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thoughtportal · 11 months

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https://twitter.com/schmutzparty/status/1660052990797967362

#Healthcare #do no harm

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farfromstrange · 5 months

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Do No Harm

CHAPTER ONE: Night Shift

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt has to accompany Foggy to the ER in the middle of the night because he dislocated his shoulder. In need for some peace and quiet, Matt wanders the halls of Metro General and instead finds you crying in one of the abandoned hallways. A conversation ensues.

Warnings for this chapter: Slight angst, mention of injury.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: My brain gets the strangest ideas for fics and then I have to write them or else I will go crazy. This is how this baby was born. Keep in mind, I’m not a doctor. I simply watch a lot of medical dramas and I like to research medical terms for the fun of it. Heed the warnings for the entire series (see Series Masterlist) but also chapter-specific warnings that apply, as seen above. I hope you enjoy!

Read Chapter 1: Night Shift here on AO3

Ever since he can remember, Matt has hated hospitals. The antiseptic scent that lingers in the air, the sterile white walls that seem to close in around him—it all brings back memories of days spent in agony, tied to an uncomfortable bed, and seeing nothing but an endless void of black.

He can only tune out so much. The stench, the sirens, and the overlapping voices in an emergency room—they could easily kill him.

Hospitals remind him of what he lost. He lost his vision, he lost his father and in the process, he lost his innocence. Matt lost everything, and even though he is well aware that it isn’t the hospital’s fault that he decided to save a man or that his father made a deal with the devil and got himself killed, he still hates the same empty walls that made him feel so small to begin with.

Matt doesn’t want to be a liability, he doesn’t want to be the reason the people he loves get hurt, and yet it continues to happen time and time again.

Maybe he’s cursed. It’s the only explanation for how things are going for him now. Maybe God has a grudge and finally decided to exercise his right to make his life a living hell. There is an infinite number of possibilities, but none of them make sense.

He’s the anti-hero of his own story and that of everyone else who has ever dared to let him into their lives. He’s his own worst enemy, his personal saboteur. His unwavering pride has a tendency to get in the way of his happiness, which often leads to more bad than good, but admitting that would leave him vulnerable and exposed—and he can’t let himself get hurt again.

It’s better to push the people he loves away before he can hurt them and force them to walk out on him the same way everyone else in his life has walked out on him ever since he can remember. At least in his twisted mind, that’s true.

He never thought he would find himself in Metro General again, not since Claire came into his life. Claire, the caring nurse who saved him when he was on death’s door and continued doing so until she realized that falling for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen comes with its own set of risks.

Foggy dislocated his shoulder.

It’s almost laughable. Out of everyone, he chose Matt to come to the hospital with him. Not Karen, Matt. He had the choice between the most empathetic person either of them have ever met, and Matt, someone so far out of touch with his own feelings, living in denial has become the standard for him. Foggy chose the latter, for whatever reason he doesn’t even seem to know himself. It just felt like the most natural thing to do, he told Matt when he asked his best friend, “Why me?”

He should feel honored that he trusts him that much, but being trapped in the sterile four walls of the hospital he only connects bad memories to while Foggy is stuck in the queue for an X-ray feels more like torture than an honorable act.

The loud, demanding voices of the nurses, the painful groans and soft cries coming from the patients in the waiting area of the emergency room a few doors down, and the obnoxious beeping of the machines lining the walls in every room are like a swarm of bees in Matt’s inner ear. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get them out. He’s allergic to them.

The room smells of disinfectant, blood, and other bodily fluids. He tries to focus on his cologne and the scentless laundry detergent he has grown so accustomed to over the years, but the balm only lasts for a few seconds before the wound reopens and his senses are flooded.

Matt keeps rhythmically tapping his fingers on his thigh. How much longer he can sit on this uncomfortable plastic chair in front of the radiology area and wait for Foggy to return, he doesn’t know. It won’t be long now until he loses his mind. He is about to drown in his own misery.

He feels the desperate urge to land his fist in the wall next to him. He wants to scream, cry, maybe even both—this night is not going well. He hasn’t had a good night in weeks. Tonight though, he’s stuck in the hospital rather than outside, doing something against the injustice he is forced to listen to every day.

The hits he took the previous night were pretty severe, and his ribs still hurt. The numb ache that tears through him whenever he moves is a temporary relief from the pain induced by the noise around him. Whatever bits of sanity he tries holding onto eventually slip through his fingers.

Eventually, he can’t take it anymore. He gets up, his head tilting toward Foggy’s elevated heartbeat. He’s still in line. Fifth, probably.

Matt taps his cane against the floor, making his way down the hallway. He’s not quite sure where he’s going or where he will land, he just knows that he needs to get out of there as fast as possible.

Rounding the hundredth corner of the evening, the sound of clattering metal trays and medical supplies disappears behind layers of drywall and automatic doors. Matt takes a moment, and he realizes that right here—right where he is now—he can finally breathe again.

The sound travels more easily. The air wafting through the vents and over the cotton sheets on a row of empty beds is the only sound that meets his ears. They’re lined against one side of the wall. The rooms are empty, the doors locked. It seems as if in a moment of desperation, he found his way to one of the abandoned parts of the hospital.

A lack of funding caused Metro General to cut their losses. It certainly wasn’t an easy decision, but with capitalism on the rise, public hospitals are barely holding on.

Even though the truth is depressing, Matt still can’t believe his luck when he realizes how quiet it is. That may be a selfish thought, but he can't help it. The world is always so loud and uncomfortable. Finding someplace quiet after torturing himself in the waiting room for hours feels like heaven on earth on such a busy night.

The fog dulling his senses finally dissipates. He takes a deep breath. The air is cleaner here. No disinfectant, only the faint scent of plastic and dust; he wouldn't have thought it possible that he would ever consider that combination a blessing.

That’s when he hears it—a slightly elevated heartbeat followed by a series of muffled sobs. He got so caught up in the fact that he finally found what he was looking for amidst the chaos that he forgot to fan out his hearing.

Despite what he originally believed, he isn’t alone.

The air smells of the salty essence of human tears. Matt stops dead in his tracks, not sure whether to continue his journey or to turn around and return to the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of the radiology department.

“This nervous breakdown space is occupied,” your soft voice bounces off the high walls. It’s thick with exhaustion. Pain. Loss. He almost recoils at the all-too-familiar feeling it elicits in him.

Matt keeps his cane hugged tight to his chest, his knuckles whitening with how hard he is gripping the base. “Oh, I...I’m sorry,” he says, careful to keep his voice light. “I didn’t catch you there.”

You’re essentially a stranger to him. A troubled one, at that. You must have your share of problems or you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be crying your eyes out. He doesn’t want to intrude, but he also can’t turn around. Not now, not anymore. You’ve already noticed him.

You sniffle, your hands wiping against the soft skin of your reddened cheeks. For a moment, your heartbeat picks up in speed before returning to its normal rhythm. “It’s alright,” you assure him.

Matt picks up on the faintest hint of disinfectant and the scent of antibacterial soap on you now, maybe a little blood, and definitely antiseptic laundry detergent—you’re wearing medical scrubs.

Your shampoo smells of vanilla and some herbal element he can’t quite identify just yet. Your perfume isn’t expensive, just enough to last through a long shift and filter the sweat that is seeping out of your pores. It’s not unpleasant. You smell like someone who’s been working hard and far past your limits, too.

“Do you need something?” you ask him.

He pauses for a moment, rethinking his answer. His lips purse. He’s not sure how to answer that without completely giving himself away.

Your eyebrows raise slightly.

“Oh, just…some peace and quiet,” Matt says, finally finding his voice again. It sounds a bit more nervous than he would like to admit.

The chuckle you exhale is one of surprise and possibly even a bit of genuine amusement. “Yeah,” you sniffle, “I know that feeling.”

“Well, I’ll, uh, leave you to it. Sorry again.”

“No. Don’t.”

Matt stops in his tracks when the words pass your lips.

You pat the space beside you. Your perfume becomes a little clearer. It’s so natural, so… you. He could get high off of it. Or maybe it’s just the sleep deprivation catching up to him.

“This is the only quiet corner in this hospital,” you tell him. “Trust me. Underfunding has its perks for introverts. Rest in peace to about thirty internal medicine beds, but lucky me.”

Your chuckle echoes bitterly off the walls. You use humor to cope, apparently, but you’ve run out of strength to pretend.

His cane begins to gently pave the way as he makes his way forward. “Do you mind?” Matt nods toward the bed you’re sitting on.

You pat the mattress again with a shake of your head. “Not at all.”

Gentle seems to be the one word that is consistent with everything you do. He can’t get this picture he has painted of you based on the sound of your voice out of his head. Maybe you’re an angel and he has officially gone insane, or maybe there are just a lot more good people left in this world than he originally thought.

Matt folds his cane and skillfully sits down on the edge of the mattress. You smell even better up close. Your heartbeat reminds him of a beautiful symphony, no longer as erratic as when he first picked up on your presence.

“I’m Matthew, by the way,” he says.

He can hear a sudden uptick in your heartbeat. He may have just imagined it. You suck in a sharp breath, and he’s sure he didn’t imagine that, but then you lift your hand to take his.

“Olivia,” you say.

Matt listens closely. You have no reason to lie about your name. Your heartbeat may be faster, but it isn’t a lie. You just seem a lot more nervous and unsure than before. It doesn’t quite make sense why you would be unsure about your own name.

“Nice to meet you, Olivia.” His lips curl into a soft smile.

You smile back, he can hear it, but it lacks an essence of truth. You’re trying hard to seem like you’re okay. It’s not your fault that his senses are sensitive to all changes in the human body, even in that of a stranger he just met.

You’ve been crying, so of course, you wouldn’t be alright. The question is, why?

“I take it you’re not part of the staff,” you say into the silence.

“No.” Matt chuckles. “I, uh, have a friend with a dislocated shoulder,” he says.

“Ah! Let me guess, his doctor in the ER reduced the dislocation but insisted on doing an X-ray just in case, so now you have to wait because radiology has a hold-up longer than the Nile?”

A laugh rumbles through his chest. “Yeah, that… that’s pretty accurate.”

“It’s always like this,” you say. “A dislocated shoulder doesn’t have priority. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“You work here?” he dares to ask.

You pull at the bottom of your scrub top. “Guilty as charged. Trauma surgery. I’ve been an attending here for a little over two years now.”

“Oh, wow! That’s…that’s incredible.”

Matt has encountered his fair share of doctors in the past, but no one has ever been quite like you. You’re unique. Mysterious. An enigma. You have piqued his curiosity, to say the least, and your profession only adds to the pile of interesting things he can ponder about.

You smile at him again, but it’s still not a genuine one. “Thanks,” you drag the last syllable out, the air deflating your lungs.

He swallows. “Or it isn’t. I didn’t mean to–”

“No, that’s not… some days just aren’t that rewarding,” you say. “That’s all.”

“And today has been one of those days?” Matt asks.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Your eyes roam over him once again.

He reaches for his hair, running his hand through it. He ruffles the brown strands until they’re covering his left temple. Matt’s not sure if you saw; there is a high chance that you did, but he can't anticipate your behavior. Not yet.

You let out a longer breath. “Not a fan of hospitals, I take it?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “It gets… loud,” he says.

“Sensitivity to sound.” You nod. “Noted.”

He hears the fabric of your scrubs brushing against your skin and the cotton sheets on the bed. You cross your legs, opening yourself up to him just slightly, and he wonders if you really are comfortable around him or if you’re just being kind.

“Probably to smell as well? Feeling? Taste?” There is a soft smile laced in your voice. This time, it’s real.

Matt chuckles. You hit the nail right on the head. You’re simply not aware of how sensitive he is to these things. “Pretty sensitive, yeah,” he says.

That about sums it up. You nod, but you don’t push him any further.

“Well,” you say, “The ER is pretty disgusting. And loud. And to be forced to wait in front of radiology is probably a scenario they offer as a torture device in one of the seven circles of hell.”

He can’t help himself, “It’s nine, actually.”

“Sorry?”

“Nine circles,” Matt clarifies, his lips twitching in a faint grin. “Dante’s Inferno. A good Catholic boy’s guilty pleasure.”

You let out a genuine laugh this time, and it warms his senses. It’s a rare sound in a place filled with so much pain. He can almost hear the weight from your shoulders hit the floor. The tension in the air seems to ease, if only for a moment. You allow to let yourself go.

Your grin turns into a smirk. “Catholic, huh?” you retort.

“Since the day I was born,” he says. “Are you religious?”

That seems to steal your breath away. You have no words. For a full minute, silence settles in between the two of you. It’s almost uncomfortable, and Matt fears he must have crossed a line. He just doesn’t know how to apologize for something he is truly curious about.

The topic of God and religion seems to hit a nerve when it’s not used in a humorous context. There are many reasons why that could be. He spends every day battling his own religious trauma and the demons that he feels he’s harboring deep inside, but he still holds on tight to his faith. If he doesn’t have an excuse—if he doesn’t have anything to hold onto other than what broken self-respect he has left—where would he be?

You finally clear your throat after what feels like an eternity. “No,” it’s a simple answer. “I don’t believe that there is a God.”

Your mouth stays open. You want to say something else, but your lips close within seconds after the thought has passed by you, and you swallow it. He wonders what he could have learned about you if you had allowed yourself to say what you were truly thinking when the words first left your mouth. You’re holding back, and it is audible. It might even be visible. Your cheeks are running hot.

Matt nods. He doesn’t question you. Your beliefs are yours. Most of the time, he doesn’t even believe that there is a God himself.

“It’s hard to keep the faith in this world, especially when you work so hard every day trying to save people’s lives. When you are forced to see what the system does to those who can’t defend themselves over and over again, but you can’t do anything about it. Or when you see what people do to each other. I mean, the cruelty of human beings is unmatched, and it makes you wonder if God is just a sadist, or if maybe he isn’t even real because a gracious God wouldn’t let innocent children die,” you cut yourself off in an instant, and he tilts his head toward you in surprise.

Your breath shudders. “I… I’ve seen too much bad to believe that there is an all-merciful God,” you say. “So I simply don’t.”

You try to meet his eyes, but all you see is your reflection in the red of his rounded glasses. Your heart breaks a little, he can hear it. Your shoulders slump. You’re defeated.

He isn’t sure how to react to that. How to help. How to be a decent human being. Matt just doesn’t have the answers you need, and it makes him question his own faith for a minute. Not that he has ever not questioned it; his relationship with God is as complicated as it gets.

You catch yourself after a moment of staring into the void of his glasses. “But… that’s my opinion. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended,” Matt says.

You were smiling, and now you’re not anymore. He doesn’t like that. He liked it more when you were more open with him. Your legs have moved back to your chest, your arms clinging to them. You’ve retreated.

“Sorry,” you whisper. The edge in your voice breaks his heart.

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I get it. Injustice…it’s a parasite. I’ve encountered my fair share of good people who deserved better than what they got. You try and you fail over and over again because the world isn't fair. I’d be the last person to judge you for not sharing my beliefs.” He breaks off in a chuckle. “I'm not that kind of guy.”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. “What is that you do again?” You didn’t ask that question before.

“I’m a lawyer,” he states. “Defense attorney.”

“Wow,” you let out a soft puff of air, “And you chose to go to Metro General instead of jumping on the big money train to the Upper East Side?”

Although your tone is joking, Matt can tell that there is an ounce of truth in your words.

He hides his laugh behind a cough. He’s not sure if he’s surprised or if he actually finds that assumption hilarious. Maybe a bit of both.

“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “I have never even been in the same station as the big money train.”

“Oh?”

“No. We, my partner and I, do pro-bono work. We don't get paid for our services. Well, other than baked goods and overdue bills in the mail, of course.”

You chuckle. “That’s a relief. Not so much for your bank account, but ethically.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry for assuming. That was prejudiced of me,” you say. “I’m not trying to judge you. I’m sorry. Rich or not, it’s none of my business.”

Matt shrugs. “It's okay. Lawyers and doctors are the two professions so many think make millions of Dollars a year, and while that may be the case for a few, a lot of us just… don’t,” he says.

“Amen! If I had a drink, I’d toast to that.”

“Yeah, well, an intoxicated doctor would not fare well in the legal sense.”

“You think that would end my career?”

“I can’t even give you good legal advice other than, don’t.”

Your giggle turns into a laugh. “Thank you for the advice, counselor.”

He joins in. “Anytime.”

For a moment, only the two of you exist. Matt adjusts his position, but he doesn’t take his bruised ribs into account. His wince is barely audible, yet you notice it in an instant. And when his hair slips, you can see the gash on his forehead. The one he tried to stitch up himself but probably did an awful job at concealing.

Your eyes narrow in concern. “What happened to you?” your voice barely breeches the sound barrier.

“Oh, nothing,” he tries to shrug it off. “Just an accident.”

“An accident?”

“I am blind, you know. I tripped, hit my head. It happens.”

“Hm.” Much to his surprise, you don’t press him further. Instead, you gently reach out to brush the sweaty strand of hair from his face that he used to cover up the aftermath of his latest endeavor.

Now that he thinks about it, his ribs really do hurt. He’s sure nothing is broken, but they are severely bruised. Even he can feel the blood pooling under the skin.

You bite your lip, not wanting to pry. The urge is obvious to him, but only to him. You’re good at your job. You focus on the task at hand. That is probably why you became a doctor in the first place; to help people, not to pry.

But Matt Murdock doesn’t need help.

“It’s fine,” he assures you.

You nod. “I believe you.”

You don’t. You’re lying. He appreciates the effort though. You try your best at making him feel comfortable and welcome. Asking questions would only drive him away; you wouldn’t be able to satiate your pathological need to help. It’s who you are.

“Whoever patched this up did a terrible job,” you say, “and I don’t want to know who did it because if you tell me it was you, I will lose my mind, so, I choose to believe you for the sake of my own sanity.”

His lips part in a soft laugh. “Yeah, you don't wanna know,” he says.

“Can I fix it?"

He opens his mouth to decline, “You don’t have to, I–”

“Please.”

There is no arguing with you, it seems.

Your footsteps echo in the empty hallway. One of the drawers in the cart across from the bed slides open at your touch. Matt can hear the distinct crinkle of packaging and the clanking of metal. When you return to his side, your steps are a little heavier.

“I’m going to clean the wound and then apply a butterfly bandage to help the skin grow back together,” you explain. “The cut isn't that deep, but you must’ve hit your head pretty hard when you fell. I can’t force you to get a head CT, so… If you experience any nausea or neurological deficits in the next few days, you should come back to run some tests. But—and that is not my expert medical opinion because I don’t have the tests to back it up—I think it should be fine to heal on its own.”

“Any other advice, Doc?” he jokes.

“Well, I can’t give the same good news about your bruised ribs.” You only have to place your hand on his side and his lips come to press tightly together. “I’m guessing third and fourth,” you say. “If one of them is fractured, it makes you run at risk for internal bleeding, but to see the extent of your injuries, we’d have to get an MRI. That is not my call to make. I can’t force you to get your battle scars checked out, I can just advise you to think about it. Really think about it.”

Matt sighs. His laughter has long died. “I know.”

He doesn’t want to repeat himself. He’s fine. He has to pretend that he’s fine because he doesn’t have time for doctors or questions. Neither you nor the law can protect him from the damage that the truth would do.

You’re disappointed, but you swallow your pride. With delicate precision, you start cleaning the wound on his forehead, the cotton swab dabbing at the dried blood. He winces at the sting of antiseptic, a subtle twitch in response to the pain.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

Matt manages a half-smile. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse.”

That doesn’t make you feel better, but you accept it. You’ve learned to respect your patients’ wishes, even if that means swallowing a lie.

As you work, your fingers graze over his skin with a careful tenderness. It’s a stark contrast to the harshness of the world he navigates outside—a double-edged sword. If he doesn’t go out there, more people die or get hurt. He would sustain the same injuries over and over again and almost die rather than pretend that evil isn’t lurking right outside his window every night. And there is a bigger storm brewing in the distance, one he isn’t fully prepared for.

Yet.

You finish cleaning the wound and proceed to carefully apply a fresh bandage. Matt can feel the cool adhesive against his skin. Your touch is soothing, almost comforting, and he allows himself to relax.

“There,” you announce softly. “All patched up.”

Matt lifts his hand to touch the bandage, a habit he developed over the years to reassure himself that someone cared enough to tend to his wounds. “Thank you,” he answers.

“No biggie.” You shrug with a tiny smile, and that makes him smile, too. It shows him that while you are displeased with his lack of respect for himself and his health, you aren’t mad at him. You just care.

The shrill beeping of your pager tears a headache through his skull.

You curse under your breath. “I’m so sorry,” you say as you skim over the text that has been sent to you. “The, uh—the ER needs me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he quickly responds.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go. Save a life!”

You’re reluctant at first, but then your lips curl into a broader, more genuine smile, and in the heat of the moment, you grab his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Matthew,” you say. “Take care of yourself.”

Your footsteps retreat and your heartbeat gets fainter as you walk down the hallway. He’s speechless. He doesn’t even remember how to say goodbye.

“Oh, and do me a favor?” You stop momentarily just to ask him, “Get those ribs checked out?”

His mouth opens and closes like that of a fish on dry land. “Sure,” he says.

“Thank you,” these are your last words to him before you take off running.

Both of you know though that once he is out of Metro General and on his way home, he won’t come back. Not for himself, at least. And it is something you have to accept as much as he has to accept the fact that you are long gone, off to save a life in the very four walls that seemed so scary to him all alone only fifteen minutes ago.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @littlehappyperson @danzer8705

#matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #daredevil x reader #matt murdock x you #doctor!reader #medical drama #matt murdock angst #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock imagines #charlie cox #do no harm

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 1 year

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[I was] a mentally ill teenager who had been groomed and preyed upon and sexually exploited online to the point of authorities getting involved.

I spiralled into a hatred of myself and my body, and was told that it was just because I was a boy born in the wrong body, and that this would fix me.

I was affirmed down a path where I wasn't given any other choice as to what would help me. The very first medical intervention I ever had was a double mastectomy at 16. And then a few months later, I was put on testosterone.

I'm now 21, and I will live with the impacts of that so-called care for the rest of my life. In the past 4 or 5 months, I have watched as my body has fallen apart in front of me. My joints constantly hurting, my vocal chords aching, watching as parts of me atrophy away before my very eyes.

And yet, at 16, they looked me in the eyes and they told me this was care. They told me it would save me.

Despite the fact I was never suicidal, my parents were baited with the idea of "would you rather have a dead daughter or a living son?" Bullied into going along with it, their biggest crime being trusting those who they thought took an oath to "do no harm."

It's not about "hate," detransitioning, it never has been. It's about keeping kids whole. I've worked with children, I've seen them explore the world, and I've seen that magic that they have. And doing something like transitioning them takes that away.

How can you look me in the eyes and tell me that a child can consent to being chained to an experimental medical industry before they're even old enough to drive, or understand the impacts of what that means in the first place?

Kids deserve to be kids. They deserve to get to explore the world as a safe and loving place.

It's disturbing that the position "don't mutilate kids" requires bravery.

Today is a great day to think of what you'll say when you're asked why you went along with it.

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spacedocmom · 8 months

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Doctor Beverly Crusher @SpaceDocMom Fellow doctors: if you are the primary source of your patients' stress, you are doing it wrong. emojis: black heart, blue heart, masked, staff of Aesculapius 11:18 AM · Aug 17, 2023

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snazzycrown · 1 year

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I saw this quote and my brain said “it her” because Yknow, brain rot

#worm parahumans #parahumans #skitter #taylor hebert #weaver #worm #dumb shit #shit post #do no harm #take no shit

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hier--soir · 5 months

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wip wednesdayyyyy

tysm for the tags my darlings @cupofjoel @undercoverpena @mrsmando <3

there's so many wips going on, so i'll give a taste for a few different characters...

ALP7:

anyways......

STRUNG OUT [high strung pt2]: SMUT WARNING

DO NO HARM 1:

okay bye ilysm can't wait to share one of these in like seven years when im not sick anymore

#wip #tag game #ALP #do no harm

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liusaidh-writing · 1 month

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DO NO HARM

CHAPTER 9

Read it now at AO3!

---

There she was, her back to him, her work uniform hanging loosely on her frame. It was a little big, and Jamie watched as she fussed with the tie that kept it tight around her middle. He let himself admire her for just a moment; the way she turned her delicate wrists as she stretched her arms over her head…it nearly undid him. He’d never understood why Victorian women would hide their ankles and wrists until now. They definitely had their allure - at least where Claire was concerned. Shifting on his feet, Jamie steadied himself, then cleared his throat, finally letting her know he was there. Turning around, she caught sight of him, her cheeks were flush - whether from work or the walk home, he didn’t know.

---

Well, an unexpected update, but an update nonetheless. I hate that I've let it get so long between updating anything. But thank you for sticking with me - or thank you for choosing to read for the first time! Hope you enjoy the chapter, and I HOPE to have another one in several days. (And if you get to the end of this chapter, I hope you'll know what's coming next... *wink wink!*)

If you enjoy it, please let me know!

#do no harm #outlander fanfic #outlander #jamie x claire #writing

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thegayraccoon · 1 month

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some fresh Rizzles on your dash in the year of 2024?? i know , insane, but hey blame @doomsday-dj and their amazing fic!! honestly this one's not on me

inspired by chapter 7

#rizzles #rizzoli and isles #fanart #thegayraccoon art #do no harm #fanfic fanart

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theelusivepoetalien · 7 months

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The function of the “gender critical” scholarship advocated in this session, like the function of the “race science” of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, is to advance a “scientific” reason to question the humanity of already marginalized groups of people, in this case, those who exist outside a strict and narrow sex / gender binary.

Transgender and gender diverse identities have long existed, and we are committed to upholding the value and dignity of transgender people. We believe that a more just future is possible—one where gender diversity is welcomed and supported rather than marginalized and policed."

#anthropology #sociology #do no harm #gender diversity #nature is diverse #good news

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farfromstrange · 5 months

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Do No Harm: A Matt Murdock x Reader Series

PREVIEW

Masterlist | Series Masterlist (coming soon)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Doctor!Reader

Set during: Daredevil Season 1

Summary: Two years ago, you fled across the country, leaving your past far behind you. Dedicated to helping those in need, you only barely escaped the shadows that haunted you. But you managed; you changed your name, acquired an entirely new identity and a New York medical license – all for a chance at a new life. You somehow managed to get a job at Metro General in Hell’s Kitchen, rented a new apartment and made new friends. The person you claimed to be did, anyway. Everything was going well. Too well. Until one day, you run into Matt Murdock. In an instant, the safe haven you built for yourself starts to unravel, and you find yourself forced to face the very life you tried your hardest to escape.

Warnings: Angst, domestic violence, implied/referenced child abuse, substance abuse, canon typical violence, injury, mental illness, strong language, eventual smut, Black Suit, medical jargon (but I’m not a doctor), Reader has a fake name that is used for a big portion of this story ("Olivia Carter"), no y/n

A/n: I've been watching a lot of medical dramas lately to cope with the drama of life. This is how this idea came to life. I couldn't help myself. As mentioned in the warnings, Reader has a fake name due to her history, but it still a reader insert. I use "you" and she/her pronouns when referring to the Reader. So you can either see her as an OC or as yourself. I hope you guys enjoy this little gem! See more information below.

18+ for EXPLICIT CONTENT. MINORS DNI!

More under the cut.

ONE: Night Shift (coming December 1st)

Excerpt from Chapter 1

[…] Matt doesn’t want to be a liability, he doesn’t want to be the reason the people he loves get hurt, and yet it continues to happen time and time again.

He’s the anti-hero of his own story and that of everyone else who ever dared to let him into their lives. He’s his own worst enemy, his personal saboteur. His unwavering pride has a tendency to get in the way of his happiness, which often leads to more bad than good, but admitting that would leave him vulnerable and exposed—he can’t get hurt again.

It’s better to push the people he loves away before he can hurt them and force them to walk out on him the same way everyone else in his life has ever since he can remember. At least in his twisted mind, that’s true. […]

-> Story Aesthetic

If you want to be added to the tag list, please let me know! I do separate ones for all of my series because not everyone who filled out the tag list form wants to read an entire series. So, this will be tagged separately and only those who want me to.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock angst #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock x ofc #female reader #reader insert #medical drama #no y/n #series #do no harm #charlie cox #matt murdock imagines #lizzi writes #preview

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peachy-panic · 11 months

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Not My Father’s Son

Shh it’s a surprise. Roughly 15 years after the beginning of Do No Harm.

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, collar mention, fear of medicine, scar mention, bad family relationship

The kid perched on the twin bed can’t be much older than him, if not several years his junior. At his own twenty-one years, that would put this rescue right at the border of legal age for entry into the system. But after three years immersed in active rebellion work, he is no longer surprised by the ease with which WRU ignores their own rules.

He crouches into their line of sight, keeping a solid 3-foot distance. Their sharp, green eyes track his every move; wary, in direct contradiction to their body language. It’s still eerie to witness, no matter how many times he’s seen it in action—the way the ‘training’ embeds itself so deeply in each person’s psyche, so much so that they are able to convey a false openness, a mockery of calm, even in their most desperate moments of terror.

And this rescue is terrified.

“Hi,” he says, keeping his voice low and even. “I’m the shelter coordinator here. You can call me KT.”

Rule number one is no full names at intake. It’s not a pleasant thought, and certainly not one anyone in this work likes to think about, but the new rescues don’t always stick around. Sometimes they’re taken back by force, sometimes they are pulled back in by the demons those people planted in their heads. But once they’re back in WRU’s clutches, delicate information has a tendency to spill out. People have a tendency to get hurt.

The volunteers—the people who help run these shelters and perform under-the-table medical care and go on emergency extraction missions—know what kind of risks they’re signing up for when they dedicate their lives to the cause. But he has seen too much loss in his life at this point not to enforce every precaution.

“I heard you were having some trouble with the medicine,” he begins. But no matter how softly he makes the statement, their eyes lock up with renewed terror.

They dart their gaze to the small table beside the bed. On it is a plate, mostly empty save for a couple empty sandwich wrappers and crumbs, and—most notably—a small paper cup with 2 pills still inside.

“It’s okay,” he says calmly, showing his palms. “First thing you need to know is you don’t have to take anything that is given to you here. We are not like them.”

They never believe it the first hundred times, but it’s always worth stating.

“Second thing,” he continues, “Nothing we give you here will harm you. And I’ll prove it.”

He pulls a small bottle from his pocket and shakes 4 pills into his palm, then stretches out his hand. “Pick two,” he says. “Any two.”

Their eyes dart between the offering and his face, searching for any sign of a trap

“Go ahead. It’s okay.”

He patiently waits them out, as long as it takes, but they finally reach out and pluck two of the pills from his palm, careful not to let their fingers touch skin.

“Cool.” He nods then lifts his hand in a half-hearted cheers gesture. “Bottoms up.” He throws his head back and swallows the pills dry.

They are staring at him when he opens his eyes, and he offers a small smile.

“See? That would be one hell of a game of roulette, and I’m not that brave. Promise.”

It takes a few more seconds of hesitant thought, and he is prepared for the likely possibility that it won’t happen today. That’s okay—he’ll try again tomorrow. But then, without a word, they bring their hand to their mouth and pop the remaining two in. Tempering his own joy to the smallest smile of encouragement, he picks up their water cup and hands it over.

As they tilt their head back to swallow, his eyes dip unwittingly to the band of discolored skin around their neck; a tan line from the collar that would have been severed and destroyed before they came anywhere near the boundary of the shelter. Without having to look, he knows there will be another mark of newfound freedom in the form of a freshly stitched line just behind their ear.

For a moment, he is overtaken by a memory, seared in technicolor behind his eyelids: a piggyback ride in his childhood playroom. His forehead pressed against a soft bed of blond curls. His own little fingers coming up to trace a line of pink, raised skin he had never noticed before. One he could only see from that angle. “Sev, you have a cut.”

He blinks himself back to the present. The rescue is staring down at him with eyes that are eager to trust through layers of wariness.

“Thank you,” Kade whispers sincerely. “You did great.”

Two knocks behind him startle them both. He turns over his shoulder to see Jordan, the nurse practitioner on night shift, in the doorway.

“Torley,” he says. “Need to steal you for a minute.”

Kade sends a meaningful glance in the direction of the frightened rescue. “Is it urgent?”

Jordan’s deep brown eyes hold his for an extra moment. Kade has known him long enough, both professionally and personally, to read the answer there.

“Okay,” he breathes, turning back to the rescue. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to step out, but I am around if you need me, okay? Ask anyone to page me and I’ll head this way. Yeah?”

Hesitantly, the rescue nods. It will have to be enough for now.

The door has barely closed behind him when Jordan curls a soft hand around his elbow.

“Jesus, Kadence, you can’t do the pill trick every time. At this rate, your liver is going to fail by age 30.”

“Maybe I had a headache,” he counters. “Or maybe I’m making up for the rebellious teenage years I skipped out on.”

“You mean you’re not still in them?”

Kade smiles, leaning a little bit into his warm touch.

When they reach the end of the hallway, something in Jordan’s demeanor changes. The teasing smile slips from his face as he scrubs a palm over his mouth. He pulls Kade to the side, turning to face him and lowering his voice so that only the two of them can hear.

“What’s wrong?” Kade asks before he can explain. “Is it another emergency rescue? Two in one night?”

“No, it’s…”

“Jordan?”

He meets his eyes again, and by now Kade is well and truly nervous. “It’s your brother.” He drops the bomb, watching it land over Kade’s expression. “He called for you.”

Kade blinks, trying to wrap his head around those words in that order. He hasn’t spoken to Stephen in almost a year. Jordan knows that, along with most of the reasons why.

“Tell him to fuck off,” he says, though his voice is a little pinched.

“Kade—”

“No.” He shakes his head, starting to walk away. “I… I have work to do, I don’t have time for… And he should know better, after that fucking disaster last Christmas—”

“Kade.” Jordan pulls him back, forcing him to pay attention. “He said it’s about your father.”

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort @termsnconditions-apply @cyborg0109 @whumplr-reader @pinkraindropsfell

#do no harm: jaime & sebastian #do no harm #bbu #like bbu adjacent?#whumplr #whump community #whump writing #whump drabble

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sapphire-writes · 7 months

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Do No Harm part 3 Sneak Peak

note: just so you know I haven't forgotten doctor!Aemond here's a little teaser for part 3! banner by the ever lovely @randomdragonfires

“I just really need your help,” Jace says, leading you through the emergency room, weaving between nurses and patients, “It’s just that…I mean I didn’t know the other day but now…”

“Didn’t know what?” you ask as he stops outside a curtain.

“Family members,” Jace says, brown eyes wide, “We’re not supposed to work on family members.”

Your eyebrows concave together in confusion when suddenly the curtain pulls back. A man is lying in the hospital bed, a halo of platinum hair cascading onto the pillow he lays on. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, a lazy grin appearing on his face as he gives you a once-over.

“Nephew,” he sing-songs, giggling, “You brought me a present!”

Jace sighs, pulling the curtain from his grasp. Wait a minute. Nephew? Your eyes scan the giggling man as Jace snaps something at him. The silvery hair, the violet eyes. Seven hells.

How many Targaryens are there?

Catch up here!

#jo wips #do no harm #jo preview #hotd fic #modern au

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wayti-blog · 3 months

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Non-violence leads to the highest ethics, which is the goal of all evolution. Until we stop harming all other living beings, we are still savages.

Thomas A. Edison