#movies on medical crimes

[afabstract]

Pain Hustlers Review - Emily Blunt, Chris Evans Play Foxy Pill-Pushers

Single mom Liza Drake is living in her sister's garage and cannot afford to pay her bills, but all that changes after one man offers her a job. Read this review of 2023 movie "Pain Hustlers" starring Emily Blunt and Chris Evans.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 3.5 out of 5. How do you go from living in your sister’s garage to a swanky sea-facing mansion in Florida? Well, becoming a successful sales representative for a pharmaceutical start-up is one way to get rich, at least for single-mom Liza Drake in the 2023 movie “Pain Hustlers.” Based on a novel by Evan Hughes, this David Yates directorial stars Emily Blunt as protagonist Liza,…

[your-fave-gets-saw-trapped]

Dr. Gregory House and Dr. James Wilson (house md) are in the Bathroom Trap (saw i)!

requested by @tigersfrom711 !

[elliesgaymachete]

I know we always talk about missing 22 episode seasons and filler episodes and character development but you know what else I miss about that? Low budget network seasons. I miss shows that are still in the middle of filming when they start airing, so writers (and execs) know what people think of the show before the season is over. I miss situation of the week type episode format with a subtler overarching plot that comes to fruition in the last few episodes of the season. I miss shows reusing the same locations (mostly sets on a soundstage with a few outdoor scenes) because they don’t have the budget for dozens of different places. I miss the lovable mid tier special effects, or using practical effects and costumes instead. I miss shows knowing before they finish writing the season if they’re going to get another one and can plan accordingly. I miss only having to wait 4-6 months between seasons instead of 1-3 years between seasons. I miss seasons wrapping up their arc entirely but ending with a small hook for the next season. I miss low budget network television.

[of-fear-and-love]

Toshiro Mifune in Drunken Angel (1948)

[horror-aesthete]

Birth/Rebirth, 2023, dir. Laura Moss

[whynot-movies]

John Q. (2002)

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

been thinking about what i'd do with rick and morty if i got my grubby little hands on their IP

[tojicide]

chapter one ── pest control. the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies

chapter summary. ┆ caleb's worst fear comes true when the two of you are assigned as lab partners, especially after your first experiment together goes horribly wrong in more ways than one.

series masterlist. ┆ next: chapter two.

Most days in Linkon City begin with sirens.

Loud, blaring, unmistakable screeches that cut through the early morning quiet like a blade, carving their way through alleyways and avenues alike. They seep into walls, curl beneath locked doors, and coil around the restless minds of those who have long since stopped flinching at their call.

To them, the inhabitants of this city, it is nothing more than background noise—a city’s heartbeat, rhythmic and ceaseless. But to you, it is a warning. A sign that the world beyond the window of your dorm room is a battlefield, and you, a stranger in its midst, are only beginning to understand the rules of this strange place.

Perhaps, in time, you will grow desensitized as they have. Learn to sleep through the wailing cries, to walk these streets without the ever-present weight of caution pressing against your ribs. In a way, they forbade you from venturing out, instilling a fear within you that if you did, you would be the individual these melodies chased—or worse, the victim they had been called for in the first place. 

The entirety of the first semester has passed, and you haven’t even finished unpacking. Your suitcase remains half-full, a tangible reminder that you do not yet belong here. That you still have a choice—to do something before this place sinks its teeth into you, before you become just another soul who mistakes chaos for comfort.

But that choice is an illusion.

Here, people like you make no difference. You are not a hero, nor anything close to it. You are just a student who knows better, one who recognizes that the sirens will always be there, a requiem for the city’s unrest. And the crime will persist, as will the men in uniform who fail to stop it.

Somewhere beyond the blaring wails, beyond the tangled skyline and shadowed alleys, someone is fighting a battle you will never quite understand.

And for now, all you can do is listen.

Yet, in a way, you know that this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Despite its rapidly deteriorating surroundings, Linkon University remained a place of prestige. Young children dreamed of acceptance into its ranks, babbling to their parents about how they, too, would one day make these halls their stomping grounds. Maybe it was naivety that brought you here. Or maybe it was the last remnants of a dream that hadn’t yet died on your tongue.

Or perhaps, it was the medical journalism program—a rare gem, dwindling into obscurity at every other university.

You were lucky to be accepted. But humbly speaking, luck had very little to do with it. Your stats spoke for themselves: a 1540 SAT, a 4.98 weighted GPA, more extracurriculars than you could count on both hands. A smart cookie, as written in the shining letters of recommendation that paved your way here.

And yet, imposter syndrome festered like a quiet disease, creeping into the spaces between your confidence. You have spent your entire life at the top. Always number one.

Here? You were number two.

Number two to whom? You did not know. Not yet, anyway.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb’s perfect life has unraveled in the span of a week and a half, but he positively swears it’s not his fault.

It’s yours.

Ten days ago, at precisely 12:57 PM, he endured the worst torment known to man: his seat in the lecture hall was stolen. A cruel move, truly. Class had been in session for four days, he’d claimed that seat twice—twice—and by the unspoken law of university students everywhere, that granted him full ownership. So why, then, were you sitting in his allotted property?

Looking back, Caleb sees only two possible explanations. The first: you had unknowingly taken the seat after enrolling just before the census date. The second: you were out to get him from the very start.

And personally? He’s convinced it’s the latter.

But alas, he hadn’t made a fuss about it then. It wasn’t like he’d just lost the single best seat in the entire hall—the one with perfect access to the exit, the projector, and the professor’s desk. But hey, he could be cool about this, right? Yeah… totally cool. So cool. The coolest.

Days passed, and everyone seemed to be settling into the spring semester just fine. The weather was getting warmer, flowers on the great lawn were blooming, and Caleb was thriving.

That was, until the unthinkable happened.

Time? 2:19 PM. Class? CHEM 001 AH. Location? The Grand Hall.

Caleb sat directly behind you, having resigned himself to the second best seat in the room, as the sound of pencils scratching against paper filled the otherwise quiet space.

Taking practice exams felt pointless. A waste of time, really. His efforts could be better spent elsewhere—like taking the real exam or absolutely demolishing his roommate Zayne in Apex Legends yet again. But instead, here he was, surrounded by classmates diligently scribbling away as the session inched closer to its eventual end.

And when it did, Caleb would have simply packed up and gone on his merry way—if not for the single most bone-chilling sentence he had ever heard in his entire academic career.

You were chatting with the girl beside you, talking about things he had zero interest in. Your shared biology class at 3 PM, your dorm building, plans to meet up at the dining hall later… blah blah blah. But then—an acronym. A single, horrific acronym triggered him like a sleeper agent.

“My GPA? Oh, it’s… 4.30. I think. To be honest, it’s been a while since I checked.”

His jaw went slack. His eyes widened. The color drained from his face.

A 4.30 GPA? No. No. That couldn’t be real. That could not be real.

But as his gaze flickered between the back of your head and your friend’s, he came to the most horrifying conclusion of all.

You weren’t lying. And if that were true… then that meant you had the same GPA he did.

Which meant that, depending on your course load and how well you performed, you could take his spot as number one in the class rank.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb burst into his dorm room, slinging his backpack onto his mattress before face-planting into it with a sound somewhere between a groan and a hmph.

Across the room, Zayne didn’t even glance up from his desk, fingers tapping away at his mounted laptop. Click, clack. Click, clack. For a stretch of time, that was the only sound in the room, rhythmic and endless—until he finally exhaled.

“Rough day?”

Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “The worst day.”

Zayne closed his eyes for a moment, like he was mentally preparing himself, before pushing away from his desk and turning his chair just enough to look at his roommate. “What happened?”

Still face-down on the bed, Caleb let out a long, exaggerated sigh—nowhere near as silent as Zayne’s. “I think I have to take trig next semester. Honors.”

That made Zayne pause. Brow quirked, he leaned back in his seat. “Why? Your counselor quite literally said you’re already on track to graduate with honors and as one of the top-ranked students in our year.”

That was the problem, though. Caleb wasn’t satisfied with being one of the best. He wanted to be the best—and now, that source of pride was under attack.

“Well, that was before I found out I’m sharing a GPA with some girl in my chem lecture,” he said, rolling onto his back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Which means if I don’t get my shit together and pack on a few more honors courses, I’m cooked.”

Zayne laughed and shook his head. He turned back to his desk, plucked his glasses off the mousepad, and slid them on. “You should hear yourself right now.”

Caleb’s head snapped to the side, eyebrows pinching together easily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just amusing, is all.” his roommate smirked. “I find it endearing that you, Mr. ‘I can skip the final and still pass with a 94%,’ Mr. ‘I think I might take astronomy honors for fun this semester,’—”

“All riiight, I get it,” Caleb cut in. “What’s your point?”

Zayne was still clearly amused. “My point is that if you of all people feel threatened by a classmate you hardly know, maybe there’s a reason for that.”

Caleb hated that there was probably some truth to that. Not that he’d ever admit it. Being threatened by a classmate he barely knew? Please. He knew enough. (And yes, he had meticulously sifted through the entire roster of his chemistry class to stalk your Canvas profile. What? It’s… field research.)

“Y’know, you’re terrible at pep talks,” he muttered, folding his hands behind his head.

“I’m not trying to be,” Zayne replied easily. “But if you want my input—take the trig course next semester. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

Caleb rolled onto his side, fishing his laptop from his backpack as the weight of his evening workload settled in.

And maybe Zayne was right.

Maybe he would need all the help he could get.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

It wasn’t until six days later—today—that Caleb knew for certain fate was no longer on his side.

The professor’s voice cut through the shuffle of students packing up their belongings, all of which were currently praying that their first lab of the semester wouldn’t be a complete and utter disaster. It was a well known fact that Dr. Rappaccini was quite the harsh critic, and an even harsher grader. Her score on Rate My Professors was a whopping 2.8/5 for crying out loud.

“Alright, it’s time for you all to receive your lab partners for the semester. Before heading to the lab next door, please check the list of pairings at the front.”

Luckily, Caleb had committed the syllabus to memory and knew that each person was scored individually no matter how their partner performed, but it was recommended that the pair conduct their experiments together to save time and... okay, maybe he hadn’t memorized it as well as he thought, but at least he knew the core details, right?

Scanning the list, his blood ran cold. He squinted, hoping that the prescription of his glasses had failed him, but of course, it was unmistakable. Your name was printed next to his. Emboldened, unignorable, in a perfectly neutral 12 pt Times New Roman font.

The walk to the laboratory was a quiet one, and you were walking a few feet ahead of him without a care in the world. Reaching for the door handle, he twisted the metallic lever and gestured for you to enter ahead of him with a single nod of his head. It was a force of habit. He may not care for you as an academic peer, but you didn't directly wrong him in any way. Not knowingly, that is.

With a curt nod of your own and a sliver of a smile, you entered the class with a quiet 'thank you.'

And before he could follow in step behind you, the neverending line of your fellow classmates began to flood into the room, leaving him to stand idle while offering each of them a thin-lipped smile. It felt like an eternity before he was able to step inside of the laboratory too, and his first instinct was to map out the classroom to find the best possible seating arrangement. 

To his surprise… you’d already claimed the most optimal lab station, and as he approached, you made the first move to speak. 

“I hope you’re okay with sitting here,” you say, fishing out your sleek notebook and a bright blue pencil. “It’s the only lab station with equal access to the exit, the supplies cabinet, and the professor’s desk.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side as bewilderment etches into his features. Were you inside of his brain? He clears his throat, shaking away his confusion as he nods. “Yeah, I’m alright with this spot. Good choice.” 

Smiling, you nod too. “Cool.” 

A beat of silence passes, and you smooth your hands over the black resin material of the table, a movement that his eyes instinctively follow. Then, your hand raises and extends out to him, forcing him to blink himself out of his state of daydreaming. 

You say your name while tilting your head with a smile—this time, a smile with teeth—as you wait for his hand to take yours. “And you’re… Xia?” 

Raising his eyebrows, he shakes his head while a chuckle slips through his carefully crafted exterior. “Caleb,” he corrects, his firm grasp enveloping your hand as he gives it a shake. “Caleb Xia.”

“Ah, got it,” you remark, an epiphany dawning on you as you slip your hand from his hold. “Well, I’m going to go get our safety goggles.” 

But before leaving, you straightened, eyes glued to him—or rather, his head.

Huffing out a laugh through his nose, Caleb’s lip tugs up in the corner. “What are you doing?”

Tapping your chin, you sigh. “I’m trying to see if you have a big head. If you do, I’ll have to go fight tooth and nail for one of the ones with adjustable straps.” 

Rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm, he rests his elbow on the edge of the table before leaning his cheek into his hand. “Well, lay it on me. What’s your diagnosis?”

Humming, you tilt your head back and forth before nodding your head a single time. “Big-head syndrome. I’m positive.”

Caleb’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “I should take that as a compliment. Big head means big brain, you know.”

“Or a big ego,” you retort with a shrug, giving him a once-over with raised brows before whisking away towards the horde of students currently going to war over the remaining pick of the litter. 

Yeah, that too, he thinks. 

In your absence, he takes the liberty of prepping the lab for the both of you. Beakers? Check. Random substance that the two of you were going to be experimenting on? Check. Hydrochloric acid? Check. Sodium bicarbonate? Check—

“Safety goggles,” you state, plopping down on your stool and handing his pair to him.

Without missing a beat, he speaks. “Check.”

Drawing back slightly, you turn to look at him with an arched eyebrow. “Uh… yeah. Check.”

Faltering, Caleb slides the item onto his face as he stammers through his words. “I was just… never mind, let’s start.”

The class had settled into a low hum—the murmur of newly paired partners, the scribbling of notes, the soft hiss of chemicals reacting. 

As the two of you began the experiment, an incredibly prominent conclusion dawned on him: Disliking you as a person wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. As a competitor? You were treacherous. As a lab partner? You were… tolerable. Efficient. Annoyingly easy to work with. 

It wasn’t the end result that he was hoping for, if he were to be entirely honest with himself. He wanted you to be difficult to be around, he wanted you to be stuck up, he wanted you to give him a genuine reason to dislike you apart from being the root of his newfound insecurity. But you weren’t, and that was a problem. 

“Pass me the baking soda?” you ask.

“The sodium bicarbonate?”

“Yeah. The baking soda.”

Caleb tilts his head with a smile. “Also known as sodium bicarbonate.”

You glance his way, and your eyes met. “Congrats, big guy. You know big words. Now pass it.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Biting back a smile, he hands it over, only to retract it at the last second. “Wait. What’s it called again?”

Your force smile was all teeth. “Sodium bicarbonate.”

Finally relenting, Caleb places the bowl in your orbit with a triumphant grin. 

He was smart enough to know that this was a bad idea. Despite how easily the two of you worked together, he knew that he couldn’t entertain this any further. You weren’t just his classmate, his peer—you were his competition. And while he’s heard the saying keep your friends close, but your enemies closer just as many times as the next person, he knows that mixing any ounce of developing friendship with his pursuit for greatness would be wrong.

It would work best that way. You can’t be friends, and that’s okay.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, fate seemed to agree with him.

“Hmm,” Caleb soon rumbles, squinting at the beaker. “This isn’t lookin’ too good. You said you added the sodium bicarbonate, yeah?”

You frown, glancing up from your notes. Your stomach twists at the sight of the clock—barely any time left before the lab ends. The professor would be making her rounds any second now.

“What? I didn’t add it. You said you added it.”

Caleb flits his gaze to the side of your face. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast he was surprised it didn’t snap right off. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You exhale sharply, frustration creeping up your neck. “How are you gonna tell me what I did or didn’t do?”

Your pulse ticks up a bit faster than it naturally should, and your eyes rose up from the glass cylinder. Around the room, students were already wrapping up their conclusions while the two of you hadn’t even finished the experiment. You suck in a breath and push up from your stool.

“Fine. Fine. Can you just pass me the baking soda?”

Caleb nods, handing over the pre-measured bowl of sodium bicarbonate. While you worked to fix the mess, he jotted down a few quick notes. You added just enough of the powder to neutralize the acid—but not smother it completely.

And then? Silence. The two of you sat. Watching. Waiting.

Then, miraculously, the beaker decided to behave and the fizzing subsided.

Like clockwork, you both exhaled, shoulders slumping as small, victorious smiles tugged at your mouths—

Until yours vanished entirely. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Caleb falters, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t say thank you.”

“Well, you should have.”

“Why? If I hadn’t pointed out the weird reaction, we’d have been screwed.”

“Oh? If I hadn’t realized neither of us added the sodium bicarbonate—which was your responsibility, by the way—we would’ve actually been screwed.”

Tension thickened between you like a drawn bowstring. You clench your jaw and look away, scribbling down your final observations. Stupid man, you thought to yourself. And here you were, actually believing that this semester wouldn’t be a total shitshow, that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten lucky.

Unfortunately not.

Then, your attention was caught by something out of the ordinary. Your gaze lands on his neck, and your breath hitched. Staring back at you was a small, multi-legged beady eyed monster. Sticking out your pointer finger, you still find yourself instinctively drawing back, as if it were out to get you next. “There’s a spider on—”

But before you could finish your sentence, Caleb winced, his veins tightening as he instinctively flicked the eight-legged menace off. You sucked your teeth, drumming your fingers on the table. So much for your timely warning.

Glancing his way, your brows elevate as you see the already forming bite mark on his neck. “Yikes. It got you good.”

“Did it?” he asks, raising a hand to rub over the mark with narrowed eyes. “Hm. Guess so, yeah.”

Reluctantly, you ask, “Are you okay?” 

With a nod, he picks up his pencil once more and works on finishing the last of his lab report. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sighing airily, you can’t help the smile that tugs on your mouth. “Poor spider, being flicked through the air like that.”

Like routine, Caleb shot a glare your way. “Funny.”

“Thanks.”

With that, you left for the washing station. Meanwhile, Dr. Rappaccini stood from her desk, making her rounds. It was in that moment that a shrill of panic shot up his spine—the stimulation foreign, unfamiliar, and… terrifying. 

He could feel his heart rate shooting through the roof, a sweat break on his forehead, and his fingertips flex at his sides—all things that he wasn’t even conscious of. And before he knew it, he was glancing in your direction, noting that you were distracted. Good.

With a quick ease, he snatched up your notepad and erased a few numbers, replacing them with subtle, logicless mistakes. 34? Now a 26. 32 to the power of 5? Not anymore.

It wasn’t his proudest moment. Sabotaging his own lab partner’s work? Definitely not.

Ten seconds. That’s all it took to ruin you just enough. He slid the notepad back into place, brushing away the eraser shavings. Like clockwork, you returned, none the wiser.

Exhaling softly, you turned to him. An apology burned on the tip of your tongue, whether it was for the sake of seeking genuine reconciliation or your forced proximity for the semester was unclear. “Look, I just wanted to say that—”

“Now, you two,” Dr. Rappaccini’s voice cut you off.

You both turned as she scanned and picked up Caleb’s report, making a few marks with her fine-pointed marker before sliding it back into place. You glanced over, making note of his grade. 94.

Then, she picked up yours. A moment later, she handed it back. Your professor held up a roll of stickers, tearing two off before setting them down on the table.

Despite the vibrant designs on the stickers, your stomach dropped. Your grade was big, bold, and unmistakable. 82.

“Wait—Dr. Rappaccini,” you call after her, staring at the page with widened eyes of shock. “I… I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

“Well, your experiment was solid—your observations were well-written, and your documentation was precise. But your math?” She sighs. “Completely off.” A beat of silence. Then, a smile. “Don’t feel discouraged. You’re a good student as you are—no need to compare your scores to others.”

The implication was clear. She thought you were smart—just not as smart as Caleb.

Huffing, you toss your notebook onto the table, fingers curling against the edge of it.

“You got cut off earlier,” he says casually, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “What were you sayin’?”

Blinking, you tried to retrace your thoughts. “Oh, yeah… I was just saying that…”

Your voice trails, eyes drifting to your lab report. Caleb caught the flicker of realization dawning on you—and when you turned to him, his not-so-hidden grin said it all.

“I was just saying,” you snap, “that you’re an asshole whose handwriting looks like a drunk chicken clawed at my report.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says with a shrug, peeling off his sticker to plaster it onto your shoulder. “Good luck on the exam tomorrow morning.”

And with that, he walks out of the lab.

“Yeah, you too,” you murmur, though he was already gone before he could hear the hissed “bitch” that followed.

Irritation pricks at your skin as you stuff—more like shove—your belongings into your backpack. Prick. So much for not knowing the single person you were beneath in the class ranks.

Guilt stirred in his chest as he walked towards his dorm building… but only a little.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

By the time Caleb stumbled back to his dorm, he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.

He barely managed to push the door open before kicking off his shoes, letting his backpack slump to the floor with a heavy thud. His head swam, his breath uneven as he widened his eyes in a feeble attempt to stay awake. Slapping himself on the cheek, he quickly realized it was no use. His neck stung worse than it had when the spider first bit him, the dull throb pulsing beneath his fingertips as he rubbed over the puncture point.

"Are you drunk?" Zayne’s voice drifts from across the room.

"No," Caleb mutters, face buried in his pillow. "Just… tired. Really tired."

He sank into the thin mattress like dead weight, the springs groaning beneath him. With sluggish hands, he pulled his glasses from his face and tossed them onto the bedside table, missing by an inch. His breathing grew heavier, his skin slick with cold sweat. His pupils—blown wide as saucers—fluttered shut as he barely mustered the strength to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

And within seconds, he was out like a light.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The morning sun sliced through the blinds, painting golden stripes across Caleb’s bare back as he jolted awake.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, erratic breaths, but despite the abruptness of it all, he felt… alert. Fully awake in a way that didn’t exactly make sense.

Blinking rapidly, he reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face with a groggy groan. And then—he froze.

His vision was still blurry.

Frowning, he pulled his glasses off, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them against his bedsheet. When he slid them back on—blurry again. He pulled them down. Clear. Glasses up. Blurry. Glasses down. Clear.

He stares at them in his hands. “...Weird.”

Setting the frames down, he threw his legs over the bed and staggered toward his closet—only to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

Since when the hell did he have abs?

He flexed instinctively, stomach tensing under his own scrutiny. Then his gaze trailed up—to his arms. His biceps. His shoulders.

Turning, twisting, he inspected every angle of himself like a stranger in his own skin. He’d been in shape before, sure, but this? This was different. He would’ve noticed this.

Knuckles rapped against the door, making him flinch.

“Caleb? Are you awake? I forgot my key.” A pause. Then, “Are you feeling any better? You slept like a log last night—perhaps you’re catching a bug.”

"A bug?" Caleb echoes under his breath, flexing again just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Holy shit… Uh, yeah, man, I’m good. Just—gimme a sec.”

Turning back toward his desk, he reached for his chair, only meaning to push it aside—but the moment his palm touched the wood, it stuck.

His brows furrow.

He yanks once. Then again.

Nothing.

His heartbeat quickens as he curls his fingers, attempting to lift his hand—and instead, he lifts the entire chair clean off the ground.

“What the—” His stomach drops. He waved his hand. The chair waved with it. Up. Down. Side to side. Still stuck.

“Caleb?” Zayne calls from the other side of the door.

Caleb whips his head toward the sound, panic tightening in his throat. Shit. He bolted across the room—chair still attached to his palm—and somehow managed to unlock the door just as Zayne strode in.

Zayne, clearly in a rush, barely spared him a glance as he grabbed a stack of papers from his desk, clipped them together, and breezed back out with a nod.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Caleb exhaled sharply—only to realize his hand was still stuck… to the doorknob.

Huffing, he gave it a firm tug, expecting it to pop free. Instead, the entire knob wrenched out of the door, hinges snapping with a loud crack.

"Shit."

He barely had time to process before his body betrayed him once again—this time, with a sharp thwip.

A thick strand of silk shot from his wrist, attaching him to his bedpost.

His pulse stuttered. 

"What. The. Fuck."

Another sharp tug. Another web. More panic. Before he knew it, his dorm room looked like a crime scene from some horror movie—threads of silk stretching from walls to furniture to the ceiling.

His gaze snapped to the clock on his desk. 12:56 PM.

"Alright," he mutters, inhaling deeply. "Exam starts in four minutes. I’m sticking to everything I touch. I’m half-naked. Cool, cool, cool."

But nothing about this was cool.

If anyone in the history of Linkon University could take an exam like this, it was going to be him.

series masterlist. ┆ next: chapter two.

a/n like & reblog if you enjoyed!! this was really fun to write :) also i should’ve mentioned it rly isnt specified how old reader is, just that she’s in college and just starting her second semester at linkon university :) she can be a transfer student (which is kinda what i had in mind), a first year, etc lol it doesn’t really matter bc i’m fine with that being a “plot hole”

i could not stop laughing while writing this at 4am bc i was just imagining caleb coming up with an elaborate ass internalized beef with reader and she’s just sitting in her chem lab like

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[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hello ❤️!

Can I make a comfort request for bucky barnes dating a female reader that's insecure about kissing because she bites her lips and they bleed and scar alot and are also constantly chapped?

Readers in fics always have soft, juicy lips and like no matter what products I use nothing works.

Cute Lips » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bucky tells you how cute your lips are, even if they’re chapped, bleeding, and scarred.

Warnings: Fluff, language, teeny tiny mention of blood, insecurities, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

Bucky often notices you biting your lips. He also notices you picking at your lips when they’re chapped. You bite your lips more than you should, which causes them to bleed and scar. He still thinks your lips are cute though.

Every time Bucky tries to kiss you, you turn your head and he ends up kissing your cheeks or you look down and he ends up kissing your forehead. He knows you’re insecure about your lips.

You and Bucky are currently cuddling on the couch and watching movies. He looks down at you, stealing glances at your lips. You felt him staring at you and looked up at him.

“You’re staring.” You say.

“It’s not a crime to stare at my girlfriend.” Bucky says.

You couldn’t help but giggle when he said that. Bucky leans down to kiss you. You looked down and he kissed your forehead. He sighs softly.

“Doll, let me kiss your cute lips.” He pouts.

“My lips aren’t cute.” You say.

Bucky sat up and maneuvered himself so he was facing you. He cupped your cheeks softly, getting you to look him in his eyes.

“I don’t like it when you say that.” Bucky almost whispers.

“It’s the truth.” You says.

“No it’s not, babydoll. All you need to do is put some chapstick on and your lips will be soft in a few minutes.” He says.

“I tried everything and nothing works.” You say.

“How about I help you find something that works?” He suggests.

“You’d do that for me?” You asked.

“Of course I would. You’re my girlfriend. I’d do anything for you.” He smiles.

You smiled back. Bucky leans in, kissing the corner of your mouth.

———

Bucky has been dying to kiss your lips. He wants to know what your lips feel like on his. He went to the store and bought a few different chapsticks that he thinks will help your lips. He got medicated chapstick, along with fruit scented chapstick. He thinks that if you mix medicated chapstick with fruit scented chapstick, it’ll make your lips soft. There’s only one way to find out.

“Doll, I’m home! Are you home?” Bucky asks as he walks in yours and his apartment.

“I’m in the bedroom!” You tell him.

Bucky walks in the bedroom to see you folding laundry. He walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. You smiled when he kissed your cheek.

“Hi.” He says softly in your ear.

“Hi.” You say softly back.

“I bought you something to help with your lips.” He says.

“What did you buy?” You asked curiously.

Bucky put the plastic bag on the bed. You looked inside of it to see a few different kinds of chapstick, both medicated and fruit scented.

“I tried these already, baby, but they didn’t work.” You say.

“I thought you could mix medicated chapstick with a fruit scented one.” He suggests.

You stared in the bag, thinking to yourself. You haven’t tried that yet. Maybe it’ll work.

“Ok.” You say.

You got the medicated chapstick and a cherry scented one out of the bag. You put the medicated one on your bottom lip and the cherry scented one on your top lip. You rubbed your lips together, mixing the two chapsticks together.

“Now, we wait for a while to see if it works or not.” Bucky says.

You smiled and nodded, kissing his cheek. As minutes go by, Bucky is getting more desperate to kiss your lips. He looks at your lips, noticing that they don’t look as bad as they did earlier.

“Can I please kiss your lips now?” Bucky asks softly and sweetly.

You nervously nodded your head yes. Bucky gently cups your cheeks. He leans in, kissing you softly and sweetly. Bucky hums to himself, loving the feeling of your lips against his lips.

“Your lips are soft to me, babydoll.” He says softly.

“But they’re still chapped.” You say with a pout.

Bucky sighed softly and gently cups your cheeks to get you to look him in his eyes.

“I know you’re insecure about your lips, but it’ll be ok if you continue to put those combinations of chapsticks on and they’ll be soft, ok?” He says softly.

“Ok.” You almost whispered.

Bucky’s thumb on his right hand touched your lip to see if it’s soft or not. He smiles to himself when he felt that your lips are starting to get soft.

“What’s with the smile?” You asked curiously.

“A man can’t smile at his gorgeous girlfriend?” He jokes. “I’m smiling, because your lips are starting to get soft from those chapsticks you put on earlier.” He says.

Your fingers touched your lips to see if they’re starting to get soft like Bucky said. They are. You smiled to yourself. Your insecurities about your lips slowly started to fade away.

“My lips are soft.” You say with a smile.

“I told you.” He says, smiling back.

You leaned in and kissed him, making him smiling.

“I love you, baby.” You say softly.

“I love you too, doll.” Bucky almost whispers.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Don't Go where I Can't Follow Part 2/2

pairing: Dr. Jack Abbott x F!Nurse!Ex-militaryReader

summary: You join Jack at the hospital after waking up alone, and the activities of the day bring up bad memories as the shooter closes in on the hospital

(Warning for normal Pitt mayhem, and gun violence. I know nothing about medical procedures, nor do I know anything about the military. Reader is Australian because I am a self indulgent bitch)

Jack had just needed to steal an intern.

That was why he wandered into the yellow zone, he had no internal warning that sent him there, just a need for another set of hands to hold bodies together while he and Robby stitched them back together.

That's how he ended up with the strangers back to him and you in his eyeline.

You, who looked so completely calm, as you placed Santos at your back, with your calm voice that he hadn’t heard since your days in the military.

Calm.

Controlled.

Scared.

He could tell you were scared, could tell how your fingers curled in on themselves as if you were crossing your own fingers that this would end okay. 

Then the gun went off.

A bullet sped to your chest before he could never blink. Time didn’t slow, it didn’t give him a moment to do anything but run to your side.

But hands grabbed at him, Dana and Robby, grabbing at him as he pulled and pushed them off him. Jack could hear screaming, someone cursing over and over again but he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You fell beautifully, as if choreographed from a movie. First to your knees, hands raised to your chest, as you tried to push the blood back in. Then straight over onto the floor.

Jack pulled from Robby's grasp, elbowing his nose in the process but he didn’t care, he had to get to you.

“Jack- Stop!” Suddenly Dana is in front of him, grabbing his face to pull his gaze from you to her, “You can’t help her right now, Robby is.” And he watched as his best friend started barking orders, a wad of gauze shoved up his nose to stop the bleeding.

He took a moment, closing his eyes and counting to ten. He needed to ground himself before everything threatened to take over. He allowed Dana to pull him away, until he was seated in her chair, she forced his body like a pretzel until his arms rested on his knees and his head was almost between his knees. 

“The shooter?”

“Landon has him, SWAT got him good but the fucker is going to live.”

“Good.” was his only response, because of course it was, no matter the crimes committed by the monster, this hospital was not going to be where his trial and execution would be held.

“Dana-” he whispered, ripping off the gloves he still wore, covered in so much blood the blue material was no longer visible.

“Yeah Honey?”

“If she dies-”

“She won’t die!”

“If she dies, I won’t make it back- you know that don’t you.”

“Jack-”

“I barely survived it last time, this time I won’t.”

The charge nurse knelt in front of him and grasped his knees, squeezing tight until he looked up at her.

“That girl has survived so much fucking much, between a bullet wound, a bombing and whatever the fuck you two have going on, this- this won’t kill her.”

But Jack didn’t hear her, his mind already racing back to another time.

--------------------------------

“Have you heard from the aussies?” He asked, between baskets as him and the communication officer wasted their downtime with a pick up game.

“Not yet- but you know them, their satellites get pointed in the wrong direction every time there’s a football game on.”

Jack laughed and threw the ball into the basket, missing completely.

Basketball was not his sport of choice, give him a hockey stick anyday over this, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It had been quiet for a few days here and he knew that in other parts of the country there had been some action but no one could confirm where and with whom so a pit formed in his stomach as the hours went by and he hadn’t received an update on your location.

It had been months since you two had last seen each other, and even then it had been only one day where you two had been working in the same village, not getting more than five minutes to feel each other up in the back of a jeep.

“ABBOTT!” The Sergeant of the unit called his name, his face usually one with a smile no matter the situation was missing his characteristic smile as Jack wandered over, throwing the basketball back to the communications officer not looking to see if it was caught.

Once in the tent the Sergeant had commandeered as his office, Jack sat down fiddling with a pen and leaning back in the chair. It was not abnormal for him to be called to this office, it could be for anything from supply requirements, a mission or simply because the man before him had received a secret supply of scotch and didn’t want to drink alone.

But today he settled not in his overly comfortable chair behind the desk but in the fold out chair next to Jack, his hands knitted tightly together in his lap as he clears his throat.

“At 1300 hours yesterday there was a shooting on a medical unit about eight hundred clicks from here. Allied medical officers were shot, one englishman dead and-”

Jack swore, “She got shot?”

“The reports that are coming out said she got shot in the shoulder, the right side, with little injuries elsewhere other than a bump on the head.”

Jack nodded slowly, taking it all in. A shoulder wound was not something to be trifled with, if left unchecked it could lead to loss of limb or mobility. But you are not dumb, he knows this, you would be pedantic about physical therapy.

“Ok, so is she in Cairo or a medicentre here?”

“Abbott- Jack, there's more. At 1500 her medivac convoy was driving through hostile lands and reports are saying there was a drone.”

“Reports? From survivors?”

“Aerial support from our own drones, there were no survivors.”

No survivors.

No survivors.

No survivors.

The words were not sinking in, he needed to move, he needed to get up from this chair and get to the communication centre. They would patch him through to you and everything would be fine.

“No Sir, I’m sorry but no she can’t be gone.”

“Jack, son… She’s gone.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jack, honey, She’s gone-”

He roared back to reality, jumping from the chair and grabbing Dana by the shoulders, her words unfinished.

“She is not gone!”

“To surgery you idiot! She has gone up to surgery!” Dana said, darting out of his touch and forcing him back into the chair.

Surgery, you were going to surgery, he kept telling himself, you were not dead and you were not gone. 

“How is she?” his voice was broken, nothing but a whisper of air.

“Alive, the bullet entered her chest just above her heart and tore through and out. Santos got hit too in the shoulder but she only just told us. Crazy kid kept going until we had your girl up in the elevators.”

Jack let out the breath he had been holding and he took a moment to gather himself. The ER was a buzz of people, packing away the equipment no longer needed, the overlooked clean up crews were working tirelessly to mop up the blood while the police fenced off where the shooting had happened.

Someone was drawing an outline of where you fell on the lino and he had to look away.

“Dr Abbott-” someone called his name, weak and with a little bit of fear coated his name as he turned around.

He finally saw her, Santos, with her scrub top off and her tank top covered in blood, your blood. But it was the bandage and sling that really caught his eye.

Dana had mentioned Santos had been shot.

“Are you okay?”

The girl nodded her eyes filling with tears as she tried to push them away with her one good hand, “Because of her I am. She was yelling at me and then she stepped in front of me.”

He nodded and sat on the small wheelie chair by Santos bed.

“I don’t understand, why would she do that for me?”

Jack took his time to answer, looking anywhere but at the young girl before him, her tears making his own threaten to fall.

“She is tough, a tough nurse and an even tougher teacher.But she has seen things, gone through things that would keep anyone up at night. But she would do it all again, go through all the pain, to make sure someone else doesn’t.”

Santos went to speak but Robby appeared from nowhere, his presence ending the conversation. 

“You okay Kid?” he asked Santos, before turning to Jack not really waiting for an answer, “Are you going up?”

Jack looked around again, at the quieting ER and the people making themselves useful. According to the clock on the wall his shift would have technically started an hour ago now, but the time had gone by without any truly noticing or the day shift making tracks to leave.

“I should stay here, my shift just started.”

“Jack-”

“I either stay down here or I go up there and sit in an awful chair and stew.”

“You can stew, you can sit in that godawful chair and you can wait for her.”

“Robby, I-”

“Jack, she’s your person, your thing.” The other doctor moved his hands around while trying to word your relationship, “go, I’ve already called in help.”

Robby pulled Jack to his feet and manhandled him to the elevator, pressing the button to surgery and stepping out as the doors shut.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything hurts as you blink yourself awake, your limbs feeling heavy and your head pounding.

Pain bloomed behind your eyes as the fluorescent lights hit your eyes.

“Fuuuuuck!” you thought but couldn’t speak, every breath hindered by a tube down your throat. Panic set in, as the pain grew in your chest, and your head. Black dots dance in your vision as you try to blink away all the pain.

Hands grab you but you can’t see who it is, they are firm as they hold your hands to your side and a voice that is warm like honey tea fills your ears but the words are nothing but sound.

You can’t understand what the person is saying and the panic gets worse, you scramble to try and get away from their touch but they hold firm, their thumbs working circles around your wrists, and their own breath now warm against your skin. 

“Baby-”

Lemongrass, lemongrass and sweat filled your nose and the panic subsided because he was there.

Jack.

Holding you down and saying your name like a prayer, he was there.

You let out a moan, or a cry, with the tube down your throat you wouldn’t know which. Tears fell as you grabbed at his hands, his face now coming into focus.

Jack was here.

You had once woken in a hospital room, with a tube down your throat and your body on fire, with no one by your side. A handful of old friends came to say hello, your commanding officer came to give you a medal and your discharge papers, but no one stood there and held you while you wept that you were alive.

But here he was now, Jack with his own tears, holding you and reminding you you are alive.

“You're here baby, you’re okay.”

You nod slowly, finally taking it all in, you were intubated, with your chest half exposed and bandaged up. You could just see your feet, giving them a wiggle to confirm movement.

You are alive.

You are alive and Jack is here.

“You kept your promise.” he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours.

I’m not going anywhere.

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

so like. fnaf movie. after night five, all outside observers know is "this 30yo guy with severe anger issues + his 10yo mentally ill sister just walked out of his collapsing workplace with an unconscious, stabbed police officer, saying that someone inside the building tried to kill them but we can't get into the building to check. we went to their house and the aunt who was fighting for custody of the child is dead on the floor. the guy's career counselor is missing, as is his babysitter and her family and apparently they're all dead in the building we can't get into." and like. that all looks suspicious as FUCK however we know that in the few-weeks timeskip both mike and abby seem happy and fine so it's not like mike was arrested or anything. he seems to be more adjusted and is happily talking with her teacher so i doubt he's under stress of interrogation or anything

there's a lot of implications there that mike mighta pulled something but it's all circumstantial evidence at best. i'm sure in jane's autopsy and crime scene evidence they couldn't find any evidence of mike being the one to attack her, esp since it was probably just golden freddy bopping her in the head so they dont even have the weapon, and if she was strangled they'd be able to tell it wasn't by bare hands and they couldnt get prints or anyth. especially if golden freddy is a FULL ghost and thus left no trail.

mike would be smart enough to only tell the cops what they need to know without mentioning ghosts to sound crazy. abby might be more honest with the cops just bc of #autism but they'd be more likely to consider her talking about ghosts and imaginary friends as a child's way of coping, and they cant get anything out of her that would incriminate mike. ADD TO THAT that mike has wounds that are clearly defensive and is SUPER banged up and his wounds would likely match his story way better than evidence of him attacking anyone, AND that there's likely footage and witnesses of him being in the pharmacy and then driving to work (and thus not in the area to attack jane), AND if/when nessie wakes up she'll probably vouch for mike as well, and the cops dont have anything on him

though i DO wonder if they would have records of vanessa patching him up in the police outpost. if they do, that would also back up mike's story as it's 1) far away from the aunt jane crime scene, 2) confirms that he and vanessa were working together, so either she's complicit in Crime™ or his story is accurate and she was helping him save his sister. him going to defend her instead of calling backup is also consistent with his personality of getting triggered and jumping into action around child abduction, esp w/ his sibling in danger

considering what abby would probably say, AND the history of freddy's, it's likely that they would come to the conclusion of is "someone [likely the og kidnapper from the 80s] found out that the guy working at freddy's had a sister, kidnapped abby from her house while her aunt was babysitting and tried to recreate the crimes, his story of him and vanessa defending her and escaping vaguely checks out." whether or not mike would incriminate vanessa by mentioning her dad was the killer is up in the air, and there's obviously some huge holes that are left from nobody believing that there are ghosts in the building but that would probably be the eventual conclusion

but throwing that all away, it would be really, REALLY funny if the rest of the town, being really fuckin nosy and getting into the juiciest gossip they've had in decades, took one look at michael "big teddy bear falling asleep on himself" schmidt and said "there's no way. there's no way this guy murdered his aunt, stabbed an officer and then destroyed his own workplace, especially when he really needed that job and was on sleeping medication," and then turned around to look at abby "neurodivergent in the early 2000s (ableist af time period)" "vocally hates her aunt" "doesn't talk to anyone and claims that she can see ghosts" "vaguely possessive of her brother" "claims that she found the guy who hurt her friends and got him jumped by a cupcake(?)" schmidt and said "oh my god. it was her."

and nobody's gonna directly say anything but they've got cautious eyes on the situation and someone quietly slips mike a copy of the bad seed to see if he has a realization but instead he's just like "hey this book kinda reminds of that golden freddy kid lmao. wonder how he's doin" and then we smashcut to golden freddy kid poking springtrap with a stick

[entitled-fangirl]

Sleepless night.

Battinson x wife!reader

Summary: Sometimes, the man who cares for the city needs someone to care for him. Just cute fluff☺️

Warnings: talk of Batman things- blood, crime, etc.

A/n: Did someone in my inbox inspire me to rewatch this beauty of a movie? And did I write this while doing so? Yes. Expect more of this Batty Daddy. Italics indicate a flashback.

Masterlist

............................................

"Bruce."

The tired man's head tilted up. He looked awful, eye black smeared down his face. 

You'd been around long enough to know that Bruce never took breaks. You had to practically beg him to take care of himself. He was too self-less. Too full of heart. Or maybe the opposite. Too focused on revenging everything taken from him. One thing was sure- Bruce Wayne would do anything to get what he wants.

He'd been down in his Cave for hours- spending the night out on patrol and the entire next day tweaking things in his BatCave. Now, the night falls again, but you're determined to get him to stay tonight.

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "What time is it?"

You can't help your smile. You're down here in your pajamas, trying to coerce him upstairs. It's obvious what time it is. And Bruce is hyperaware of everything. He knows everything. But he just wants to hear your voice.

You don't give in quite yet. Your socked feet pad through the cave until you're at his side, looking over the screen he's been looking at for hours. There's no way his retinas don't have the sight burned in at this point. 

You want to touch him. To rub your hands over his shoulder and relive the tension that's been there for hours. To kiss him until he's forced to take you upstairs to satisfy you.

But Bruce isn't touchy. Especially not like this. So, you accept your place next to him. "What is all this?" You ask him.

"Code" is all he answers back.

You hum and run a hand over his desk. Dust collects on your fingertips. "Was gonna go to bed. When was the last time you ate, Bruce?"

His head tilts and you follow the direction. There's an half-eaten bowl of pasta from dinner that Alfred had brought down. 

There's silence for a while. It's obvious that part of him knows he needs sleep. 

"Come to bed," you try in the sweetest voice you can muster. 

He doesn't look at you, still staring straight ahead. You can feel the turmoil inside him. 

"Bruce," you whisper. "Come to bed with me."

He is after all, still a man. And a man can hardly resist when his wife begs for him to love her.

His head turns, taking you in from head to toe as you lean against the table.

Three years ago, you met Bruce. No. You met Batman. 

When you were young, your older, rebellious brother died at the hands of a Gotham criminal. His death was horrific and brutal. The media ate it up, and your life was changed.

You remembered the police officer that sat with you. His voice was kind. It almost made the sight of people in white forensic suits inspecting your brother's body bearable.

Years later, you were one of the one's in a white forensic suit. A medical examiner for Gotham.

That's when you met him.

A violent, bloody death had occurred. And Gordon let him in. 

You were bent at the knee, examining the stab wounds on a dead senator's neck. 

"Making any headway, Dr.?" Gordon asked. 

"Got a few ideas," you mutter, scribbling something down on your notepad. It's practically chicken scratch, but you know exactly what it says. "Gonna take a few samples before I meet up with t-" the words die off when you tried to turn to look at him, only to be met with the sight of dark combat boots. Your eyes trial up them slowly, taking in the man standing at your side until you reach his face. He's already looking at you. Batman.

That first night, Bruce looked over the footage in his contacts for hours, wanting to know everything about you that he could find. He was… suspicious of you. Yeah, sure. That's why. That's what he told himself.

He loved to just look at you. 

He had seen so much blood. So much death. You were as hurt as he was. But when he looked at you, he saw life.

"What time is it?" He asked again.

"You know exactly, Bruce Wayne," you scold.

"2:38," he answers immediately.

You pull all the stops, letting out a tired whine. "Take me to bed."

Your distress is his agony. You don't mean to take advantage of it, but sometimes you have to or Bruce will let himself go to places he shouldn't.

He sighs, standing up. He ignores the protest in his legs. His hand wanders up to the back of your neck, the pads of his fingers heavy yet soothing.

He gently leads you back up to the Manor, leaving everything. 

You don't waste much time when the door to your bedroom closed, cleaning up Bruce as much as he'd allow. You take his shirt off with practiced hands, even wincing yourself at the bruises on his ribs. 

You set him down on the bed, getting a wet rag and wiping his face. You're beyond gentle. It's something he loves- hates- no, loves about you. 

You are almost too different from Bruce. And yet, you're the same. 

He keeps his hands in his lap as you work, almost like he's trying to be polite. Like he'd do anything to keep you from being uncomfortable. 

As if you hadn't happily given him your body and soul.

But you love that about him. He's a confident bitch, but so unsure at times.

You take his hands yourself, placing them on your hips before cleaning his face again.

His fingers twitch individually, like he's remembering how to move each one. Then, he gently squeezes.

The poor washcloth was a pure white one. Alfred took pride in keeping his cleaning cloths a perfect white. Now, it's an ugly grey, black smeared in places. 

You're more content now. You can at least admire his face without dirt and eye black. 

"Take me to bed, huh? C'mon, big guy," you tease him. "Show me all those muscles you've been working on."

He shies under your praise. 

…

Bruce's hands gently wake you. "Your phone."

You groan and roll over, picking it up from the bedside table. 

Gordon.

You spare Bruce a pitying glance before answering.

"Dr. Wayne? The mayor is dead. I need you at his home as soon as possible. I'll send the address now."

Bruce's hand on your arm tightens.

"Be there in twenty," you mumble. You drop your phone to the bed and sit up.

Bruce watches you closely, like he always does. Observing. Calculating. It's a comforting thing at this point. The way his eyes catch the minimal light in your shared bedroom.

"Seems my vengeance starts in the early mornings," you jest in a serious tone.

His grasp on your arm hasn't faltered.

"Are you gonna go?" You ask him. In another life, you could both revel publically in the fact that you solve the biggest Gotham crimes together. But he's the Batman. And you're Dr. Wayne.

He nods. 

You lay back down, pushing yourself against him until your faces are inches apart.

"You're going to be careful," he says. Maybe it was supposed to be a question, but you don't mind that it's more of a demand.

You tip your chin up, pressing your lips to his.

For a man with steel reflexes, he is always so slow to respond to you. But when he does…

His arms wrap their way around you. His lips eagerly chase after yours, taking what he can get.

Gotham takes more than it gives. But it gave you Bruce. 

........................................................

[erwinsvow]

i think, in the end, it's the dependability that really does night shift reader in.

it's so easy to fall into the trap of having a crush on your attending, just like in the cheesy medical romance shows that are your secret guilty pleasure. and honestly, jack abbot makes everything seem like a movie. you guess that you don't really, or maybe have never known, what it feels like to be chased. to be pursued.

not that whatever is going on between you and your superior is, in fact, chasing or pursuing. it's more like a dabble into that category, teetering on the edge of a black hole that you have explored from the safety and comfort of your bed more than once. in the early hours of the morning, when the entire world has awoken and there's children getting on busses and cars honking at each other, you shut the window, pull the curtains, and get into bed. you're averaging maybe six, seven hours of sleep since you changed to the night shift.

and it's a pretty good six or seven hours. except for, of course, the first hour of trying to sleep when your body just knows it's broad daylight outside. you are exhausted—nights are not easy for anyone, especially someone as new to it as you are. and the curtains help some, as does the white noise machine and lavender pillow spray that shen recommended. but none of it is really enough.

it must be that last cup of coffee. you can imagine it in front of you if you close your eyes. five am—two hours to go. yawning, but keeping an open ear for any incoming car accidents that are so common around this time. you really do need that last cup, you all do. sometimes you'll see ellis have half an energy drink instead, but the idea of drinking something cold sounds less appealing than just sucking it up and being tired.

and that's when he comes. when you hear the sound of the can being twisted open, when you see shen make a pit-stop to take a sip. when the nurses are finally taking a seat because it's that lull of the hour, the one that makes you even sleepier because for once, there isn't actually something to do right this second. you have a mug, yellow like your water bottle, that has a special spot in the second cabinet, tucked away so no one accidentally uses it.

(not that anyone would, with the way jack glares at someone who even tries to reach for it when the coffee's done brewing. it's a known fact that you think people are being sweet by not using your mug. they let you be oblivious—it's sweet that you even think caffeine-starved nurses and doctors care about your mug at dawn or midday. they care about getting chewed out by the attending, though.)

and so right on the dot, jack appears with a cup of freshly brewed coffee for you. milk, sugar, extra of both. sweet enough that you keep drinking it and are powered up for the remaining two hours, the drive home, breakfast, shower and finally, your bed. he knows your routine, inquired about it through tired conversations in between patients. you know his too, like the fact that he takes breakfast very seriously and thinks it's akin to a crime that you sometimes go to sleep without eating. you crack a harmless joke—well, you'll just have to come over and feed me if you want me to eat.

the way he looks at you tells you that he's not joking.

and so you lay awake in bed, after that shift and every other, thinking about that cup of coffee. it's so reliable. he is so reliable. every day without fail. you never have to remind him. some days he makes it earlier than others—like he could tell that you didn't get as much sleep or if that trauma earlier took it out of you. you don't have to say it. he just knows. some days it's a little late, like if there's a freak car accident and you're all rushed to the ambulance bay and the adrenaline is enough to ride off of for the next hour or so. you've never had to say it. like clockwork, jack is there with your coffee in your mug right at that time when you feel like you need it.

dependable. that's the word hovering in your mind when you can't sleep at nine in the morning. jack abbot is so dependable. he has his own routine—he drinks a cup maybe an hour or two before he makes one for you. and somehow, your cup is always fresh. you think you're going crazy, trying to put the pieces together. comments and jokes from shen and ellis, the nurses talking under their breath. and yet, the ceaseless buzz of the emergency room drones quiet for thirty seconds each dawn, when you see him walking towards you, the colorful mug not looking so out of place anymore in his hands.

he sets it down on the counter. you smile up at him, say your thank you, like every day. he gives you half a smile back, turning back to go check on his patient right away, not lingering, not giving anyone a reason to say anything.

he doesn't have to. they all know it anyways. and slowly but surely, you've figured it out too. the blare of heart monitors and footsteps and so many people talking comes back all at once. you sit down when you can, drink your coffee while you can.

and at seven-fifteen in the morning, you wait for jack by the exit. there's eyes on you, there always is. you ignore it in favor of not wasting another moment, spending another hour lying wide awake in your bed wondering what it would be like to have jack abbot lying there next to you. when he comes out, he smiles at you—a real one, like he's surprised you waited for him, even though you usually wait every day. like he knows today is different.

"can i take you up on that breakfast today?"

[vigilante-3073]

POTS

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Y/N suffers from POTS and experiences a fainting spell at work, luckily Spencer is there to catch her.

TW: Mentions of medical conditions/fainting, medical terms, pre-established relationship.

Y/N had been diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome just under a year ago. She had been experiencing symptoms for quite a while before her diagnosis and it felt like everything finally made sense. Y/N had been managing her condition well up until this point, but she still had bad days.

Y/N was a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit and she was a profiler. She didn't carry a gun, her intellect was her weapon and she liked it that way. Guns had always made her uncomfortable and Y/N preferred to be behind the scenes instead of on the front line.

Y/N continued to add to a relatively impressive knowledge base over the years, adding degrees in relevant fields. Y/N currently possessed Doctorates in Abnormal Psychology and Behavioral Psychology, she had a Degree in both Criminology and Criminal Psychology. She also had a Graduate degree in Criminal Justice and was working on getting her Bachelor's degree in Child Psychology.

Her resume was impressive and Gideon hired her on the spot, he knew that she could contribute a large wealth of knowledge to the team.

Y/N clicked with Spencer quickly and they became inseparable as time went on. They sat beside each other in the bullpen and talked every day without fail.

It took three years of working together before Spencer was finally able to admit that he had feelings for her. Spencer asked her out on a date, taking her to dinner at their favorite restaurant before watching a movie at the theater.

It was perfect and they had been together since.

Y/N and Spencer had always done their best to keep their relationship separate from their work life. Y/N tended to be a rather private person and Spencer was completely on board with following her lead on the matter.

Hotch was the only one who knew about their relationship, they informed him and human resources but kept things between them for the most part.

Spencer could definitely see a future with Y/N, he knew that they would have to tell the team at some point but it was nice to have this one thing be entirely their's. It was hard work to keep a secret from a group of people who made skilled observations for a living.

Since they started dating, Spencer had become rather skilled at noticing when her condition was giving her a rough time. Y/N had learned that standing for long periods of time, being in hot places, strenuous exercise and changing positions too quickly had the biggest effect on her. Her heart would race and her blood pressure would plummet which could lead her to get incredibly dizzy or even lose consciousness.

Spencer always made sure to monitor her fluid and salt intake, offering snacks to her throughout the day to make sure she was alright. He was incredibly caring and went about it in a way that didn't make her feel like it was a chore to him.

...

Y/N made her way into the briefing room, taking her seat at the table beside Spencer. Hotch followed closely behind her, sitting down and opening his file. Garcia went through the briefing, clicking through the crime scene photos as she went over the case.

"Alright, we need to get to Texas. Wheels up in thirty," Hotch stated, closing his file and standing up.

The team followed after him, closing their case files and exiting the conference room to get their bags. Spencer stood up, holding his copy of the file with his bag slung over his shoulder, lingering by the table as he waited for Y/N.

Y/N stood up from her seat, closing her eyes as a sudden wave of dizziness hit her. She swayed on her feet, Spencer dropped his bag and file, stepping forward quickly. He wrapped his arm around her waist, resting his other hand on her head and holding her close to his chest.

"Spencer," She mumbled, heart pounding in her chest as she lost consciousness.

Her knees buckled and her body leaned heavily into his chest, Spencer eased her down to the floor carefully. He laid her on her back, shrugging off his blazer and laying it over her body.

Spencer pulled a chair over, elevating her legs to help the blood return to her heart. He shifted back over to her head, sitting by her side and providing silent support as he waited for her to come back around.

Spencer's fingers settled on her wrist, fingers resting on her pulse and finding himself shocked at how high her heart rate was. Garcia made her way back into the room, she gasped softly when she saw her coworkers on the floor.

"What happened? Is she okay?" Garcia asked, Spencer nodded.

"She has a condition. When she stands up to fast, her heart rate speeds up and her blood pressure drops," Spencer stated.

"Do we need to call an ambulance?" Garcia asked, Spencer shook his head.

"She'll be fine. Just takes her a minute to come back around," Spencer assured.

"I can get her some water if that would help," Garcia offered.

"That would be great. Thank you," Spencer stated, she nodded and rushed back out of the room.

Spencer looked down at Y/N, he could feel her heart beat returning to normal. Y/N shifted, eyes fluttering open as she stared up at him.

"You're okay," He assured with a gentle smile.

Y/N shifted, settling her legs on the floor and sitting up slowly. She made a soft noise, closing her eyes as her vision swam once again.

Spencer shifted up behind her, gently guiding her body back to rest against his chest, "Don't rush," He said.

Her head dropped back onto his shoulder, her eyes drifting closed, "I don't feel good," She mumbled.

"I'm sorry... Garcia is getting you some water and I have a couple snacks in my bag," Spencer offered.

"Did Garcia see me pass out?" Y/N asked softly.

"No, it was just you and me in here. She came in after," Spencer said, Y/N nodded.

Garcia made her way into the conference room, "Oh, honeybunch, you're back. I brought you some water," Garcia said, holding out the cup of water.

Spencer took the cup from her hand, holding it up for Y/N and allowing her to take a sip, "Can you pass me my bag? I have some snacks for her in there," Spencer said.

Garcia nodded, moving around the table and grabbing Spencer's bag from the back of his chair. She carried it over and set it on the floor beside him.

Spencer set the cup down, unzipping his bag and sifting around the contents before he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a granola bar and a packet of salt, he reached in front of Y/N and tore open the packet.

Spencer lifted the pack up, dumping the salt onto her tongue before quickly passing her the glass of water.

Y/N grimaced, taking the cup and drinking the rest of the water. Spencer picked up the granola bar, "Do you want a snack now? Or do you want to wait?" He asked.

"Wait," She stated, he nodded and put the granola bar back into his bag.

"How do you feel?" Garcia asked.

"Awful, but it'll pass," Y/N answered.

"Do you want me to tell Hotch? I'm sure you can help over video chat if you stay behind," Garcia offered.

"No, I'm fine, Garcia. It just takes me a minute," Y/N assured.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Spencer questioned.

Y/N hesitated, "I was running late this morning," She said softly.

"We can pick something up for you on the way to the plane," Spencer said, Y/N nodded.

"Do you think you're ready to get up? Or do you want to sit for a bit longer?" Spencer asked, his hand absent-mindedly rubbing over the skin of her bicep.

"I think I'm okay," Y/N said.

Spencer stood up from behind her, moving around and holding out his hands to her. Y/N settled her hands in his, allowing him to pull her to her feet slowly.

"You okay?" He asked, looking down at her.

Y/N nodded, Spencer bent down and picked up his blazer from the floor. He grabbed his case file and his bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. Spencer rested his hand on Y/N's back and guided her out of the conference room.

Garcia watched them leave, a small smile settling on her face as she watched how gentle he was with her. Her face suddenly fell, "Oh my god," She muttered.

...

The case went by quickly and everyone returned to Quantico, settling at their desks and completing their paperwork. Y/N filled out her documents easily, pen gliding across the page as she worked.

Spencer looked over at her, watching her work for a moment before his gaze quickly swept the room for any prying eyes.

His eyes returned to Y/N, he leaned over slightly, "Hey, Y/N," He called softly.

Y/N looked over at him, "Do you want to get dinner together after we're done?" He asked.

"I'd love to," She smiled.

"Okay," Spencer nodded, smiling back at her.

The pair returned to their work quietly, completing their reports and turning them in before packing up.

Y/N pulled on her coat and purse, waiting for Spencer before the pair walked out of the bullpen together. They stepped into the elevator and Y/N pressed the button for the main level, the couple chatted about restaurants during the ride down.

Y/N and Spencer made their way out of the building and into the parking garage. Spencer followed Y/N to her car, he looked around the parking structure before he took Y/N's hand in his. Spencer slowed to a stop, giving her hand a gentle tug.

Y/N turned to face him, "What are you doing?" She questioned.

He shrugged, taking a step closer to her and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. Y/N's eyes fluttered shut, smiling up at him as he pulled away.

"What was that for?" She questioned.

"I just love you," Spencer shrugged.

"I love you too," Y/N replied, adjusting the collar of his coat.

"No way!" Someone yelled.

Spencer turned to see Morgan approaching them with a wide grin, "Garcia told me you guys were together and I thought she was full of it. I thought there was no way that pretty boy actually made a move. Then I see you two smooching away out here," Morgan teased.

"I guess the cat's out of the bag," Spencer said.

"I guess so," Y/N nodded.

"How long has the cat been in the bag exactly?" Morgan asked.

"Year and a half," Spencer shrugged.

"You kept this a secret for over a year? I'm impressed," Morgan nodded.

"I just didn't want to make things awkward within the team," Y/N stated.

"Are you kidding? There's been a betting pool for years about when you two would finally get together," Morgan said.

"Are you serious? Who bet?" Spencer asked.

Morgan hesitated, "Pretty much everyone," He said.

"I can't believe it," Y/N said, shaking her head with a soft smile.

"So, now that everyone knows about you two," Morgan started.

"Wait, everyone?" Y/N asked.

"Yeah, obviously, Garcia was the first one to figure it out. She told anyone who'd listen," Morgan said.

Y/N's cheeks flushed, "I was wondering if the rest of the team and I could join you two for dinner. Meal is on Emily because she won the bet," Morgan offered.

Spencer looked over at Y/N, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze before returning his attention to their friend.

"That would be great," He nodded.

"Perfect! I'll let the people know," Morgan smiled, turning around and making his way back to the office.

Y/N shook her head, "All that because you couldn't wait to kiss me until we got home," She teased.

"I would kiss you every minute of every day if I could," Spencer stated.

"I love you," Y/N said, leaning in and giving him another gentle kiss before pulling away.

"I didn't expect our relationship to cause such a stir in the office, but I'm glad it's out in the open now," Spencer said, Y/N nodded.

"Wait until they find out we've been living together for six months. They'll lose their minds," Y/N smiled.

[obaewankenope]

American to English translation for fic

So I read and write fanfic, as do lots of others, and I've noticed that when it comes to British shows or movies, Americanisms or American terms crop up often. It's mostly because most don't know we have specific terms for things in the UK, and I've seen references here and there before, but I've decided to write one of my own. Feel free to add to it tho! I'm gonna put it up on Ao3 too and any additions, I'll reference the tumblr and link them on Ao3 too.

AO3 link is here!!

Anyway, here we go I guess.

Some Americanisms to English-isms

Gas = fuel/petrol/diesel (we tend to specify the type of fuel the vehicle uses, diesel vehicle or petrol vehicle for example)

Gas station = petrol/fuel station

Gas court = petrol/fuel court, or sometimes forecourt (not often with this one tho)

License plate = registration plate/reg

Diner = cafe

Fast-food = takeaway (this is sort of interchangeable. McDonald's is called fast food, a meal from a pizza place that delivers is takeaway)

Motel = hotel

Side-note: We tend to use specific named hotel chains like Premier Inn (or Prem-Inn for short) or Holiday Inn or Travelodge. We also have Britannia Hotels and several others. If the fic is based in a specific place, local hotels or famous ones may be better options. For example, in Liverpool, we have The Shankly or Adelphi.

Cab = taxi or black hac for a specific type of taxi.

Side-note: These are what you see in BBC Sherlock, for example, and are a UK staple. They're less popular or common-place nowadays but there are dedicated taxi companies that use them. There's on in my town that operates until 4pm each day. They are also usually more expensive than a car taxi but they have oodles of space and you can have a pram/buggy kept upright rather than folded-down in them which is brilliant.

Cop = police officer

Side note: more informal, colloquial terms include "copper", "the fuzz", "tit-head" (because of the nipple hat okay, just look up the hat, it's hilarious), "bobby", "rozzer" (pronounced r-o-z-er not Row-zer), and "the bill" (there's an actual show called this btw. It can be a good reference for anyone writing crime fic in UK). There's more but those are the most common. Older terms do include "peelers" and "old bill".

Second side-note: the police have a whole host of terms, colloquial and slang that can be a great thing to include in fic, which I'll link a glossary of here. It's not all UK centric but cross-country policing is a thing so that may just be a boon imho. Also the short-hand acroynmns used are useful so here's a link to the Metropolitan Police glossary of those too!

Patrolman = constable or police constable

Antenna = aerial or TV aerial

Fall (season) = autumn

Bill = banknote or specifically "tenner", "fiver", "twenny" (not "twenty"). We don't have single banknotes like a dollar bill. We have pound coins

Dimes, nickels, etc = pound coin, two-pound coin, fifty-pence, penny, two-pence, five-pence, ten-pence, twenty-pence (link here about the coin currency)

Drug store = chemist or pharmacy

Optometrist = optician

Primary care physician = GP (general practitioner) here's a link about UK medical terms for doctors etc

Side-note: here's a link about medical terminologies etc between American and UK

Social security number = national insurance number

Liquor store = off-license or, specifically, Bargain Booze™

Liquor = spirits (usually)

Store = shop

Target, Walmart, etc = honestly, it's probably gonna be Tesco, ASDA, Morrisons, ALDI or Lidl

Superstore = supermarket

Shopping cart = shopping trolley or just "trolley"

Yard-sale = car-boot/car-bootie/car-boot sale

Attorney = barrister or solicitor (solicitors you go to for legal help, barristers tend to be involved in actual court matters, like a the Crown Prosecution Service), here's a link that explains it better

Janitor = caretaker

French-fries = chips (although McDonald's French-fries are just that, French-fries)

Intersection = crossroad

Highway/freeway = motorway

Interstate = usually an A-road or a motorway, we don't really have interstates here)

Overpass = flyover

Turnpike = toll motorway

Windshield = windscreen

Trunk of a car = boot or car boot

Hood of a car = bonnet or car bonnet

Truck = lorry

Sedan = saloon car

Blowout = puncture or flat tyre

Pavement = road

Sidewalk = path

Subway = underground (like the London Underground)

Drapes = curtains (though we do use "drapes" we tend to say "curtains" more)

Pacifier = dummy or "dodo" or "dodi"

Diaper = nappie or a pull-up (if its like underwear for toddlers)

Baby crib = baby cot (though we do use "crib", we tend to say "cot" more)

Baby carriage/pushchair/stroller = pram or buggy (more specific type tho, here's a link about the differences)

Trash/garbage can = bin, dustbin, rubbish bin

Garbage/trash collector = binman/binmen

Mail = post

Mailman = postman

Mailbox = postbox

The movies = cinema or pictures

Movie = film (less common nowadays with influence of Americanisms but I still use "film" and a lot of people my age and older do too (25+)

First floor = ground floor okay, it's the ground floor because it's on ground level

Sneakers = unless they're Converse, it's probably just "trainers"

Baggage = luggage

Purse (as in the bag) = handbag, or "purse" but that tends to be the thing you put your money and cards in then put in your handbag

Vacuum cleaner = hoover or a specific brand like Henry Hoover™, which you'll find we tend to just call Henry (though I have a John Lewis hoover I got from George, ASDA that I've named 'George' and yes, I do say "I need to use George in a bit to hoover" regularly)

Sweater = jumper or, if it buttons up it's a cardigan or cardi

Closet = wardrobe

Elevator = lift

Call collect = reverse charges

Schools = we have primary/infants (11yrs)and secondary/high school (11-16yo) with some high schools have sixth-form college (16-18yo) or actual independent colleges for the same ages

College = university

Semester = term

Vacation = holiday

Kindergarten = nursey/reception

Flashlight = torch

Wrench = spanner

Backyard = garden

Cookie = biscuits

Chips = crisps (like Walkers™ or Lays™ in the States)

Pants = trousers

Cottoncandy = candyfloss

Dude = bloke/fella/mate

John Doe = John Smith

Exhausted (tired) = knackered

Cell phone = mobile

Cell data = mobile data/4G/5G

Bathroom/restroom = loo/toilet (informal term "bog")

Thanks = cheers

Soccer = football

Y'all = "you lot"

Fuck off/hit the road/go away = bugger off

Some slang phrases too

Bits and bobs = stuff, usually random

Take the mick/mickey = making fun of someone or over-exaggerating

Bob's your uncle = there you go, basically

Bog standard = typical, run of the mill kind of deal

Gutted = feel upset, disappointed

Dull as dishwater = basically really, really fuckin boring

Chinwag = basically "shooting the breeze" or just having a talk/chat

.

If you have any others that you think of or want added, reblog and add em! Tags too if you'd prefer but reblogs would be easier ☺️

[luveline]

I read the Derek and Spencer fainting bit and now I want to complete it with Hotch :)))

If that’s alright of course…

thank you for your request ♡ fem!reader

Aaron knows you harbour more affection for him than anyone else on the team, which is a true compliment to him, as you adore Spencer. He can never tell if you're friendly or loving, if you want some or all or nothing, the line between you blurred. 

When Morgan and Garcia first began their flirtatious friendship, Aaron thought they were seeing each other on the sly for a whole fortnight. He's a profiler, but he doesn't know everything. 

He does, however, know that something is wrong with you today. Hand held up over your eyes, you squint out over the crime scene with a wrinkled nose. The lakeside smells as bad as it looks with gore blackening the surrounding grass. He's been telling you for months to get some shades. You've been ignoring his advice. 

Your disapproval of the smell is normal. Your unsure footing is not. You take his forearm when he offers it and step across the muddy bank to the body without audible complaint, though you give him a 'this fucking sucks' narrowing of the eyes when he gives you the time. 

"Agent Hotchner," a deputy greets, "Agent L/N. We found the second body here. Bystanders pulled the first out thinking she was still alive, but that was unfortunately not the case." 

You shift unprofessionally close to Aaron. He doesn't really care. The sheriff barely looks at you both, his attention on the corpse hidden between overgrown cattails. 

Aaron hates to admit that he gives you more of his attention than is helpful. You seem odd. Call it intuition, call it plain old profiling, Aaron reads the next minute of events in the smallest twitch of your finger.

You put your hand on his back and he doesn't think, he just grabs you. The sheriff deputy startles as you fold over Aaron's arm like a marionette with strings sliced, exhaling hard as your body does its best to hit the grass beneath your feet. 

"Agent L/N!" The deputy yelps. 

"I got her," Aaron says, easing you down to the ground. He keeps a hand behind your head to lay you down flat, the other quick to leap from your side to your cheek. You'll likely have bruises in the shape of his hands at your waist. "Y/N?" 

He rubs his thumb under your eye. Quick, he leans down with an ear to your lips and relaxes at the sound of your shallow breathing. He pulls away, resting a hand atop your chest. 

"Can you hear me?" he asks, conscious of and ignoring the copious pairs of eyes watching over you. 

You don't respond. Aaron goes into emergency mode, flagging down a cop who races for a paramedic, hands at your throat unbuttoning the first button on your blouse, the second in an overabundance of caution. 

"Y/N, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that?" His tone wavers somewhere between demanding and desperate. "Come on. Come on." 

Fainting is one thing. Fainting with no signs of dehydration and little sun exposure is another, especially considering you hadn't moved from one position to another. You've passed out with no obvious cause. Any number of things could be wrong. 

He doesn't slap you —it works in the movies and not often elsewhere. In fact, Aaron finds himself at the opposite end of the spectrum. Patient outwardly and insanely panicked on the inside, he holds your face in his hand and waits for someone to tell him you're alright. 

Your breath catches, your head lolling into his palm. He straightens it, weary of your airways. "Y/N? Tell me you can hear me." 

The whirlwind of your fall and the eternity of your recovery has him holding his breath. 

"I can hear you," you mumble, again attempting to turn your head. He lets you this time. He's so relieved, he'd let you do anything. 

He fights the urge to shout, Where's the medic? instead following your face, tilting his head to the side. "Open your eyes, honey," he murmurs, for your ears alone. 

Your lashes twitch against his pinky index finger. You frown as though you're in pain and finally rouse to attention. 

"What hurts?" he asks, brows furrowed.

"Nothing hurts…" Your frown worsens. "You look really unhappy." 

"I'm not ecstatic about this," he says. He gives in, shouting, "Where's the medic?"

"Oh, no, please," you say, trying to sit up, "that is so embarrassing."

Aaron pushes you flat to the grass beneath you. "Stop, you need to stay flat. You passed out. This is the solution–" He puts his hand flat over your chest as you put in some effort. "Hey, this is what you need to do. Listen to me, agent." 

"What happened to honey?" you ask quietly. 

"That's when you were doing what I wanted." 

You close your eyes in a faux strop. "I guess I'll have to do what you want more often, sir." 

"That's enough." He sounds fond. Why does he sound so fond? 

The deputy clears his throat. "Paramedics are here." 

You groan. Aaron hides a smile. Through everything, his hand has stayed on your cheek. He doesn't pull it away until he absolutely has to, and even then, he holds some part of you. Your elbow, your wrist. He has the sense to be sheepish about it when the paramedic ushers him back, but even then, he's thinking about when he'll get to touch you next; he needs the assurance that you're okay. 

He gets it a half hour later when you're sipping on a gatorade in the back of an SUV. 

"Do I still get paid for today?" you ask, smiling playfully. "Or is this a write off?" 

He wants to joke about it with you, but there's work to be done. He sends you back to the hotel with a frankly unprofessional hug and a demand to take it easy. He's sure you'll be back stepping on his heels by late afternoon.