Y’all I’m being so serious when I say this: go to the library for witchcraft reasons.
You can usually find books on witchcraft, yes, but there’s also field guides on local foraging and wildlife, cookbooks, books that teach you how to craft and DIY, books about environmental protection and stewardship, books on how to use herbs medicinally, books about other religions, cultures, and spiritual practices. My favorite local library even has a seed swapping program and fantastic resources to research your own family history!
this person is like literally your wish come true- think of whatever it is your dream partner is like and that’s gonna be this person. regardless of gender they have masculine energy and they seem like they’re gonna be very proactive in pursuing you- there’ll be no games, you’ll know that this person wants you. they’ll make an effort to be around you and talk to you. they literally see you as a prize omgggg. also idk if i should even say this but they seem very daddy…. that’s the vibes they’re giving lmao. there’s this fun, flirty energy here but it’s also serious and heavy, like one moment things will be light and fun and the next they wanna make out. this person isn’t shy nor are they modest like they will make everyone know they want you (lowkey this is like the most intense one ive done yet energy wise). i think you have them wrapped around your finger!! <3
Y’all I’m being so serious when I say this: go to the library for witchcraft reasons.
You can usually find books on witchcraft, yes, but there’s also field guides on local foraging and wildlife, cookbooks, books that teach you how to craft and DIY, books about environmental protection and stewardship, books on how to use herbs medicinally, books about other religions, cultures, and spiritual practices. My favorite local library even has a seed swapping program and fantastic resources to research your own family history!
based on this request. your new attending doesn’t let you stitch up your own wounds, and definitely not when you’re only in your sports bra and scrub pants and are covered in blood. OR baran covers up the local bleeding gym rat with her beloved lululemon jacket.
“It’s fine, Perlah.”
“It’s not fine, you need to get it taken care of.” Perlah pulls your hand down away from your face, looking at the cut across your cheekbone. “Oh, it’s deep. It might scar.”
You get a little nervous at that. The cut is big, long, stretching across nearly the whole left side of your face. Blood gushes down from it onto your neck, into your scrubs.
Perlah must notice the sudden shift in your expression. “Hey, I’m sure it won’t be too noticeable. Besides, you got it doing a good thing— really, if you hadn’t stepped in back there…” she trails off. “Thank you for what you did for me.”
You shake your head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Perlah leads you into an empty room. You have become a patient now by stepping through these doors, and that doesn’t sit well with you — as a doctor, you are more used to taking care of others.
“I’ll go grab someone to help,” Perlah says.
“No.”
“What?”
“I can take care of myself,” you say. Your words come out a little too harshly, so you try to punctuate them with a smile.
Perlah hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“I can handle it. If you could just—”
“I’ll get you everything you need,” she says. “I’ll hold the mirror for you, too.”
—
You don’t like the idea of stitching yourself up very much. You don’t like pressing a needle through your own skin, even though it’s gone numb by now from an injection, and it makes your stomach churn a little to pull the thread through the wound.
It’s different with other people. You can stitch anyone up, fix dislocations and help realign broken bones without flinching. But when it comes to taking care of yourself in the same way, it feels more… gruesome.
“Are you sure you’ve got this?” Perlah asks. “You look a little out of it.”
“I’m fine,” you say for probably the thousandth time. But you’re sitting down in just your sports bra and scrub pants with your blood-soaked top in the corner of the room and your skin smelling of blood and sweat, and you feel much less than fine.
Before she can respond, the door opens. You look over the mirror and see your new attending, Dr Al-Hashimi, and your stomach drops.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “Robby told me what happened with the patient in twelve.”
“Yeah,” you sigh. “They got too ambitious with a scalpel.”
She steps close to you, nods for Perlah to put the mirror down. One of her hands comes to your jaw, turns your head, and she accepts a pair of blue gloves from Perlah before examining the few stitches you’ve already done.
“I can finish them up,” you say, even though she hasn’t spoken yet. “Really, I don’t mind.”
“Let me do it,” she replies, and by the tone of her voice you understand that it’s a command instead of a suggestion. “It’s improper for you to be your own physician.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone.”
She frowns at that, looking down at you disapprovingly. “I’m cleaning this department up, actually, and we’re done doing things off the books. Sit still and let me help you.”
You can’t argue with her now. You nod, hand the other doctor your supplies and thank Perlah as she walks out.
A soft silence settles over the two of you.
You haven’t been alone much with your new attending, to your disappointment. You have handled a few cases with her over the past two weeks or so, but they were more urgent cases that didn’t give you too much time to get acquainted.
You want to know her, though. You think she could bring some good to this department and the people in it — to you, but you try not to be selfish.
She looks down at you. Her gaze is softer now, like now that you have surrendered to her she has let her guard down a little. She handles you gently as she turns your head again, and you hope she can’t feel how your face grows warm and your heart starts beating faster.
That’s another selfish motive that has made you wish you could spend more time on cases with her — you’re a little bit obsessed.
Not in the creepy way, though sometimes you feel as though you might toe the line. But you see the care she puts into her work, you notice the softness in her eyes after a job well done, the empathy she treats people with. It strikes you deeply, as sharply as the scalpel that sliced through your skin today, and you want her near you all the time.
“You’re a good doctor,” she starts. You open your mouth and are about to thank her when she continues. “But not for yourself, it seems.”
Your lips curve downwards. “Why do you say that?”
“These stitches,” she smiles. “It’s a good thing I didn’t let you finish them.”
You look up briefly and meet her eyes. “Thank you for helping me, Dr—”
“Baran,” she interrupts. “Just call me Baran.”
“Okay,” you murmur.
Her hand finds your shoulder then, and you tilt your head a little to look. The gesture feels soothing at first, and then a little self-serving on her end when her touch trails down your arm, and you follow her gaze to the muscled curve of your bicep.
She snaps out of it after a second, clearing her throat and focusing on your wound. “Stay still for me, okay?”
You can’t nod and you don’t want to say anything and mess up her work, so you let out a small hum of agreement.
Even if you allowed yourself to speak, you don’t know what you would say — your skin still feels warm as if her hand were still trailing along it, and you wish that it was.
“I’m sure you’ve already been thanked, but we all appreciate how you intercepted that patient,” she says. She takes advantage of the fact that you can’t reply. “We shouldn’t have to do things like that as doctors, but that’s the way it is right now.”
There’s a small silence. Then she continues quietly: “I want to try changing that here.”
You risk it, open your mouth just a little. “How?”
“I thought I told you to keep quiet.”
“You told me to stay still.”
She smiles softly at that. “You’re a bad patient, you know.”
You shrug. “Most doctors are. Hey, by the way— do you think it’ll scar?”
She pauses. “Do you want my honest answer?”
“Of course.”
“Yes.”
You look down dejectedly.
“But it will be a good look for you,” Baran tries. She is nearing the end of the wound, finishing up the last few stitches. “The look of it will make any other rowdy patients look twice before fucking with you.”
You look up at her briefly again, catch her eye — you don’t think you have ever heard her curse, and it makes you smile until you remember to keep your face neutral for the stitches. “Thanks.”
“I was also going to say that it’ll give you more of an… even look.”
“What does that mean?”
She ties off your stitches and steps back to examine you, trying her best to stumble through an explanation. “Well, I mean that it’s obvious you spend time at the gym. You look a little intimidating from the neck down. But your face…”
“What about my face?”
“It’s just…” she makes a vague gesture, “youthful.”
You blink. You furrow your brows, cross your arms. “Are you telling me that I have a sleeper build?”
“I don’t know what that means, is that something off the internet?”
“I guess so.”
She hums in acknowledgement, eyes sweeping over you. She’s looking shamelessly now, taking in every curve of your muscles and the look of your sports bra, and something hot and wanting creeps up your chest at the way her eyes linger.
She peels off her gloves and throws them in the waste basket by the door. Then she comes back and shrugs out of her purple Lululemon jacket, holding it out for you to take.
“Here,” she says softly. She meets your eyes and you notice her pupils are slightly more dilated than they ought to be — you wonder what she must be thinking about. “You must want to cover up.”
You did, but not anymore. Regardless, you take her jacket and pull it on — but you don’t zip it up all the way, not until you have allowed her a couple of seconds more to fantasize.
“Thank you,” you tell her, “for everything.”
Baran nods. Then she asks, “What gym do you go to?”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “I’ve been looking for a good one.”
You give her the name and location. You tell her you tend to go in the mornings on your days off, and sometimes at night after rough shifts leave you needing a way to let off steam. You give her the exact times you are usually there, hoping she will catch the hint.
“That’s good to know,” Baran says. She looks away, pacing in front of the door. “I might stop by this weekend. Saturday, maybe at noon.”
“You might see me there.”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to say that I hope so.”
“But you do?”
She looks back at the door anxiously as if to make sure no one is listening. Then she turns back to you and nods slightly, lowering her voice. “Of course I do.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You can give me back my jacket then,” she proposes. “That will make it an obligation.”
“I don’t need to be persuaded to go see you.”
She doesn’t respond to that. She assesses you once more before nodding to your cut, tapping her own cheekbone in reference to it. “Take care of that, okay?”
“I will.”
And before either of you can make any more bad decisions, she slips out the door.
—
—
—
THANK YOU FOR READING <3 I’m thinking I’ll write a second part to this and it’ll be their gym date hurhurhurhur lmk if anyone would want to see that!
Imagine Cas seeing all the times that Dean wanted to kiss him, but replayed in his head of where he did kiss him. Imagine Cas seeing every little fucking nightmare Dean has had over losing him or Sam, a thousand versions every single night. Imagine Cas seeing every little daydream about them together. Imagine Cas seeing every night that he wasn’t there or wasnt listening to Dean calling for him, pleading for him to come back. Imagine all those days that dean had locked himself out to the rest of the world. Imagine Cas living all of those emotions and running to the closest memory to Dean and trying to hug him, trying to hold his face, trying to kiss him but it only being a fragment of his memory. Imagine him seeing Dean break down countless times in a random hotel room, or sitting on the couch thinking things over so expressionless until he picks up an empty bottle and throws it, shattering it and goes to clean it up but starts sobbing once he cuts his finger. Imagine Cas seeing Dean at his most vulnerable, weakest time ever. Imagine Cas seeing Dean cry every night while he or Sam was gone. Imagine Cas seeing the blood on Dean’s face, his shirt, his hands, whether it be his own or someone else’s. Imagine Cas going back into his memory and experiencing the guilt he felt for his father’s death, for the death of the person the reaper took for himself. Imagine Cas seeing childhood memories of Sam and Dean, some happy like regular children playing and goofing off, others frightening and chilling to the bones. Imagine Cas hearing little Dean and Sam scream when they see some sort of monster or someone getting murdered on the spot. Imagine Cas watching Sam and Dean grow older, watching Dean growing up too fast and being ripped away from his very faint childhood. Imagine Cas seeing the first date Dean ever went on, which he screwed up miserably. Imagine Cas seeing other women Dean has been with, trying to tune it out and deny it all. Imagine Cas being overwhelmed by all people Dean has been with, and feeling that he would never be enough. He thinks it is platonically, because Angel’s are oblivious, but he cant help feeling awful and stupid. Then imagine Cas seeing memories of Dean and himself, which are so much more vibrant and colorful and full of live and laughter. Imagine Cas seeing how Dean truly views him, feels about him, how when he looks back on those memories he can feel Dean’s heart race. Imagine Cas being in there so long he forgets he is even his own person. Imagine Cas seeing every single part of Dean’s life. Imagine Cas gets so overwhelmed by all the emotions bottled up inside the poor guy and comes up panting, back in reality. Imagine Cas looking at Dean, who is holding his arms to make sure he is okay. Imagine Cas being engrossed in Dean’s feelings and emotions for so long that he can basically play this scene out in his own mind of how it is in Dean’s. Imagine Cas holding Dean’s face and kissing him hard and passionately and when he pulls away, it’s only for air because Dean is not disputing. Its the silent agreement of love for one another. Imagine Sam not being there for once, so he can safely not have to see an angel shove his tongue down his brother’s throat.
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