❝ 𝘳.𝘦.𝘮. ❞ [ Pedro Pascal characters x reader ]

that night, in detail | fluff

prompt: Due to unforeseen hijinks, (Y/n) recalls a particularly eventful night working as a Heroics nurse

warning: mild language, a very horned up (Y/n), sexual themes, descriptions of wounds and blood

word count: 2314

pronouns: gender-neutral

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second-person point of view. . .

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Four years. It took four agonizing and brutal years to sit where you sat. Hours upon hours of painstaking lectures, countless all-night study sessions, and exams that brought you to tears nearly pushed you past the breaking point. Nursing school has a funny way of crushing the souls of those who are not truly dedicated to the craft. Fortunately, you survived the grueling process. All for what? To sit and listen to this conversation--

"I treated a burn on Blinding Fast's thigh, they're very nice," one of your co-workers said.

"Thighs? Really? I once had to fish a bullet out of Miracle Guy's chest--the best night of my life," another chimed in giddily.

They went into detail, gushing about the men's muscle definition and pain tolerance. They alluded to fantasies about putting their patient's prowess and abilities to... good use. Then, they looked to you. Enthusiasm sparkled in their eyes at the stories. Toothy smiles adorned their faces, like predators realizing they had cornered their prey. 

"Your turn, (Y/n)," your co-worker tapped you on the shoulder. "Hottest patient, let's hear it."

You let out a loud laugh. You knew better than to gossip, especially with so few employees. The dedicated hospital wing of the Heroics headquarters was smaller than the average facility, and staffed with fewer professionals, but efficient nonetheless. Word spreads like wildfire in such close proximity, particularly when there has not been a world-ending crisis in the last workweek. You would not add fuel to their fire and get burnt to ash as a result.

"Maybe I'm just old," you prefaced warily, "but I tend to focus on my job when someone's bleeding on the operating table."

Your response was met with an uproar of protests along the lines of boo. They insisted you must have had one story to tell, but you kept your mouth shut. Your co-workers were lovely but loose-lipped. You were being truthful for the most part. In all the years of your professional career, there had only been one instance of an... intrusive thought. You were too cautious--too afraid--to risk the account reaching the ears of the man it was regarding.

As you walked down the hall and away from your prying co-workers, your thoughts struggled to avoid a recollection of that night. You tried to push them away, knowing damn well it was wrong to dwell on. Nevertheless, your best efforts were not enough. You could not help but replay the images in your mind's eye, those horribly delicious images...

He was brought in late and you were working the graveyard shift. It was the only night you had ever been on the overnight stay. Part of you wondered if it was fate, but to fully believe that would feel ridiculous. You were half-asleep when he was pushed through the swinging doors on a stretcher, the loud clamoring, however, swiftly woke you up.