautious, but maybe he’d been looking for Benrey.

And speak of the devil…

“Yo, you wanna play?”

Gordon glanced over. Benrey was idly spinning a roulette wheel.

“Sure,” Gordon said indulgently. They had time. He waved a blue-gloved hand at Benrey. “Red.”

“Huh?”

“Red?” Gordon raised his eyebrows. “I’m betting it’ll land on red?”

“What will?”

“Jesus,” Gordon growled. “Do you even know how to play that?”

Benrey looked down at the wheel. “This? Yeah, sure, you just…” He jerked his hand and the wheel spun wildly, colored bands flashing until it slowed to a stop.

“Nice,” Benrey said.

“That was - nothing happened. You just spun the wheel, there’s nothing there.”

“Yeah? And I had fun, soooo what’s your problem?”

Gordon threw up his hands, even though one was holding an AMCAR. “Fuck it, fine, whatever. You do you, man.”

Benrey muttered something too quiet for Gordon to hear, then his head snapped up and he raised the flamethrower. Gordon whipped around and fired a shot off at the dark-suited casino security guard before Benrey could reach him with the flames.

“Nice.”

“Thanks,” Gordon chuckled, ears ringing a bit as he propped the stock of the gun against his hip. “Just trying to keep you from committing fratricide or whatever.”

“Huh?”

“They’re security guards, you’re a security guard…”

Benrey nodded. “Cannibalism,” he said.

Gordon snorted. “What? Are you eating them?”

“No? Gross.”

“Then it’s not cannibalism, that’s only if you eat them. Although,” he tilted his head. “Would it even be cannibalism? They’re human, and you’re…uh…”

“Not,” Benrey said helpfully.

“Yeah, exactly.”

“So it’s cool to eat them?”

“Yeah,” Gordon said, then his brain caught up with the conversation and he blanched. ��Wait - no! No, don’t eat people, that’s fucking weird, don’t do it.”

“Uh…okay.” Benrey gave him a shifty look, and Gordon decided he should drop this topic before he learned something he didn’t want to know.

“Hey, look, craps!” he said overly brightly, hoping Benrey would take the distraction. “I’ve played this!”

Benrey followed him over to the craps table, eyeing the lines and numbers on the green fabric. Gordon scrabbled through the scattered chips left by panicked patrons until he came up with the red dice. He shoved the rest of the chips out of the way and raised his fist, rattling the dice inside.

He had only ever played craps on dates, so it was some kind of muscle memory that had him holding his fist out toward Benrey, who regarded it with bemusement.

“For luck,” Gordon said, just as he realized Benrey had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do. He opened his mouth to tell him to blow on Gordon’s fist, but then froze. Benrey had leaned forward and placed a smacking kiss to the back of his curled fingers, his lips warm and scratching slightly against the nitrile gloves. Gordon’s breath caught and he stared blankly at Benrey, who straightened up and gave him a level stare.

“Well?”

“Uh - I, uh - yeah, okay,” Gordon stuttered, feeling heat crawl across his cheeks and up his neck. He fixed his eyes on the table and tossed the dice, which bounced across the green and came to rest with matching numbers up. Gordon’s stomach sank, even though nothing was actually at stake.

“Oh, whoa, nice job,” Benrey said. 

“What - why is that a nice job? It’s snake eyes.”

Benrey shrugged. “One is…number one, so two ones is like…the best, right? First place.”

Gordon stared at him for a moment, then decided that explaining the rules wasn’t worth it. “Sure, man,” he sighed.

“We’re number one,” Benrey said blandly, and Gordon snorted.

“We sure fucking are, buddy. C’mon, let’s go see if they’ve got the safe open yet.”

Gordon didn’t even think about it before reaching out and snagging Benrey’s free hand to drag him out of the room. Fucking muscle memory. He was never going back to a casino after this. 

Benrey didn’t seem to mind, at least. He clasped his palm to Gordon’s, tangled their fingers together, and trotted to keep up with Gordon’s longer stride. “What kinda game was that, again?”

“That was craps,” Gordon replied, and didn’t notice Benrey’s quiet snort. They’d just rounded the last row of slot machines, where Tommy was standing ankle-deep in a pile of quarters. “Holy shit, dude, you’re making bank!”

“Yeah, it’s actually really easy, Mr. Freeman,” Tommy said brightly. “You just have to turn, um, match the pictures.”

Gordon looked more closely at the slot machine and realized that the glass front had been smashed and the rollers manually turned to display three lemons. One of the rollers twitched spasmodically, like mechanical death throes.

“Good, uh - good job, Tommy,” he said.

Tommy bent down to grab a double fistful of quarters and stuff them into his pockets. “Where have you guys been?”

“We were crapping,” Benrey said immediately.

“PLAYING - we were playing craps,” Gordon said loudly. Tommy straightened up and raised his eyebrows, his eyes flickering down to their still-joined hands, which made Gordon remember he was holding Benrey’s hand. He yanked out of Benrey’s grip and readjusted his gun self-consciously.

Tommy, wisely, didn’t comment. “Were you, um, did you win?”

“We’re number one,” Benrey replied, and Gordon chuckled a little hysterically.

“Yep, yeah, we - we’re number one. Twice, even.”

“That’s right,” Benrey grinned.

Then something exploded downstairs and Dr. Coomer bellowed gleefully. A new alarm started screaming, and there was no more time for playing games. They took off down the closest staircase, Tommy’s pants jingling with every step and Benrey sending jets of flame over the banisters at shouting guards. And Gordon shoved all thoughts of holding Benrey’s hand and feeling his lips on Gordon’s fingers deep into a box in the back of his mind to deal with later.

They had a heist to complete.

[nancygillianmvp]

strays

6,110 words. rated g. summary: Five times Nancy talks TK out of bringing home strays from calls, and one time she doesn't.

one

It’s been a weird shift, which isn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. Ever since the strands came and rebuilt the 126, their calls have gotten progressively weirder. And so, little surprises Nancy these days. But a man with a literal frog—that fell from the sky —in his throat was a surprise. Hail the size of basketballs was more of a surprise again. On the other hand, her partner’s response to the frog rain was far from surprising.

After they dropped their first patient off at the hospital, they returned to the scene to help the other stations with triage, but they were already finishing up. Just as Nancy is getting ready to return to the station, TK appears, asking, “Can you hand me a container?”

“Really, dude?” Asks Nancy. Of course. It is so like TK to be trying to bring a frog home from their call. Of course . She couldn’t just have a normal partner who leaves the injured frogs alone and lets animal control do their job; no, that would be far too peaceful. Instead, she has TK. And, of course, TK can’t walk past anyone who needs help, animal or human, and while she loves it for him, it gets exhausting at times because as much as he’d like to, he can’t help everyone—and also because sometimes he tries to bring potentially dangerous or just downright creepy animals onto the rig.

“I don’t see what your problem is?” TK feigns ignorance as he steps onto the back of the rig with a slimy green frog in the palm of his blue nitrile glove.

“The problem is you’ll be divorced before you’re married if I let you take that frog home to Carlos,” Nancy replies, rolling her eyes. “I barely survived your last breakup. You can’t put me through that again, dude. I won’t allow it.”

“ You barely survived? I barely survived, Nancy.” TK exclaims as if she might have forgotten his most dramatic near-death experience so far. As if she wasn’t the one holding him when his heart stopped. As if she could ever forget that day.

“So you agree then? That it’s not worth the risk to your relationship—and my sanity.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t not say that either, though…”

“What’s going on back there?” Captain Vega asks from the front of the rig.

“Nothing.” TK and Nancy respond in unison.

keep reading on ao3 or under the cut

“Well, when you two finish with whatever nothing is,” Captain Vega starts putting a heavy emphasis on the word nothing, “I’d like to get back to the firehouse, do you have any idea how much more paperwork is involved with giant hail and frog rain?”

“A lotta paperwork, Cap?” Nancy asks, shooting a glare at the frog in TK’s palm.

“A whole lotta paperwork, so let’s go. What’s the hold-up?”

“Are you in, or are you walking back to the station?” Nancy asks, holding the door and tapping her foot impatiently.

TK sighs, relenting and gently placing the frog down with the dozens of others littering the fairground around the rig. “I’m in.”

As the rig reverses into the station, Nancy spots Carlos waiting between the fire engines.

“Did you tell Carlos about the frog?” TK asks her.

“No, but if you try that again, I will.”

“S’pose that’s fair.” Says TK, as he puts the ambulance into park and steps out of the ambulance smiling ear to ear, ready to greet his fiancé. “Hi, baby, you here for lunch?”

“Please just don’t say frog legs,” Nancy interjects on her way past. She’s never been one to let an opportunity for banter be wasted.

two

“But Nancy, I can’t just leave him.” TK pleads, approaching the cracked door of the ambulance with an injured snake in his hands, she’s not really sure how you can tell a snake is injured, but TK is insisting it is. And after the day they’ve had, Nancy is in no mood for this. 

It’s been a day of back-to-back calls to tipsy partygoers at a festival under the hot Texas sun, and she’s been puked on repeatedly—twice on this call alone. All she can think about is finally getting back to the station, taking the world’s longest shower and then burning her uniform—the smell of puke is never coming out.

“If you don’t want Carlos to leave you , put the snake down, Strand,” Nancy says, shaking her head. If there’s one person less fond than her of TK’s animal rescue antics, it would be his incredibly patient husband. But even a man as patient as Carlos has limits, and Nancy is more than willing to bet a snake is enough to push even him well past his limit, given what she’s heard of the Lou situation, or as she likes to call it, Lizardgate.

“It’s Reyes-Strand, thank you very much,” TK replies, and Nancy supposes its a fair point, he’s beyond proud to be married to Carlos, but at the same time, a Reyes would never try to bring a snake—or a frog, or an alligator lizard for that matter—into the back of an ambulance.

“This right here? This is pure Strand behaviour, dude.” She tells him, rolling her eyes because this is typical, it’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation, and knowing her luck, and her partner, it will by no means be the last.

“You take that back!” TK protests, feigning offence.

“After you take that back—to the wild, where it belongs .”

“Naaaaancy.” Pouts TK. The snake slithers further up his arm as he stands there, but Nancy holds steady.

“Dude. No. I love you, but no . Absolutely not. Not happening. No .” Letting him into the ambulance with a lizard was one thing; it was at least in a sealed bag. Even the frog he wanted to bring into the rig would have been okay if it had come to that, but snakes are non-negotiable.  Even just walking past the creatures in the reptile house at the zoo gives Nancy the heeby jeebies, let alone being trapped in a metal box with a loose, unpredictable, injured wild snake.

“What’s going on back there?” Captain Vega asks with a sigh, and they respond at the same time.

“Nancy won’t let me in the ambulance.”

“Strand is trying to bring a snake into the rig.”

Captain Vega raises an eyebrow, “You know, I come to work to get a break from my bickering children and having to use my mom voice. Can you two not work this out amongst yourselves?”

“Okay, there are three possible outcomes here. One, you put the snake down, and I let you in the ambulance. Two, we leave you here to fend for yourself, or three, we stand here arguing until Captain Vega comes back here and writes us both up, after which I will be forced to tell Carlos about this as revenge for the blemish on my record.”

“Write us up? Don’t you think that’s a bit dramatic, Nancy?” 

“I think you’re missing the point here. There is no situation in which that thing is coming into this ambulance. I don’t care if we have to stay here all night. It’s not happening. I am not above calling Carlos right now if it comes to it.” She takes her phone from her pocket to show it’s not an empty promise.

“Okay, okay, fine. I’ll call animal control.” TK takes out his radio as he puts the snake down at the foot of a nearby tree.

“You’re exhausting, you know.” Nancy greets him as he steps into the ambulance.

“Look who’s talking.”

three

The rig comes screeching to a halt about five minutes out from their latest call, and Nancy sighs; it’s been one of those days—there’s been bumper-to-bumper traffic and a string of back-to-back calls with patients ranging from uncooperative to violent, suffice to say they’ve been run off their feet and haven’t had a chance to eat all shift, the rig breaking down is just the cherry-on-top. 

“Why are we stopping?” Captain Vega asks from the back.

“Rig’s broken down, Cap,” Nancy calls back. 

“We’re walking then. Get the jump bag, TK.” 

“Ugh, this day can’t get any worse,” TK mutters under his breath, and she wants to scream. 

“Dude, why are you tempting fate like that?”

“I’m not tempting fate, Nancy.”

“Saying things can’t get worse is like saying the Q word; things get crazy.” She says, before correcting herself, “Actually, given today, crazier might be a better way to put it.”

“It’s a domestic, and APD is already on scene. How bad could it be?” Nancy winces. How bad could it be? It’s like he wants to jinx them.

They make their way down the winding dirt road to the ranch house, to a scene none of them could have expected. There’s an APD officer passed out on the porch, and Nancy could swear she just saw a tiger walk past the window inside with their victim. A tiger in Texas. Not unheard of, but definitely not what any of them were expecting. Dispatch definitely didn’t mention a tiger. She wants to say, “See, TK. Crazier . I told you so,” but she doesn’t; there’s work to be done.

“Was that?” Nancy asks, doing a double take and glancing back toward the front window, and TK nods.

“Tell me I did not just see a tiger behind that window,” says Captain Vega. “Strand, radio dispatch, and get animal control out here. Nancy, see if you can get a better look at what’s going on in there—carefully, don’t get too close to the windows. I’ll check out the officer here.”

The caller had told dispatch, “Carol tried to kill me,” Over the phone before passing out, so APD had been dispatched first to secure the scene, but unfortunately for the responding officer, he’d failed to mention that Carol is a 300-pound fully grown tiger and not a human woman.  Because, of course. This day just keeps on giving. 

 “Only in Texas,” TK mumbles as he reaches for his radio. “Dispatch, we’ve got a problem…” 

“Strand? What’s happening?” Grace’s voice crackles to life through the radio.

“Hi, Grace. We need animal control here, like, five minutes ago. And we’ll need two additional units and a mechanic, our rig is broken down, and there’s an officer down.”

“I’ve dispatched animal control to your location. Is there an unrestrained dog on the premises?”

“Not quite. There seems to be a tiger in the house with the victim.”

“Did you just say, tiger?”

“I did.”

“Well, you don’t see that every day. Animal control is ten minutes out, and I’m sure I don’t really need to say this but don’t go inside until they’ve secured the scene.”

“Uh, Cap, you might wanna come and take a look at this,” Nancy calls as she makes her way around the side of the house. “It’s like an episode of Tiger King back here. There’s gotta be at least 10 tigers here, maybe more. How is this legal?” 

“ Is it legal?” TK asks.

“That’s a question for our friend Officer Jones here.” Captain Vega says, holding a smelling salt under the officer’s nose. The young cop—who seems fairly new to the job—doesn’t take long to come to, and despite some initial confusion and a possibly sprained ankle from falling down the stairs, seems to be okay. 

After a tense wait, a second EMT crew comes to transport the officer to the hospital, animal control tranquilises the tiger, and they’re able to go in and stabilise the patient. Nancy is surprised to see his wounds are mostly superficial, and his loss of consciousness was likely a simple vasovagal response to the blood loss and not hypovolemia as they’d first feared. As the third ambulance arrives and the paramedics load him into the ambulance, he calls out. “Wait, I can’t leave. Who’s going to feed the baby?”

“There’s a baby on the premises. Let’s start checking rooms—carefully, who knows what’s waiting behind those doors.” Captain Vega instructs, and they split up.

“I don’t think he meant a human baby, Cap,” Nancy calls out when she hears movement behind the laundry room door and opens it to reveal a tiger cub—already the size of a small dog—wandering across the tiles towards her and pawing at her boot laces. “I think he meant a cub.”

Captain Vega heads outside to talk to animal control, and TK appears behind her, letting out an “aww” when he sees the cub. 

“Carlos has been talking about maybe getting a cat…” TK muses. Here we go again , Nancy thinks. 

There’s no mistaking the look on her partner’s face; she’s seen it more times than she can count—he wants to take this wild animal home. She knows his heart is in the right place, but the sooner Carlos relents and lets him get a cat—or a fish, or a hamster even, any kind of pet—the better as far as she’s concerned because talking him out of bringing home new ‘pets’ every week gets exhausting.

“Dude, stop, don’t even say it.” 

“You can’t possibly know what I was going to say.”

“I know you, TK. You were going to suggest that murder mittens over there might be a good cat for you and Carlos to adopt, but the answer is no.”

“Murder mittens? Look at him, Nancy—he’s just a little baby.” TK says, gazing longingly across the room at the tiger cub.

“TK, I can’t believe we even need to have this conversation. You can’t raise a tiger in a downtown apartment. Tigers aren’t pets, or did you forget why we ended up here in the first place?

“Oh, but look at him. He’s only a baby. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“This week, he’s a baby, sure. But do you know what babies do, TK? They grow up, and then you will be the one calling 911 because your 200-pound murder kitty went for the jugular, and when that happens, I’m not coming to save your ass, dude.”

“I know I can’t keep him forever, that wouldn’t be fair to him, but maybe we could foster him? Just until a rescue can take him, we can’t just leave him here to fend for himself. He doesn’t belong here, Nance.”

“Oh yes, of course, how silly of me. He doesn’t belong here on a ranch—your loft is much closer to their natural habitat. The jungle bares such a striking resemblance to the concrete jungle of downtown Austin.” She says, voice dripping in sarcasm and eyes rolling. 

“Okay, okay. I get it.”

“Strand, you’d better not be planning on taking that tiger on the rig. The lizard was one thing, but I’m certain city insurance doesn’t cover tigers.” Captain Vega says, interrupting their argument. 

“Am I really that predictable?” TK asks.

“Yes.” Nancy and Captain Vega respond in unison.

“Still, we can’t just leave him here.” TK continues, looking over the bottles and supplies on the countertop by the washer.

“Well, we can’t take him with us. We’re not leaving him. Animal control is here, working out what to do with the other 12 they found on the property.”

“Exactly, they’re busy, and he needs to be fed. He’s tiny. Where are they going to take him anyway? It’s not like you can take tigers to the humane society shelter.”

“You have until the rig is fixed to find a rescue or a zoo to help, Strand.” Captain Vega tells him before going back to get more details from the animal control officer for the report that will probably take the rest of the shift to write 

“Can you make some calls too, please, Nancy?” 

“Fine.”

After a few calls, Nancy finds a big cat rescue group willing to send someone to pick up the cub and care for it, by which point TK has already given it a bottle and started shining his penlight around the room for it to chase like a house cat with a laser pointer, and even Nancy has to admit she doesn’t want to leave the little cub, but after a while a volunteer from the big cat rescue shows up to take the cub.

four

When dispatch tells them their next call is from a woman with a squirrel stuck in her hair, Nancy feels like she must have heard wrong. “Can you repeat that dispatch? Did you just say squirrel?”

“I did.” Dispatch confirms. “That’s all the detail I got. There was a lot of panicked screaming. Animal control will meet you on scene.”

“How does someone get a squirrel stuck in their hair?” TK asks. 

“Your guess is as good as mine.” She says with a shrug. 

“Glove up, turnout coats on and eye protection too. The last thing any of us need is a squirrel bite.” Captain Vega instructs when they arrive on the scene. 

“I thought squirrels didn’t carry rabies, Cap?” Nancy asks, confused. She’s been well warned—and many a time been the one to remind TK—about the rabies risk when there are foxes, skunks and raccoons around, but she’s never heard of a rabid squirrel.

“They don’t usually, but they have been known to carry tularemia, typhus and, on occasion, the plague.” Captain Vega explains in a way that feels much too calm for a mention of the plague as they step out of the ambulance in front of a suburban house.

“The plague? Like the plague , plague, Cap? Like the old-timey black death plague?”  

“Yes, the bubonic plauge, Nancy.”

“It’s not just squirrels, though, Cap? It’s chipmunks, prairie dogs, mice and rabbits too?”

“Yes, TK. Most of the rodents in the state are potential plague carriers. It’s one of the many good reasons people shouldn’t be feeding the wildlife.”

Nancy grimaces; this was something she could have happily gone her whole life not knowing. “Kinda wishing I hadn’t asked. At least there’s a vaccine for rabies. Nobody’s ever offered me a plague vaccine.”

“What’s a little plague after everything the 126 has faced?” TK asks with a dry laugh.

“Ma’am? What’s your name? Can you tell us what happened?” Captain Vega asks as they approach the patient—having followed the sound of screams to the patient’s backyard and found her standing in a bathing suit and an open robe by the back door with a squirrel clearly visible tangled in her dark curly hair.

“My name is Sofia. I was doing a peanut butter hair mask.” The patient starts to explain, TK raises an eyebrow, but she continues, “It’s just peanut butter. It’s supposed to be hydrating or whatever, and I came outside to sunbathe while it soaks in, and next thing I know, this squirrel is all up in my hair, and I tried to get it off, but it’s slippery, and it’s tangled in there pretty good, and then it bit me, and that's when I panicked and called 911.”

“You were right to call us, Sofia. We’re going to do what we can to get this squirrel out, okay? But I can’t promise you won’t end up with a pretty weird haircut.”

“I don’t care if you have to shave my head. Just get it off me!”

After a half hour of delicate detangling and strategic—and nerve-wracking, given the moving squirrel—cuts from the trauma shears, the squirrel is removed from the patient’s head and handed to TK.

With Captain Vega’s help, Nancy starts flushing the scrapes on Sofia’s scalp with saline and antiseptic solution to protect against infection. She watches as TK attempts to disentangle the squirrel from its hairy predicament.

“TK, animal control will be here any minute.”

“The least I can do is try and untangle him and find something to put him in. I’ll be there in a second.”

“Unless you get bitten first and die of the plague.” She mutters, intending for their patient not to hear.

A mild look of terror comes across the patient’s face, “I could get the plague ? Like the plague that all those people died from in the middle ages? From a squirrel? Oh my god, am I going to die ?!” 

Captain Vega glowers at Nancy and then at TK.

“There’s no need to worry, Ma’am. Squirrels are plague carriers, but infection in humans is rare, and there’s treatment available. We’ll get you to the hospital in just a moment, and they can run tests to make sure everything is just fine.”  Captain Vega consoles her with a comforting smile, and then she shoots a look at Nancy, “Why don’t you go help TK bring the gurney around?”

“Do you think Carlos woul—” TK begins.

Nancy cuts him off, “Do not finish that sentence. I know how deeply you care, but you can’t bring home every stray you see. You live in a loft, not a squirrel sanctuary. And I don’t know that Carlos’ nerves could take it.”

“But Nancy,”

“No buts, if nothing else, think of the curls. Protect those perfect curls on your husband's head. You don’t want to have to give Carlos a trauma-shear haircut to extract a squirrel, do you?”

“There’s no reason to assume it would get caught up in his hair,” TK counters as he slides the gurney out of the ambulance.

“Is that really a risk you’re willing to take?”

“Carlos is more than his hair, Nancy.”

“But he has such perfect hair, TK.” 

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right. Now, please tell me I won’t have to body block you to prevent you from bringing a squirrel into the rig?”

“You won’t.”

five

Nancy lets out a sigh when they pull up to their latest call—for which dispatch only had vague details about a twenty-something male injured, trapped and requiring extrication—to find a familiar face waiting outside the house; Brianna. It’s far from the first interaction they’ve had with her. 

Aside from a call they heard about from Grace that was resolved over the phone to dispatch, the 126 has treated Brianna and her boyfriend Caleb—mostly Caleb—twice. The first time was an incident with ‘aliens’, and the second incident involved a flying portapotty, so whatever they’re about to walk into is likely to be, well, weird .

“Does she look familiar to you?” TK asks Nancy, who nods.

“Remember that guy who was trapped in the portapotty? And the call with the aliens? She’s his girlfriend,” Nancy prompts.

“Hi, Brianna, I wish I could say it was nice to see you again. What’s that boyfriend of yours done this time?” Captain Vega asks. 

“Have you seen the raccoon drive-through on TikTok? Caleb, my idiot of a fiancé, thought it would be a great idea to make one of his own, apparently. So I’m in the shower, and I hear glass breaking downstairs and Caleb screaming his head off. So I rush down here to find three raccoons in the kitchen and him climbing into the cupboard under the sink, and well, you can see how that worked out. We are done, Caleb. I mean it this time, done . D O N E.” Brianna explains to the paramedics while they wait for the rest of the 126 to arrive and assist with the extrication.

“I’ll radio dispatch to send out animal control,” TK says with a sigh as he heads back to the ambulance.

“What on earth is a raccoon drive-through?” Captain Vega asks Nancy quietly.

“It’s this woman who feeds local raccoons through her kitchen window, a bit like a drive-through but with leftovers and raccoons instead of fast food and people,” Nancy explains.

“Every week, it’s a different call where some grown adult has gotten hurt doing something stupid they saw on TikTok. When will people learn?” Captain Vega responds with a frustrated sigh before turning back to Brianna, “Are there still raccoons in your kitchen? Or can we go in and take a look at the situation?”

“They might have left? The window is open.”

“I can take a look, Cap?” TK offers, and she gives him the go-ahead. He doesn’t take long to report back via radio.

“There’s still one raccoon in the kitchen, it looks pretty small, and it’s hurt, I don’t think it can move, so if we don’t bother it, we should be okay. Bring all the gauze you can carry there’s a lot of bleeding, I’m not sure yet if it’s from the broken glass, something under the sink here or a raccoon.”

“They turned on me, man. One minute they were eating chicken nuggets, and the next, they were out for blood.” Caleb says, still wedged tightly in the cabinet under the sink.

It doesn’t take long for the remainder of the 126 to arrive and get to work assessing the situation and making a plan for how to get Caleb out of his latest predicament. Nancy sees the look of longing in TK’s eyes as he glances over at the injured raccoon that animal control has locked in a cat carrier while they seek out the remainder. “No.”

“I didn’t even say—” He starts, but she interrupts. 

“You don’t have to say anything for me to know you want to take home the injured raccoon, nurse it back to health and keep it as a pet. But it’s not happening on my watch, I value my friendship with Carlos.”

“What’s wrong with a pet raccoon?” He asks as if they’re the most normal pet in the world.

“Everything, TK. Everything is wrong with a pet raccoon. They are wild animals, not pets.” 

“They can be pets. There are people with pet raccoons.”

“Dogs are pets, and cats are pets, fish are pets, even maybe a lizard, but raccoons aren’t pets. If you take that raccoon home, I can guarantee you won’t have a husband for much longer, but the good news is our friend Caleb here is newly single and also loves raccoons. With all that in common, maybe you’ll hit it off.” Nancy teases TK, earning an eye roll and a sigh. 

“Very funny,” He retorts.

“Maybe I wasn’t joking,” Nancy says back with a wink.

“Just hear me out, Nance,” TK starts, despite her eye rolls, “Raccoons love to eat, and Carlos is incapable of cooking without ending up with leftovers.”

“How about you hear me out, TK.” Nancy responds, “ You could eat the leftovers yourself. Instead of getting takeout for lunch at work all the time. Call me crazy, but I just don’t think too many leftovers are a good reason to get a pet raccoon.” 

“But Nancy,” TK pleads, “Look at that little face. How can you say no to that face?”

“Easily. All I have to do is think about the fact that face is a carrier of rabies which, in case you’ve forgotten, is incurable and fata,l and would you look at that, I have zero desire to take home a wild raccoon.”

“Okay, when you put it like that, it sounds like a bad idea…”

“Because it is a bad idea, dude.” She says, “When are you just going to admit I know everything so we can stop having this argument every time there’s an animal on a call?”

The sound of power saws from the kitchen finally ceases, and Captain Vega interrupts, “Our patient is ready to be transported if you two are ready.” 

They follow her into the kitchen and load Caleb onto the gurney, ready to transport him to the hospital for treatment of his wounds and rabies testing, given the raccoon bites he sustained.

“Strand, you won’t need me to remind you that taking a wild animal in the back of the ambulance with a patient violates almost every rule and city code I can think of, will you?” Captain Vega says as they wheel Caleb to the ambulance, and TK looks back toward the caged racoon being carried to the animal control van.

“Oh, I don’t mind if he brings a raccoon—” Caleb starts to say, but one glare from Brianna is enough to stop him mid-sentence.

“Oh, TK would never dream of bringing a raccoon into the ambulance, Cap. That doesn’t sound like him at all.” Nancy says sarcastically as she loads the stretcher into the back of the rig.

“No reminders needed, Cap. I’ll drive,” TK says, stepping around to the front of the ambulance.

plus one

It feels like she’s only just gotten to sleep when the alarm for the safe surrender box blaring through the station startles Nancy awake. She’s on her feet and halfway to the box before she even has a chance to check the time, but she suspects it’s not much past three AM. Somehow TK has beaten her there and is opening the hatch as she stops to catch her breath, having just sprinted down a staircase. 

“Okay, that is so not what safe surrender means,” Nancy says as the hatch opens to reveal a litter of fluffy doodle puppies and not the human baby she’d been expecting. “But also too cute for words.”

“Well, yeah, technically, not.” TK says, “But at least they didn’t leave them out in the snow outside the humane society, I guess?” Nancy hates to admit it, but he makes a good point. Of the possible options for getting rid of an unwanted litter of puppies this late at night during a snowstorm, this is definitely one of the kinder ones, and at least the surrenderer left a bag with puppy food and supplies.

The rest of the station starts to filter into the room in various states of alertness in the following minute, including acting Captain Ryder. “Now I know I’m half asleep, but that ain’t a baby.” Says Judd, putting a hand to his temple. “I gotta go read the manual and see if I need to report this, can y’all handle this?”

“We got it, Cap,” Says Nancy,

“I keep telling y’all you ain’t gotta call me Cap, I’m only the acting captain, and it makes me feel old.”

“Are you calling Captain Strand old?” Marjan asks, raising an eyebrow tauntingly.

“That’s not what I said, Marjan,” Judd says with a sigh.

“You implied it, though,” Nancy says, winking at Marjan.

“Oh, definitely implied, strongly implied.” Marjan agrees. 

“Don’t listen to them, Judd.” Captain Vega comes to his defence against the teasing.

Judd sighs again as he walks out, “I need coffee. Y’all are exhausting.”

“What are you waiting for, get them out of there and give me a puppy to cuddle,” Marjan says impatiently, approaching TK, who starts lifting the six puppies one at a time out of the safe haven box.

He hands the first puppy, a particularly curly red one, to Nancy, and it licks at her face enthusiastically when she takes it in her arms. Then he hands off a red and white one to Marjan, who wastes no time taking selfies with the puppy—looking flawlessly put together despite the hour—and a black and white one with a wavy, shaggy coat to Mateo who remarks it looks a bit like Buttercup. Paul reaches out to take a puppy with a tan coat and a very waggly tail, leaving two puppies in the box and only TK and Captain Vega without puppies in their arms 

“Do you want to hold one, Cap?” Nancy asks Captain Vega, who shakes her head.

“I want to. But if I hold one, then I’ll want to take it home, and with the girls, I’m far too busy for a puppy, and I don’t think Buster the cat would be a fan of me bringing home another pet to compete for my attention, let alone a dog.”

“I can take another one, and he matches the one I’m already holding,” Marjan says, reaching out an arm to accept the small squirming red and white puppy.

When TK takes the last puppy from the box, she snuggles into the crook of his elbow as if she’s been there her whole life. She’s smaller than the other puppies, the runt of the litter Nancy supposes with curly chocolate brown fur, green eyes and a tiny little brown button nose.

“Aww, that is too cute for words.” Says Nancy, taking out her phone to snap a photo.

“She kind of looks like you,” Mateo says.

“She’s a dog, Mateo,” Says TK.

“No, I see it too. It’s the green eyes,” Marjan agrees.

“So, now what?” Asks Nancy.

“We find them somewhere to sleep,” Paul says, “I think there’s still a box somewhere from Captain Strand’s giant new coffee machine. It had high sides, so they can’t crawl out and chew anything up.”

It doesn’t take long to settle the puppies in a cardboard box lined with blankets in the bunkroom and towels, and by the time they do, the call bell goes off for fire but not medical and the firefighters file out to the engines.

“I’m heading down to the kitchen to make some tea, do you two want anything?” Captain Vega offers before leaving TK and Nancy alone with the puppies, the smallest of which cries softly until TK reaches in and lifts her into his arms, where she goes to sleep soundly with her head tucked against him.

“She looks so at home there,” Nancy says.

“I know Carlos said I couldn’t bring home a pet from a call, but this isn’t technically a call, right?” TK asks her.

“I don’t know if I’m the right person for you to have this conversation with,” Nancy says. 

“You think I should talk to Carlos?” He asks. This wouldn’t be the first time they’d made major life decisions without talking to each other, and it’s not something she’s willing to see them go through again, not when they are the closest thing she’s ever seen to soulmates.

“Your husband? No, I was going to suggest you ask the pizza delivery guy. Yes, of course I mean you should talk to Carlos. Men are exhausting, honestly. The two of you just need to talk to each other and make the decision together. Haven’t you both learned your lesson about making big life decisions without talking it through?”

“You’re right.”

“I know.”

“I’ll call him in the morning.”

EMS doesn’t get called out for the rest of the night, and every time Nancy wakes, she sees TK asleep, sitting up, still holding the sleeping puppy. After breakfast, Nancy sits in the common area with Marjan and the puppies, watching them play in an old puppy pen they bought after Buttercup chewed up the firehouse the first time they left him alone. The first time they set it up, he stepped right over it, but it’s come in handy eventually.

Nancy hears Carlos arrive and greet his husband in the nearby kitchen as she sits with Marjan and the puppies.

“Babe, promise you won’t hate me?” TK says to him.

“TK, what did you do?”

“You’re supposed to tell me you could never hate me,” TK says, kissing Carlos on the cheek as he leads him by the hand to the common area where Nancy and Marjan sit on the floor with the puppies, cooing over them.

“I could never hate you,” Carlos replies, “But what did you do? Did you steal a litter of puppies?”

“The safe haven surrender box got used last night.” TK says, “Someone surrendered a whole litter of doodle puppies to us, and I think this baby wants to come home with us,” 

Seeing TK re-enter the room, the chocolate brown puppy runs to sit at his feet, looking up at Carlos with the most irresistible puppy eyes. 

Carlos’s face forms a puppy dog eye expression of his own as he reaches down to the tiny puppy, “She has your eyes, babe.” 

“And your curls,” TK tells him.

“Almost like she’s meant to be yours,” Marjan tells them.

“I think there’s a longer conversation to be had.” Carlos says,

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Marjan says, and Nancy follows her out.

As they settle into chairs in the kitchen, Nancy says to Marjan, “There’s no way they’re going home after shift without that puppy, right?”

“No way at all.”

A short while later, TK and Carlos pass through the kitchen mid-argument about puppy names.

“Mocha is such a cliche name for a brown dog,” Says TK.

Carlos throws up his hands, “And Sage, for a green-eyed dog, isn’t cliche?”

“I guess they’re adopting then.” Says Nancy to Marjan.

“We are,” TK calls from the next room.