#medical demand avoidance

[ink-asunder]

Having demand avoidance in a medical setting is literally hell. Like, patient autonomy is already absolute ass. It's only made worse when doctors CONSISTENTLY tell you what to do and act like you HAVE to do it instead of consulting with you first like normal fucking people.

[realredbanana]

Every time I remember that canon!Will Solace kinda sucks if you think about it for too long, I feel like crying. Idk. Like, what do you mean my beloved boy whom I love dearly actually kinda sucks, but the narrative ignores it and pretends like everything he does is Totally Fine??/hj

(Not saying all fanon!Will is great! He’s sometimes not.)

[chronicsymptomsyndrome]

Someday I’ll get over my weird panic thing about doctors and needles and get blood work done and a doctor will get my results back and be like “holy fuck you’ve been living with untreated _____ and ______ this whole time how are you just now getting diagnosed are you okay??” and I’ll be like noo lol and then everyone that’s ever called me lazy will be suddenly struck by an all-consuming wave of guilt and shame <3 yay

[anxietyfrappuccino]

what if i induce panic by not taking my medication, will i get things done then

[fishymedic]

Thinking about part of why he also does his best to not be around during act 2 (being the noxians, ambessa) like he does not want to be around any of them even in passing. His instincts+vastayan heritage screaming that he just does not want to even be perceived for an single second.

-Only for him to end up captured during the battle anyways (more if there is a no kill order on him/he resists capture because of that fear coursing through him that makes him just fight & fight till he's so very barely on the cusp of consciousness depending etc)

[lilac-set]

#hmm. is it okay if it's polite and undemanding? #like "did you take your meds today?"

This is gonna depend on the person, some pda’ers are still gonna see that as a demand, and some won’t. I think in general the less demanding you can be the better, even if its still seen as a little bit of a demand, it’ll be easier to bounce back from that than just a straight up command. Personally, when i have to set reminders or make to-do lists for myself (which i generally avoid doing, but i understand the appeal of posts like this for most people), i like to use phrasing like “its ok to drink water if you want to”

Questions like “did you-“ arent particularly demanding in and of themselves, but as someone with pda it can be easy to turn that into a demand for ourselves. “Oh, i didnt. I should. i have to”. “Its ok if you want” offers a reminder with 0 pressure, and in the same breath invites us to be gentle with ourselves as well. This is my personal preference. But like i said, everyone is different. I like to use a few extra words to reassure myself that im not trying to impose, but so many extra words can read to some people as passive aggressive or sarcastic, but questions can read that way too

I like words like “invitation” or “offer”, “can/could/may” is infinitely better than “should/must/have to”, “its ok to” can be really powerful for me, as well as “if you want”. Even though some things are more of needs than wants, i would still aim for phrasing like “its ok to use the bathroom if you want to” compared to “if you need to”, because having pda and being reminded about a need just always feels claustrophobic

Others with pda, feel free to chime in with your favorite phrasing

I know those posts have the best of intentions but as someone with pathological demand avoidance it feels like deliberate sabotage when posts are like “STOP!!! This is a checkpoint! If its between 10pm and 7am you must sleep!! Make sure youre on wifi not data! GO TO THE FUCKING BATHROOM AND DRINK WATER YOU IDIOT”

1, not everyone’s circadian rhythm does the whole 10-7 thing and thats perfectly ok, you dont need to enforce normalcy on everyone like that, holy shit

2, now i cant do any of those things, because you put my body in fight/flight/freeze mode instead of productive mode. Why would you do that? (/rhetorical)

[pucksandpower]

Malpractice

Franco Colapinto x physician!Reader

Summary: when you agreed to join your cousin Lily at the Las Vegas Grand Prix to watch her boyfriend race, you didn’t realize the weekend would end with you saving a rookie driver with a concussion from the dangerous schemes of his team

The Williams Racing garage is chaos incarnate. The crash replay loops on the screens above the engineers’ heads, showing Franco’s car slamming into the barriers. The sound of carbon fiber shattering is so vivid in your mind it might as well have happened right next to you.

The footage is brutal.

50G.

The kind of impact that makes your stomach twist into knots. Franco couldn’t even get out of the car by himself, the marshals had to haul him out like a ragdoll. And now, the garage feels like it’s on edge, everyone pretending they’re not watching for updates while they pretend to keep working.

“He’s at the medical center,” someone mutters behind you. “They’re checking him out now.”

Good. He needs checking out. A crash like that doesn’t leave you unscathed, no matter how tough you think you are.

You stand off to the side, arms crossed tightly over your chest, watching as engineers, mechanics, and media relations people swirl around each other, avoiding eye contact but buzzing with nervous energy. Lily had invited you here as Alex’s guest, but you feel completely out of place, like you’re intruding on a family argument you weren’t supposed to overhear.

Then you hear it.

“He’ll be fine to race tomorrow,” James Vowles says, his voice low but carrying just enough weight to reach your ears.

You blink, sure you’ve misheard. But no, he’s standing near a huddle of engineers, speaking in clipped tones like this is just another logistical problem to solve. “We can’t find a replacement on such short notice,” he continues, “so we need him in the car. No excuses.”

Your jaw drops. You can’t help it. “You’re joking,” you blurt out.

James and the engineers freeze, turning to you like you’re some alien creature who’s wandered into their secret lair.

He recovers quickly, offering a tight smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met-”

“Are you serious right now?” You step closer, fueled by disbelief. “He crashed into the wall at 50G. He couldn’t even stand up without help. And you think it’s a good idea to put him back in the car tomorrow?”

James’ expression hardens. “Miss, this isn’t your concern-”

“Actually, it’s Doctor. And it is my concern if you’re planning to endanger someone’s life for a race.” Your voice rises, but you don’t care. Let them stare. Let them glare. You’re not about to stand by while they make decisions like this.

“Look,” James says, trying for diplomacy. “The FIA medical team will clear him if he’s fit to race. That’s their job, not yours.”

“And what if they’re wrong?” You demand. “What if he has a concussion? What if he gets in that car and something happens because you couldn’t be bothered to prioritize his safety?”

Before James can reply, the garage door creaks open, and Franco stumbles in.

All eyes snap to him. He’s leaning heavily on his physiotherapist, his helmet dangling from his other hand. His usually sharp, confident features are slack, his eyes glassy. He looks like he’s barely holding it together.

Your chest tightens. He shouldn’t even be standing right now, let alone back here in the thick of it.

The physiotherapist helps him over to a chair, and Franco slumps into it with a groan. “I’m fine,” he says, though his words slur slightly. “Just a little — what’s the word? Shaken up.”

You don’t even think. You march over to him, the rest of the garage fading into the background.

“Franco,” you say firmly, crouching in front of him. “Look at me.”

His unfocused eyes wander to your face, and he frowns like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen you before. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I’m about to save your life, so let’s call it even,” you say briskly. “How many fingers am I holding up?” You hold up three.

He squints at your hand. “Uh … six?”

Your heart sinks. “Okay. Follow my finger.” You move your hand slowly in front of his face, but his gaze wobbles, unable to track it.

“Wow,” he mutters, blinking rapidly. “You’re really pretty.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting. “Franco, focus. Do you feel nauseous? Dizzy?”

“Both,” he admits, leaning back in the chair. “But it’s fine. I’ve felt worse.”

“It’s not fine.” Your voice is sharper than you intend, but you can’t help it. “You have a concussion. Probably a severe one. You need to rest and recover, not get back in the cockpit tomorrow.”

He grins lazily, his head lolling to the side. “Are you my MILF angel?”

Your brain short-circuits. “What?”

He waves a hand vaguely in your direction. “You’re older, right? Like … a doctor? And hot? Definitely an angel. My MILF angel.”

Someone behind you chokes on a laugh. You whip your head around to glare, silencing them instantly.

Turning back to Franco, you take a deep breath. “Okay, you’re clearly not in your right mind, so I’m going to ignore that. But you need medical attention. Real medical attention. Not whatever half-assed clearance the FIA is going to give you.”

He reaches out clumsily, his hand brushing against your arm. “You’re bossy. I like that. Are you the same way in bed?”

You grab his wrist gently but firmly, lowering it back to his lap. “Franco, listen to me. I’m serious. You can’t race tomorrow. You could get seriously hurt. Do you understand that?”

He stares at you for a long moment, his expression oddly thoughtful. Then he smiles faintly. “You’re really worried about me, huh?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “Because someone has to be.”

For a second, something shifts in his eyes, like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. But then he blinks, and the moment is gone.

“You’re nice,” he murmurs, slumping further into the chair. “I like you.”

You sigh, glancing over your shoulder at the Williams team members still hovering nearby. “He needs to go back to the medical center. Now.”

James steps forward, his face a mask of polite concern. “I appreciate your input, but we’ll handle it from here.”

You stand, squaring your shoulders. “No, you won’t. Because if you try to put him in that car tomorrow, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what you’re doing. And trust me, the media will eat it up.”

James’ jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods to the physiotherapist. “Take him back.”

As the man helps Franco to his feet, he glances back at you, his lopsided smile still in place. “Don’t go anywhere, pretty doctor. I’m gonna marry you.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, fighting the urge to scream. “You’re definitely not racing tomorrow,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

But as you watch him stumble out of the garage, you can’t shake the feeling that this fight isn’t over yet.

[ao3org]

Another Update Regarding "No Fandom" tags

AO3 Tag Wranglers recently began testing processes for updating canonical tags (tags that appear in the autocomplete and the filters) that don’t belong to any particular fandom (commonly known as No Fandom tags). We have already begun implementing some of the decisions made during the earliest discussions. By the time this post is published, you may have already noticed some changes we have made.  Several canonical tags are slated to be created or renamed, and we will also be adjusting the subtag and metatag relationships between some tags to better aid Archive users in filtering.  Please keep in mind that many of these changes are large and require a lot of work to identify and attach relevant tags, so it will likely take some time to complete. We ask that you please be patient with us while we work! While we will not be detailing every change we make under the new process, we will be making periodic posts with updates on those changes we believe are most likely to prove helpful for users looking to tag or filter works with the new or revised tags and to avoid confusion as to why changes are being made. 

New Canonicals!

1. COVID-19

Due to long-standing demand, we will be creating a number of new canonicals related to COVID-19. These canonicals include:

COVID-19

COVID-19 Pandemic, which will be subtagged to both COVID-19 and Pandemics

Alternate Universe - No COVID-19, which will be subtagged to Alternate Universe

Post-COVID-19 Pandemic 

COVID-19 Lockdown

Created During COVID-19 Lockdown 

How to Use These To Filter For/Filter Out Works Tagged as relating to COVID-19 ❌ Filtering Out: To filter out all works that use tags referring to COVID-19, the COVID-19 pandemic, or the COVID-19 Lockdown, add COVID-19 to the “Other tags to exclude” field in the works filter. This will also exclude works making use of the subtag COVID-19 Pandemic. If you’d also like to filter out COVID-19 Lockdown, you would need to exclude that tag as well.

☑️ Filtering For: Add COVID-19 to the “Other tags to include” field in the works filter. This will also automatically include the works making use of the subtags COVID-19 Pandemic. If you wish to filter for only the pandemic or the lockdown, you can do so by including either COVID-19 Pandemic or COVID-19 Lockdown only.

2. Isekai and Transmigration

Given the similarities of the concepts, we will be creating a single canonical tag to cover both concepts to allow for easier filtering. Additionally, we will also be creating a canonical for the concept of Reverse Isekai and Reverse Transmigration. This tag will be subtagged to Isekai and Transmigration.

As with the COVID-19 canonicals above, you will be able to use these tags in the works filter to filter for or filter out these concepts. If you filter for/out Isekai and Transmigration it will filter for/out both Isekai and Transmigration as well as Reverse Isekai and Reverse Transmigration. If you would like to only filter for/out Reverse Isekai and Reverse Transmigration, you can just filter for that tag instead.

3. Mommy Kink

This oft-requested canonical will be canonized as Mommy Kink.

4. There Was Only One Bed

The ever-popular trope is now getting its very own canonical and all relevant synonym tags from Sharing a Bed will be moved over to this canonical, which will be canonized as: There Was Only One Bed.

Renaming Outdated Canonicals!

The Archive has been around for a long time, which means there are a lot of canonicals that make use of old and outdated terminology.

6. Asperger Syndrome

One of these canonicals is Asperger Syndrome, which is an outdated medical term which is no longer acceptable, and so will be de-canonized and made a synonym of Autism Spectrum.

7. Fantastic Racism

In the early days of the archive, the tag Fantastic Racism was canonized as a tag that was meant to represent Racism specifically concerning Fantasy or Science Fiction races (e.g. Elves, Orcs, Goblins, Vulcans, Phoenocats, etc.). To correct this particular issue, this tag will be renamed to Fantasy and Fictional Setting Racism to clarify the actual purpose of the tag and will remain subtagged to Racism. Fantastic Racism in particular is a case of exceptionally poor choice of phrasing for what should have been a relatively straightforward concept. The tag wrangling committee is working hard to continue to develop a robust and sustainable collaborative discussion format for making decisions in regards to the canonization of canonicals which are not specific to any fandom in the hopes of avoiding such mistakes in the future.

Reorganization of the Gender Tree and Genderswap/Genderbend Freeform Canonicals!

We will also be re-organizing a number of tags related to the concept of Gender in the coming weeks. The early days of the Archive saw the canonization of a lot of similar concepts which makes searching and filtering for these concepts needlessly complicated and difficult to navigate. 

To help eliminate one such complication, we will be merging Genderbending, Genderswap, Gender or Sex Swap, and Sexswap into a single canonical and renaming this new canonical to Changes to Gender or Sex. 

Similarly, we will be making a number of other similar renames to bring related canonicals in line with this change:

Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex will become Alternate Universe - Always a Different Gender or Sex.

Canon Genderbending will be renamed to Canon-Typical Changes to Gender or Sex

We will also create a new canonical for the concept of temporary gender or sex changes: Temporary Changes to Gender or Sex.

Other gender-related changes freeform tags we will be making in the next few weeks include:

Transgender, Transexual, and Alternate Universe - Trans will be de-canonized and made synonyms of the Trans canonical. 

A canonical will be created for Medical Transition.

These are just some of the freeform tag changes being implemented. While we won’t be announcing every change, you can expect similar updates in the future as we continue to work toward improving the Archive experience. You can also check out some of the other recent changes we have made in our previous update on No Fandom tags. Feel free to follow us on Twitter @ao3_wranglers or keep an eye on this Tumblr for future announcements. Thank you for your patience and understanding as we continue our work!

(From time to time, ao3org posts announcements of recent or upcoming wrangling changes on behalf of the Tag Wrangling Committee.)

[eleanorbloom]

.

[cravesunconditionallove]

Military whump prompts

(because Reddit is down and I’m chronically online)

Hearing the whumpee’s screams over the radio as they’re captured, the rest of the team frozen in horror.

• Patch job in the middle of the battlefield, someone pressing down on a wound with their bare hands, whispering, “Stay with me, okay? Just stay.”

• Post-mission debrief, but the whumpee is barely holding it together, swaying on their feet as the adrenaline wears off.

• The whumpee refusing pain meds because they need to “stay sharp,” only to pass out mid-conversation.

• “I don’t leave people behind,” they growl, limping and bleeding but refusing to abandon the unconscious teammate over their shoulder.

• Waking up in a field hospital, disoriented and panicked, pulling out the IV before being restrained by a firm but gentle voice.

• “We’re not going to make it.” “Yes, we are.” Cue one of them doing something reckless to ensure the other gets out alive.

• Cold, soaked to the bone, huddled in a ruined building during a downpour, one of them feverish while the other desperately tries to keep them awake.

• Hiding an injury to avoid being benched, only for it to get worse at the worst possible moment.

• “You don’t understand—I can’t go back. I can’t be discharged.”

• A high-ranking officer demanding a mission debrief while the whumpee is barely conscious, words slurring, bleeding through their uniform.

• A medic struggling to save the whumpee in the back of a jolting vehicle, yelling for the driver to go faster.

• Post-rescue, sitting by the whumpee’s bedside, counting every beep of the heart monitor like a prayer.

[poisonf0rest]

Overc*mming Writer's Block 2

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── tags: smut, teasing, oral, cunnilingus, road head, car sex woohoo, pwp

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 6.6K

art credit to @/kaito_aii on X

This is the last time you have sex on a weekday.

When Zayne left your apartment last night, you tried to write while the aftereffects of everything he did to you- everything he watched you do- still lingered. But you were beyond distracted, unable to even sit still without being assaulted with vivid flashbacks, a mix of mortification and lust coursing anew. 

You shut your laptop and scream into your pillow. 

Only after feeling sufficiently lightheaded do you shut off the lights and try to sleep, but the damned thing avoids you like the plague, and you stare at the ceiling for an untimed eternity. Everything feels wrong. Your blanket feels too thick, your skin too tight, the entire room too warm, too empty.

You don’t get more than three hours of sleep that night.

But it should be common knowledge that hospitals rest for no one, and you jolt out of bed to the sound of your pager beeping, rushing in while the sky is still dark.

The ambulance pulls in at the same time you do and the paramedics are already yelling out the status to everyone at the bay: forty-three-year-old male, chest trauma, performing CPR. It’s a race, a rush and rhythm you know well. You’re scrubbed down and entering the operating room alongside two other surgeons. The patient is intubated and they give the countdown before cutting him open.

It took two and a half hours to perform the surgery and stop all the internal bleeding, and by the end of it, you were exhausted, both physically and mentally. 

But this was the most in control you’ve felt for a while. A sharp sort of stress that forced your hands into a trained precision and your mind into a rigorous sort of calm. It was almost as though you became a different person entirely, one you both admire and hate. 

She’s calm and collected, only speaking when needed in commands to the operating room. She demands respect. She is who your mother is proud of, who you were supposed to be.

You’ve only just washed your hands and finished debriefing when you feel that half of you begin to slip away once more. And as the stress leaves, your mind wanders back to last night. To Zayne.

Thoughts that haunt you for the rest of the morning.

Finally, the clock hits eight and the ER is busy with the morning crowd. You do what you can until the other residents clock in, leaving to finally eat breakfast and get some sort of caffeine before your headache gets any worse. 

Luckily, the vending machine has your favorite melonpan and green tea, and you get two of each. Sitting down, open your laptop and begin eating in the hallway outside the surgery bay, your manuscript staring right back at you, mocking.

Your eyes burn holes through the cursor blinking at the top of the page, and you try to will yourself to just type something, anything, but it doesn't work, and you end up slamming the computer shut with a sigh.

Unintentionally, your male lead has begun to resemble Zayne more and more- not physically, at least- but in his little mannerisms, his overly formal speech habit, and even his uncharacteristic love of sweets. Your lips quirk up at the memory.

But speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Zayne comes from the other end of the hallway, looking like he also might be coming out from a surgery. He’s only meters away when his eyes lock onto yours.

You straighten against the chair, a shiver of heat racing down your spine as his mere presence sends an onslaught of flashbacks that are nothing short of sinful.

Stop. What happened last night is part of a professional, mutually beneficial deal. Zayne is still your mentor— your boss too, in some contexts— and you refuse to have these thoughts about him in your place of work.

Smiling, your fingers still against the keyboard as you hope the whole thing doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

Zayne looks the opposite of amused. If anything, he appears pissed.

His gaze narrows on you, and for a second, you think you spot something else behind the cold indifference. But the look passes as quickly as it appeared, his face back to its usual stony expression, and you must have imagined it.

“Good morning, Dr. Zayne,” you say.

Zayne stalls, shoulders tensing for a moment before he nods and continues walking. He doesn’t spare you another glance as he passes, doesn’t say another word, the awkward tension so thick it almost makes you choke on your melonpan.

Your eyes trail after him until he rounds the corner.

Well, that went splendidly.

You try to type again, but it turns out your brain is a useless lump of flesh because no matter how many times you read over the paragraph, the words fail to register. You huff out an exasperated breath, slam the laptop shut, and drag yourself to your office to prepare for rounds.

Even so, you go through your morning routine with a strained smile, a newfound weight pulling against your chest, a sharp sort of pain between guilt and longing you’ve never felt before. 

Zayne is going to lose his fucking mind. 

He is an adult, he reminds himself. A well-mannered, respectful, professional adult. 

So why can’t he stop imagining your face underneath him as you come undone? Why can’t he get the memory of every sound you made, the overly sweet way you said his name, the very cadence of your voice out of his head? 

And the way you said please. 

Zayne grinds his teeth hard enough that something clicks in the back of his jawbone, his usual flat expression twisted with a scowl that sends other doctors and residents scrambling out from his path. His clipboard groans under the pressure from his grip, and Zayne can’t make it to his private office fast enough before he slams the door shut and drags his palm down his face. 

He sees you every time he closes his eyes.

“Fuck.”

Zayne swore to himself that helping you would change nothing in the workplace, and yet clearly, only one of you was mature enough to hold that part of your deal up.

This must be a new level of depravity Zayne never assumed he would stoop to.

But it had been torture to only watch you last night. A beautiful, painful torture he would subject himself to again and again and again just for the chance to have you writhing against him like that once more. 

The way your doe eyes had practically begged for him to fuck you all on their own when he forced you to look up nearly made him come in his trousers. And thank god you were too far gone to notice how desperate he was, grinding insistently against your bedsheets while you came around his fingers. And now… 

And now Zayne was fucking hard again in his office of all places. 

It was a wonder he got anything done anymore.

Zayne hasn't had a lover in years and it's beginning to wear him thin. And yet, the idea of finding someone else to satiate his needs doesn’t appeal to him in the slightest. Not when his mind is so consumed with the thought of you, and the sounds you made, the way you looked at him, the way your eyes would roll to the back of your head every time he curled his fingers into that spot inside of you.

God, he should have just asked you out on a date first. 

Restraint had come easy to him. Zayne was practically raised on it, his very life dependent on his ability to restrain his Evol, the lives of others dependent on his patience and restraint in the operating room. 

But no, when it came to you, everything failed him. 

Maybe he had been a little harsh this morning. Zayne doesn’t know. He doesn't want to think about it.

Running a hand through his hair, Zayne imagines bumping into you again. Would you still be happy to see him, smiling as you did this morning, or would you ignore him just as he did you? 

“About this morning,” Zayne stops, restarts. “I’m sorry for avoiding conversation earlier today.” A groan, “No, I can’t begin like that. This morning I wasn’t myself, there was a patient who required percutaneous coronary intervention and the stress must have gotten to me.” 

He tries again, and again, gesturing to his empty office before dragging a palm down his face. “I must be going insane.”

Zayne has never felt more foolish in his life.

He doesn't even have the excuse of a lack of experience in this field. In his previous relationships, he was always the one to initiate dates and intimacy, and it was the same with any relation that had lasted longer than one night.

But you are different.

The thought of taking his time with you makes him weak. To finally have your legs wrapped around his waist, to finally hear his name on your lips, to finally have your body pressed flush against his and hear you beg for him once more.

He wants to do so much more for you, wants you to use him as you need, to take and take everything he has to give. Wants to surrender to your every whim and every outrageous idea you’ve ever had floating around in that unpredictable head of yours. Wants to taste you, and see if you taste as sweet as you sound when you beg.

Wants to know how your cunt feels and what face you would make when he finally, finally fucks you.

God, Zayne wants to ruin you.

He wants so badly it drives him mad.

Zayne can't avoid you, and he shouldn’t. There are still matters to discuss for your novel and a deal to hold up. He is a man of his word.

A date.

That could work. Just a way to get closer, as colleagues, as partners. 

You would have to spend time together outside the hospital, where the air is clear of any distractions and expectations and Zayne can get his head on straight. Even moreso, it should be something nice, something that will hopefully take your mind off your impending deadline. 

Right, that would be perfect. An opportunity to simply be providing you with the proper inspiration and guidance, as a good mentor should, and keep his end of the deal should you ask for another inspiration session.

Turning back in his chair, Zayne begins filtering through his email and paper files, until something slips from the growing stack. 

The annual charity gala.

As a resident yourself, you were likely already invited, so proposing the two of you go together shouldn’t be too ostentatious, right?

Zayne stares down at the gilded gold lettering.

No. It was definitely out of line in so many ways. But the only other option was to continue down this path, to continue fooling himself that he only agreed to be your fuck buddy out of courtesy and care, and not these wretched thoughts that plauge his every waking moment. 

It would mean he’d be completely at your mercy for seeing you next, whenever you needed him. Or his body, at least.

Zayne doesn’t have the willpower to last that long. Besides, this is more efficient.

So, Zayne opens the letter, pulls the invitation card from its envelope, and begins drafting an email to you in hopes of preserving a little bit of his dignity. 

He didn’t even have to wait an hour to get your response: you said yes. 

______

Zayne opens the car door for you, ever the gentleman. 

Sliding into the passenger seat, you take extra care not to snag the hem of your cocktail dress on your heels or the door. By the time you buckle your seat belt, and the car roars to life, dashboard glowing a soft orange.

"Ready?" Zayne asks, adjusting his cuff as he begins to reverse out of the parking spot.

It’s the first time Zayne has formally invited you to be his plus one, and the thought of being seen beside him like this- at such a formal gala, no less- is all at once thrilling and nauseating.

Zayne steals another glance at you, and where your hands lay clenched in your lap. "It’s just a hospital event, you may very well see other residents there."

A laugh. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse."

Even without the extra stress from attending this gala, your stomach has been in knots all day long-- your manuscript is due in less than a week. You’ve written a lot, and Zayne’s hands-on “experience” helped you get ample inspiration for most of the main scenes. Yet you can feel the deadline creeping up, the sense of impending doom looming over you.

Of course Zayne notices. "We'll try and have fun, it's just a couple of hours. I heard they also have billiard tables, if you’re interested?” A tap on the steering wheel, then he adds, a little quieter, “Your dress is nice. The color suits you.”

You smile, but your eyes don’t leave the road. Instead, you seem to zone out on the row of streetlights, shadows cast over your face as they pass by, one by one. 

“You clean up pretty well yourself, doctor.”

Zayne continues. “Tell me more about your novel’s progress, then. If you need any more assistance…” he trails off, and you feel a prickling heat creep up the back of your neck. Finally, you look away from the window, and Zayne relaxes against his seat. 

So you begin to tell him about the newest trope your editor wants you to include, a classic in enemies-to-lovers books: forced proximity. “The concept is great. Who doesn’t love it when the two characters who swear they hate each other accidentally get stuck together and turned on at the worst possible time?” 

You ramble, propping your arm against the car armrest as you turn to face Zayne. "So,” you say, ”I'm trying to think of ways they could find themselves in such a situation. Maybe they're cornered by guards or captured by a mutual enemy, or we combine the classic injury trope so they can’t move.” 

"That is one option," he says, eyes still on the road. A turn, and Zayne shifts gears as the car speeds ahead. 

“A classic my mind says no, but my body says yes dilemma.” You debate telling Zayne about the premise around aphrodisiacs and sex pollen, but you think that really might be pushing him too far. You are in a car, after all, and an accident is the last thing you want. 

Instead, you ask, "Have you read any enemy-to-lover books?"

He shrugs. "I've had some experience."

"I'm sure you have."

Zayne shoots you a sharp look. Your smile grows, slow and wicked. 

"And I've done a bit of research," he clarifies, voice flat just to prove a point.

"Right, research."

"Well, to best help you, I thought…” Zayne’s brows furrow as he merges lanes, letting the blinking of the indicator fill the silence before clearing his throat. “I thought reading a book or two in the same field would help me understand your own book better. I must say yours is far better written than some of these popular novels.” 

The mental image of Zayne sneaking a read at some filthy romantasy book has you giggling.

"And you’re sure that's the reason?”

"Of course," he says, though his face is slightly pink.

You feign suspicion, poking at Zayne’s arm. "What if this whole time, you’ve been hunting me down as a means to read my unreleased books?  Then the only reason you agreed to this arrangement is because you're secretly a stalker fan."

"Interesting theory,” a smirk, one you see pull at the corner of Zayne’s lips. “But not the only reason."

"Oh? What’s the other then?"

Zayne smiles, the dim light from the dashboard sharpening his features. Another turn, you spare a glance at the GPS only to see you’re nearly at the gala venue. But still, no answer came, not as Zayne seemed to refocus on the road, shifting gears as the light turns green. 

You groan, “You’re not even listening anymore.” 

“I am.” Zayne shoots you a look from the corner of his eye, one hand leaving the wheel to rest against your thigh. “There is, however, a difference between listening and answering.” 

But now it’s your turn to stop listening. You can’t, not when his thumb does that thing again, tracing mindless circles against your inner thigh while he looks back at the road. 

It does something, to have his hand there, warm and heavy. Something that has your thighs pressing together, heat creeping down your neck.

Zayne catches the motion. Of course, he does. And he squeezes, just a little.

And then a brilliantly wretched idea hits you.

"Do you have any suggestions?" You ask, trying to keep your tone innocent, even as you part your thighs just a little further. "I mean, you did research and all. Surely, you remember something useful about the plots. Or the sex scenes."

"The sex scenes," Zayne echoes, his voice tight.

"Well, yes. They're kind of important. They're why people buy the books." You lick your lips. "For example, surely one of those books you read for research had interesting forbidden tropes?"

"It's likely." His jaw ticks. "You'll have to be more specific.”

"Well..." you draw the word out, shifting in your seat. “You know where else would be a really inappropriate place for a character to get a boner?” Reaching over, you glide your hand up Zayne’s thigh, mirroring his placement on your own. “In a car, doctor.”

Zayne thanked every god for their mercy the moment he got to a red light, car jolting to a halt as he eyed you with a frown.

“Behave," he scolds. "This is beyond reckless."

The genuine frustration edged into Zayne’s voice makes you hesitate, and you move to sit up, retreating your hand from his thigh when it brushes past something unmistakably hard. 

You feel Zayne tense beneath you, the car jerking forward before speeding along as though nothing had happened. Oh, but your lips cracked into a vicious grin as you stretched your way fully over the center console, wriggling your ass in the air on the far side of the seat. 

Really, you should have realized that the stern, self-deprived Zayne gets off on scolding you as much as you did. 

You watch him closely, but despite his harsh words, he never moves to actually stop you. So you continue, scraping your nails up his trousers as your mouth follows, hot breath leaving damp spots against the expensive cotton as Zayne’s thigh jumps under your touch. 

God, the click of his belt coming undone elicited a nearly Pavlovian response at this point, the sound of metal on metal making something in your core flutter. You waste no time going for his zipper, palming at the bulge straining into your touch as it pushes out from between the metal all on its own.

Zayne laments all the trust you placed in him as a driver. Despite being only minutes from the venue, he swore he was gripping the steering wheel hard enough for it to snap. A car behind him honks and Zayne swears under his breath, thoughts clouding over as your hands finish sliding his zipper down, gently palming at his cock as he inhales sharply at the feeling of your hot breath over clothed skin.

And the moan Zayne lets out when you lick the head of his cock is enough to have you gushing. But you never take him any deeper, blocked by your position over the passenger seat, settling with unsatisfactory kitten licks up and down his length, leaving sloppy marks without ever speeding up. 

Zayne shudders, huffing in frustration and restraint as he unconsciously tries to buck himself into your mouth, failing due to the awkward side angle you placed yourself in. Instead, you splay your hands over his lower belly, untucking his shirt as your fingers rub against his v-line, as you begin to suck just barely over this throbbing head. 

“You shouldn’t– fuck." His jaw flexes, and his fingers are white-knuckled, the veins in his forearms standing out with the strain.

The shock of hearing Zayne curse was almost a physical blow. The word was spoken more like a prayer than a profanity, something desperate and violent caught in his throat, a warning and plea all at once. It made something hot coil deep in your gut.

It made you want to push him further.

You must have made some type of sound muffled over his cock because Zayne hisses, his hand coming down from the steering wheel to grab at your hair, fingers threading into your scalp and pulling, just enough to hurt. 

"You are absolutely insufferable." Zayne's voice breaks into a moan. "Stop teasing me."

You pull off of him with a wet pop, sitting up and wiping the drool from your chin. "But I’m hardly doing anything. Don’t tell me you’re getting so hard just from a few kisses."

"Reckless. Lack of foresight. Do I need to teach you how to behave like an adult?" Zayne's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his jaw clenching. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him.

"No," you lean forward and kiss the head, lips wrapping around it as you swirl your tongue. Zayne's foot presses down on the gas and the car jerks forward. "But maybe I could use some help learning my lesson."

You swallow him down, and his hips jump. Humming around him, Zayne’s cock twitches, and before you can stabilize yourself he’s pushing your head down further. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, not with the way his hips stutter upwards, thickly corded muscles of his thighs tensing as you nearly choke. 

Another broken moan fills the car alongside the wet sounds of your mouth, drool leaking from the corners of your lips as his cock bumps the back of your throat. You gag, and Zayne’s grip on your head finally loosens, the wheels spinning over loose gravel as you pull off just to breathe.

You can't see him, not with the angle, but the feeling of his eyes on you, burning into the side of your face, and the heavy throb of his cock against your tongue was enough to know just how close he is. 

You're so distracted, tears blurring your vision, that you don't notice the car has stopped, not until Zayne's other hand is reaching over to cup your jaw, forcing your mouth off his cock and forcing your head up to look at him.

The moment your eyes meet, he frowns, thumb rubbing across your bottom lip, cleaning your smeared lipstick and spit from your ministrations. "Look at you," he hums. "What a mess."

The nearby spots in the lot are empty, but you’ve arrived early, and you can see cars parking close enough to send your heart racing. 

You glance at the clock- seven forty-six- and you know despite how Zayne’s windows are tinted, it would take someone looking over from a meter or so away to see the two of you, to see the way Zayne's hands are fisted in your hair, to see you arched over the middle console, to see how hard he was and hear the slick, wet noises you made around his cock.

You nearly yelp as Zayne pushes you off his lap, messily tucking himself back into his trousers before climbing out the door. It shuts with a bang and you’re about to scramble up when you hear the passenger door open and are roughly hauled out of the car and slung over Zayne’s shoulder.

You don’t even have time to scream. The next thing you know, you're being tossed on your back into the back seat, barely having time to right yourself before Zayne follows you, door slamming shut. He's pulling at your dress, bunching the fabric up and around your waist before dragging you under him.

“Did I not satisfy you thoroughly enough last time?” Zayne scolds between breaths, teeth scraping over your pulse point before he bites down. “Or perhaps what I should have realized is that you’re simply a filthy little girl who gets off on being punished?”

The sound you let out is obscene, a whiny moan that has Zayne groaning as he pulls away, his mouth slick and shiny with spit. He grinds his cock against your stomach, his hand coming around your throat and forcing you to face him.

It’s almost effortless, the way he holds you against him, folding your thighs to your chest as he bends to avoid hitting the roof of his car. His cock is still rock hard and pressed against the back of your thighs, only the thin slip of your dress shielding you from his greedy eyes.

"Zayne- fuck, we're gonna be late." You choke out, a gasp following as his hips grind into yours.

“Answer the question.”

Another bite to the plush above your breast and you cry, fearing more for the possibility that he leaves a permanent mark more than anything else. As if hearing that, Zayne bites again. Harder. 

“Yes!” You thrash, trying to kick him off you but there’s little room in the back seats and the leather sticks to your sweat-slick back as Zayne works to pin your hips. “Yes, I’m sorry. I only— I wanted to see how long you’d last.”

A laugh, short and cruel. “How long I’d last?” 

Zayne grabs your wrists and holds them over your head. He leans close, so his lips brush yours when he speaks, and the words are low and soft. Dangerous.

"Well, then. Allow me to return the favor.” Zayne lifts your leg, pressing a kiss to your calf as your foot hits the window, one heel falling off with a thud. “If memory serves me right, isn’t this a trope too?” 

It’s almost effortless, the way he lifts your hips all the way up, your legs kicking helplessly over his shoulders as they’re forced up against the roof of the car. Shifting his weight around in the tight space, Zayne coaxes your calves to cross behind his neck, giving a small grunt as his face is pressed into your inner thighs, one arm straining against the leather of the car seats. 

“Where they’re stuck in a small space, right?” Zayne’s eyes never leave yours.  “Maybe a cave,” his tongue trails up the bare skin of your quivering thigh, “Under a desk,” licking his way up, “in a car?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, not when the heat of his mouth presses directly onto your clothed clit, licking over the lace of your panties as you arch off the leather seats.

You’re already a dripping mess, writhing against the leather of the seats and the hard muscle of Zayne's shoulders, the sensation of his hot tongue pushing against your clit through the lace a painful sort of pleasure. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Zayne pulls off and stares at the string of his spit and your arousal, warm and sticky, against the soaked patch of cotton between your legs connecting to his lips. Involuntarily, he bucks into the cold emptiness underneath you.

Fuck, he’s so hard he might come from this alone.

You hardly notice, not with the way every muscle and nerve quivers and begs for release, jaw falling slack as Zayne’s lips are quick to tease you again, this time pressing his tongue flat against the crotch of your panties and laving across the entire seam. The gorgeous arch of his nose presses up into your clit, and you moan, one hand flailing backways as it slides against the fogged-up window. 

"Zayne, fucking hell, just eat me out properly!" The curses tumble out of your mouth before you can think of the repercussions, but there was no way he could keep eating you out through the material, no matter how good it felt.

"So desperate." Zayne mumbles between open-mouthed kisses to your cunt, "So needy."

"Fuck- please," You draw one hand through his hair, pulling his face closer. "Please, please, please-"

"Poor thing. I suppose it would be against my oath to leave my patient in such pain." And he roughly presses his thumb up against the hood of your clit.

You sob, hands scrambling for something- anything- to hold on to as they slip down the window and dig into the leather of the seats. But Zayne was nothing if not observant from your last night together, and it doesn't take long for you to cum as soon as his mouth latches onto your poor neglected cunt through your panties. 

Still riding out each trembling wave of your orgasm, Zayne doesn’t fight the way your thighs clench around his head, kissing you through it until he readjusts your legs against his shoulders, forcing you higher onto your upper back. His fingers toy with the edge of the fabric, pleased with the way it sticks to your skin. 

All you can focus on is his breathing, heavy and fast, as he stares down at your cunt so intensely it makes you blush, helplessly exposed with your thighs pinned across his broad shoulders. Spread for him like every inch of the offering he intended on devouring you as. His goddess, his sacrificial lamb. Gods, he wants to know how every part of you tastes.

Zayne’s cock twitches again, and he shudders violently, a fat glob of precum falling onto the leather seats below, mixing with your slick that has already slid down his chin and your thighs.

If left alone, no doubt it’ll stain. 

“Look at the mess you made.” Zayne scolds, forcing your jaw to the side so you can see the puddle staining the seats. You whimper, and Zayne shakes his head.  “Well, we can’t just leave it. I suppose I’ll have to teach you to take responsibility for your actions.” 

Your hips jump. It's so hard to focus when he's talking like that, and the only coherent thought you can muster is that Zayne would be a fantastic writer if he ever decided to switch professions.

But he begins to shift you around, and your brows furrow as Zayne’s hand dips between the two of you, down to the leather, sweeping across the splattered mix of cum with two fingers before forcing your jaw towards him again. 

“Clean up your mess.” 

You think something is permanently fucked in your brain with the way your cunt flutters at that. 

Zayne’s unyielding face stares down at you, his dripping fingers pressed against your lips as you wrap around them and suck. It’s heady, the scent of sex overwhelming as Zayne practically fucks the digits into your mouth, sliding them against your tongue until you gag, thumb tracing loving circles against your bottom lip as though coaxing you to take them deeper. 

Only after gagging twice more does Zayne take mercy on you, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth. Instead, the pads of his fingers press against your tongue, and you take the hint, beginning to suck at them until the taste of you disappears. 

His fingers slip from your mouth, a trail of spit connecting his fingers and your mouth before Zayne breaks it. Your tongue flicks out to swipe at the excess drool, and he wipes your bottom lip. 

“Good girl, tasting just how desperate you are.” Every word of praise Zayne whispers goes straight to your cunt, nearly making you dizzy until he finally sits back. 

“And now…” he finally moves to push the ruined fabric to the side, “I get to taste, too.”

The feeling of his hot tongue directly on your slit nearly has you in tears, and your hand lurches into Zayne’s hair to force him closer. 

“No pulling. Behave,” Zayne warns. “This is still meant to be discipline for your earlier stunt on the road.”

Whimpering, you nod, parted lips swollen and shiny from the abuse Zayne put them under with his fingers. Satisfied, Zayne finally gives you what you need, kissing the swollen flesh of your clit directly before curling two fingers into your aching cunt. 

“Zayne-”

He’s addicted to the way you say his name. He’s addicted, and he’s going to come in his pants if you don’t stop. 

You begin begging again before Zayne covers your mouth with the palm of his hand, muffled cries still enough to drive him insane as he focuses on getting you past that high. 

Despite his threats, you can’t help but tug at Zayne’s hair, needing him against you as your hips began moving or their own accord, bucking and grinding senselessly against his face until you were practically riding his tongue. Chest heaving, you looked up to see him staring directly at you, silhouetted from the car window, green eyes nearly aglow with wretched desire.

Just like that, you’re coming, hard, thighs clenching down around Zayne’s head until he’s certain you’re trying to kill him. But gods, he never wants you to stop.

Addicted, Zayne presses open mouthed kisses to your cunt, swallowing everything you give him as his eyes roll back.

Desperate, you try to crawl away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. Your head hits the car door before Zayne drags you right back, forcing your hips up higher as your back is arched into the air, nearly perpendicular as you sob, legs kicking over his shoulders. 

But still, Zayne continues, and he knows. He feels it the moment your thighs lock up, the way your stomach goes tight and the way your senseless pleading still muffled by his palm reaches a higher pitch. And he takes advantage, not letting up as he curls his fingers until your cunt clenches down on his digits and tongue, squirting into his mouth.  

Almost in apology, Zayne finally withdraws his fingers as he opts to instead clean you directly with his tongue, nose accidentally overstimulating your swollen clit as you weakly fight to push his head away.

Zayne takes the hint this time, lowering your sore legs onto the seats below, finally set on a solid surface after being held in the air for so long. The slit of your dress is askew across your stomach instead of thigh, and Zayne gently tugs it back into place.

Leaning down, he picks up your forgotten heel before slipping it back into your foot, buckling it as you shiver every time his fingers brush your ankle. 

When Zayne finally faces you again, the lower half of his face is a complete mess, and you should be mortified never having squirted before let alone on your mentor’s face. 

But Zayne merely wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smiling like the slick dripping down his chin was won in victory and not debauchery. “Well then, shall we?”

[auroralwriting]

home

spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

spencer gets shot, and you don't know who you need to forgive: him, or yourself.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: no use of y/n, spencer gets shot, season 9, blood and violence, criminal minds type violence, negative self thoughts, angsty but it turns fluffy, spencer's drug addiction is discussed, best friends to lovers

The ringing in your ears overwhelmed you. Shots were firing all around, and you didn't know what to do. You'd never been in a shoot-out before, and you felt panicked.

Spencer was beside you, hidden behind the car door as he fired some shots. You watched as an officer in front of you was shot.

You knew it was the worst idea to go out there, but the man could be alive. Your legs moved before you realized it, and you were attempting to drag the officer's body. Spencer and Alex both yelled for you, running out to grab you. Right as Alex grabbed your arm, Spencer pushed you closer to her, which was very out of character for him.

It was then you heard another bullet rip through skin.

The sound that came from Spencer was one you couldn't quite describe, but could never forget. Immediately, you noticed the blood seeping from his neck of all places.

"Spencer!" Your voice was broken and loud as you yelled, grabbing onto him. Derek made a jump, helping you and Alex move him behind the car again.

"No, no," Alex muttered, putting pressure on Spencer's neck. "Look at me, okay? Don't close your eyes,"

You sat behind her, shaking your head as tears freely flowed down your cheeks. "Oh my god, oh my god," You repeated, shock flooding your system.

"Ethan, look at me! Ethan!"

For a moment, you didn't realize who Blake was talking to, until you saw Spencer's shut eyes. "Spencer, Spencer wake up." You crawled over, shaking his shoulder. "Please, I need you, I need you with me forever. You're my best-- Alex, why is there so much blood?"

You helped Alex stop the bleeding, but it was so much. After what felt like years, the paramedics arrived. You and Alex fought to ride with him, and somehow, they let both of you. The woman held you to her side as she urged you to look away, but the sight of Spencer's dying body never left your eyes. Were you even blinking? Breathing? It didn't feel like it.

Spencer was rushed to surgery immediately. You didn't even get to say goodbye when you and Alex were sent to the waiting room. The two of you didn't speak for a while, until an hour or so later.

"Who's Ethan?"

Alex turned to you, "Ethan was my son."

"He passed?" You asked.

"When he was nine. I begged him to look at me." Alex bit her lip as you squeezed your eyes shut. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."

You reached for her hand, which she took. "I don't blame you." You admitted, looking over to her with teary eyes. "Do what your heart tells you to, Alex. Don't let us determine what you're happy doing."

Alex gave your hand a squeeze as the silence took over once more as you waited. Penelope sent word that she was on her way, and you hoped it would be soon. Her cheerful demeanor was what you needed.

Finally, the doctor came to tell you Spencer had narrowly avoided death. You felt a breath release, one you didn't know you were holding. The man lead you both to Spencer's room.

Your first thought was about how peaceful he looked. Then, the panic set in when you saw the IV in his arm. "What medications will he be given?" You quickly asked before the doctor could leave the room.

The doctor listed a couple of medications when one caught your attention, "...Gabapentin, Hydromorphone--"

"Stop, what are those? Opioids?" You questioned.

"Uh, yes. Both are in the dilaudid family--"

You shook your head, "He can't have those. He had a drug addiction to dilaudid. Give him something else."

The doctor gave you a hesitant look, "Agent, those are what we recommend--"

"I don't give a damn, what else can you give him?" You demanded, crossing your arms.

"Uh, Morphine would be the most basic and cover the most ground." The doctor sheepishly responded.

With an exasperated look, you said, "Then write that down. That's what he'll be getting. Monitor the doses, too. I don't want to risk a relapse. If you have any questions, I'm his second emergency contact. First is Aaron Hotchner, he can attest--"

"It's really alright, miss." The doctor said, slowly stepping back. "We took note. I'll see to it that it is followed."

The doctor left and Alex chuckled, "You scared him."

"Good," You replied, sitting down next to Spencer. Alex took the other side as you carefully took his hand. "It's my fault, you know."

Alex's brows furrowed, "What?"

"It's my fault he got shot." You repeated, pinching the bridge of your nose tightly as you squeezed your eyes shut. "I was to his right. He pushed me out of the way. My head is just where his shoulder is, and he bent down to push me. It was meant to be a headshot, Alex."

Softly, Alex grabbed your hand across Spencer's body. "Sweetheart, that doesn't make it your fault. You couldn't have controlled Spencer's actions."

With a sniffle, you tearfully looked up to Alex. "Alex, please be with him when he wakes up. He's my best friend, and I failed him. I- I just can't."

Alex wanted to argue you, to tell you that you were exactly what Spencer needed when he woke up, but she also took into account your needs, too. "Alright," she sighed. "But please, come back after to see him, alright?"

"Yeah," You nodded, biting your lip.

Remembering the moment Spencer got shot was like it was from another lifetime, even if it was just from a few mere hours ago. You remembered exactly what you did, but looking back, it felt like you replayed every moment you'd ever had with the genius. Every lingering touch, every time he made your heart swirl. You would've never gotten to kiss him, or tell him you liked him. It was too much for your heart to bare.

Penelope showed up later on, setting up some Doctor Who action figures for Spencer to see when he woke up. The sight of it made you sick. Knowing he would need to see something good when he opened his eyes was too much, too soon. You excused yourself, leaving the room in a hurry as you left the hospital.

For a while, you sat in the black SUV provided by the police. You just needed space, air to breathe. After some calming breaths, you decided to get Spencer some flowers to cheer up his dull room.

The florist was only fifteen minutes away, so that's where you headed. When you walked in, the woman behind the counter noticed who you were. Small towns talk.

"I don't know anything," She said with a sigh, "You'll find better luck--" Her voice paused when she saw the look in your eyes. "You ain't here to question me, are you?"

You cleared your throat, "My uh, partner-- teammate, he got shot. I wanted to just get him flowers, I guess. Maybe this is too weird," You'd muttered the last part to yourself, turning around to leave.

"No! No, wait." The woman called as you turned back around. "You like this teammate of yours?"

You nodded, "Yeah."

"You like him more than that?" She raised a brow.

With a hot face, you nodded. "I do."

"I always know. I got just the thing for you, sweetie. Just give me five minutes to prepare it." The woman rushed into the back, and you hesitantly took a seat in a small chair. After those five minutes, she came back out with a gorgeous pink floral arrangement. "Put this together especially for you."

Reaching for your wallet, you mustered the best smile you could. "Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?"

"No charge, sweetie." The woman held her hand up in denial. "You work a hard job. I'm a mother, I know the look of love and heartbreak on a young woman's face. You tell him how you feel, alright? That's the charge."

Your eyes watered as you took the flowers from her. "Thank you, ma'am. You're too kind."

"Says the girl getting the boy she loves flowers after he got hurt." The lady smiled back.

After driving back to the hospital, you hit the fourth floor button and took the grueling trip up. You realized you'd left your phone in the room. Hopefully nothing too important happened.

As you walked up to Spencer's room, you heard his voice, but it was filled with panic. "Garcia, he has a gun!"

Your body moved before your brain as you ran in, grabbing the first person you didn't know. The male nurse, who you assumed was not a nurse, threw you back against the wall as you took note of the gun in the back of his belt. You reached for it, but felt the bottom of it crash into your forehead. He'd gotten it before you had. As you fell to the floor, you heard Penelope shout for help when you saw Spencer's bag, the one that had his gun.

Right as the unsub turned around, you grabbed it and shot him right in the chest. He fell to the floor as you realized you'd been clutching the flowers. Laying down, you let them fall out of your grasp as Derek appeared, grabbing the unsub.

"Oh, my ray of sunshine!" Penelope yelled as she helped you up "You're bleeding! Let's get you a nurse- a real one."

As she pulled you out of the room, you'd just caught a glance at Spencer who was watching you leave with an unreadable expression on his face.

You sucked in a sharp breath of pain as the nurse finished stitching up your forehead. A good sized gash was left from the bottom of the gun, and your shoulder was already developing a bruise on the blade. “Sweets, are you sure you’re okay?” Penelope carefully asked, squeezing your hand as the nurse grabbed the rest of her tools and left you both alone in the small waiting area.

“Yeah, Pen. I’ll be okay.” You nodded. Playing with your fingers, you cleared your throat. “How’s Spencer?”

“He’s okay. Up and talking, the Morphine is doing him well. He’s not in too much pain.” Penelope replied, giving your hand another squeeze. “He was thankful it was Morphine.”

With a nod, you continued, “Was Alex with him when he woke up?”

“We both were,” Penelope bit her lip, “but he still asked for you.”

“I just couldn’t be there,” A sigh escaped your lips as you rubbed a hand over your cheek. “It should’ve—”

Penelope raised her eyebrows, “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. It shouldn’t have been anybody. This is not your fault, I won’t let you believe it.”

A throb emitted from your forehead, “When do we leave? I just want to go home.”

“Spencer’s being airlifted there. We leave right when he does, in about thirty minutes. JJ packed all your things and brought them to the jet for you.” Penelope softly smiled. You made a mental note to thank JJ for doing that for you. “You know you’re going to have to talk to him, right?”

“I don’t want to think about it, Pen.” You shook your head as much as the pain would allow. “I just want to go to sleep.”

Penelope nodded softly, taking your hand and guiding you to the car to go to the jet.

Two days later, and you were still at home in your apartment. Your forehead only got worst with a huge bruise around the stitches. That wasn’t to mention the pain radiating from your left shoulder, either. You felt so bad for not seeing Spencer while he was awake in the hospital, but even now, the thought made you sick to your stomach. Seeing him in pain, in the hospital gown, the beeping of the machines, it was all just too much to bear. It was worse knowing that should’ve been you.

You were sat in your sofa, a half-melted bag of peas on your forehead when you heard the doorbell ring. Slowly, you got up off the couch-- much to your dismay-- and approached the door, reaching for the knob and twisting it.

Spencer standing outside the door, holding a similar flower arrangement to the one you'd gotten him, was not what you expected.

"Reid," You softly said, his last name feeling odd on your tongue. He was never Reid to you. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you were doing. Morgan, uh, told me you got knocked around pretty good." Spencer eyed your forehead, making you feel like a tiny specimen under a microscope. You allowed your hair to fall over it, covering the large, disgusting mark.

Biting your lip, you nodded. "I'm alright." After a moment, you came to your senses, "Uh, come on in. Sorry if it's messy."

"I think I'll live," Spencer chuckled, making your blood run cold at his words. You lead him inside, and even if he'd been in your apartment a numerous amount of times, it felt different now.

Spencer sat on the other end of your sofa. You pressed yourself to the arm, giving plenty of space between the both of you. "Are you in pain?"

"No, not really." Spencer hummed as he pondered your question. "But swallowing sometimes feels different."

"Ah," You casually replied as you went to pick at your nails. You stopped yourself-- don't give Spencer any of your tells. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I wish you would've came to see me sooner." Spencer admitted. "I missed you. I thought you would've been there when I woke up."

Guilt crept into your gut as you replied, "I was out getting you flowers."

"For three hours?"

Spencer's comment clocked you. "Spencer," You rubbed your neck, head slinging down to stare at your lap. "I couldn't be there."

"Why?" Spencer breathlessly asked, his eyes pleading for an answer.

He felt so alone when he opened his eyes and you weren't there. Sure, Alex and Penelope both were, but he was searching for you the whole time. You were his rock, you had been for the last three years. Sure, at first he took a while to warm up to you. Two months, twenty-three days, seventeen hours, and sixteen minutes, to be precise. The moment you both connected, however, it was like you and Spencer were attached at the hip. You had always been there for him. Why weren't you there for him now? It tore down Spencer to know you weren't there, but he was also concerned for your well-being as well.

"That shot was meant for me, Spencer." Your voice was cold as you spoke, a small quiver when you said it was for yourself. "We both know that would've been a headshot."

"You're mad that I saved your life?" Spencer didn't want to become angry, but he did feel frustrated at your lack of understanding.

You huffed, standing up quickly, "I'm mad that you hurt yourself for me, Spencer! You almost died, what would I have done if you died?"

"Says you," Spencer retorted, a small look of bewilderment on his face. "I couldn't live with myself if you died."

The air was thick in the room as you paced while Spencer watched. "Oh, so getting yourself shot was the answer. You scared Alex half to death, and I've never seen Derek cry before this! Don't even mention JJ going dead silent on us."

"Is this about them, or is this about us?" Spencer questioned, crossing his arms.

"This is about-- agh!" As you threw your arms out in distress, pain radiated through your shoulder blade. Your face scrunched in pain as Spencer quickly jolted to your side.

He softly took your arm, "Hey, hey. Let's just sit down, okay? Do you need more ice? Or, a better ice pack?" Spencer helped you sit down, and he grabbed your ankles to pop them up on the small ottoman in front of the couch.

"Better one would be nice," you muttered. "M' still mad at you."

"That's okay," Spencer's voice became more distant as he walked into your kitchen. "I guess I'd be mad, too. If I was in your situation, I mean."

You hummed, "Damn right."

Spencer chuckled as he made his way back into the living room. He gently pushed your hair out of your face, cringing at the huge bruise. You held onto the ice bag as he helped you sit forward. He could see the bruise that made its way up from your shoulder blade. It fell just above the hemline of your shirt, and the mere size made him sigh softly. "He really got you, huh?"

"He was Derek sized," you chuckled bitterly. "Plus, I was trying to save your flowers."

"Well, the vase was broken, but I kept the flowers." Spencer softly laughed beside you.

Your eyes twinkled as you looked to him, "You did?"

"Of course I did," Spencer nodded, "It was the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."

"Wow," Your tone was joking as you continued, "That's a really low bar. Gotta raise it, somehow."

Spencer softly took your hand in his. Every time he touched you, it reminded you of how much he trusted and cared for you; so much so that he allowed physical intimacy with you.

"I couldn't see you like that," You whispered, just loud enough for Spencer to hear. "It hurt me so much, to know I couldn't help you more. I-I couldn't- I-"

Shushes softly spewed from Spencer's mouth. "Hey, it's okay." He soothed, rubbing circles over your knuckles with his thumb. "I'm not mad at you. I was just sad you weren't there, but I understand."

"I can't live without you, Spencer Reid." You admitted, locking eyes with him.

Spencer softly spoke your name, and you noticed how his eyes flicked from your eyes, to your lips, and back to your eyes. "I can't live without you, either." Spencer echoed, another hand softly meeting your cheek. "Please tell me if I'm reading this wrong."

"You're not," you whispered. "promise."

You both sat there for a moment, reeling in each other's presences, your life forces. Finally, the tension got to be too strong. You leaned yourself closer to Spencer, ghosting your lips over his slightly-chapped ones. You gave him a moment to back out, to tell you that you read it wrong--

and he kissed you.

It wasn't a hard, fiery kiss. It was one that was soft, sweet, like a shining body of water, or the sound of laughter. His lips molded into yours like a missing puzzle piece. Spencer's hands moved to hold your face so strongly, yet so gentle like he was afraid to drop one of Rossi's expensive china pieces.

As you pulled back, Spencer's breath softly hit your face, a peppermint smell softly brushing your lips. "Is that why you were so upset?" Spencer breathlessly asked.

"Yeah," you nodded, "I think so."

"You think?" Spencer half-smiled.

"I think so." You pondered for a moment. "Wanna prove me right?"

Spencer chuckled, pushing his nose to nose your own. "More than anything."

Your lips collided again, but you pulled back with confusion. “How did you know I liked you?”

“Pink flowers,” Spencer scratched the back of his neck, “They’re known for symbolizing crushes, romantic feelings. Your whole arrangement was all pink tulips, roses, carnations.” You eyed Spencer’s for you— it was all pink. “I guess your florist knew better than you did.”

You chuckled, “I guess she did. I like yours, too.” Spencer’s eyes fell to his bouquet and he blushed. “Oh, don’t get shy on me now, kiss me again you sweet genius boy.”

Spencer smiled, happily leaning in for another kiss.

It was then you realized why you were so upset before; you couldn't lose your home.

[komsomolka]

The holocaust engulfing Palestinians in Gaza has reached unimaginable levels of horror, epitomized by a harrowing video that swept across social media of 19-year-old Shaaban al-Dalou, burning to death while still connected to an IV drip. This was no isolated tragedy – it was emblematic of the escalating genocide. On 13 October, an Israeli airstrike ignited the makeshift tents sheltering dozens of displaced Palestinian families in the courtyard of Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah. Amidst the inferno, Dalou’s 17-year-old brother Mohammed described his agony: “I can’t describe the feeling. I saw my brother burning in front of me, and my mother was burning.” Mohammed had managed to escape when he heard the strike, but his brother Shaban and their mother did not. His father saved his 10-year-old brother from the flames, only for the child to succumb to his burns days later, according to the New York Times.

The horrifying video was followed a week later by photos showing soldiers expelling Palestinians from half-destroyed residential blocks at gunpoint. Israeli drone footage published by Israel’s public broadcaster Kan captured images of Palestinians rounded up and forced to walk south through Gaza’s post-apocalyptic landscape without any possessions. Many Palestinians who refused to obey evacuation orders, often delivered by announcements made by hovering quadcopter drones, were massacred by Israeli artillery and airstrikes.

Rescue workers and civilians attempting to save others have been shot at by Israeli forces or simply rounded up and ‘disappeared.’ There have been reports describing numerous instances where Palestinians were targeted while trying to help injured individuals. This has left the people of Gaza without any medical or emergency services, forcing a complete halt on health and civil defense services.

Even hospitals were not spared. Critically injured patients and the doctors treating them faced the same impossible ultimatum – evacuate or die. After returning home, western doctors who had volunteered in Gaza expressed their shock at how many children arrived at the hospitals, shot not only once but twice, directly in the heart and head. “No toddler gets shot twice by mistake by ‘the world’s best snipers.’ And they’re dead-center shots,” surgeon Mark Perlmutter told CBS News. Israeli snipers and drones opened fire deliberately not only on children but on those trying to rescue them.

Palestinian families fleeing were forced to pass through checkpoints where soldiers separated the men from women and children. The soldiers then dressed the men in white jumpsuits, bound their hands, covered their eyes, and loaded them into beds of military trucks to be taken away by night to Israel’s notorious torture camps. In detainee camps such as Sde Teiman over the past year, Israeli soldiers have starved, beaten, and anally raped Palestinian detainees. They shackled the limbs of detainees so tightly that prison doctors were regularly forced to amputate limbs. [...]

Fearing such a fate and knowing that the Israeli army planned to repeat the Nakba of 1948 and never allow them to go back to their homes and lands, many Palestinians in northern Gaza refused to flee. Those who were forcibly expelled saw images of occupation forces lighting the remains of their apartment blocks ablaze and proudly posing for selfies and group photos posted as ‘trophies of war’ across social media platforms. [...]

The use of starvation as a weapon of war proved embarrassing to Netanyahu’s backers in the White House, who enthusiastically support the genocide but also wish to avoid backlash from American voters that may cause them to lose power in the upcoming US presidential election. On 13 October, the White House issued a letter publicly demanding Netanyahu increase aid to Gaza, otherwise Washington’s “continued offensive weapon shipments” to the Israeli army would be in jeopardy. The letter, written by US Secretary of State Antony Blinken, noted that the amount of aid delivered had “dropped by more than 50 percent” since the spring and that the amount delivered in “September was the lowest of any month during the past year.” However, Blinken wrote in the letter that Netanyahu had a 30-day window to comply, deliberately ensuring the Israeli prime minister could ignore it without consequence. As the Times of Israel observed, “The letter was sent just weeks before the 5 November US presidential election.” As a result, “its 13 November deadline would ostensibly mitigate some of the political fallout, given that US President Joe Biden will be a lame duck when deciding whether Israel has taken the necessary steps to ensure compliance” with the US demand.

In other words, no matter how many Palestinians are burned to death, torn to pieces, or starved, Blinken will continue to play his role in ensuring that Israel’s supply of bombs continues to flow unimpeded.

please, help palestinians in gaza by sharing and contributing to their donation posts.

[self-loving-vampire]

1- Demands like these are not a new thing. Trans people were (and in some cases still are) medically gatekept if they were not judged as likely to end up living a normal, "respectable", "passing", and extremely gender-conforming heterosexual life. Often these judgments were made based on race.

In fact, what the suggestion above is is a repeat of historical trends.

2- This all is still working from the assumption that being trans is a disease and transition is a sort of last resort to be avoided as much as possible in favor of the alternative of just doing nothing, or possibly doing conversion therapy. Somehow they never seem to demand very strict evidence in favor of that.

It is a very uneven sort of skepticism. Transition remains suspicious no matter how many times people say it helped them but conversion therapy and HRT bans are treated as neutral, even effective alternatives based on nothing.

3- History and hypocrisy aside, it's just bad if someone's rights and autonomy are contingent on stuff like employment, isn't it? Imagine if you were required to prove the correctness of all decisions about your body this way.

Want an abortion? Well, we can't be sure an abortion would actually make your life better unless we make sure you're likely to be employed and having whatever I define as a good sex life afterwards. Don't you remember that "I regret my abortion" campaign? Sure most people say they don't, but what if they're lying?

You're gay and want to have sex and get married to someone of the same gender? Well, we don't know if you actually want that or if it would be good for you, thus we must ban those options for your own good until we make sure gay people are just as employed and socially connected after coming out and if not they shouldn't be allowed these freedoms. Hope your family doesn't just kick you out of the house when they find out!

[dazzlingjaeyun]

𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐬 - 𝐬𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

boxer!jake x nurse fem!reader

୨୧ genre: exes to ??, mostly angst, a little fluff | words: 5.3k | cw: mentions of bruises, blood, heavy injuries and surgery, probably poor medical references (pls bear with me) ୨୧

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"can we get a nurse to the ER immediately, please?" you heard the charge nurse's firm demand through your communication device. you exchanged a quick glance with your colleague, and with a slight nod, she indicated she could handle the task alone. without hesitation, you used your pager to notify the ER that you were on your way, then dashed through the hallway and down the stairs to reach the emergency department.

"sorry, we're completely short-staffed," the charge nurse murmured in apology, ushering you toward a room. "male patient, twenties, just some bad bruises – likely needs stitches. we just got a family from a car crash, and we can’t tend to him right now."

with that, she left you at the door and hurried down the hall toward another room.

you pushed open the door, heading straight to the sanitizer dispenser. you rubbed it into your hands, then pulled on a pair of gloves from the box beside it, and added another layer of sanitizer.

"hello, my name is–"

the words caught in your throat as you turned around. the sharp scent of sanitizer seemed to sting your nose, burning your airways and stealing the breath from your lungs.

you froze, staring straight into a pair of familiar brown eyes – eyes you had learned to both love and hate. once filled with warmth, they now held an icy coldness, mixed with a flicker of surprise at the sight of you. just like you, he was sure you'd never meet again.

"y/n," he finished your sentence.

your throat tightened as your name rolled off his lips. you gulped down the lump in your throat as if you could swallow the whirlwind of feelings right down with it. you shook your head slightly, trying your best to focus on the situation at hand and staying professional.

"yes. i'll be your nurse today," you finished the rehearsed introduction you'd used at least a thousand of times during your two years at the hospital.

with another shaky breath, you slowly stepped closer to where he was sitting, waiting for any type of response from him but there was none.

"can you take off your hood, please?" you asked in the most professional tone you could muster. you nodded slightly when he pulled down his hood and leaned a little closer to examine his face. a pang of hurt rushed through you seeing him in the exact state you'd found him in many times before.

you were sitting on the sofa in the tiny apartment you shared with jake, your knees bent and pulled to your body as if that state could hold together the feelings that dared to overflow. you checked your phone again and again. nothing. as your head started to spin, wondering if tonight would be the night that he wouldn't come home, the sudden creak of the front door finally pulled you out of your daze, and you immediately shot to your feet, rushing toward the door. jake stumbled inside, his gaze on the floor and his hood hiding what you expected to be another field of bruises. "jake..." you whispered, your voice trailing off in a lack of things to say. you carefully took his shaking hand in yours and guided him to the bathroom, where you gently pressed down on his shoulders to make him sit on the edge of the bathtub. "i'm fine," he tried to reassure you the way he always did when he looked anything but fine. you stayed silent as you started cleaning up his bruises. the only sound breaking the silence was jake's occassional hiss when he clenched his fists as the antiseptical burned on his wounded skin. "you don't have to–", the words stuck in his throat with another sharp intake of breath as you cleaned up his bleeding lips with a cotton swap. "i can take care of it," he mumbled, and although he avoided your eyes, you could see a hint of regret flashing through his. "if you took care of yourself, you wouldn't keep coming home like this in the first place," you replied, your voice laced with a mixture of anger and frustration. you threw away the tissues and cotton swabs he'd bled through and faced him again to apply ointment to his bruises and patch them up if necessary. "what if one day you come home and i can't fix it, jake?" you asked, your voice barely louder than a whisper. for a second, you stopped your movements, just standing in between his legs and looking at his battered face. "what if one day you don't even come ho–" "shh," his whisper interrupted you, "that won't happen, baby." jake raised his hands and brought them to your hips, pulling you a little closer to him. you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and just held him close until your thoughts quieted down. for tonight, he was safe, you thought. you let go of him and took a step back, gently running your hand through his silky hair and examining his face one last time. then, you reached for the chapstick that you kept on the sink, gently applied it to the ripped skin on his lips, and softly brushed your lips against his. after you pulled away from his lips, you cupped his chin between your thumb and index finger and leaned down to press a gentle kiss on each of his bruises. "you need to stop this, jake," you whispered later when the two of you had gone to bed and he was holding you tightly although every muscle in his body hurt. he couldn't not have you close to him.

"you won't ask what happened?" he suddenly spoke up, breaking your thoughts and pulling you back to reality.

for a second, you tensed again. then, you sighed almost inaudibly, lingering by his face for another second before taking a sudden step backwards and turned around to gather all the things you'd need to treat him. you could practically feel the intensity of his gaze, although you had your back to him.

you turned back around, your face as nonchalant as you could manage as you shook your head.

"i don't care what happened," you replied shortly.

his lips twitched into something resembling a smirk, though it was faint and visibly pained him. “still bossy,” he said under his breath.

you clenched your jaw at his remark, but sat down in front of him and ran your hand through his hair in the gentlest way possible to get his bangs out of his face.

"and you're still reckless. now, hold still," you ordered.

for a while, the room was silent except for the occasional sharp intake of breath as you cleaned his cuts. you tried to focus on the task, but you couldn’t ignore the feeling of his heavy gaze on you.

"this one needs stitches," you said, tapping carefully on the skin next to one particularly deep bruise on his cheek, "it might hurt a litte."

as you began stitching the bruise, his hand moved slowly, almost tentatively, to brush against your wrist. the touch was light, but it still sent a shiver through you. you glanced up sharply, but before you could say anything, he caught your hand.

“jaeyun,” you said, a warning tone in your voice, but he didn’t let go. instead, he brushed his thumb across your knuckles. then, in a gesture so achingly familiar it nearly shattered the walls you’d built around yourself, he pressed a gentle kiss there.

your breath hitched. “what do you think you're doing?” you asked, your voice so barely audible that you hated how vulnerable you sounded.

his eyes met yours, and for the first time since you'd stepped into the room, they softened just a little. “trying to remember what it felt like,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, “to have someone who cares.”

the words hit you like a punch to the gut. you pulled your hand back, your heart racing, but despite everything, you mustered the courage to reply. “i don't care. this is my job, not…” you trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

you wordlessly finished stitching up his wound, grabbed his chin in between your thumb and index finger like you'd done countless of times before and turned his head to both sides so you could examine his face.

your eyes trailed to the bruise marring his lips. they were as plump as you remembered, but the familiar softness was gone. they looked slightly rougher now – chapped and marked with faint remnants of past bruises.

you reached for a clean cotton swab, dipping it gently into the antiseptic. his gaze stayed fixed on you, the weight of it almost making your hands falter. carefully, you dabbed at the bruise on his lips, the antiseptic gliding over it. his lips parted slightly at the touch.

the bruises on his lips were always the hardest to see. he was already struggling with sores from time to time, and every other day, a new bruise was added to what had become a painful collection. but jake loved to kiss you. your lips, your cheeks, your knuckles, your forehead, the tip of your nose – he'd kiss you everywhere, again and again, no matter how much it pained him. only once had he not been able to kiss you. and, of course, it had to be your anniversary. he had promised you to not go that day – had promised you to be home for dinner that you'd prepared so lovingly, cooking all his favorite dishes and even bringing out the nice plates his parents had gifted you when you'd first moved in together. the ones you usually only used for guests. but as time passed, and the blue sky outside your kitchen window slowly turned to black, you knew he wouldn't be home before midnight. you tried to be angry, really, but you couldn't stop the waves of worries from washing over you again and again. with shaking hands, you grabbed your phone to call him, certain he wouldn't answer. but after only two rings, you heard his voice. "babe? i'm on my way, i–" "are you okay?" you interrupted, your voice trembling slightly. just hearing him eased the twist in your stomach, but not fully. jake swallowed hard on the other end, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. "i'm sorry," he replied after a while. "i know i promised." he sounded guilty. "you did," you replied quietly. "please... just come home." the line went silent except for the sound of jake's breathing, and you knew he was searching for the right things to say, but you still hung up. the dinner you'd put so much effort into had long gone cold, yet you couldn't get yourself to empty the table. you waited silently, eyes fixed on the clock on the wall, until the door clicked and jake's footsteps echoed through the hall. "princess?" jake's familiar voice called, a little unsure but loud enough to hear. he kicked off his shoes and rushed to the kitchen where you were sitting in your chair. you looked at him, your heart aching at how tired his eyes looked – at how his face was covered in fresh bruises; one on his jaw, one right below his temple, and a fresh one on his bottom lip. your eyes filled with tears that you quickly blinked away. he didn't say anything as he stepped closer, pulled you to your feet and embraced you in a tight hug, although it made him flinch. you buried your face in his chest, inhaling his scent as you tightened your arms around him. “i’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, “i should’ve been here. i shouldn’t have–” you pulled away and looked up at him. jake hesitated, his eyes scanning your face. then, he leaned down and kissed your forehead. it hurt him – you could see in the way his jaw tightened and feel it in the way he pulled back immediately. "i'm sorry."

jake's sudden hiss broke the silence another time. "ah– y/n–"

you quickly pulled back the cotton swab from his lips, only realizing then that you had kept it on his wound while deep in thoughts yet again.

"sorry," you mumbled, blinking quickly as if that could erase the image your mind had just replayed, "did it sting?" your eyes flicked up to his.

"a little," he admitted, his voice low.

you pressed your lips together, focusing on your task as you cleaned away the faint streaks of dried blood and dirt clinging to the cracks. for a moment, your thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, steadying his face as you worked.

your hands were itching to pull out the chapstick you kept in the pocket of your coat and soothe his lips with it like you always used to do after cleaning up yet another bruise.

"you used to just kiss them better," he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but his words still made you freeze for a second.

"are you hurt anywhere else?" you asked, avoiding his eyes as you took one of his hands in yours and silently cleaned his bleeding knuckles.

his eyes traced down from your face to his hand in yours, slightly bigger, probably a lot rougher. it reminded him of how you'd often cleaned the blood off of his knuckles before, but also of how you'd loved to play with his hands when you were cuddled up against each other on the sofa or in bed. or how you'd always let him take the leftover lotion from your hands whenever you'd applied too much again. he was sure your hands were just as soft as he remembered them underneath the thin plastic gloves.

"jake?", you asked again, reminding him of the previous question he'd left unanswered.

he hesitated for a second, before slowly pulling his hand out of your hold, internally forwning at the loss of your touch, and reaching for the hem of the shirt he wore underneath the zip hoodie.

he slowly pulled it up until you could see a dark red bruise blooming on his ribcage. you winced slightly at the sight but still leaned in a little closer to get a better look, bringing two fingers up to the bruise and carefully letting them ghost over his skin.

"there's not much you can do for a hematoma. ice packs and... rest," you said, your eyes flicking up to his at your last word. jake lowered his shirt again and just nodded wordlessly.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. you just stood in front of him, not close enough for your legs to brush against his knees but not far enough to feel entirely out of his reach. his eyes met yours and for the first time since you'd seen him sitting in the ER, you didn't look away.

secretly, you hoped he'd see the hurt somewhere in your eyes. that he'd somehow understand how badly he fucked you up, even now that you supposedly didn't care about him anymore.

jake's hand was itching to reach for yours, to graze his fingertips over your knuckles again. hell, maybe to take your hand and pull you into a tight hug – knowing damn well every muscle in his body would hurt too much – but still, holding you so close you'd never leave him again.

but just as his hand moved forward the tiniest bit, you broke eye contact and took another step back, bringing more distance between the two of you.

"you're all patched up," you said sternly, "you'll get your papers and instructions in a few." with these words, you walked toward the door, yet you hesitated to leave.

you turned around to look at him one last time. "take care, jake. seriously, i don't want to see you here again."

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

the flourescent lights softly buzzed above you as you rushed from patient to patient. your feet were hurting at this point, but you knew you'd only have two more hours left until your shift was over.

you had picked up extra shifts, not entirely voluntarily due to the staff shortage, but you honestly didn't mind. keeping yourself busy kept any thoughts about your encounter with jake almost three weeks ago in the very back of your mind.

you'd be lying if you said you weren't worried deep down, but he hadn't made another appearance in the hospital since the last time, so at least, he was dealing with less severe wounds now.

you were finishing a report on the patient you'd just treated when the charge nurses firm voice made you flinch.

"incoming male patient in his twenties with suspected head trauma and possible internal bleeding. ETA three minutes. notify surgery – likely immediate intervention."

you looked up from the paper, focusing your attention on her and waiting for further instructions.

"y/n, you're prepping," she said, giving you a short look. you nodded, put down your clipboard and followed along as the team moved toward the ambulance bay.

"paramedics said he got injured in a fight," the charge nurse informed. you nodded again, mentally going through the steps you'd have to take now, until you really registered what she'd said.

suspected head trauma. possible internal bleeding. injured in a fight.

the combination of the facts she'd thrown at you and your colleagues so professionally started to ring in your ears like a deafening alarm.

jake.

you felt your heart starting to pound violently in your chest and your airways seemed to swell with every step you took toward where you'd await the ambulance. every worst-case scenario ran through your mind, each more terrifying than the last.

only when you tripped over your own foot, stumbling forward just slightly before catching yourself, you snapped out of it and managed to gather your thoughts again. countless of people got into fights every day. it's not him.

when the double doors of the ambulance burst open, you caught sight of the stretcher, slightly shuddering at the sight of the motionless figure laying on it. it wasn't your first time seeing a patient like this, but that didn't make it more pleasant.

"he's stable for now," one of the paramedics announced, "caller said he hit his head on the floor after a punch. unconscious when we found him. nose bleed, slight swelling of the head, pupils unequal," he rattled off the patient's symptoms.

"we managed to stabilize him, but his vitals dipped twice."

your heart was already in your throat, but when you stepped closer and got a clear view of the patient's face the world seemed to stop.

he looked battered, but you'd always recognize him – in every state, in every lifetime. his skin was pale, sickly so, and blood stuck his bangs to his forehead. a deep gash stretched over his temple, still leaking blood. dried red stains under his nostrils, on his cheeks – everywhere. so. much. blood.

you tried to stay calm but the walls were closing around you, squeezing you tighter until you couldn't breathe anymore. your vision started to blur as you reached for the handle of the stretcher with termbling hands.

"y/n," someone called, but the sound was muffled, like it was coming from underwater.

"jake," his name slipped past your lips in a whisper. you felt your head spinning, every late night thought that had plagued you for so long before you'd walked away from him crashing down on you – revealing reality in its ugliest form.

you didn't realize how much you were shaking until one of the other nurses grabbed your arm to gently guide you away. "i don't think you should–"

"no!" you exclaimed, pulling your arm free and stepping closer again, "i n-need to–"

“y/n,” the charge nurse’s voice cut through, snapping you out of the haze. “step back. now.”

the tone in her voice left no room for argument, but your feet still felt rooted in place. it wasn’t until the stretcher began to roll toward the operating room that you finally stepped back.

the outline of jake's body, all blurry from the tears in your eyes, was the last thing you saw before the doors swung shut behind him.

the charge nurse started to say something, but every noise around you shut down except for the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears and your breath coming ragged.

jake.

you hated him. you loved him. and now, he felt like he was slipping through your fingers for good.

your legs felt numb as you paced up and down the hall, not able to stay still. your body felt exhausted after pushing through your intense 10 hour shift, but you felt restless. time seemed to extend forever as you kept waiting for an update. you didn't know how long the surgery had been going on when the doors finally swung open and revealed the surgeon.

you quickly approached him, although you didn't know if you were ready to be confronted with whatever news he had. his expression seemed calm, but he might as well have looked horrified – you wouldn't breathe until you'd heard the confirming words.

"he's stable," he said finally, and as you hesitated to reply, he added, "he'll be fine. he'll take some time but–"

"can i see him?" you interrupted.

the surgeon furrowed his brows slightly. "he's not awake yet. he needs rest now, y/n."

you should have felt relieved but your terror wouldn't ease until you've seen him with your own eyes.

"please," you pressed, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

he hesitated for a while. your stomach started to drop another time until he gave in and sighed. "i guess you can help out in the recovery room," he mumbled, clearly not fully happy with the idea. you paced off before he could change his mind, only stopping to hesitate for a second once you reached the room. you took a deep breath before opening the door.

your eyes fell on jake immediately, he was lying in bed and although the sight of him wired to all types of machines and with a bandage around his head was worrying, you let yourself breathe for the first time since his arrival. he looked almost peaceful.

your vision blurred as you stepped closer and pulled a chair to his bed to sit down for the first time in hours. you reached out, your hand hovering slightly over his before you pulled it back again.

"i swear to god, jake, i–" a soft sob escaping your throat cut you off.

minutes passed, maybe an hour. you were just sitting next to his bed, blankly staring at him while the tears rolled down your face until you didn't have any left to cry.

when jake's eyes slowly fluttered open, the bright lights above forced him to squeeze them shut again immediately. his head was pounding, the almost unbearable pain forcing a quiet groan out of him.

he took a deep breath and forced his eyes open again, slowly taking in the environment in an attempt to make sense of his whereabouts. as he slowly came to his senses, he started feeling the even rushes of air against his arm.

jake forced himself to move his head to the side, although that only reinforced the pain he now felt in his entire body.

but all the pain melted away when he saw you – your head placed next to him on the matress, your soft breath brushing against his skin. your eyes were closed, your lashes wet and your cheeks slightly flushed. you had been crying for him. and you were here. even after everything he'd put you through.

it was only a few weeks after the ruined anniversary dinner when jake couldn't hold it in anymore. "there's something i haven't told you," he stated when you were cuddled up against him on the sofa. his heart was pounding violently in his chest when you sat up and swallowed so hard that he could hear it. "what is it?" you asked and jake swore the anxiety in your voice nearly shattered his heart into a million pieces. because it wasn't the first time you'd sounded like this, not the first time he'd made you sound like this. and the worst part? he couldn't blame you. when had all of this gone so wrong – when had he stopped being a safe place for you? jake took a deep, shaky breath before he continued, his voice careful as if it could break you. "you remember how i... worked hard, right?" your expression stayed blank, except for the crease that formed between your eyebrows. jake took your wordless nod as a sign to go on. "last week, after one of my boxing sessions," jake began, pausing to gather his courage, "there was this scout. he said he’d been watching me for a while... and that he liked what he saw." your lips parting slightly as you processed his words. "he offered me a chance to go pro." there it was. the sparkle in your eyes. the one thing he wanted to see the most, and the one thing he'd extinguish yet another time. "that's amazing, jake," you said, the relief in your tone only pressing down harder on him. "that means... proper guidelines, more safety?" he nodded slowly, avoiding your eyes as his gaze stayed fixated on the cushions of the sofa. "so...?" you continued carefully. "i turned it down," jake said quickly, as if saying it slower would take away the courage to say it at all. he didn't look at you. couldn't get himself to see the announcement crashing down on you in another wave of disappointment and worry. "you what?" you asked. your voice sounded so unsure – as if you'd only misheard – and jake's heart cracked when he repeated his words. "i turned it down," this time slower. "jake, you said–" "i know what i said, y/n. that i'd take the chance immediately if i got it. but this is not who i am, this–... i don't want to play by other people's rules and–" "do you even hear yourself?" you interrupted. your voice was filled with both anger and frustration and even though jake hated it, you were right. "play by other people's rules? you turned down the chance to do what you want to do, but safely. you've been coming home looking like hell for months. i don't care if you win or not, a body can only take that much," you continued, growing a bit louder with each word. jake knew you were right, and he knew it was wrong when he raised his voice back at you. when he shoved your feelings aside for his pride. "i don't get why you care so much. it's not like you're getting hurt," he replied, his tone agitated. "you're my everything, jake, don't you get that?" you almost screamed, tears of frustration daring to fall from your eyes. the sight of you like this deepened the crack, finally breaking his heart. but he just gritted his teeth, his jaw visibly tensing. you blinked a few times before standing up. "but you're right," you said in a stable voice although jake could see your hands slightly shaking, "i can't keep caring about you when you don't give two shits about yourself." and with that, you left the room – and a few minutes later the apartment.

another low groan stirred you awake. you slowly opened your eyes, blinking away the sleep, and then straightened your back almost immediately when you realized you'd fallen asleep.

your eyes immediately fell on jake and you felt like the weight of the world lifted from your shoulders when you saw him looking back at you. he was awake.

you immediately shot to your feet. "are you hurting?" you asked in an almost alarmed tone, turning around to provide him with painkillers, but the weak grasp on your wrist stopped you.

you slowly turned back around to face jake as he raised your hand to his lips and weakly brushed an attempt of a kiss against your knuckles, just like he'd always done.

"why are you here? i thought you hated me" he said, his voice so faint that it was almost inaudible.

you looked at him blankly, "i... do hate you."

jake didn't reply. the silence between you stretched. you wanted to say it, to admit it. to tell him that you didn't hate him. that you were still so fucking in love with him. that you'd always been, even when his reckless behavior made you lose your mind. that you'd never stopped caring about him.

but you just stared at him, your throat tightening with the words you didn’t know how to say. jake’s eyes, even though they were filled with exhaustion, never left yours.

he broke the silence first, although with only a whsiper, “i’m sorry.”

your breath hitched, and you blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“for everything,” jake continued. “for all the times i didn’t listen. for making you hate me.” his lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “and for breaking every promise i made to you.”

your heart ached at his words. you searched his face for a hint of insincerity, but there was none.

“you’ve got a lot to be sorry for,” you said softly, sitting back down in the chair.

“i know.” he shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the pain but refusing to break eye contact. “at some point, i didn’t care what happened to me because…” he trailed off, his gaze leaving yours for the first time.

“because...?”

his eyes returned to yours. “because i knew i was losing you, y/n. i know it sounds stupid," he hesitated, "but losing you already felt like i was dead. so i didn’t care what happened.”

the words hit you like a wave, knocking the breath out of your lungs. your fingers twitched, and before you could stop yourself, you reached for his hand. his skin was rough, but the way his fingers curled around yours was heartbreakingly gentle.

"every time you came home like this, i thought i’d lose you, " you said, your voice shaking, "and then i guess i finally did.”

jake shook his head, despite the new jolt of pain that rushed through him. “you never lost me,” he whispered.

the walls you’d spent so long building crumbled, piece by piece. you wanted to hate him, yes. but you also loved him – so much it felt like your heart had never been ready to let go, even when your mind had told you to.

“i don’t hate you,” you murmured. “i never did.”

your eyes met his again, and for the first time in months, it didn't feel like drowning – it felt like coming home.

just as jake was about to bring your hand up to his lips again, the door swung open to reveal the surgeon. you quickly pulled your hand away and straightened your back.

"mr sim?" he asked, to which jake looked at him expectantly.

"i'm sure you've heard this before," the surgeon continued, his eyes flicking to you, before focusing back on jake, "but you need rest. that means no boxing for now. you got severely injured and it will take a long while to heal fully."

your eyes went from the doctor to jake, and as you saw him swallowing, you absentmindedly took his hand in yours again, his fingers gently curling around yours.

jake nodded as best as he could and the surgeon left without another word. as you looked back at jake, you opened your mouth to say something, but he beat you to it.

"no boxing at all anymore," he said softly, causing your eyes to widen just slightly, "i'll stop if it means i'll get another chance to be with you."

© dazzlingjaeyun, 2024. please do not copy.

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[soon-palestine]

as an american citizen, you have the right to assemble. the police and other governmental agencies violate this right through mass arrests, illegal use of force, criminalization of protest and other means that threaten our right to free expression.

DO NOT TALK TO THE POLICE:

they are not your friends. they are not there to protect you, regardless of your race. their presence there is to protect the interests of the state.

what to do if you are detained or stopped by the police:

do not resist, even if you think they are violating your rights.

calmly ask someone to record.

ask if you’re free to leave. if you are, walk away.

how to stay safe during a protest:

write phone/legal aid numbers on your body. bring a sharpie for others to do this.

ALWAYS use the buddy system. don’t be selfish & stick to your own friend group. if you see someone alone, invite them into your circle.

don’t know where to seek legal aid?

before attending/during a protest, visit http://nlg.org/chapters/#massdefense.

NLG chapters are organized into regions. find. your region and write their number on your body.

encourage others around you to write that same number on their body.

4. if you are threatened with or under arrest:

you have the right to know why you’re being arrested. calmly ask. if they refuse to provide a reason, stay quiet and ask for legal representation immediately.

do not give any information or sign anything without a lawyer present.

what to do with your phone during a protest:

put your phone on airplane mode

disable face ID/touch, replace with 6-digit passcode instead

spreading awareness is great but avoid posting photos of people that include identifying features.

police want everyone to leave the area, what should that look like:

shutting down a protect through a dispersal order must be the last resort for police.

a clear danger must be present.

police must give adequate time for protesters to disperse and an exit route.

what are your rights if you’re being stopped or detained by police:

you do not have to consent to you or your belongings being searched. if you consent, anything can be used against you in court.

police can conduct a “pat down” if they suspect you have a weapon.

if you see someone being detained, what should you do:

record the interaction. police can not demand to view or delete any footage without a warrant.

use calming affirmations towards the person being detained. they are likely scared. be there for them.

use whatever privilege you have to protect others.

if you see a disabled person struggling, offer to help. find medics to assist people experiencing anxiety or having a panic attack. if you see a BIPOC being harassed, surround them.

personal note on using your privilege: i have seen white people, countless times, place themselves in front of BIPOC when police draw weapons/approach protests. it often works.

do not be a person that just acknowledges their privilege, use it for good.

10. remember that we protect us. ignite this chant as a reminder to everyone present if you have to. communities are supposed to help one another. don’t be a sell out, offer support, share resources, food and water. be a kind soul.

if you can not participate in a protest for whatever reason, you can still help! drop-off supplies! (water bottles, allergy-friendly foods/snacks with ingredients labels on them, sharpies, cards with legal aid numbers on them, masks, makeup remover wipes, hand sanitizer, etc)

sources/disclaimer: main source:

@ACLU and my own opinions. this is not legal advice. consult legal representation if you are in need of assistance.

stay safe, be on the right side of history. black lives matter, no one is illegal, we protect us, land back, all oppression is connected and free palestine. 🇵🇸