#Control High Blood Pressure without medication

[healtywealthy]

Best Ways to Control High Blood Pressure without medication

Controlling high blood pressure without medication often involves making lifestyle changes. Here are some effective ways to manage high blood pressure naturally:

Healthy Diet: DASH Diet: The Dietary Approaches to Stop Hypertension (DASH) emphasizes fruits, vegetables, whole grains, lean proteins, and low-fat dairy. It is known to help lower blood pressure.

Reduce Sodium Intake: Limit salt intake, as excess sodium can contribute to high blood pressure. Aim for less than 2,300 mg of sodium per day.

Maintain a Healthy Weight: Losing excess weight can have a significant impact on blood pressure. Even a small weight loss can make a difference.

Regular Exercise: Engage in moderate aerobic exercise for at least 150 minutes per week or vigorous exercise for 75 minutes per week. This can include brisk walking, jogging, cycling, or swimming.

[asxgard]

Be. | one shot

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!MedStudent!reader

Requested

Summary: You had no intentions of falling for the sad-eyed attending on one of your rotations. And yet, here you are.

[ Masterlist ]

Request: I know your requests are closed so this can be when you’re back because this idea is eating me alive. I was wondering if you could do a Dr. Robby x reader in their early 20s if you are comfortable with that. No one knows about them until either Abbott or Dana come to check on him at his apartment after Pitt Fest and they open the door in his sweatshirt. They talk to Robby and make jokes like “so do you have to pick her up from school?” But in the end they see his face with them and they understand why they are together. Love your writing! It’s been fueling my Pitt brain rot.

Note: Thank you for your request, @im-not-okay-i-promise1452 ! I hope you enjoy it💜

Word Count: 2.8k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content.

Warnings: age gap (reader is 23, Robby is late 40s), hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, implied smut, foul language, death of a patient, canon-typical gore, Pittfest mentions, Robby having a hard time with feelings, reader has parents (slightly older than Robby)

not beta read

It had started on med school rotation, after meeting the chief attending. You were fresh-eyed and eager, just coming off an internal medicine rotation. The ED had been a mess you were not quite expecting. You knew almost immediately that it was not the place for you, but you had every intention of finishing the rotation just to prove to yourself that you could.

You flustered in his company, heart beating like a hummingbird's wings and you felt just as delicate. A crush on your attending felt like a break in protocol, a break in your carefully curated plan of med school, residency, attending or physician in a clinic. You were hung up on his age, which helped you keep your distance, and eventually you just tried to avoid him unless he was showing you something.

Sticking closer to Langdon or Collins felt like a safer bet until the rotation was through.

It was impossible to avoid him forever, it seemed, especially in the chaos of the Pitt. Two patients had been rushed in after an MVA — and you raced behind Langdon as he got the vitals of the first patient.

Seven month pregnant woman, awake and alert, with abrasions along her arms and legs, but a bruise already forming from the seatbelt. She grabbed your hand while Langdon was rattling off her vitals as she was rolled into Trauma-1.

“You’ve got to save my baby,” she cried, face scrunched in pain. “Please, it’s too soon.”

It squeezed your heart and you wordlessly nodded at her. “We’re doing everything we can.”

Robby walked into the room with an air of confidence, and it seemed to reassure you. Until her blood pressure crashed and the code blue began — L&D had been called, but they had yet to make it. You each took turns with compressions, and you felt as if you had completely stopped breathing.

The main focus had been to bring back the woman, even as the fetal heartbeat stuttered to a stop. A L&D attending rushed in the assess the situation, and you moved out of the way until your back hit the wall, stuck frozen as the scene played out.

The attending and Robby argued back and forth over something, but everything sounded like a high pitched whine. Langdon resumed compressions and you eventually got control of your limbs again, only to run out of the room.

Your breathing had come in shallow pants, like your lungs could not take in the air you desperately needed. You vaguely heard Dana call out to you, but perhaps it had been in your head. Everything felt like it was closing in on you, like despite any efforts made, it still would never be enough.

You found the stairwell without meaning to and collapsed on the stairs. Seconds blurred into minutes as you sat there, head between your knees so you didn’t throw up or pass out. Just hours before, you had been stone faced and helpful when a man had come in holding his intestines in his hands. The blood or the gore had not phased you — but this woman? Her baby?

It rattled something to your core.

Someone sat beside you, not speaking, simply just sitting. It made your hairs stand on end, and when you pulled your head up to look at them, you realized your vision had gone blurry. You frantically wiped away your tears to see Robby sitting there, elbows on his knees, hands together, looking down at the tile like it had personally offended him.

“Dr. Robby,” you said, sticking the heels of your hands into your eyes to try to stop the tears. “I’m sorry—I won’t—it—that won’t happen again.”

He glanced over at you, “First one is always the hardest.”

You sucked in a breath, “So she’s—”

He nodded solemnly, “Fischer thinks the baby might make it.”

You swallowed thickly, “That’s good.”

Silence encased you, but the rush of anxiety being alone with him did not flush through your system. While it was a painful silence, it was one being shared.

The way his eyes swept over your face made you blush, “You’re doing good, kid.”

“I don’t think emergency medicine is for me.” You told him, like it was some moral failing.

He blinked, “Your options are always open. Your next rotation, you might find something you love.”

“When I got placed here, I guess I just wanted to prove that I could do it, you know?”

“And aren’t you?” He asked, “One patient doesn’t change the fact that you’re still doing well. Hard worker, dedicated, eager to learn and you’re excellent with patients. I can clearly see that you care.”

Heat warmed your cheeks.

He stood slowly and extended his hand, “Let’s get back out there so you can kick this rotation’s ass.”

You barked a laugh before covering your mouth with your hand. You grabbed his hand and stood, ignoring your burning cheeks.

“Thank you, Dr. Robby.”

He let go of your hand and nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate, yeah?”

You smiled at him.

—

The end of your rotation came with a bit more sadness than you had expected. Not so much to be leaving the Pitt — you were quite happy about that — but the fact that you were not likely to see Robby again.

On your last day, Robby tried to have you in as many complicated cases as he could — even when only a few came through the door. He wanted for you to take as much knowledge from your time in the Pitt as possible, and you found it incredibly endearing. You shadowed him for a majority of the day, rather than Langdon or Collins.

Though, the evening came without fanfare — only people wishing you luck on your next rotation and you bid them goodbye. Robby walked with you outside.

He rubbed the back of his neck when you stopped on the sidewalk, and he looked away from you. He pulled a yellow sticky note out of his pocket, before handing it over to you. His name was scrawled at the top in his messy script, and underneath laid a seven digit number preceded by the Pittsburgh area code.

Robby’s phone number.

Your breath caught in your throat and you looked him in the eyes.

“In case you ever need anything. School. Rotations. Life. Just uh…give me a call. Or a text.”

You looked back down at it as your heart thundered nervously in your chest. After a few frantic beats, you finally got yourself to smile at him. “Thank you, Dr. Robby.

“Uh, just Robby’s fine. Or Mike—Michael, works too.”

“Thank you,” you repeated, “Robby.”

You ended up reaching out to him a lot sooner than you were expecting, asking if he was free to meet over coffee to discuss your upcoming COMAT exam. Despite having zero time to study, you truly just wanted to be able to see him again, perhaps pick his brain about some of the specialties you were thinking of, but certainly not the exam.

When you met up, it was easy to talk about what you had been up to, how you were liking family medicine, and how he had been since you had last seen him.

You were thankful that it didn’t feel awkward or forced. The attraction you had felt for him back in the Pitt had come crawling back into your chest and made it as if it had never left. His warm brown eyes on yours made it obvious it never had.

Talking over coffee became a weekly occurrence after that. Part of it felt inappropriate as the conversations ebbed away from school and his advice, and closer to something a touch more intimate and mature.

You wondered if he was just placating you, or perhaps even pitying you, until several weeks later. He had sat down red cheeked and flustered, though you were quick to see it was not from the biting Pittsburgh wind.

“You alright, Robby?”

He met your eyes quickly, before glancing away again. “I don’t know if this is forward—I was hoping you might want to grab dinner sometime?”

You stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded. “Are you asking me out?”

“That would be…” He sighed, before rushing out, “Yeah, yeah I am.”

Your smile seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders.

“Dinner sounds good.”

—

It had been difficult to figure out, to say the least. While your age gap was controversial to many, it only reared its head to you when Robby mentioned an old movie quote that had you raising a questioning eyebrow at him. He would look mildly dumbfounded that you hadn’t seen it, or hadn’t heard the song he was humming, before resorting to show it to you.

You hadn’t enjoyed the judgment at first, but you knew his intentions were not bad — he was not looking to just have sex with you, which was refreshing. None of the guys in your program were particularly interested in anything serious, and most of the men you had met outside med school were too intimidated to seek much else. Like you, Robby was looking for something serious.

You were just surprised to find it before residency in the sad-eyed attending from your last rotation. But it was good, and no one could take that from you.

Robby wasn’t looking to rush or pressure you, and you weren’t looking to fool around and break his heart. Boundaries were easily set, and expectations laid out, and soon enough, he was calling you his girlfriend.

Your parents would likely have an aneurysm once they found out his age — they had already made a fuss to find out you were dating, “don’t let this impact your grades, young lady!” — but you had decided to wait until graduation, over a year away. Robby had respected your decision, knowing how focused you were on studying. You knew he had been nervous to meet them, and you would be lying to yourself if you weren’t nervous, too.

Robby was nearly your father’s age, which had bridged some uncomfortable conversations early on about daddy issues.

Your nose scrunched up, “I really don’t think that’s what it is. I’m not seeing you to get under his skin, or get his attention, or resolve some trauma about my father. It’s a lot less complicated than that.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I like you. I enjoy talking with you. I enjoy watching those stupid old movies,” part of your lip quirked up, “but more importantly, I like how you make me feel. I like who I am when I’m with you. I don’t feel like I have to hide or pretend, or try to be something I’m not.”

“You just get to be.” Robby said, finishing your thought.

You lit up at the way he seemed to immediately understand.

“And for the record, 80’s movies aren’t old.” His frown was playful.

You laughed, “Whatever you say, old man.”

You ended up paying for that comment all night long, more-so to prove a point, but you could hardly complain. At least not until the following morning when you woke with a soreness that should have been a crime and an ache for more that was completely impure.

A few months rolled into a year and eventually you started the fall semester with a rotation in pediatrics as an MS4. It was hard not to venture down in the Pitt to visit Robby, but after about a week, you got up the nerve to go and say hello.

You spoke with Dana, and Collins, waving at Princess and Perlah as they passed. Dana was happy to see you, and asked how you were faring upstairs.

“A lot better than I was down in here.” You chuckled.

Dana waved it off, “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kid. I know you’ll find something.”

You bid a goodbye with a promise to stop by again — subtly looking for Robby, and now having an excuse to see him during this rotation. He looked surprised to see you, and played up the pleasantries as to not look obvious.

“What a surprise. You wanna come back to the Pitt?”

You laughed, “No.”

Robby liked to keep his private life out of prying eyes, and certainly away from the gossiping nurses, and you respected that. You let him walk you out, exchanging small talk. Once outside, he snuck a quick kiss.

“Meet you at mine tonight?”

“Me and my textbooks will be there.” You said with a smile.

—

Pittfest had been a nightmare made real, and finding Robby on that roof after only twelve hours since Jack had been in the same spot had made him worry. Robby had looked so broken, and after the day Dana had, Jack had volunteered to be the one to go check on him.

Knocking on Robby’s apartment door, a six pack in hand to have an excuse to show up, the last thing Jack had expected was a pretty young thing to answer his door. Jack blinked dumbly, looking back to the apartment number, thinking perhaps he had knocked on the wrong door.

Looking back to you, Jack noticed you were dressed in a hoodie he knew was Robby’s — hems frayed and collar worn out, the university lettering fading with use. Your eyes moved from his face to the case of beer in his hand then back to his face.

Jack finally got his lips to move, “Is Robby home?”

You only blinked, and then smiled softly. You called for him over your shoulder, and Robby came from around the corner with his eyebrows drawn close in confusion. He still looked completely worn down, but he was in new clothes.

“Hey, brother,” Jack ventured, glancing at you in the corner of his eye.

Robby’s head moved just a hair in the slightest nod. It was a movement Jack barely registered, but you had.

You introduced yourself quickly, and Jack shook your hand before coming inside. You disappeared into the kitchen, out of eyesight.

Jack raised an eyebrow at him, setting the beer on the coffee table.

“I didn’t realize you were…seeing someone.”

Robby rubbed the back of his neck, sighing, “Yeah.”

Jack sat on one of the L-shaped couch, cracking open one of the beers. He handed one over and Robby took it.

“Wanted to check in…finding you on that rooftop, I didn’t want you to be alone.” Jack looked toward the kitchen. “Didn’t realize you wouldn’t be.”

Robby only shrugged, “Told her to stay home, meet me here.”

Jack absorbed the information, “She a…resident?”

It was easy to see the rose color tinting at his cheeks, “Med student.”

Jack let out a low whistle, “How the hell did you manage that?”

“She passed through the Pitt on rotation.” Robby offered, looking at the beer in his hand. “Started seeing each other after that.”

“So you’ve got game.” Jack nodded, smirking slightly.

Robby chuckled, sipping his beer.

“Can she even drink one of these?”

Robby choked on the liquid, coughing a few times before looking at Jack wildly. “She’s twenty-three.”

Jack raised his hands in defense, “Had to ask.”

Robby’s nose scrunched up, “I’m not a—”

“I know, I know.” Jack said, “So you drop off at school?”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Robby shook his head, rubbing a hand on his face.

“Alright, she drop you off at the old folks—”

“You done?” Robby deadpanned.

“Okay, okay. That was the last one.” Jack chuckled.

Robby laughed, so many pent up emotions clearly overflowing. He took a few deep breaths and shook his head.

“What a day. Thought I had a few more months before I broke the news to everyone slowly.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at him, “You were gonna tell us?”

“Eventually. We wanted to take our time — knew how people were likely going to respond.”

Jack frowned.

You appeared again, sweatpants now joining the oversized sweatshirt — Robby’s sweatshirt. You smiled sheepishly, taking a seat beside Robby. The sleeves were just a bit too long for you, but you looked at home in it.

Jack’s mind was swimming — looking to just check in on his friend and instead finding a relationship Robby had kept secret from everyone. His mind kept jumping to you using his friend, or his friend seeking companionship in problematic places — until your hands intertwined and Robby’s entire body relaxed.

The way your eyes swept over Robby’s face with affection dripping with love and care, or the way he kissed the back of your hand like it was holding him together. The way Robby looked at you like Jack was not even there, and you smiled back at him with a soft adoration, quiet and tired, but deliberate. Deliberate in the way someone chose to care about someone else, a decision made every day, even when it got hard.

Jack settled deeper into the couch, no longer on guard, no longer concerned his friend would fall flat on his face after falling in too deep.

“I’m happy for you.” Jack told you both, and Robby smiled at him genuinely. Jack took a quick swing of his beer, smiling to himself.

Dana was going to love Jack’s update in the morning.

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43 @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @girl-obsessed-with-things @laurenkate79 @woodxtock @rosie-posie08 @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse @diasnohibng @qardasngan @looneylooomis @happyfestpanda-blog

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged @pastelbunnelby @jetjuliette @that-one-fangirl69 @moonlightmvrvel @andabuttonnose @boldlyherdream @cosmosnkaz @brnesblogposts @concentratedconcrete @satanxklaus @gardeniarose13

All: @nixandtonic

This feels like it might inspire something longer👀a reader this young might be problematic, but damn it’s fun! And fictional!

[quickestgold]

For angsty requests: marriage on the rocks with jack abbot, contemplating divorce?

Say Something: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: A decade of falling in and out of love has turned you and Jack from lovers to strangers. But when a difficult case hits too close to home, you might finally be calling time of death on your marriage.

Warnings: Reader and Jack are both vets/doctors; Canon-typical graphic depictions of trauma/injuries; mentions of missing limbs, blood, war, ptsd, GSWs, patient death, divorce, rooftops;

Word count: 4k+

A/n: Slowly working through my requests, sorry for the long wait! But thanks so much for sending this in! Can't wait to hear your thoughts! Ngl kind of broke my heart with this one ♡

I will hold your hand. I will grow with you. I will change with you. Every day, in love and in life.

Ten years.

In and out of love. Always by each other's side. Two sides of the same coin. Combat medics. Doctors. Lovers. Friends. In that order.

But lately, a new reality has settled between you.

Strangers.

You share a bed and a space. A home. You've grown through laughter and pain. Know the other's darkness and heartache intrinsically.

Jack is the person you would survive any war with. He's your person. And you're his. Your passion runs deep, intellectually and emotionally.

You've been through hell together, but you always made it back. You used to laugh a lot, coping through humor. Most alive in high-stakes, emotionally demanding work.

You spent most of your careers overseas. Never shying away from the hard places. Always trying to help.

You can be unpredictable, the ends forever justifying the means. Walking the thin line between control and recklessness. Even for Jack's standards and he isn't exactly a man of protocol.

But sometimes you scare him. Your complete disregard for your own safety, always putting him first. The irony of course being, that he does the same for you. But before you, he never experienced a partnership like it. No one ever made him feel that whole. Completed him in a way, he can't ever find the words for.

So he made you a promise. To hold you. To grow with you. And to change with you.

Every day.

And you said yes...

But over the years, the line between your personal and your professional life has almost completely blurred.

You barely see each other outside of work. Everything feels mechanical. There's only faint traces of intimacy. Of tenderness. Just two people who've known each other for a long time. Who are slowly growing apart. Changing without the other. Not realizing they're going in separate directions.

In your heart you know it's no ones fault. No infidelity. No drama.

Just... silence.

Your shift wasn't exactly quiet before this case. But this injury, this patient, throws you off your game.

You never crack. The new interns thought Dr. Abbot was the stoic, quietly observant, fuck-standard-of-care, ED-cowboy.

Before they met you.

Unafraid to contest decisions from the higher-ups, demonstrating fearlessness in times of crisis, fudging paperwork for the sake of the patient. Always treating the person, not the protocol.

Dr. Walsh, Emery, your best friend and twisted sister in arms, always challenges you.

Your "other" person. The Cristina to your Meredith.

On occasion, she kicks Jack out of his own bed, when you need to reflect on a particularly bad case, or sometimes just to wind down with shitty reality TV. Jack would curse under his breath, but ultimately make room for the two of you. Always respecting your strong bond.

You went through residency together. Watched others drop out under the pressure. But you were never in competition, except maybe the odd healthy one.

Where she practices medicine by the book, you often improvise. But your dynamic works.

She knows you. Truly.

So when she steps into the trauma room, her words slice through the air like a sharp scalpel. The tension has built up slowly over the last two hours you've spent working on a man, who got his leg blown off handling faulty fireworks.

You're pressing into his chest, trying to force life back into his body, one beat at a time.

"Fuck no." Emery approaches the table, ready to shove you aside. "You should not be running this."

"This is not the time for you to tell me what to do, Dr. Walsh." You counter, your movements focused.

Jack is beside you, watching every step closely. His eyes flicker to Walsh's, you pretend you don't see them exchanging a look.

Your priority is the patient on your table.

Assess. Stabilize. Move upstairs.

"Third unit's in." Jesse states.

"Okay, pulse check." You order, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

Emery presses her fingers against the patient's pulse points. "No femoral. No carotid." The words make your heart drop and for a second it feels like it's you hooked up to the monitor, the flatline mirroring your failure.

You resume compressions. "We had a pulse after three packed cells", exhaling deeply with each push. "We need to get him up asap, Em." Em. Not Emery. Not Dr. Walsh. Your professional exterior clearly cracked wide open, ribs spread apart.

"We need a pulse to go to the OR. You know this." Emery hovers next to you now. You can feel her breath against your damp skin.

Jack doesn't say anything, but you get the feeling he's with Emery. His arms are crossed, his weight shifting from one leg to the other, worry written across his features. His own trauma pulling at the seams. But he doesn't let it in. He's focused on you, watching you touch your belly in a nervous tic.

The realization that this is a battle you're going to lose, dizzies you. You take a step back, hands slightly trembling, as Javadi takes over compressions. A million techniques and procedures flash through your mind.

A lifetime worth of training. Of knowledge. But nothing makes sense. Your brain starts to short-circuit.

Focus on the medicine.

"I could try a REBOA?" Santos suggests, stressing the word with dangerous confidence.

"Would that work?" Javadi cuts in, panting.

You don't look, but you feel Jack shaking his head softly, with a resigned sadness.

"Dr. Abbot, step back." Emery grabs your elbow, forceful.

You shove her with the same attitude, turning your attention back to the patient. "He's right on the edge..."

"Dr. Abbot." Emery moves to the other Abbot, willing him to say something.

Jack nods, silently reaching for your hand. The cold sensation on your clammy skin startles you. You pull your hand away, sharply. Nearly throwing him off balance.

You stare at them incredulous, their betrayal like a sharp stabbing pain in your back.

When did they team up? Against you, nonetheless.

"It's not Jack!" Emery yells without thinking, but she fears it's the only thing that can pull you back to the surface.

The flatline echoes in the distance, but you don't wait for them to call time of death.

Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. Gloves are ripped off with a snap, before you flee the scene. Not ready to face the consequences of your defeat.

After finishing the rest of his shift, Jack enters the home you've built together. The curtains are drawn. The lights dim. No familiar smell coming from the kitchen.

He paces through the empty hallway before he finds you in the ensuite bathroom, still washing today's trauma off. Scrubbing. Until your hands are sore. Then scrubbing some more.

"I’m not trying to fight with you." His voice is low and soft.

"Then don’t." You scoff. "Don’t take her side. She wasn’t there."

"No." Jack shakes his head in acknowledgement. "But she means well." He surprises himself by siding with his supposed mortal enemy.

"She always does this. Acting like she needs to fix me."

"Surgeons." Jack offers playfully, but you don't bite.

"I'm not her fucking patient."

Jack reaches for your hand, attempting to pull you out of your spiral.

"Fuck off." You snap. Too harshly.

"Hey." His eyes sharpen. "I can't talk to you like this."

"Yeah? That's kind of the point."

"Last I checked, this means something." He grabs your hand, bringing the delicate ring on your finger into vision. You snatch your hand away.

"The piece of metal that binds you to me? Without it you'd have run for the hills ages ago." This conversation is starting to feel more and more like a losing battle in itself. It's like you're right back in that trauma room. Fighting for someone’s future. Though this isn't quite as tangible.

Why didn't med school prepare you for this?

Jack huffs a humorless laugh. "Every day. In love and in life." He breaks eye contact. "Even when you resent me."

"No. Don't do this. You don't get to tell me, I resent you for choosing you. For years, I let you act like I'm doing this selflessly. A noble sacrifice in the name of love. Like it was your fault-"

"We both know it was." Jack's words rip through the air like a bullet. Tearing straight through your heart. Leaving you breathless, unable to speak. The air constricting, like there's a tube down your throat.

"Don't pretend it wasn't. I was sent home. You could've stayed. But you didn't and you've hated me since." There's a brutally honest edge to his confession that feels like someone's sliced you open, vultures waiting to feast on your organs.

You process for a few beats, before rediscovering your voice. Shock slowly replaced by anger.

"Don't ever say that to me again." You cross your arms, hiding your trembling hands in the safety of your embrace, the hurt palpable. "I did that for you." You say quietly, painfully aware of the throbbing ache in your chest.

"Yeah? I never fucking asked you to."

This isn't Jack. But something within him's snapped. He fears if he doesn't lay it all out on the table now, there's no chance of recovery.

Soon you'll be the one calling time of death on your marriage.

You stare at him, suddenly realizing you've exhausted all options. There's nothing more you can do. You gave it your best.

You really fucking tried.

"I wanted this. I wanted you. But I'm... tired." You hesitate. "Maybe it's time we stop trying."

Jack is silent, already anticipating where you're going, knowing you saying the words out loud will break him.

You search his eyes, only to find your own grief reflected back at you.

"People get divorced, Jack. All the time."

The weight of your words crushes him, compressing his lungs. The force on his body leaving him momentarily paralyzed.

He just blinks at you, his expression illegible.

Your eyes are locked on his, willing him to say something.

Back in control of his muscles, Jack moves to his side of the bed, silently grabbing his pillow and heading towards the door.

You furrow your brows. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Jack answers, an unexpected resignation in his voice.

You groan. "I'll sleep on the couch. You stay."

Jack says your name like he's breaking the news of someone's passing to their loved ones. Crushed by a new reality, even if they're in denial.

"Are you serious?" You ask, blocking the doorway with an unwavering confidence that is usually reserved for emergencies.

Maybe this is one.

"Yeah, I'm serious. Move." His words are composed and determined, like he's not speaking as your husband, but your attending.

"You know you'll get no sleep on that thing. You'll be fucked tomorrow-" You try to reason.

"I don't need you to protect me!" He yells, too loud. The shrill tone taking you aback, making your heart race like someone's calling a code. "Stop treating me like I'm broken."

You grimace, your hand instinctively finds your belly again, your nails digging tightly into your battleworn skin.

Jack immediately retreats. "I- I'm sorry-"

Shouting is the one thing you don't do. You fight. You argue. You walk away. But you don't let anger boil over to the point of raising your voices at the other. Your therapist finds it healthy. But you both know it's from a combination of your PTSD triggers and shared trauma.

"Do me a fucking favor and sleep in our bed." You hiss, ripping the pillow from his hands and throwing it back onto the bed.

Before the next wave of pain hits you, you disappear into the bathroom to splash water on your flushed face.

Jack stands still for a moment, instant regret shooting through him. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his palms.

He calls out for you again, softer.

"I'm leaving! Fuck." You stumble back into the room, face wet, eyes burning. You find him looking up at you with a sadness you've only seen once before. Your heart palpitates with sorrow. Each skipped beat a reminder of all the loss and heartbreak.

"Please." He gestures at the duvet, gently touching the empty space next to him. "Stay."

In a moment of vulnerability, you truly see your husband in front of you. Your person.

With familiar effortlessness you kneel down in front of him, your hands resting gently on his tensed thighs.

A glimpse of what was. Intimate and tender.

Your hands find his prosthetic, sliding it off with practiced ease, slowly working it out of the socket.

"You're not broken."

Your words wrap around his heart, loving and earnest, like your hands massaging his leg.

You linger in his space, staring directly into his soul. Your eyes expressing more than every language in the world.

"You're whole."

Jack’s thumb instinctively caresses your cheek. The kind of closeness you both crave deeply, but haven't found in each other in far too long.

You both slide onto the bed, silently staring up at the ceiling.

Jack turns to look at you, before softly placing his palm on your abdomen.

"Is that really what you want?" He whispers into the darkness, afraid to hear your answer.

The silence hangs heavy with the words unsaid.

You notice the awful ringing in your ears first.

It's so fucking loud.

At the same time, you can't hear anything at all. Your brain is too slow to catch up.

Jack, the other medic in your unit, - and secret fling - just handed you a cheap beer. You were eating burnt food. As usual, when you were in charge of dinner.

Why are you on the ground?

Sharp objects pierce your sunburnt skin. A cocktail of sand and ash forces its way inside your mouth and nostrils, making you gag. You gasp for air, willing the dust around you to disperse.

But a cloud of darkness blinds you. Fiery sparks and flashes shooting through the air without direction.

Then it hits you, like a second wave of explosives.

Your unit was ambushed.

Where's Jack?

You stumble to your feet, desperately looking for something to hold onto. To steady you. Rough hands suddenly grab at you, pulling you behind metal walls for cover.

Your sergeant. Shouting at you like there's no tomorrow, but you can't make out what.

He's violently shaking your shoulders, then just as quickly, he's somewhere else. You drop back against the wall with a harsh thud.

It takes all of your energy to let your head fall to one side. When you spot him. Just out of the corner of your eye.

Jack.

On the ground.

Gasping, breathing erratically, staring up at the sky, like he's waiting to become a part of it.

For a second you let your eyes dart to where he's looking.

A beautiful, peaceful sight. The world above you, blissfully unaware of the atrocities going on below.

Something brings you back. A distorted sound.

A low, agonizing cry. You don't know where it's coming from, until your eyes shoot back to Jack.

Still on the ground.

Fuck. You're trained for this.

Why is he not moving? Why aren't you?

Your eyes scan his body, your medical instincts taking over like muscle memory. Assessing.

Your gaze lands on his torso. There's no obvious trauma, your eyes move lower, towards his hips, his pelvis, down to his legs.

Then you see it. The massive gash below his right knee.

You don't think. You just react.

Don't even register your seargent shouting at you again. Your legs carrying you to Jack's side, dropping to your knees beside him.

Not as his partner, not his girlfriend.

There's barely a trace of the woman he's grown to love, only the professional, hardened combat medic.

With one goal.

Assess, stabilize, evacuate.

Your hands move on autopilot, tightening a tourniquet just below his knee. Desperate to stop the-

To stop the love of your life from bleeding out!!

Your professional demeanor cracks, your eyes suddenly dart to Jack's. His are already on you. Holding onto you like you're the anchor tying him to this life.

The tourniquet holds. Your hands find his face. Desperate to comfort him in any way you can.

You can't speak. Neither does Jack.

And you still cannot hear a thing.

Not even when muffled thuds go off. You don't acknowledge your team readying their guns. Your only focus is Jack.

Then you feel it. Not the impact, but the warm liquid instantly soaking your uniform.

Your eyes flicker to your abdomen. It doesn't register immediately.

Though when it does, the world suddenly regains volume. The sound almost deafening.

Fuck.

No Man's Land.

But it doesn't matter. Only one thing does.

Protect Jack.

You throw your body over his, shielding him from whatever's coming.

You can feel his ragged breaths against your neck, your blood leaking into his uniform. Flooding him with your warmth, while your skin grows cold.

If this is goodbye, there’s no one you’d rather be with.

Minutes pass.

The dust settles. The sounds slow. But unfortunately, so does your breathing.

It takes all of your energy to lift your head just enough to find Jack's eyes underneath you. Looking up at you with a sadness you hope to God you'll never see again.

He's scared to death. Though not for himself.

You give him a brave smile to reassure him, before dropping onto your back.

There's too much blood.

Jack's. Yours. It's all one.

If you go, he’ll follow. And vice versa.

Without wasting a second, one of Jack's arms pulls you closer, throwing his hand over your wound. Gathering all of his remaining strength to apply pressure.

To protect you.

The world around you starts to fade. Your team moves around you frantically.

But you and Jack, just lie there, still, holding each other.

Until darkness takes you.

You wake to an empty bed, made perfectly, like it wasn't slept in. You stumble into the kitchen to find your coffee and go-bag ready on the counter, the habitual gesture making you smile, before the sadness rushes back in.

Is that really what you want?

Then you notice the stick-it note attached to the fridge.

We should talk to someone.

Vague as ever.

A therapist? A lawyer? God?

A jarring ding pulls you out of your head.

You open the door swiftly, being greeted with an iced oat latte and your favorite pastries from the coffee shop across the street. A cheap attempt at a peace offering.

"Have we calmed down or are we still pouting?" Walsh's sarcastic tone echoes through the hallway.

You attempt to slam the door shut, but she beats you to it, quickly wedging her foot into the frame. You roll your eyes, hard, before making your way back into your living room. Satisfied, she accepts the invitation and follows you in.

"It wasn't your place to get involved." You state, serious, crossing your arms and sinking into your corner of the couch.

Walsh sets the coffee down next to you before placing the pastries on the bottom shelf of your fridge. Her movements are familiar, like she's done this a thousand times.

With a groan she sits down on the other end of the couch, your eyes tracking her.

"Someone had to say it." She states nonchalantly, sipping her own latte.

Sure no one else would've dared. But…

"It was still fucked up."

She sighs deeply, leaning forward to shove the cup closer to you, like the ice can melt away the betrayal. "I'm sorry."

You nod, reluctantly taking a sip of your coffee.

"I suggested a divorce." You blurt out.

Emery almost chokes on her drink, eyes wide. "You what?"

God. Her reaction somehow makes it worse.

"I just don't see a way of moving forward, Em. Something needs to change."

Emery nods.

"We were happier once, weren't we?" You ask, like a child seeking reassurance from a parent.

"I don't know." Walsh answers truthfully. "But you were sadder before him."

"Do you think I smother him?"

Emery leans in, taking your hand. "You saved each other. In more ways than one." She gives you a squeeze. "Maybe you forgot that being married is more than sharing a home."

Though you usually work night shifts now, you've agreed to take a day one, your and Jack's shifts only slightly overlapping.

Preparing for the madness to come, you find yourself on the roof of PTMC to watch the world come alive before your eyes. The first rays of sunshine spreading warmth across your skin against the cold of the night.

This is where Jack comes to process particularly bad cases. It means something to him. So it does to you too.

It didn't surprise you that Jack proposed on a roof. Not this one. He's not that morbid. It was your first apartment. But without any grand gesture. No fairy lights, cozy blankets or candlelight dinner.

It was simple.

Just two people, in love.

To be fair there was a blanket. One. And he wrapped you both in it, while you were watching the stars above. Or at least you were. Jack was gazing at something far more mesmerizing. His future flashing before his eyes, like a shooting star.

Everything that's truly ever mattered, leaning into him. Seeking comfort in the darkness, finding it in his warmth. And he in yours.

“Marry me.” He whispered it with a confidence like he already knew what you were going to say.

You only just notice you stepped under the railing, a little too close to the edge. But somehow, you get the appeal. Of how being this close to certain death makes you feel weirdly alive.

The door creaks open, you don't have to turn around to know who it is. You can hear it in his footsteps.

"I'm in your spot." You state, beating Jack to it.

"I hate it when you do this." He mutters under his breath, approaching slowly.

"Ditto." You counter with a smirk, turning your head slightly to shoot him a glance.

"If you lose balance, you go over... that’s it."

"Don’t be so dramatic." You sigh theatrically.

He shifts his weight and groans, arms clinging onto the railing. Your eyes flicker to him, as he rests his head.

Your brows furrow. "You okay?"

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. "Are you?"

You can't help but smile. He returns it with a grin, announcing his dry humor is about to make a guest appearance. "Aim for the bay, otherwise you’ll hit the roof and end up on my table."

You laugh, like you haven't in years. A reminder of before.

He huffs. "But I hope you know, if you jump, I’ll hate you forever."

"I thought you already did." You say it as a joke, but it hits a nerve. Jack's face grows serious.

You turn to fully face him. "I know it wasn't you. Yesterday. With Em."

"Yeah." He mouths, understanding. "But it took you back." A statement, not a question.

"I felt it." Your eyes begin to sting with a familiar burn. "The pain, the fear... the thought of losing you-"

"I swear we were friends." Jack interrupts, unable to shake his thoughts. You tilt your head in confusion. "Before all this. Before the pitt, the tours, coming back."

You listen, even though it really fucking hurts. Because it's true.

"Before we were lovers. Before we became strangers." He sighs deeply. “I don’t recognize us. We never run away from the hard stuff.”

A realization suddenly hits you. "I think I changed. And so did you. But we didn't.”

Your inhales deepen, both of you now breathing in perfect harmony.

Jack leans closer, tilting his head to make sure his words reach your soul. "I want this. This life. With you. I'll never stop wanting it. Even if you choose to walk away."

"I don't..." Jack's face drops, you quickly elaborate. "I don't want to leave you, Jack. My worst fear is a life without you."

Jack exhales like he wasn't breathing until now, sadness, grief and heartbreak visibly leaving his body.

You lean in too. "What if we find new ways to share it?"

Years of unresolved sadness finally come to light. Beautifully mirrored by the rising sun. Another chapter.

A new beginning.

Jack reaches for your hand. Only this time you don't pull away. You stay. And let Jack hold you. Like he promised. Like you both did.

Every day.

© quickestgold, 2025.

Taglist: @mayabbot @sus-styles @clarasmoon @ezraphalitis @ncsls0515 @melancholyy-hill lmk if you want to be added! ☼

[arcadia-smith]

The fall

Hockey AU Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Pairing: Hockey Player! Simon Riley x Figure Skater! Reader

Summary: Simon had never been one for grand displays of affection, but when you take a nasty fall during your competition, he finds himself breaking his own rules.

Word count: 770

Warnings: none really, just a short fluffy blurb.

Simon had never been to one of your competitions before. Not because he didn’t want to—hell, he’d watch you tie your skates for hours if he could—but because your relationship had been under wraps. His career in the NHL, your growing success in figure skating… it had been easier to keep things quiet. But now, after months of secrecy, the world knew.

Simon sat in the stands, cap pulled low, arms crossed over his broad chest as he tried to ignore the cameras sneaking glances his way. His teammates had given him hell about coming—some teasing, some genuinely surprised he’d sit through something that wasn’t about smashing into people at high speeds.

Simon wasn’t nervous. Not in the way most people got. He’d taken hits from guys twice his size, had teeth knocked loose, and played through injuries that would put others out for weeks.

But this? Sitting in the stands of a figure skating competition? This had his shoulders tight. The rink wasn’t set up the way he was used to—no hard-checking, no boards rattling, no brutal speed or body slams. Just an expanse of smooth ice, twinkling under the bright lights, waiting for you.

The moment your name was announced, the restless energy inside him sharpened.

You skated onto the ice with effortless grace, your expression poised, focused, like you weren’t thinking about the thousands of eyes on you. Simon knew better. He knew how much pressure you put on yourself, how much work went into making something this difficult look effortless.

You caught his gaze as you moved to your starting position, and the briefest hint of a smile tugged at your lips.

Simon exhaled.

And then the music started.

You moved like water, fluid and controlled, your blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. He’d seen you practice a hundred times, had even let you teach him some of the simpler moves when you insisted he had the balance for it. (He didn’t, but he liked the excuse to let you get your hands on him.)

The crowd was quiet except for the soft crescendos of the music, and Simon found himself caught in the rhythm of your movements, the way your arms extended, the way you spun with impossible precision.

It happened fast.

One second, you were setting up for a jump. The next, your blade caught wrong, and instead of landing gracefully, you went down hard.

Simon was on his feet before he even registered moving. The sharp crack of your body hitting the ice sent a sickening jolt through him. The crowd collectively gasped, but Simon barely heard them over the blood rushing in his ears.

You didn’t get up right away.

His gut twisted.

Come on, love. Get up.

The medical team was already moving and Simon shoved past anyone in his way, his long strides eating the distance. By the time he reached the ice’s edge, you were pushing yourself up, wincing, cradling your wrist.

Relief crashed through him, so strong it almost made him dizzy.

“You alright?” His voice was gruff, louder than he meant. You blinked up at him, dazed but breathing.

“Simon?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. ‘M right here.”

The officials hesitated, unsure whether to let him any closer, but he didn’t give them a choice. His feet hit the ice without a second thought, and suddenly, the only thing that mattered was you.

You tried to shake it off, but he could see the way you were favoring your arm, how your expression was tighter than it should be.

“Can you stand?”

“I—I think so.”

“Let me help.”

And just like that, Simon Riley—cold, ruthless on the ice, known for brutal hits and not giving a damn about anyone in his way—was kneeling beside you, his hands gentle as they helped you up.

The crowd murmured, cameras flashing, but Simon didn’t give a shit.

All that mattered was that you were standing.

Your good hand tightened in his hoodie, and even through the fabric, he could feel your fingers trembling. “I—I didn’t finish.”

“Don’t care,” he murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear. “You did good, love.”

You swallowed, and for the first time since your fall, your lips twitched upward. “You’re making a scene.”

Simon scoffed. “Let ‘em stare.”

He slipped an arm around you, steadying you as you stepped off the ice together.

“Scared the bloody hell outta me.”

“You? Scared?”

“Terrified.” His hands slid over your waist, steady, grounding. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Maybe you hadn’t finished your routine. Maybe you didn’t win tonight.

But you had him.

And Simon Riley never let his girl fall alone.

[ghostlynightpanda]

hiyaa!! can u do aib characters with a reader who gets bloody noses a lot? the reader can be chubby or skinny!!

AIB Characters react to the reader's nosebleed

content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, fem!reader, mentions of blood and violence, 3.820 words

Ann

Ann was a woman of logic. Observation, deduction, and precision guided her through the Borderlands, where survival depended not on luck but on intelligence. She didn't waste time on unnecessary emotions, nor did she bother with things she couldn't control.

But you?

You were an anomaly.

The first time she saw your nose start to bleed, it was during a game. You were crouched behind cover, gripping a weapon in one hand while pressing the back of your other hand to your upper lip. Blood dripped down your chin, staining the collar of your shirt.

Ann, crouched beside you, glanced over and frowned. "Injured?"

You shook your head, still focused on the enemy's movements. "Nope. Just happens sometimes."

She stared at you for half a second longer before returning her focus to the game. But afterward, when you were both patching up at the Beach, she brought it up again.

"Frequent nosebleeds can be caused by numerous conditions—dry air, high blood pressure, stress." She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. "Or trauma."

You smirked. "You profiling me?"

Ann didn't react to the teasing, simply watching you with that calm, assessing gaze. "It's important to know your weaknesses."

You raised a brow. "So you think it's a weakness?"

She exhaled through her nose, pulling a cloth from her pocket and tossing it to you. "It is if it gets you killed."

That was how it started.

Ann wasn't the type to hover, nor did she coddle. But after that, she started paying attention. If your nose began bleeding mid-game, she would hand you a tissue without a word. If it happened while you were talking, she would glance at you, wait for you to handle it, then continue like nothing happened. She never made a big deal out of it, but you noticed the way her eyes would flicker to you whenever you wiped at your nose.

One night, you were both sitting in the dim light of moon shining on the pool, resting after another grueling day. Your head tilted back as another nosebleed started, and you sighed.

Ann, who had been inspecting a gun, spoke without looking up. "You shouldn't tilt your head back. It makes the blood go down your throat."

You let out a small laugh. "Of course you'd know that."

She did look up then, arching a brow. "It's basic medical knowledge."

You pressed a tissue to your nose, watching her over the top of it. "You sure it's not just your way of showing you care?"

Ann held your gaze for a moment before going back to her work. But you caught the subtle shift in her posture, the slight softening of her expression.

"Maybe," she murmured.

And in a world where words meant little and actions meant everything, that was enough.

Kuina

Kuina had seen a lot of strange things in the Borderlands. Deadly games, desperate people, and violence that had long since lost its shock factor.

But you?

You were something else.

The first time she saw your nose bleed, she had just finished taking down an opponent in a physical game. Sweaty, exhausted, and grinning with the high of victory, she turned to check on you—only to see crimson streaking down your face.

Her heart jumped in alarm. "Shit, are you okay?"

You blinked at her, tilting your head slightly before realizing what she was freaking out about. "Oh—yeah. This happens sometimes."

Kuina stared as you casually wiped your nose with the sleeve of your shirt, completely unfazed.

She narrowed her eyes. "Wait… 'happens sometimes'? That's not normal."

You smirked. "Neither is this place."

That made her laugh, though she was still watching you with mild suspicion. "Okay, but seriously, how often does your face just… start leaking?"

You shrugged. "Couple times a week? More if I'm stressed or it's too hot."

Kuina placed her hands on her hips, lips pressing together in thought. "Huh. That's kinda badass."

You raised a brow. "Badass?"

She grinned. "Yeah! I mean, most people bleed after getting their ass kicked, but you do it just by existing. That's next-level."

You burst out laughing, and Kuina couldn't help but chuckle along with you.

After that, it became a running joke between you two. If your nose started bleeding, Kuina would gasp dramatically and say, "Damn, you're just too powerful for your own body!" Or she'd wag a finger at you and tease, "If you wanted my attention, babe, there are easier ways."

But beneath all the jokes, she genuinely cared.

She always had tissues on her, just in case. If you bled during a game, she'd instinctively put herself between you and any threat, even if she knew you could handle yourself. If it happened while you were just hanging out, she'd tilt your head forward with gentle fingers and remind you, "Don't lean back, you'll choke on it."

One night, after a long day, the two of you were lying on the floor next to the pool, staring up at the night sky. You sighed as you felt the familiar warmth trickle from your nose again.

Kuina, already knowing the drill, handed you a tissue without even looking over. "You really do bleed for me, huh?" she teased.

You laughed tiredly, taking the tissue. "What can I say? You make my heart race."

Kuina turned her head toward you, grinning. "Careful, babe. If you keep saying things like that, I might just start thinking you like me."

You smirked. "And if I do?"

She propped herself up on one elbow, studying you for a moment. Then, with a playful glint in her eye, she leaned in and wiped away the stray blood near your lips with her thumb.

"Well then," she murmured, her voice softer now, "I guess I'll just have to take responsibility."

Mira

Mira was fascinated by the human mind. How easily it could break, how fragile reality was when twisted just the right way. She reveled in it, thrived in the delicate dance between illusion and truth.

The first time your nose started bleeding in front of her, she tilted her head, watching with mild amusement as you wiped at your upper lip. The contrast of deep red against your skin, the way it trickled down in slow, delicate rivulets—it was beautiful in its own way.

"How intriguing," she murmured.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "It's just a nosebleed."

Her lips curled into a slow smile. "But it happens often, doesn't it?"

You hesitated, feeling the weight of her gaze. Mira had a way of making even simple conversations feel like mind games, like she was already five steps ahead in a chess match you didn't even know you were playing.

"Yeah," you admitted. "It's not a big deal."

Mira took a slow step closer, her presence unnervingly calm. "But it is, isn't it?" She reached out, her fingers ghosting over your chin, tilting your face up slightly. "A body that betrays itself so easily… how fascinating."

You swallowed hard. "That's a weird way to put it."

She chuckled. "Oh, but isn't it true?" Her fingers lingered just a second too long before she finally stepped back. "You bleed so effortlessly. In a way, it's quite poetic."

After that, Mira made a game of it.

Whenever your nose started bleeding, she'd hum thoughtfully, tapping her chin like a scientist studying a rare specimen. "Again? My, my, you really are delicate." If it happened during a game, she'd smirk and whisper, "Are you sure it's just a nosebleed? Or are you starting to unravel?"

But for all her teasing, there was something unsettlingly protective about her.

If anyone else commented on it, she'd tilt her head toward them, her smile never wavering. "How rude," she'd say, voice laced with something just a little too sweet. "Mocking something so natural… don't you think that's cruel?"

The person never brought it up again.

One evening, after a long day, you sat on the rooftop of the once abandoned hotel, staring out at the city's eerie glow. Mira sat beside you, silent for once. Your nose started bleeding again, the familiar warmth trailing down your lips.

Without a word, Mira reached out and wiped the blood away with her fingers. She held them up afterward, examining the red smeared across the skin.

Then she licked it.

You recoiled. "What the hell, Mira?!"

She laughed softly, tilting her head at you. "Oh, don't look so shocked." Her eyes gleamed in the dim light. "I just wanted to see if it tasted as sweet as you look."

You huffed, shaking your head as you pressed a tissue to your nose. "You're insane."

She smiled. "Perhaps. But you're the one who keeps bleeding for me."

And somehow, you weren't sure if that was a threat… or a promise.

Aguni

In the Borderlands, blood meant death. It was the mark of the fallen, the price paid for survival. Aguni had seen more of it than he cared to count. It clung to his hands, soaked into his soul.

So the first time he saw you bleeding, his body reacted before his mind did.

You had been sitting by the bonfire at The Beach, leaning back on your hands, laughing at something one of the players had said. Aguni wasn't paying much attention—not to the conversation, anyway—but when his gaze landed on you, something in his chest tightened.

Your nose was bleeding.

The sight of it, crimson trailing down toward your lips, sent a jolt of instinct through him. He was on his feet before he even thought about it.

You blinked up at him as he crouched down beside you, brows furrowed in that way that made him look constantly irritated. "What?"

He didn't answer. Just reached into his pocket, pulled out a cloth, and handed it to you.

You hesitated before taking it, pressing it to your nose with a muffled sigh. "It's just a nosebleed. Happens all the time."

Aguni didn't move. His sharp eyes stayed locked onto your face, scanning, searching for signs of injury. "Why?"

You shrugged. "Bad luck? Genetics? The universe hates me?"

His jaw tightened. He didn't like that answer. Didn't like the idea that you could start bleeding at any moment and there was nothing he could do about it.

Still, he didn't push. Just stood, giving you a small nod before walking back to his spot.

But after that, he started noticing it more.

Mid-conversation, you'd suddenly tilt your head back, wiping your upper lip. During a game, he'd see you pause, pressing a sleeve to your nose. It frustrated him—not because it annoyed him, but because it meant you were vulnerable.

And in a world like this, vulnerability meant death.

One night, after a particularly violent game, you stumbled back into The Beach, exhausted and stained with both your own blood and someone else's. Aguni was waiting. He didn't say anything—he rarely did—but the way he watched you made it clear that he had been keeping an eye out.

You sank onto the couch, breathing heavily. Sure enough, your nose started bleeding. Again.

With a sigh, you pinched the bridge of your nose, only to have a hand suddenly press something into yours. You looked down. A clean cloth.

You glanced up at him, raising a brow. "You carry these just for me now?"

Aguni didn't deny it. He simply crossed his arms and muttered, "You're always bleeding."

You laughed softly. "You make it sound like I'm dying."

His gaze darkened. "You could be."

Your smile faltered at the weight in his voice. For all of Aguni's strength, there was something broken in him, something haunted. He had seen too many people die. Too many people he cared about.

And even if he didn't say it, even if he barely spoke most days… you knew.

This was his way of protecting you.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his. His body tensed slightly, but he didn't pull away. "I'll be fine," you murmured. "I always am."

Aguni exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You shouldn't have to be."

And in that quiet moment, where words held more weight than blood ever could, you realized—he wasn't just watching over you. He was fighting for you, in the only way he knew how.

Niragi

Blood was everywhere in the Borderlands. It painted the floors of abandoned buildings, dripped from open wounds, and soaked the sand beneath the feet of the survivors. It was nothing new.

But for some reason, your blood seemed to amuse Niragi more than any of it.

It had started the first time he saw you at The Beach. You had been standing at the bar, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose as warm crimson trickled down your lips. It wasn't from a fight, wasn't from an injury—just another one of your damn nosebleeds.

"Oi."

You barely had time to register the voice before a finger swiped under your chin, smearing the blood up your cheek. You froze, wide-eyed, as Suguru Niragi grinned down at you, his sharp teeth flashing like a wolf that had just caught the scent of something interesting.

"That's a lot of blood," he mused, bringing his finger to his mouth and licking the red from his skin. "What, did someone punch you? Or are you just falling apart on your own?"

You yanked your face away, wiping at your nose with the sleeve of your jacket. "It's a nosebleed. It happens."

His smirk didn't falter. If anything, his eyes darkened with intrigue. "That so?" He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the smoke clinging to his skin. "Maybe you just like the sight of blood, huh? You get off on it?"

You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes at him, knowing how dangerous he was if he didn't like someone's attitude. "Yeah, because nothing is sexier than spontaneously bleeding out of my face."

Niragi barked a laugh, stepping back but still watching you like he was trying to figure out whether to be disgusted or entertained.

And that was where it started.

After that, he never missed a chance to tease you about it. If you were mid-conversation and your nose started dripping, he'd smirk and whisper, "There she goes again, bleeding for me." If you were playing a game and it happened, he'd lean in with faux concern, "Damn, you're gonna get yourself killed before anyone else can."

But beneath the mockery, there was something else. A twisted sort of interest.

The first time someone else made a joke about it, Niragi's rifle was against their forehead before they could finish laughing. The entire room went silent, everyone watching as he clicked his tongue and muttered, "She's my little freak. If anyone's gonna make fun of her, it's me."

You weren't sure if that was supposed to be reassuring.

But for all his teasing, he always had a way of showing up when it mattered. If you started bleeding in the middle of a game, he'd grab your chin roughly, tilt your head back, and mutter, "Tch, don't get yourself killed over something this stupid." If it happened after a fight, he'd scoff but still shove a cloth into your hands.

One night, after a particularly brutal game, you were both sitting outside, the moonlight barely illuminating the bruises on his face. Your nose had started bleeding again—just perfect—and you cursed under your breath.

Niragi turned, watching as you wiped the blood away. He was quiet for a moment before suddenly reaching over, dragging a thumb across your lips. You stiffened as he examined the red smearing across his skin.

"You look kinda hot like this," he murmured, voice low. "Like you've been in a fight you barely survived."

You scoffed. "Yeah, a fight with my own damn body."

He chuckled darkly, tilting his head. "Maybe that's why I like it."

Your heart pounded, but you rolled your eyes, shoving his hand away softly. "You're such a freak, Niragi."

He only grinned wider, licking the blood from his thumb like it was a delicacy. "Takes one to know one, sweetheart."

And maybe, in this world where everything was twisted, he wasn't wrong.

Last Boss

The Borderlands were no place for weakness. That was something you had learned quickly. A single mistake could cost you your life, and mercy was a rare commodity. But for all the blood spilled in these twisted games, yours seemed to flow for an entirely different reason—nosebleeds.

They came at the worst times. Mid-sprint during a survival game? Blood dripping onto your shirt. Trying to stay unnoticed in a crowd of players? A sudden crimson streak down your lips. It was almost comical, except in this world, nothing was.

You first met him at The Beach, long before the storm of betrayal and chaos broke out. Last Boss. A name spoken with fear, a presence that sent weaker players scurrying out of his path. His body was a canvas of scars and ink, his sword an extension of his will. The way he carried himself, almost shy but with an underlying danger, was mesmerizing.

And yet, for all his brutality, he noticed you.

It started one night when you were standing on the balcony, watching the neon glow of the pool below. You felt it before you saw it—the telltale trickle warming your upper lip. With a sigh, you tilted your head back, pressing the edge of your sleeve to your nose.

"You're bleeding."

You jumped, nearly stumbling over the railing. He had appeared beside you, silent as a shadow, his mismatched eyes locked onto your face.

"Yeah, I know," you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. "It happens."

He didn't speak for a long moment, simply watching as the blood seeped through your fingers. Then, without a word, he pulled a black cloth from his pocket and handed it to you.

"You'll ruin your clothes like that."

You hesitated before taking it. The fabric was warm, worn from use, and smelled faintly of metal and sweat. You half expected him to walk away, but he remained, arms crossed, observing you with a quiet intensity.

"Do you like pain?" His question was abrupt, yet his tone was oddly neutral.

You blinked up at him. "What?"

He tilted his head slightly, the sharp glint of his piercings catching the dim light. "Most people bleed here because they fight, because they suffer. But you—" his gaze flickered to the stained cloth in your hand—"you just bleed."

A smirk tugged at your lips. "It's not voluntary, if that's what you're asking."

He considered this, then gave a low chuckle. "Tch. Strange."

From then on, he seemed to take an odd interest in you. He never said much, but he was always there. If you were wiping blood from your nose, he would pass you another cloth—never questioning, never mocking. If you were caught in a violent game, his blade carved a path through enemies before they could reach you.

One night, after a particularly brutal game, you sat together in the dark, both splattered in blood—his from the fight, yours from another damn nosebleed. He reached out, a rough thumb smearing the crimson away from your cheek. His touch was strangely gentle, at odds with the deadly precision of his blade.

"You're too fragile for this world."

You met his gaze, heart pounding. "And yet, I'm still here."

He huffed a quiet laugh, tapping your forehead with two fingers. "Maybe you belong in it more than I thought."

Chishiya

Chishiya wasn't the kind of person to react to things. Panic, shock, fear—it was all so… unnecessary. He preferred observation over emotion, logic over impulse.

So when he saw blood dripping from your nose for the first time, he didn't gasp or flinch like most people would. He simply tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Hm."

You, still pinching your nose, sighed. "That's all you have to say?"

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "Considering you’re still awake and not losing too much blood? Yes."

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back.

Chishiya clicked his tongue. "Don't do that."

You glanced at him. "Do what?"

"Lean back. The blood will go down your throat." He nodded toward you lazily. "Tilt your head forward and pinch the soft part of your nose. Not the bridge."

You raised a brow but did as he said. "What, are you secretly a doctor?"

"Not a doctor... Yet," he corrected, his usual smirk ghosting over his lips. "But I worked in a hospital."

Your eyes widened slightly. You hadn't known that. But now that he mentioned it, it made sense. The way he carried himself, the way he analyzed things with clinical detachment, always watching but rarely engaging.

"Huh," you muttered. "That explains a lot."

Chishiya's gaze flickered back to you. "How often does this happen?"

You shrugged. "A few times a week. More if I'm stressed or if it's too dry."

He hummed, nodding slightly. "Could be a number of things. Fragile blood vessels, dehydration, elevated blood pressure…" His eyes sharpened slightly. "Or something worse."

You snorted. "Gee, thanks for the reassurance."

He smirked. "Just being thorough."

After that, Chishiya started paying attention.

Not in an obvious, doting way—because that wasn't him. But if you were in the middle of a game and your nose started bleeding, he'd glance over and drawl, "You planning on bleeding out before the game ends?" while tossing you a tissue. If he noticed you hadn't been drinking water, he'd casually slide a bottle toward you without a word. And if your nosebleeds happened more frequently than usual, he'd fix you with one of those unreadable looks and murmur, "You should rest."

One night, after a particularly grueling game, you collapsed onto an old couch in an abandoned hideout. Chishiya sat nearby, flipping through a deck of cards absentmindedly.

You sighed, feeling the familiar warmth trickle from your nose again. Before you could react, Chishiya was already holding out a cloth.

"You know," he mused as you took it, "if we were back in the real world, I'd tell you to see a specialist."

You pressed the cloth to your nose. "And what about here?"

His lips curled into that lazy, knowing smirk. "Try not to die before you figure it out."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "Great advice, doctor."

Chishiya leaned back, arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. "I told you—I'm not a doctor." A pause. Then, softer, "But I suppose I have to stick around so you don’t drop dead before getting that nosebleed checked out."

And in his own quiet, detached way, that was all the reassurance you needed.

Masterlist

[misssparklingpaws]

Shadow in the Flame

Chapter 25: Death by Morning Sickness (and Poor Life Choices)

Something was definitely off.

Aria Stark, Tony’s heir in armor, tactical queen of precision was no longer dressed in reinforced bodysuits or sleek combat gear. Instead, she began showing up to team briefings and morning meetings in black Lululemon leggings, oversized hoodies, and fitted tanks that screamed “pilates influencer, probably rich, probably dangerous.”

Still black. Still practical. But unmistakably softer.

“Are we sure she’s not moonlighting as a Lululemon assassin?” Yelena muttered to Alexei one morning during training. “Because that is not normal combat wear. That is ‘I charge $300 for a Zoom stretch class’ wear.”

But the clothes weren’t the only shift.

No coffee.

Aria had stopped drinking her terrifying, industrial-grade black espresso. She now sipped herbal tea in silence, her black Stanley cup always at her side like a sacred artifact.

And Bob? Bob was… worse.

Hovering. Doting. Gently adjusting the temperature controls in rooms before she walked in. Bringing her tea. Picking leaves out of her hair after outdoor sessions like she was a revered forest deity. Smiling at her like she invented sunlight.

No one said anything. At first.

Then came training.

While the rest of the Thunderbolts were grunting through circuits, Aria stood on the sidelines, arms folded, clipboard in hand. Still commanding. Still terrifying.

Yelena noticed first, of course. She always did.

“Why don’t you spar anymore?” she asked during warm-up one day, not unkindly. “You used to kick my ass at least twice a week. I miss the bruises.”

Aria, stretched out on a mat with one hand resting on her discret lower belly, didn’t even blink. “Old hernia flare-up, I’m off hard workout for the next weeks” she said, completely flat.

“Medical orders,” Bob said flatly.

Yelena blinked. “Medical orders for what? Early retirement?”

“Aggravated abdominal hernia,” Aria clarified, still flipping her clipboard page. “Minimal strain. No core-heavy movement. Avoid high impact.”

Yelena squinted. “Uh huh. Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Aria didn’t even flinch. “Ma’am.”

Yelena flopped onto the mat. “You’re making this up. You’re in black Pilates gear, drinking tea, not yelling as much, and your simp won’t stop watching your blood pressure.”

Bob blushed. “It’s a very serious hernia.”

“You’ve said the word ‘hernia’ like five times today.”

“It’s a sensitive subject,”

Across the room, Bucky snorted as he did resistance curls. “One of you is gonna crack. My money’s on Bob.”

“I won’t crack”

Aria handed him a protein bar and a banana without looking up. “You’ll crack.”

Yelena rolled onto her side, studying Aria closely. “Okay, real talk… is this about hormones or hernias?”

Aria finally looked up, eyes cold and unreadable. “Hydrate. You’re getting mouthy.”

Yelena held her hands up, grinning. “There she is.”

As training wrapped up, Bob walked beside Aria, gently brushing her arm. “They’re getting suspicious.”

Aria exhaled. “They’re Thunderbolts. Not idiots.”

“You still want to wait?”

“For now.” She took a long sip of lemon tea, then raised a brow. “Let them think it’s a diva hernia. Or combat burnout. Or that you ruined my spine.”

Bob coughed. “I mean… we have been—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll herniate you myself.”

He smiled, looping his pinky with hers. “You’re really glowing, you know.”

She rolled her eyes but squeezed back. “It’s the black. Black always glows.”

---

The gym had long since emptied out, the buzz of post-training energy fading into silence.

Except for Aria, who stood at the far end, arms crossed, scanning the updated combat sim stats on the wall. And Bucky, who hadn’t moved from the bench in the corner.

He waited until the silence got awkward.

Then he stood.

“Alright, Stark,” he said, tone dry, arms folding across his chest. “Let’s cut the crap. How many weeks?”

Aria didn’t turn. “Of what?”

Bucky stared. “Really?”

She remained still. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He sighed, loudly, dramatically. “You haven’t been sparring. You’re dressed like you’re headed to brunch with a yoga cult. I’ve seen you walk off a broken rib and a bullet to the leg, so don’t tell me you’re just ‘healing’ and following medical orders for a hernia. And Bob looks like he found God and it’s you.”

“He always looks at me like that,” she replied, still staring at the panel.

“Again—how many weeks?”

Aria finally turned to face him. Her expression was the usual cool mask, but her eyes flickered just enough for Bucky to know he’d hit the target.

“Eleven,” she said, reluctantly. “Eleven weeks.”

He nodded, slow and deliberate. “You’re keeping it?”

“Yes.” No hesitation this time. “We’re keeping it.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he’d been bracing for that answer. Not because he disagreed because of what it meant.

“You sure?” he asked. Not doubting. Just confirming.

Aria nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That cracked something open in him—a flicker of pride, sharp and warm in his chest.

“I’m not gonna give you a speech,” he said. “Not gonna ask if Bob’s good enough, or if this is the right time. Because let’s be real—it’s never the right time.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But it’s our time.”

Bucky gave a short laugh. “Damn. That was poetic. Hormones already kicking in?”

She shot him a look. “Shut up.”

He grinned.

Then she added, quieter  “We want to keep it a secret. Just a little longer. I know the team’s going to implode the moment they find out. I want… to enjoy this. For now.”

Bucky nodded, his voice turning serious. “Alright. Your secret’s safe with me. But just so you know—Yelena’s already building a conspiracy board.”

“I’m aware.”

“And Ava’s been Googling ‘symptoms of alien gestation,’ just in case.”

“I’ll talk to her later.”

Bucky looked at her, really looked and there was pride in his smile. “Tony would’ve lost his damn mind, you know.”

Aria’s throat tightened, but she gave a small smile. “I know.”

“And he would’ve loved that it’s Bob,” Bucky added. “Sweet, overpowered marshmallow that he is.”

She looked down, a rare softness in her expression. “Yeah. He really would’ve.”

Bucky placed a hand on her shoulder—brief, solid. Enough. “Alright, kid. Enjoy the peace while you’ve got it. Once this gets out, you’re gonna wish you faked your own death instead.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she muttered.

He smirked and walked off, towel slung over his shoulder.

And Aria stood in the silence again, one hand resting protectively over her belly. And for just a moment, just long enough to feel it, she let herself smile.

---

The next morning hit Aria like a truck.

Not a metaphorical one, a real one. Or so it felt, as she hunched over the sink in her suite’s bathroom, pale, sweating, and muttering death threats under her breath in three languages.

Bob stood beside her, gently holding her hair back with one hand and rubbing her back with the other, a look of abject sympathy etched on his face.

“This is your fault,” she groaned.

Bob blinked. “What?”

She slumped against the sink, eyes closed, breathing through her nose like she was trying to astral-project herself into another dimension. “God, if I ever so much as smile at you again, sedate me.”

Bob tilted his head thoughtfully. “You smiled at me yesterday.”

“Exactly.” She opened one eye and pointed at him accusingly. “Mistake.”

“I brought you soup.”

“You breathed near me and I got pregnant, Bob.”

He blinked. “That’s… not how that works.”

“You’re made of light and trauma. Don’t talk to me about science right now.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsure whether to apologize or evaporate. “Do you want me to… leave? Give you space?”

“I’m throwing up juice I drank yesterday.”

“Still majestic.”

She turned slowly and glared at him like she might bite.

He offered her a mint leaf from the pack Bruce gave them for nausea. “Your lips are pale. You look like an emotionally repressed vampire.”

She slapped the mint out of his hand.

Downstairs, the team sat in the kitchen, watching as Aria entered like a tragic ghost. Her hoodie was massive. Her hair was unbrushed. Her face was drained of color, like she had just escaped a gothic novel where someone named Edward had died of tuberculosis.

She moved like her soul had left her body.

Yelena squinted. “She looks like a dying Victorian courtesan.”

“She looks like a haunted oil painting. Pale. Moody. Possibly post-duel,” John muttered.

Ava glanced at the hallway. “Is she dying?”

“She’s not dying,” Bob said as he entered, carrying a small bag of crackers and a thermos like a battlefield nurse. “She’s just… managing a condition.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Like what? Typhoid?”

Aria flopped into a chair and laid her head dramatically on the table.

Yelena sipped her coffee. “Okay. What the hell is going on?”

“She’s just tired,” Robert offered.

“From what? Trying to smother her emotions in Pilates?”

Ava tilted her head. “Could be some kind of long-term allergic reaction. To feelings.”

“Maybe it’s a post… sexual fatigue thing?” John offered, immediately regretting it.

Aria raised her head slowly, narrowed her eyes, and whispered, “I hate all of you.”

Bob gave her crackers like they were peace offerings. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Yelena stood and walked over. “You look like death warmed over, then left out in the cold again.”

“I feel worse,” Aria said calmly.

“Still refusing to spar,” Alexei noted.

“She’s got a medical reason,” Yelena added, sarcasm thick in her voice.

Alexei turned slowly. “What medical reason?”

“Hernia,” Aria replied, sipping ginger tea.

Bob handed her a cracker. “Lemon or mint gum?”

“Lemon.” She took it, nodded once, said nothing.

Yelena watched the exchange, eyes narrowing, gears turning. “You two are being weird.”

Bob cleared his throat. “That’s slander.”

“You’re hovering,” she accused. “You look like a boyfriend who’s either about to propose or pass out.”

Aria didn’t blink. “It’s the hernia.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

Aria met her gaze, voice perfectly flat. “And you’re nosy.”

Bob began quietly humming to himself like he could manifest a distraction. John backed out of the room slowly, like he didn’t want to get caught in a Stark-Belova sister showdown.

Finally, Yelena turned and walked off, muttering, “This isn’t over.”

“Good,” Aria said, sipping her tea. “I like long wars.”

Yelena glanced back, eyes narrowed. “I’m watching you, Stark.”

“You always are.”

“Because you lie with a straight face.”

“And you believe nothing.”

They stared at each other for three long seconds.

---

The compound was quiet, bathed in blue shadows and the hum of low lights. Most of the team had retreated to their quarters, but in the Stark-Reynolds suite, peace was relative.

Aria lay curled sideways on the couch, a soft blanket draped over her legs, a single discarded saltine resting on the pillow beside her like some tragic offering. Her face was pale, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. She looked like a fallen queen, if queens wore hoodies and muttered threats under their breath.

Bob sat at her feet, gently massaging them with warm, practiced hands. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like her feet were priceless art.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“Mmm.”

“I love her, too,” he added, his hand brushing lightly across her belly. “Or him. Whichever.”

Aria cracked one eye open. “Reynolds.”

“Yeah?”

“I hate you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re too sweet. It’s disgusting,” she groaned, voice hoarse. “It’s like you read the ‘Perfect Partner’ manual and decided to speedrun it.”

Bob grinned. “It’s called ‘making up for being the reason you barfed three times today.’”

“Simp”

“She’s gonna be this tiny, fierce little thing with your face,” he said dreamily, like he was narrating a movie trailer. “And she’ll stomp around the compound demanding cookies and calling me Daddy in that little bossy voice.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh. You’re already such a girl dad. I can hear the tea parties and glitter in your voice.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling with affection. “You say that like it’s an insult. I’d be honored if she covered me in glitter. I’ll wear a tiara to breakfast if it makes her smile.”

Aria muttered something unintelligible in Spanish, probably you ridiculous, radiant idiot then promptly buried her face back into the pillow.

“If it’s a girl, she going to be a menace,” Aria said into the pillow. “With your giant heart and baby deer eyes.”

“Unstoppable combo,” he said proudly and leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, whispering, “Little boots. Messy pigtails. Maybe a sparkly Iron Man onesie.”

“Stop.”

“And she only wants me to do her hair in the mornings, and I suck at it, but she says I try the hardest so I’m her favorite.”

“Absolutely not.”

Bob laughed and leaned down to kiss her knee through the blanket. “You’re right. I’m doomed. I’m such a girl dad already, it’s pathetic.”

“You are,” Aria muttered into the pillow. “Like… dangerously girl dad. I should be concerned.”

Bob gave a proud shrug. “I’ve accepted my fate. She’s gonna have me wrapped around her tiny pinky finger, and I will thank her for it.”

“She’s not even real yet and you’re already whipped.”

“I’m gonna be the best girl dad. I’m gonna cry at dance recitals and build pink Lego castles.”

“She might not even like pink,” Aria said.

“Then we’ll build a silver one. Or black. With lasers.”

Aria didn’t respond, but her hand found his. She gave it a slow squeeze, holding tight.

And that was more than enough.

---

The compound kitchen glowed in dim overhead light, the fridge door left ajar like a beacon guiding the insomniacs to carbs and chaos.

Yelena leaned against the counter, arms crossed, voice low and conspiratorial. “She’s pregnant.”

Ava sat on a stool, halfway through a granola bar like it held answers. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Yelena snapped. “She’s pale, glowing weirdly, and smells like peppermint and guilt. Also, Bob is treating her like she’s made of antique glass.”

John stirred leftover noodles. “Could just be post-mission burnout. Maybe they’re… overexerting themselves.”

Alexei tossed a protein bar onto the counter. “This calls for a bet pool.”

Ava nodded. “Twenty on pregnant. January due date.”

“Twenty-five says it’s twins. February,” Yelena countered instantly.

John raised a hand. “I’m betting this is a Stark stress test. Like, psychological warfare. Maybe she’s faking symptoms to see who cracks first.”

Alexei scribbled on a napkin. “Bets logged.”

“What if she’s just sick?” Ava offered quietly.

Yelena didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll eat a kale wrap. With joy. And a smile.”

Silence.

Everyone stared at her.

“Exactly,” she said. “She’s pregnant.”

The door clicked shut.

And behind them: “You’re all very loud for people with no medical degrees.”

They turned to find Aria standing in the doorway, hoodie swaddled, eyes tired but sharp, one sock on, saltine in hand like a dagger. Her stare cut through the kitchen like a blade.

Everyone froze.

“Fascinating theories,” Aria said. “Really, please, keep going. I’m enthralled.”

Yelena didn’t blink. “You’ve got that Stark glow. And death aura. Textbook pregnant.”

Aria’s lips curled into a smirk. “I haven’t confirmed or denied any of your wild guesses. Maybe I’m glowing because I haven’t slept in three days. Maybe the peppermint is just peppermint.”

She stepped fully into the kitchen, eyes bright with challenge.

“Or maybe,” she said, voice low and teasing, “I’m just enjoying the show.”

John pointed a fork. “Look, we’re not judging. We’re supporting. And guessing wildly.”

“Also there’s a bet,” Alexei added.

Ghost looked vaguely apologetic. “She did say kale. That’s commitment.”

Aria stared at them, long and unreadable. “I’m not confirming anything.”

Yelena leaned closer. “That’s not a denial.”

“Neither is walking away,” Aria said, turning toward the fridge.

“Okay, now that’s just ominous,” Ava mumbled.

At that moment, Bob shuffled in barefoot, curls damp, wearing an old hoodie and holding a smoothie in one hand and a microwaved heat pack in the other.

“Hey,” he said softly to Aria. “I made your ginger one. No kale. Promise.”

He glanced around.

Paused.

“...Why is everyone staring like I walked into a crime scene?”

“Because you did,” Yelena said, eyes narrow. “You’re an accomplice to secrets.”

Bob blinked. “What, oh. This again.”

“Congratulations,” John said solemnly. “You’ve both said nothing and everything.”

Aria took the smoothie in silence. Bob handed her the heat pack with a hopeful smile.

She looked around the room, exhausted.

“You’re all insufferable,” she said.

Yelena smirked. “Fine. Don’t confirm it. But when the tiny Stark pops out and starts bossing us around in three languages, I’m saying I told you so.”

Aria turned on her heel, smoothie in hand, saltine still clutched like a weapon.

“Goodnight, children.”

Bob waved awkwardly, trailing after her. “Sorry. Love you all. Please don’t guess baby names without us.”

And no one noticed Aria’s faint smile as she disappeared down the hallway—because she didn’t give them the satisfaction of looking back.

[doberbutts]

I was typing a big long thing about the changes I've experienced in a year on testosterone and how it's affected me and all that and then tumblr ate it and I really don't feel like retyping that whole thing but I am kinda salty about it so tldr:

Starting testosterone has been the best thing for my health that I've done. Ever. Better than getting a service dog. Better than restructuring my life to cater to my disabilities. Better than any procedure or medication or otherwise that I've tried. Simply rubbing a pack of gel on my arm once a day has done more for me than anything else.

When I went to my endo to start T, I went with a suspicion that I am intersex. She confirmed it via blood test and told me that with my variation I could try two different things: estrogen to control my high levels of natural androgens, or testosterone to lower my estrogen further and make it stop arguing with my androgens about whether I'm supposed to be a boy or a girl, as it's that argument that was causing a significant portion of my health problems. Estrogen has been tried in the past and only made things worse. She told me it was my choice, and only I could choose my path forward, as I knew my body the best.

When TERFs have a fit about gender affirming care, they usually leave out people like me, or they brush my story aside by saying that I'm just an anomaly, or they claim for me and my demographic that we don't want to be part of this discussion. But I don't fit their definition of a woman- I have a testicle, and my natural testosterone was within normal range on the low end for a cisgender, perisex man, and enough male sexual partners have commented on what's in my pants to tell me that it's far from the picturesque womanly pussy, especially considering I can- and have- use it to penetrate with the help of devices designed for cis men who are a little lacking in length.

When TERFs have a fit about gender affirming care, they scaremonger about side effects and changes. But, I was already hairy. I was already growing facial hair. I already had atrophied- and by 30 to the point that it's not really possible to fix without significant medical intervention. I was already infertile. I already had an adam's apple and a deep voice. I already had belly fat and blood pressure problems. My menstrual cycle was already hellish and had interfered with my school and work schedules. A popped ovarian cyst sent me to the ER.

I'd tried no treatment. I'd tried estrogen-based solutions. These not only did not work but actively made things worse. I was fainting at school. I was calling out of work. I couldn't drive without my service dog. I couldn't go out and have fun with my friends. I spent days at a time laying in bed in too much pain to move.

TERFs say, gender affirming care turns you into a forever patient.

I already was one of those. I almost died when I was a baby strictly because of lack of access to care that accepts children who are born who are both and also neither from the womb, before anyone has a chance to develop a personality or understand the difference between a boy and a girl.

Testosterone has turned me into a "once every 3 months" patient instead of a "twice a month minimum" patient. I pay less than $15/month for my prescription and it's mailed to my house in three-month increments. Stopping my wildly irregular and incredibly painful menstrual cycle has increased my quality of life so much. My body doesn't ache for no reason anymore. I don't faint anymore. I can go out and do things and not be punished for it for days on end by fevers and chills and vertigo.

Don't let a handful of transphobic assholes scare you. If this is your way forward, then live your life to its fullest.

My only regret is that I didn't have the chance to do this sooner.

[ocielsdemon]

In Love with a Bat

Part 1: The Encounter

TW: wounds, stitches, needles?

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

You can’t recall the exact moment it happened. One dark night, a wounded bat fluttered through your apartment window, and despite the shock, you felt a surge of empathy. You instinctively rushed to help, carefully stitching him up.

But this was no ordinary bat. This was Batman.

As you worked, you marveled at the absurdity of the situation—here you were, a mere mortal, tending to the legendary Dark Knight. His presence filled your small space with an air of mystery and danger, yet you were determined to help him recover.

With each stitch, you felt a connection growing between you—a bond forged in vulnerability and trust. As he lay there, his eyes flickering open to meet yours, you realized that perhaps this encounter was destined to change both your lives forever.

You were a second-year med student—he could tell from the neatly framed certificates lining the walls of your apartment. He didn’t say much, but you noticed how his eyes lingered on them, even with the mask concealing most of his face.

His skin told a story all its own—rough, scarred, and weathered from countless battles. This wasn’t his first injury, and you doubted it would be his last. Still, you couldn’t shake the unease settling in your chest. The Dark Knight himself was standing in your apartment, larger than life yet painfully human in this moment. It was surreal, and no amount of medical training could have prepared you for something like this.

He didn’t flinch as I carefully stitched his wound, his stoic demeanor betraying a hint of admiration for my skill. “You shouldn’t leave your window open—it’s dangerous,” he said, his voice low and steady. A smirk played on my lips as I replied, “Oh, but it’s fine for you to climb through it, bleeding and desperate?” Something about the way I looked at him made his heart race, though he wouldn’t dare admit it. His eyes met mine, lingering just a moment too long.

“Injured anywhere else?” I asked, tying off the last stitch with practiced precision. He gave a curt nod, and without a word, turned his back to me. In one fluid motion, he removed his cape and then his shirt, revealing a deep gash that ran across his shoulder.

“That cut is bad,” I murmured, leaning in as my fingertips lightly traced the edges of the wound, careful not to hurt him further.

“Killer Croc,” he said simply, his voice low and gravelly, as if that name alone explained everything.

“You speak so simply, as though you don’t care,” I said, grabbing the sterile alcohol wipes. He didn’t flinch at my words, nor at the sting of the alcohol. Of course, he didn’t care—every night, he put his life on the line. Caring too much would only slow him down.

“Please, sit down for me,” I instructed, motioning toward the chair by the kitchen island. For a moment, I thought he’d ignore me, but then he silently complied, lowering himself into the chair with a controlled grace that somehow made him seem even more imposing. The silence between us was suffocating, but I focused on stitching up his shoulder, my fingers brushing against his skin more than necessary as I worked.

When I finally finished, I straightened up and looked at him. “Okay,” I said softly, “I suggest you rest. You’ve got a pretty high temperature and slightly elevated blood pressure. Other than that, your vitals are stable—for now.”

I sat across from him, trying to ignore how his piercing blue eyes locked onto mine. That was something I hadn’t noticed before—his eyes. They were sharp and intense, like they could see right through me.

“Thank you, Ms. Y/L/N,” he said after a pause, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine. His gaze flicked briefly to the certificates hanging on my wall before returning to me. “You’ll make a fine doctor someday.”

His words were polite enough, but there was something in his tone—something deliberate—that made my breath hitch. He wasn’t just thanking me; he was studying me, testing me. And for the first time that night, I felt like I was the one under a microscope.

“Well,” I replied with a small smirk, leaning forward just slightly to meet his gaze head-on. “Let’s hope you don’t need my help again anytime soon.”

His lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile—barely there but enough to make my heart race. “We’ll see,” he murmured, his voice low and enigmatic.

Without another word, he stood up, his imposing figure casting a long shadow in the dim light of the kitchen. He moved toward the window through which he had entered, the night air beckoning him like an old friend.

As he reached the open window, he paused for a moment, glancing back at me. The intensity in his blue eyes held a promise—one that sent a thrill through me. Then, with a fluid motion that spoke of years of training and stealth, he slipped out into the darkness, disappearing into the night as effortlessly as he had come.

The silence that followed was deafening, leaving me alone with my racing heart and the lingering warmth of his presence.

You awoke from a restless slumber, rubbing your temples as fragments of the night before lingered in your mind. Was it all a dream, or had reality blurred into something stranger? Shaking off the thought, you silenced your alarm and began your morning routine. The mirror reflected tired eyes, but you pushed through, the weight of late-night studying—or so you’d tell others—settling heavily on your shoulders.

At the bus stop, you spotted Cairo waiting for you, her dark purple scrubs matching yours. The two of you were headed to the Gotham City School of Medicine, a prestigious institution funded by none other than Bruce Wayne himself. The billionaire’s name was everywhere in Gotham, but here it carried weight—not just because of his philanthropy but because of the expectations tied to it.

“Morning,” Cairo greeted with her usual energy. “How’d you sleep?”

“It was okay,” you replied with a small shrug, masking the truth behind a practiced lie. “Didn’t get much rest—too much studying.”

“Classic,” she teased, rolling her eyes. “You’re always overdoing it.”

The bus arrived with its usual screech of brakes, and the two of you stepped in, continuing your conversation as you found seats together. Cairo had been your rock since your first year of medical school. She was hilarious, loyal, and always knew how to lighten the mood—even on your worst days. Despite her easygoing nature, she was sharp as a scalpel, and between the two of you, there was a playful rivalry: you were top of the class, and she was right behind you at second.

“You know,” Cairo said as the bus rumbled through Gotham’s gritty streets, “one day I’m going to beat you on an exam.”

“You can try,” you replied with a smirk. “But let’s be honest—you’d miss me up there at the top.”

She laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Oh please, I’m just letting you have it for now.”

The bus rolled past towering skyscrapers and shadowy alleys that seemed to define Gotham City. The school loomed ahead—a sleek building that felt out of place in a city so often defined by chaos and crime. Yet inside those walls was a haven for ambition and brilliance. It wasn’t lost on either of you that Bruce Wayne’s funding had made this possible; his name was etched into plaques and whispered in hallways like a ghost that haunted every achievement.

As you stepped off the bus and walked toward the entrance, Cairo glanced at you with a sly grin. “So… any dreams about mysterious vigilantes last night?”

“What?” You blinked at her sudden shift in tone.

“Come on,” she teased. “You’re always zoning out like you're hiding something dramatic. Spill it.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“Maybe,” she said with a wink. “Or maybe I know more than I’m letting on.”

Shaking your head at her antics, you both entered the building together. The day ahead would be grueling as always—but with Cairo by your side and Gotham’s strange energy buzzing in the background, it felt like anything could happen.

Once the bus came to a halt at our stop, we got off and walked the last few blocks to our university. Once we arrived we went our separate ways and went to our classes.

The day passed in a blur of lectures, labs, and Cairo’s relentless teasing. By the time the final class ended, you were ready to collapse, but Cairo had other plans.

“Don’t forget,” she said as you both packed up your things. “We’re going to that Wayne Foundation charity gala tonight. You did RSVP like I told you, right?”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Cairo, I have a mountain of studying to do.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “It’s not every day you get invited to a fancy event at Wayne Tower. Besides, it’s for a good cause—something about funding scholarships for medical students like us. Who knows? Maybe Bruce Wayne himself will make an appearance.”

You rolled your eyes at her enthusiasm but couldn’t deny the curiosity bubbling beneath your exhaustion. The idea of mingling with Gotham’s elite felt surreal, but Cairo was right—it was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up.

Later That Evening: The Charity Gala

The grand ballroom of Wayne Tower was nothing short of breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over polished marble floors, and the air buzzed with the hum of polite conversation and clinking champagne glasses. You adjusted the hem of your dress—a sleek black number Cairo had insisted you borrow—feeling slightly out of place among Gotham’s glittering elite.

“See?” Cairo whispered as she nudged your arm. “This is way better than studying.”

You gave her a small smile as you scanned the room. The crowd was a mix of wealthy socialites, business moguls, and professionals from various fields. It was hard not to feel overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of it all.

A voice interrupted your thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen,” an announcer called from the stage at the front of the room, “please welcome our host for this evening, Mr. Bruce Wayne.”

The crowd erupted into polite applause as Bruce Wayne stepped onto the stage. He was taller than you’d expected, his tailored suit fitting him perfectly. His presence commanded attention—not just because he was Gotham’s most famous billionaire but because there was something magnetic about him. His sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes seemed to scan the room as he began his speech.

“Thank you all for being here tonight,” he said, his voice smooth and confident. “The Wayne Foundation has always believed in investing in Gotham’s future, and that includes supporting our brightest minds in medicine. Tonight’s event is about more than raising funds; it’s about recognizing the potential in this room—the potential to change lives.”

Cairo leaned closer to you, whispering under her breath, “He’s even more handsome in person.”

You fought back a smile but couldn’t deny that Bruce Wayne had an undeniable charm.

After his speech concluded, the crowd dispersed into smaller groups, mingling over drinks and hors d'oeuvres. You followed Cairo toward one of the buffet tables when a deep voice behind you stopped you in your tracks.

“Enjoying the evening?”

You turned around and found yourself face-to-face with Bruce Wayne himself. Up close, his presence was even more striking—those same piercing blue eyes now focused entirely on you.

“Oh,” you stammered slightly before regaining composure. “Yes, it’s a wonderful event. Thank you for hosting something so meaningful.”

He smiled—a small but genuine expression that softened his otherwise serious demeanor. “It’s my pleasure,” he said before glancing at your name tag. “Ms. Y/L/N… You’re one of the students from Gotham City School of Medicine?”

“Yes,” you replied with a nod. “I’m in my second year.”

“And top of her class,” Cairo chimed in proudly from beside you.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “Is that so? Well, I’ll have to keep an eye on your career—you might be running Gotham General someday.”

Heat rose to your cheeks at his words, but before you could respond, someone called his name from across the room.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said with a polite nod, but not before adding, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

As he walked away, Cairo let out a low whistle. “Well, someone just got noticed by the Bruce Wayne.”

You shook your head, trying to play it cool despite your racing heart. “He was just being polite.”

“Uh-huh,” Cairo said with a knowing smirk as she grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Polite or not, I think we just witnessed history.”

You laughed softly but couldn’t help glancing back at Bruce as he moved through the crowd with effortless grace. Something about him lingered in your mind—something more than just his wealth or charm.

And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you had a feeling this wouldn’t be your last encounter with Gotham’s most enigmatic billionaire.

Part 2 coming soon…

(I swear I only write once every seven months)

Part One: The Encounter

Part Two: Through the Shadows

Part Three: The Return

Part Four: Into the Light

[pvtashby]

On your recent post for Vivisections

Do you have any more advice or maybe a quick scene lay out on how you'd accurately describe and show it? I've not seen many people explain this before I'd love to know more!

Permission to infodump?? awesome :D

Because it's on topic here, there are a few blogs I think need a mention because they have AMAZING medical/torture writing advice (@scripttorture and @justkidneying )

You didn't ask whether the character lives or dies, I don't know which you want so here's info on both scenarios:

Dying:

First off, without anesthesia, the pain alone would likely lead to a thing called Neurogenic Shock, which will in turn cause a BP drop and organ failure among other things. Your character will likely be breathing quickly, appear pale, have a rapid pulse, and be confused if they are still conscious. And yelling in pain of course.

For death due to blood loss: it's hard *not* to hit a major blood vessel if you're flaying someone open neck to groin, and that will also lead to quick death without immediate treatment. Cautery (using electricity to burn an area, stopping bleeding) will work on smaller bleeding but major blood vessels not so much. Symptoms are similar to shock: clammy/pale skin, thready/weak/rapid pulse, loss of consciousness.

Other: you can also risk damaging organs (someone being vivisected probably isn't going to be staying very still, even restrained, and one slip of a scalpel and oops, that's the aorta...) A punctured lung could lead to pneumo/hemothorax (air/blood in the chest cavity (pleural space), where it shouldn't be) causing respiratory distress—and then shock, and without treatment—death. If the heart is damaged, death would be near instant. Other organs like the liver, kidneys, bowels, spleen etc are pretty big bleeders, so see my Blood Loss section.

Sepsis: If they don't die immediately, sepsis is a big risk, as even in sterile environments you can't completely prevent it. Sepsis is when an infection reaches the bloodstream and is very serious. I imagine whoever is vivisecting the character probably wouldn't care too much about using sterile technique, so you can bet on an infection happening. This can set in within hours or days. Symptoms include high fever, pain, confusion/delirium, sweaty/clammy skin, low blood pressure.

Now, if you want them to live?

Surviving:

If the vivisectionist wants their patient/victim to survive, they'd need a lot of materials. Like any major surgery you'd need blood products, fluids, antibiotics, ligatures, and a way to keep the pain (somewhat) under control. Alcohol has been used in the past for similar procedures, but you could also just opt for a dose of opioids.

Antibiotics are necessary, opening someone up like that is a MAJOR risk (see "Sepsis").

I imagine they'd also somewhat monitor the character's vitals. They'd also probably have a few assistants to help with similar smaller tasks like that—stopping bleeding or handing tools, etc.

Closing the wound: Stitching someone up from such an event would be a lot of work, as you have to close many skin layers (muscle, fat, and the surface skin) and bandage it.

If you don't want to stitch them up immediately, a wound vac (negative pressure wound therapy) would be a good option. Doctors use these in cases of things like compartment syndrome. It is used when you cannot close someone back up right away.

Bandages and proper wound care are also important, you'd need to change the bandages every few hours for the first few days as deep wounds tend to produce a lot of fluids (called "exudate.") Sometimes doctors place drains to help drain away this fluid faster.

All in all, Healing from this would take months, not to mention the psychological trauma from all of this.

The scene:

Writing these scenes is honestly so variable so here's a few thoughts of mine:

You could describe the environment: (cliche, but cold metal table? Harsh lighting? Straps? A table with sharp scary-looking objects on it? How about the scent of disinfectant (or its absence).

The initial sensation would be the biggest to focus on: does the vivisectionist take their time? (pressure before pain?) shock as nerves fire as they are severed (lightning sensation shooting upwards), and the body’s instinctive flinch or freeze. Initially screaming, swearing? Sweating, rapid breathing, muscle spasms, or even vomiting as the body tries to cope?

Smells: Metallic tang of a large amount of blood (I personally HATE this smell, it's like having a penny in your mouth, or if you've ever used a metal scrubber to clean a pan, it smells kind of like that.), burning flesh (if they use cauterization) etc

If the character is partially sedated for it, keep in mind they will still react to pain, albeit sluggishly.

I hope this helps!

[blackstarlineage]

The Lack of Focus on Preventative Healthcare and Wellness: A Garveyite Perspective

Health is one of the most neglected aspects of liberation within the African diaspora. The systemic barriers to quality healthcare, compounded by a lack of focus on preventative healthcare and wellness, have created a crisis that disproportionately affects Black communities. However, from a Garveyite perspective, this is not merely an issue of access—it is a reflection of a broader struggle for self-determination, empowerment, and sovereignty over our bodies and well-being.

Marcus Garvey’s philosophy emphasizes self-reliance, education, and proactive community-building. Applying these principles to health means recognizing that true liberation requires physical, mental, and spiritual well-being. This analysis explores:

How the African diaspora has been systematically excluded from quality healthcare.

The normalization of preventable illnesses in Black communities.

How Garveyism provides a roadmap for reclaiming our health through self-determination.

1. Systemic Barriers to Preventative Healthcare in the African Diaspora

The Colonial Legacy of Medical Exploitation

Historically, Black bodies have been sites of medical experimentation rather than care. Examples include:

The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment (1932-1972) – Black men were denied treatment for syphilis as part of a government study, reinforcing distrust in the medical system.

The Exploitation of Henrietta Lacks (1951) – Her cells were used for medical advancements without her consent, highlighting the systemic disregard for Black autonomy.

Colonial Eugenics Programs – Across Africa and the Caribbean, medical practices were often used to control, rather than heal, Black populations.

This history has led to deep-rooted distrust in Western medicine, making many within the diaspora reluctant to seek medical help—even when necessary.

The Modern-Day Healthcare Disparities

While medical advancements continue, Black communities remain on the margins of healthcare access and quality. This manifests in:

Higher Mortality Rates – Black women in the U.S., for example. are 3-4 times more likely to die during childbirth.

Chronic Illness Disparities – Hypertension, diabetes, and heart disease disproportionately affect Black populations due to a combination of stress, poor nutrition, and lack of preventative care.

Economic Barriers – Lack of insurance and medical costs prevent many from accessing regular check-ups.

Marcus Garvey understood that oppression is not just political but biological—controlling a population’s health is a tool of domination. When a people are sick, they cannot fight for liberation.

2. The Normalization of Preventable Illnesses in Black Communities

Health as an Afterthought: Reactive vs. Preventative Care

Most healthcare models in Black communities are reactive rather than preventative. Instead of focusing on wellness, holistic health, and disease prevention, many wait until sickness becomes severe before seeking treatment.

Why?

Economic Hardship – Prioritizing immediate survival (food, housing) often takes precedence over preventative care.

Misinformation & Mistrust – A long history of medical racism makes many skeptical of early interventions.

Cultural & Dietary Habits – The infiltration of processed foods and unhealthy eating patterns, introduced during colonialism, has shifted traditional African and Caribbean diets toward harmful Western eating habits.

The Impact of Stress & Mental Health Neglect

The psychological toll of racism, economic struggle, and generational trauma manifests in high levels of stress, anxiety, and depression in Black communities. Yet, seeking therapy or mental health care is often stigmatized.

High Levels of Hypertension – Chronic stress has made high blood pressure a norm in Black populations.

Unaddressed Trauma – Generational trauma manifests in self-destructive behaviors such as substance abuse, violence, and poor self-care.

Spiritual Bypassing – While spirituality is a powerful tool for healing, many rely solely on faith rather than seeking holistic healing methods.

Garveyism challenges this passivity toward health—urging Black people to take an active role in their physical, mental, and spiritual well-being.

3. The Garveyite Solution: Reclaiming Our Health Through Self-Determination

Health as Liberation: A Garveyite Approach to Wellness

Marcus Garvey believed in self-reliance in every aspect of life—including health. Just as he advocated for economic and political independence, he would argue that health is an act of resistance.

1. Reclaiming Indigenous & Holistic Healing Practices

Before colonialism, African societies practiced herbal medicine, plant-based diets, and holistic healing. These traditions must be reclaimed.

Herbal Medicine & Natural Remedies – Encouraging knowledge of plants, teas, and natural cures rooted in African traditions.

Plant-Based & Whole-Food Diets – Returning to ancestral diets rich in grains, vegetables, and natural proteins rather than processed foods.

Physical Movement & Fitness – Dance, martial arts, and physical training as integral parts of cultural preservation and health.

2. Building Black-Owned Health Institutions

Garvey emphasized Black self-sufficiency—this must extend to healthcare institutions.

Community Clinics – Establishing wellness centres focused on preventative care.

Black-Owned Pharmacies & Health Stores – Reducing dependence on corporations that profit from sickness.

Mental Health & Counselling Programs – Breaking the stigma around therapy and mental wellness.

3. Pan-African Health Networks & International Collaboration

Garveyism calls for global unity—this applies to health as well. By connecting with African and Caribbean health initiatives, the diaspora can:

Create Alternative Health Models – Blending Western medicine with African holistic approaches.

Promote Medical Tourism – Encouraging Black people to seek care in Black-led hospitals and clinics.

Exchange Knowledge – African and Caribbean herbalists, nutritionists, and doctors collaborating to create a new Black health paradigm.

Final Thoughts: Reclaiming Our Bodies, Reclaiming Our Future

The lack of focus on preventative healthcare and wellness is not accidental—it is part of a system that benefits from Black illness and dependence. Garveyism teaches that we must take control of every aspect of our lives, including our health.

We can no longer afford to normalize preventable illnesses, poor diets, and stress-related conditions. True liberation requires physical strength, mental clarity, and spiritual alignment.

To heal the Black body, mind, and spirit, we must:

Embrace holistic and preventative health practices

Invest in Black-owned health institutions

Prioritize mental and emotional well-being

Return to indigenous wellness traditions

Unify as a global community to reclaim our health

Because a strong people are an unbreakable people.

Your health is your revolution.

[wxsteriawishes]

zayne being a virgo

go back to masterlist

content: slight mention of death/blood

virgo sun man attributes

perfectionist, self-critical, reserved, diligent, lenient, hopeful, selfless

♍️ perfectionist ♍️ he does not take failure well. it might seem unhealthy, but he's just not used to it. everything needs to be perfect. the diagnosis, the schedule, the antidote. the chaos and clutter of his mind is confusing enough, he can't let it manifest physically. his room, his clinic, his desk, it's all organized and clean. nothing is out of place. the little things prevent him from spiraling when something goes wrong. it's his way of taking control of his life however he can.

♍️ self-critical ♍️ he holds himself to high standards and doesn't understand it when he can't meet them. he is cruel to himself. so caring with children and gentle with his patients, but so harsh to the reflection. criticizing words from others don't bother him. he is his worst judge, the most detailed critic. he never lets himself relax, always pushing to be good, better, the best. nothing's ever enough. not when there are more patients to save.

♍️ reserved ♍️ he's good with his words, specifically when it doesn't require him to let his guard down. so he just doesn't let his guard down. he doesn't often have to, and an issue never really comes up. but when he does have to be vulnerable, he can have difficulty expressing himself. it's only at first, given how quick of a learner he can be. but he may go quiet when upset, not wanting to overreact and lose control. he'll tell you he needs a moment, his voice soft. he needs someone who understands him without having to force it. the connection feels easy between you two. you love him like it's breathing and it brings him so much relief. you overwhelm him with your love, cracking at his walls, bit by bit.

♍️ diligent ♍️ he does his work. he finishes his errands. he never lets something go unattended. it's a difficult, pressuring, and frankly dreary life. but he'll do what needs to get done. it's how he proved himself in the medical field. he consistently did what needed to get done in high school, college, and med school. then in residency, before he finally made his way to akso hospital. he was trustworthy, resilient, and reliable. he never faltered, if he could help it.

♍️ lenient ♍️ lenient with others, that is. not with himself, of course. why would he do that? when he used to tutor, he never got frustrated with the slower-learning students. he never overstepped when he felt his mentors were taking their time at work. he was patient and forgiving. he didn't let anyone walk over him, but he also didn't make a scene when someone was clearly just a little insecure. it was how he racked up the favors, to so quickly advance to where he was now. it was how he got along with children so easily. never making them feel like they were any less, but also not expecting anything from them.

♍️ hopeful ♍️ he has dreams. dreams of helping others back to health. he dreams of a peaceful life, his hands maybe finally clean of the blood he's spilt. he works tirelessly to achieve these dreams, sleepless nights, silent wishes, praying to a god that won't ever answer to him again. he knows he has the potential, but what if he messes up again? what if his love for you curses him again? he has hope that he'll be able to control himself this time around. third time's the charm. . . right?

♍️ selfless ♍️ he will tear himself apart skin-to-bone to help others. zayne li is through and through a virgo, the wounded healer. he had hurt and so he stops the pain from spreading to others. he saves lives to put himself at ease. the world felt so similar to hell. innocent children die, lovers separated by illness, and he gets to survive? he constantly reminds himself of how unfair it is. his nightmares, his scarred hands, they drive his desire to be as good as he can. lest he kills someone again, he has to atone for his sins. deep down, he craves an unconditional love. a love as selfless as that which he gives to others everyday, whether he believes it or not. he hopes he's worthy of finding it.

[scozthewoz]

mercs as cat breeds + kitty merc headcanons

inspired by/in collaboration with @joonliebe (i changed a few of them sorry pookie 💔)

kitty headcanons are from my cat fortress AU where all the mercs are cats that are foster fails because nobody wants those motherfuckers and now miss pauling is stuck with them all

spy ▪︎ persian - fancy and high maintenance. the signature bond villain cat

likes to be alone. needs to be taken to the groomer once a week or he gets pissed off and starts tearing up the couch. he has a very strict schedule and if his terms are not followed he throws a tantrum. he also sneaks out of the house and dissapears frequently. a dick to the rest of the cats, except scout for some reason.

heavy ▪︎ siberian - big boys with big coats, comes from siberia

the most well behaved cat there. scarred up and scary looking from his time in the pound, but he's suprisingly very quiet and peaceful. naturally chunky and big boned. miss pauling's favorite. he's a bonded pair with medic, they can normally be found grooming each other. he tends to wrangle scout when he's being too much, he doesn't like to see miss pauling stressed.

pyro ▪︎ sphynx - just a weird lookin thing. also an affectionate and energetic breed that likes to wreak havoc

peculiar little intersex kitty covered in burns, owners died in a house fire (that she may or may not have caused). both eyes are gone, but she navigates just fine. knows how to turn the stove on and has set multiple small fires. miss pauling puts him in cute little sweaters since he doesn't have any fur to keep him warm.

sniper ▪︎ savannah - hybrid of a house cat and a wild serval

very solitary, like spy, but not hostile to the others. owners were an old couple that died and it shook up the already shy cat. miss pauling doesn't need to feed him like the others since he sneaks out and hunts his own meals. almost completely silent unless he's sitting at the window and chirping at birds. evident dislike for spy. quiet and low maintenence so not a huge headache, but he tracks mud in the house. he's very skittish too, runs off or hides whenever there's company.

medic ▪︎ turkish angora - graceful. very majestic. cunty, even

on paper, he seems like a very good cat! he's an ex-service animal that still carries out some service tasks, like deep pressure therapy when miss pauling is getting anxious or retrieving stuff. only problem is that he loves bringing dead things inside, and he goes out of his way to rip it to shreds and get blood and guts ALL over the house. he also has a temper issue, and he needs little kitty glasses because his eyesight is shit.

engineer ▪︎ munchkin - haha short legs!! oh yeah, and they're pretty smart

used to be a workshop cat around for pest control, lost a leg in an accident. workshop guys gave him a kitty sized hardhat he gets very upset without. he's got a hard time jumping up on stuff since he not only has short legs, but he's got a prosthetic one too, so miss pauling made him a few kitty staircases up to his favorite spots. he likes stealing tools from neighbors and and scrap metal from outside and stashes them under the couch.

demoman ▪︎ scottish fold - scottish, prone to eye problems

missing an eye and has some singed fur from teens with fireworks. little kitty eyepatch. he frequently gets into the bailey's irish cream miss pauling keeps on top of the fridge and has to be brought to the vet for liver issues at least once a month.

soldier ▪︎ ragdoll - developed in america !!🇺🇸 tend to rough house when playing and are very vocal

used to belong to a war veteran, then became a stray after he died. clipped ear. his body's kept shaved because of scarring and matting issues, so he's got furry boots and a puffball tail, but the fur on his noggin covers his eyes. he frequently bothers the others. a big sweetheart for miss pauling, but agressive with anyone else. likes fetch. dog in a cat body.

scout ▪︎ siamese - the extroverts of the cat world, very energetic and chatty, also very clever.

his ma and brothers are all siamese, but he's got an oddly fluffy tail like a persian.. he's a big fan of miss pauling, never leaves her alone. gets pissy and scratches the curtains or breaks a glass when she's giving one of the other cats too much attention. wayyy too clingly and always causing some sort of trouble or getting into places he shouldn't. he also meows CONSTANTLY.

[fireheartedpup]

Okay. So. Ashwaganda.

I lost the post about the supplement from a troll company that was marketing it as hormone replacement therapy. The doses were high enough to send you into serotonin syndrome, and it doesn't replace estrogen. It encourages your body to make the hormones it's already making.

This was in 2023, and the website quickly vanished after backlash.

The thing is, ashwaganda is a mood stabilizer. I'm wondering if it's possible to feel better before the serotonin syndrome. Is the dosage high enough that you feel funny immediately, or does it seem like life is so good that this miracle pill couldn't possibly be bad for you?

Once it starts, it sounds like torture. I'm just wondering about the lead up. The poster who was quoted on that post said that ashwaganda taken in that dosage could cause it in "as little as a month," so what does the lead up feel like?

I don't take medication, so I haven't worried too much about interactions. That said, it's good to know that it can conflict with medications for blood pressure, thyroid, sleep, immunosuppression, and diabetes.

This is mostly because it has similar effects--so again, too much can tip you over from "this helps" to "this is a threat to my safety."

There are other natural things that raise serotonin levels, like ginkgo, and I thought they were mentioned in one of links I included but I can find the paragraph I'm thinking of.

...this could be due to the fact that ginseng can also raise serotonin levels, and I might have misremembered it.

Probiotics, vitamin D, and fish oil can also raise serotonin, as can tryptophan and exercise. Rhodiola is another adaptogen that can help with things like ADHD, and St. John's Wort is also on that list.

There's a lot. I actually left out green tea and turmeric. Oh, and 5-htp. That one I'm careful with. It makes me feel drugged.

Coffee and artificial sweeteners can decrease serotonin, so I'm not terribly bothered. If it's not consumed in high doses or alongside something it shouldn't be combined with, it should be okay.

I'm also not consistent with anything, and in the case of the supplements where it's better to take breaks instead of simply continuing to take them every single day for a long period of time, this works for me.

The thing that made me take a second look at adaptogens in general is that my period is almost a week late.

Remember how it adjusts your hormones? Yeah, a lot of people have this reaction--and it can make your period lighter. I'm mostly finding anecdotes from reddit, but there is a study about it helping with perimenopause.

My periods have never been super consistent. I have a rough idea of when they're going to come, but the cycle isn't exact. So this doesn't bother me a ton, but it's enough for some people to want to switch to an alternative method of controlling things like anxiety.

I'm already questioning whether my hormones are out of whack or not, so that's part of it.

I just think it's interesting. "Natural alternatives" are marketed as safer, without side effects. My experience has been that no matter what you do, you're throwing spaghetti at a wall to see what sticks--and you still need to look up everything you take to see if it's going to interact with anything else.

It would be nice if going to a doctor fixed this problem. Unfortunately, I've read too many stories about patients having to look things up for themselves, even after going to doctor after doctor.

It's like the pegboard with red string.

Anyway. My takeaway is still that what will fix your problems is appropriate treatment for your body. Unfortunately, this is different for everyone, and pretty much requires you to make a lifelong study of what to take and what the side effects are--no matter if you're taking supplements or drugs.

I'm still on the adaptogen train because I don't have to beg a doctor for help or make an appointment or beg a doctor to listen to me when it turns out that I need a change in my treatment plan or get registered as "really, she needs this" in order to get the thing that will help me.

I'm just. You know. Wondering. About what this is going to mean for my period going forward.

(And I'm going to have to research every single other thing I'm taking to see what the crossovers are.)

IMPORTANT: Ashwaganda can cause spontaneous abortion. Do not listen to anyone who says that adaptogens are safe to take during pregnancy. CHECK FIRST.

[genderqueerpositivity]

Oh shit, do you need to get a hysterectomy if you've been on T for a while? I've been on it for about 4 years, but I don't know much about this part, is this something I should look into before Trump is in charge?

CW: medical stuff and periods.

No, you don't need to have a hysterectomy just because you've been on T for awhile; if you have no medical or gender affirming reasons for needing one, then you don't need one.

Personally, my periods were always absolutely horrible pre-testosterone; they were heavy, painful, and 25-40 days long at their worst. There was some speculation that I could have PCOS, but I was never actually diagnosed, just put on the pill to half-ass treat the symptoms. I switched prescriptions a few times, but never really found one that fully helped and was without side effects. Oh, and on top of that, dysphoria was a nightmare around that time, I was always a wreck mentally and emotionally.

I don't want to go back to living with periods like that, like ever. I'm also probably no longer the best candidate for hormonal birth control, due to the elevated stroke risk (I have high blood pressure plus a family history of stroke).

Oh, and I'm childfree. As you know this isn't exactly the best country in which to be a person that can get pregnant right now. I expect it will only get worse, especially given that our next Vice President openly hates childfree people.

So anyway. It's not necessary that you have a hysto, but if it's something you might want or need in the future, I suggest you do start looking into it before he takes office.

[captain-mj]

hi! no pressure, just want to offer you an idea for non military au. ghost is former soldier, now he is a lighthouse keeper. one day he finds unconscious and maybe wounded selkie!soap on the beach and decides to take care of him, because the nearest city is very far away and he doesn't know what to do in strange situations like this.

I love this idea so much! Wrote this in a series of scenes to cover more of the story :) Also I wanted it to feel like an indie movie where you walk away feeling like you missed something.

Ghost was smoking quietly outside of the lighthouse, watching the stars. He was having one of those nights where he couldn't sleep. All of his duties were done for the night and the light would continue without him until morning. But he couldn't sleep.

Movement happened at the shoreline. His eyes quickly flicked over to it, watching for it to happen again. The water lapped over the shore and hit something, making it splash. Something that definitely was not a rock.

Occasionally, seals would wash on shore so he wanted to make sure nothing bad was happening. If they were hurt or tangled in nets, he'd try to help them. Even if the bastards liked biting him.

When he saw the soft fur lighting up in the moonlight, he resigned himself to having to help one of them. The very human foot that appeared though. That was new.

Ghost slowly walked closer, not making a sound.

The person in front of him had a seal coat on and nothing else. In this freezing cold, that wasn't a good idea. There was also blood that was slowly spreading around.

Ghost moved him gently, seeing where there was a broken spearhead in his side. Who the fuck uses spears? What the fuck happened to him that he'd be in the position to get hurt like this?

With how bad it was and how far they were from civilization, there was no way he'd make it unless Ghost did something. Good thing Ghost did all his own medical care and he could cover it.

Hopefully, mystery man wouldn't be too upset. He was sure if he explained he was ex-military and was medically trained, he'd understand. Or he wouldn't and he'd sue him.

Mystery man was heavy. And naked besides the coat. Not even underwear. He made sure to keep his... bits covered. Didn't want mystery guy waking up in a compromising position.

He'd hate to get blood all over his bed, but the couch would be hard to work with. So he laid mystery man in his bed, exposing the wound and not much else.

Ghost heated up a needle and threaded it. He started to clean the wound with vodka and pulled the spearhead out. As the needle slid in, the mystery man twitched but didn't wake up. The wound was deep and bloody, but he still got it under control. With a few bandages on top, he looked just fine.

The coat had to come off. It had blood all over it and needed to be cleaned. If it set in the fur, it might stain it. He gently took it off.

Ghost's focus on the wound shifted to focus on the man himself. His body was extremely toned like he worked out constantly. Scars littered his body, big ones that looked like they were from a shark and little ones from something. He couldn't quite figure it out.

Ghost put a blanket over him. After a moment, he tucked him in. Felt a little silly to be a grown man tucking in a grown man, but he did it for some reason. Mystery man sank a little further into the bed when he did it. His mohawk just barely stuck out from the blankets.

The coat. Ghost grabbed it and took it to his laundry room. With how it looked, he probably needed to handwash it. He soaked it first, getting all of the blood out, before he put some soap on it. It was the same he used for his balaclava so he knew it wouldn't be damaging. Then he put it up to dry.

It took a while, but he managed to fall asleep on the couch.

-

A few hours later, there was movement in his home. He tensed up when it happened and went on high alert. On instinct, he went for the knife under his pillow but it wasn't there.

Mystery man was staring at him. Giant black eyes staring deep into him. Feral.

"Where the fuck did you put it?" Mystery man moved so fast, pouncing on him, using his thighs to pin him down. His hands grabbed Ghost's wrists so he couldn't attack him.

He was still naked.

Ghost kept his eyes trained on his eyes, not wanting to look down and be a perv.

Was it technically pervy if this guy jumped on him?

"Where is my coat?" He bared his teeth.

Ghost's eyes widened, seeing the set of seal teeth. The eyes.

"What the fuck are you?"

Mystery man snapped at him, ready to sink his teeth in to him, and then winced right as Ghost felt the warm blood hit his stomach. With practiced ease, he flipped them around, pinning him down now. He then stood up and got some more bandages. "You ripped your stitches. Stay right there."

Silence followed as Ghost restitched him and put more bandages on him. Once he was sure he wouldn't bleed out again, he pressed him down on the couch. Mystery man looked up at him, something fierce and wild in his expression. He looked beautiful honestly. In a frightening way. Like an angel.

"What are you?"

He snarled at him but looked down at where Ghost's hand was pressed to his chest to keep him down. His hand dwarfed his chest. It made the situation a lot less tense. Both of them believing they could definitely kick the other's ass.

"Selkie."

"The fuck is that?"

"Sometimes I'm a seal. Sometimes I'm a person." He explained, slowly relaxing more. "Where is my coat?"

Ghost realized this person was certified insane. Though he did see the dark eyes and seal teeth, though maybe they both were. "I cleaned it."

"Cleaned it?"

Ghost nodded. "Yeah. I washed it since it was bloody. You're going to need to stay here for a bit. You'll need to heal some more or you'll rip those stitches and bleed out. No jumping around either."

He frowned but seemed more content now.

He was still fucking naked.

Ghost grimaced. "What's your name?"

"Soap."

"Soap?"

"That's what the people up the street call me."

Ghost thought about the fact that there was not another house for about twenty miles and decided to ignore that. "Just relax. I'll find you some clothes?"

"Why?"

Ghost wrinkled his nose at him and went to his bedroom. He found a few things and looked up, freezing.

his face.

He hadn't been wearing his mask last night. Why would he? It was cold, but not that cold and there was no one for miles.

This guy had seen his face. And while yes, he had seen this man's... everything, his face was an intimate affair.

If he put the mask on now, it would cause even more questions and problems. If he didn't, the man would still be looking at him.

Then the man was there.

"I ripped my stitches again."

"Fucking hell."

-

Once Soap was bandaged, dressed and back in his coat, he was more than happy to take up Ghost's entire couch, body spread out and branching. The coat hugged him perfectly. A glove made for him.

His bright blue eyes were staring at him. Ghost had to stare and try to remember if they were blue before as well. They fit his face. Bright blue eyes with tan skin and pretty features. Not delicate by any means. Strong jaw and nose. But definitely pretty.

"So, Ghost." Soap started to speak, glancing at where Ghost was cooking for them in the kitchen. "Why are you here?"

"I run the lighthouse."

"The big tower with the light on it?" Soap sat up curiously, tilting his head.

Ghost nodded. "That's the one."

Soap hummed. "Always wonder what that did." He put his head on the back of the couch, staring at Ghost with his pretty blue eyes and dark eyelashes.

"Helps boats know where the shore is."

Soap hummed in response and continued to watch.

Ghost brought him food, watching Soap start to shovel it in his mouth with his hands. "Do you not know how to use a fork?"

Soap snapped at him and Ghost let it go.

-

Ghost watched his progress with great interest. Soap's wounds healed faster than the average person and it healed cleaner. It was still a slow process though so he had to watch carefully. He never slipped the mask back on. Maybe he should’ve. It would be smarter too.

Soap noticed the masks but he never said anything. He never passed judgement on Ghost’s quirks. His giant blue eyes peered at him all the time. Absorbing him. It was odd, being the one watched. Though, he did watch him back.

They got into long staring contests which were tons of fun for him. It was calming. Weirdly. Soap was much like the ocean he came from. Unsettling and eerie and beautiful. Especially the eyes.

Ghost did research, trying to find out if maybe selkies had an effect like this. Instead he just found dozens and dozens of things about their coats.

He didn’t touch the thing. It looked soft. But it made him nervous in a weird way. Like he’d make it dirty. Didn’t help that Soap went from civil human to snarling animal if he glanced at it. Big black eyes ready to rip him to shreds.

Soap never truly scared him. Unsettled, sure. But Ghost was pretty sure he could take him.

Pretty sure.

Soap was complaining again. Maybe horrid noises as he rolled around the floor.

“I could help if I knew what was wrong.”

“Dirty.”

“You want a bath?”

Soap paused his writhing to consider. “Yes. I would like... a bath."

Ghost nodded and fixed it for him. He made it cold. For some reason it felt right to do so.

Soap sank deep into the water and looked very happy. It made Ghost feel calmer. Big black eyes stared at him from the water.

He had seen them before. While out on the beach, he had seen those eyes staring at him.

A predator from the depths. Maybe like cats and wolves, this predator could be tamed as well.

Ghost grabbed the shampoo and started to wash Soap's hair, enjoying the softness of the strands. He used nicer shampoo for the smell so he hoped it was okay. With how Soap's was styled, he assumed he took pride in his hair.

Soap relaxed into the freezing water, humming. "A little warm for my taste."

"Should I put ice in it?"

"That sounds good."

So Ghost poured ice in the bathtub. He started to wonder what this was. If maybe he had finally killed himself and this was some weird purgatory. Or maybe it had been so long since he had a conversation that he was imagining this. What if he had a wild seal in his home?

Ghost decided this was a path he didn't want to travel. He could live with not knowing.

Soap relaxed and his eyes went back to the nice blue.

-

Ghost took his bed back after the third night. Soap stayed on the couch. He was still healing and outside of when he wanted to be dramatic, he rarely moved.

Ghost cooked for them every morning and night before going to check on the lighthouse. He did his normal duties and then came home in record time every day.

Soap was always doing… something. Usually staring out the window at the ocean or biting at his pillows or laying dramatically on the floor like a broken doll. Ghost would sit with him and they’d talk.

They sat there for a few minutes before Soap looked at him. Dark eyes staring into him again. Shredding him. Making a place inside of him that only Soap could squirm into.

"If you died, you think you'd go to Valhalla?"

"Valhalla is for people who die fighting."

"Are you not fighting now?" Soap asked him and smiled. It was impish. Like he had secret Ghost wasn't getting.

Ghost frowned. "No. I'm not fighting now."

Soap grabbed Ghost's hand, comparing their hand sizes. "So what are we eating tonight? Fish again?"

"Yeah, I can make more fish." Ghost glanced at him, watching his mouth.

"Thank you." Soap batted his eyelashes at him and smiled softly.

They fell in sync so easily. Ghost cooking and Soap by his side to watch it. If it weren't for Ghost, he'd eat the fish raw, but it was impolite to do so in the house.

Soap licked over his teeth. Giant things. Sharp.

Ghost thought of what it would be like to feel them pierce his throat.

-

Ghost wasn't sleeping. He laid down and just stared at the ceiling.

Soap had healed. He could leave now. Maybe that's what kept Ghost up. Or maybe it was the fact that Soap was clearly moving.

The door creaked open and Soap stepped in. He didn't speak, just found where the bed was in the dark. Slowly, he got on the bed next to him and then moved on top of him, straddling him.

"My name, when I played human, was Johnny."

"My name was Simon."

It felt inevitable. The way their lips brushed against each other. Pressed soft but insistent. Intent on devouring each other.

"Simon." Johnny said softly. "First human I've met than I've liked."

"Thank you." Ghost felt honored weirdly enough. He pulled him closer to kiss him more.

Johnny's mouth traveled down his jaw and to his throat. Simon relaxed, waiting for the sting. For the inevitable death. He'd welcome it like a lover. Like Johnny.

Instead it was only soft kisses. Trailing and claiming. Spiraling around. Fingertips searching each other in the dark.

Johnny moved and slowly undid the tie on Ghost's pants. "I want to give my gratitude."

"You don't have to."

"I want to. Want you to touch me."

This was Valhalla. Or maybe that purgatory he feared. Scars all over his body ached as he reached for Johnny's face, cupping him. "Johnny."

"Simon..." He breathed against him.

Their mouths stayed close, breathing in each other's air as they moved against each other. It was slow and aching and it made Ghost want to take Johnny's coat and mix them together in the sheets. To never let him leave and stay there for eternity, breathing each other in.

He'd never. Johnny finally sank his teeth into him. Into his shoulder. Ghost groaned and grabbed on to him. Johnny's hands. They dragged him under.

It had been so long since he had been touched. He felt undone by Johnny. Simon tried to reciprocate, to make Johnny feel just as good.

Until they were both wrecked and panting and sinking into the bed.

Johnny clawed at him and buried his face in his neck. He kept him pinned down so his hands could go over Simon's body.

The touch was heavenly. It felt like it was burning him.

Simon held him close.

"Are you going to disappear in the morning?"

"Do you want me to?"

Simon held him closer, fingers going through the fur of his coat. "No. God no."

[luvuz4life]

Daily Question Time:

Every day, I’m going to answer somebody’s question. So send me yours, and I’ll answer it for you<

Not really a question but Common Eating Disorders and Related Conditions?

Anorexia Nervosa (Anorexia) – Extreme restriction of food and calories – Intense fear of gaining weight – Often leads to being underweight and having health problems like anemia, bone loss, or heart issues

Bulimia Nervosa (Bulimia) – Binge eating followed by purging (vomiting, laxatives, over-exercising) – People with bulimia can be underweight, normal weight, or overweight – Can cause electrolyte imbalances, tooth damage, and anemia

Binge Eating Disorder (BED) – Eating large amounts of food in a short time and feeling out of control – No purging afterward – Often leads to guilt, shame, and health issues like weight gain, high blood pressure, or diabetes

Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID) – Extreme pickiness or fear around eating (like choking or certain textures) – Not always related to body image – Can lead to weight loss and nutritional deficiencies

Other Specified Feeding or Eating Disorder (OSFED) – Doesn’t fit exactly into anorexia, bulimia, or BED categories but still serious – Examples: someone who purges without binging, or someone with all signs of anorexia but at a “normal” weight

Pica– Eating non-food items like dirt, chalk, or hair – Can be dangerous and lead to poisoning or blockages

Rumination Disorder – Repeatedly regurgitating (bringing up) food after eating, then re-chewing or spitting it out – Not due to a medical issue

Orthorexia (not officially in the DSM yet) – An obsession with eating only “clean” or “healthy” foods – Can become restrictive and interfere with health or daily life

These are just a few eating disorder–related conditions, and everyone’s experience can look different. Please don’t use this information to self-diagnose. If you’re struggling or have any concerns about your eating habits, body image, or health, it’s really important to reach out to a doctor or mental health professional. You deserve support and care.