#also my condition is getting worse as its harder to take my meds on time

[red-velvet-0w0]

ive probably told you this but I'm allergic to shutting up and I have bad memory

When Jess dies that hands mask has peices Fall Out

you already told me, yes, but you can always tell me again.

Im always more than happy to hear your unhinged dnd ramblings, even if I've already heard them before

[gothtransandroid]

The Strain of Switching

I have type 1 Bi-polar disorder. This is made only slightly worse by the current economy, as I recently was off my meds until i had enough cash to buy them aagin, but thats only becauae I'm more prone to a sharp low after taking them for a while.

The thing they don't really emphasize about the condition to you until you figure it out yourself is that the background thoughts we have normally during the lows are just rejecting the want or need to put in effort. Depression isnt just being sad, its being mentally exhausted to the point of not wanting to put in effort to how you feel or what needs doing. Its like 4-Dimensional apathy, but instead of not caring its that you dont mentally or emotionally feel like caring will add anything positive or is worth the effort.

The lows suck because they suck the life out of wanting to make art, wanting to write and wanting much anything beyond survival and basic instant gratification. But for all the sludge that being under the lows creates, being dragged along by the highs is much more dangerous.

Mania is harder to pin down without feeling it because usually its tied to a specific drive or obsession and rarely just occurs out of extreme conditions like Borderline Personality or Bi-Polar. The closest common association beyond drugs would be the blind joy you have about something as a kid, because like a kid you dont know any better about the things you shouldnt do or how overexertion and overindulgence can ruin things not juat for youself but for those around you. Its worse than that, because you both silence the noises that know those things but also dont see dangers in new choices given what youve learned already.

Its easy to hurt friends, lose vital money, ignore personal needs and burn out hard when the highs have you. With cognitive behavioral therapy and medication you can work around these bad symptoms but it takes time and work to get there. But when you're creating? It feels like nothing can stop you. Any insecurities evaporate and you can always go back and reread what you wrote if its not good. And these are things you can do without being manic, but its easier to not second guess or doubt yourself and especially easier than being depressed.

I write when I have something I feel I need out of my system, and sharing that something has become a bit harder and harder to do because I have deleted twelve different blogs in my lows and even more books and word docs than I can comfortably want to remember.

I will never be consistent, its not possible, medicated or otherwise. All I can do is force myself, for good or ill, to not delete this one this time regardless of my state of mind. I started this blog because I was off my medication and was manic, so I felt extremely confident in my ideas for The Plante Co-op and talking on necromancy and transhumanism.

If I'm low, I might not write. If I'm neutral, which means Im medicated, I'll be self-motivating to the best of my ability. If I am Manic, am in a high, I will be writing consistently but only as long as that high lasts.

I dont have a "following" given what the site says, but if you're interested in sharing your won experiences with writing/art and Bi-Polar I would love talk or just hear from you.

Would that I could, I'd install a switch on my head that can turn it on and off, but its so stressful to switch between the two uncontrollably already, so often, that Im not sure I wouldnt just flip it faster and make it worse.

[hekkoto]

VERY Important - please read..

Hi guys!

I wanna write lil post explaining why Im quite missing etc.

So in short, my health got way worse, I suffer from some awful autoimmune illness. It awfully affected my health, my joints are in awful condition - Im in awful pain, I struggle with walking or using my hands, Im super weak and often on edge of fainting, I lost a lot of weight and hair.

I had to leave job, I struggle with using my computer or drawing. I really struggle with doing things.

I knew my health was bad, but I kept ignoring this, just pushing harder and harder, doing more and more, fullfilling everything I heard I need to do. I only was getting worse and worse. I even ignored being told to go to hospital if my joints will swell, will have fever, headache, will be fainting/close to it. I kept going. But its over, my body cant stand anymore. I need to take care of my health ASAP knowing that if not I will end in hospital.

My physical health but also mental got worse lately. I cant hide behind fake smile, pushing myself more and more. I need to rethink and reevaluate few things. I dont want get too much into details, you will know what you need.

Due to having leave a job, huge amount of money we spent/gonna spend on my meds and doctors/examinations we are quite screwed.

This was supposed be great month, my 26th bday and I planned to finally buy myself some TheSims4 packs and some jewlery as in over a year I was putting almost all gifted money to pay for my meds or doctors. I enjoyed amazing time with friends and that was so great. I did everything what I was told to do - tho still felt not being worth anything. I hoped things will be better but it become way worse than I expected. Feeling pain I cant ignore anymore. My health got so bad.

I have no clue how long it will take to put me back in normal state... I have no clue yet what to do. Im going to start take steroids meds tomorrow so maybe it will be better, less painfull.

If you can please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi or Patreon. I will soon be open for commissions, I will open shop on Ko-Fi. I will think about other options too.

Im sorry for my absence + fact in near future I will stay quite absent too. Wish me best at getting better, support if you can.

I need to rethink some stuff, find what actualy serves me in life, what I want have or do. I have no clue how we will pay for all of my meds and such so consider supporting me

all links: https://linktr.ee/hekkoto

[of-another-broken-heart]

Just a lot of shit going even more wrong than usual.

As usual, I guess.

Everything gets worse forever, right?

My doctor is team plague. So I don’t have a doctor any more. Care for my chronic incurable conditions (yes, plural) has been maliciously held hostage from me, on the condition that I contract a compulsory COVID infection in their no-mask no-filtration no-testing office. Thankfully I’d already weaned off the thyroid med, mainly because it was just a stressful monthly expense ($1) for virtually no health benefits or quality of life improvements. What sucks is that I now have precisely 98 of my anxiety pills to last me the rest of forever. And that’s a pitiful 24-59 doses. For the rest of my miserable fucking life. Or, until December. Because it expires at the end of November. And then. Nothing. Forever.

And my birth control is fucked. For my also-incurable-chronic-condition PCOS symptom management. My usual GYN office is ALSO team plague. And despite the American College of Gynecology establishing that annual exams are NOT necessary for routing birth control prescription renewal (barring past unusual exam results—which, all mine have been normal!), this office is disregarding that in order to require those exams anyway. In their maskless, non-filtered, test-free office full of plague-spreading anti-science charlatans.

So I reached out to Planned Parenthood. And honestly, at first I was really fucking hopeful and relieved. The telehealth appointment fucking broke, so that was its own whole mental breakdown. But I forced myself into anxiety attack phone call hell, and the staff improvised a meeting on the phone after I repeated the appointment log-in process three entire times with them on the line and none of them worked. The nurse that handled me told me about the ACoG guidelines and set me up for the doctor to call me back to finish the appointment. It took longer than I was told, but that doctor did call me back. And she told me I’d have to come in anyway. She’d approve the holdover ‘script but I had to come in.

And that sucked. But at least that office was still masking. It was the first thing I asked.

But it sucks. It fucking sucks to be told something so relieving—that my incurable chronic condition could be treated without relentless stressful inaccessible testing!—and then having it snatched away. Fucking immediately.

So. That was 2 weeks ago.

The prescription never got sent out.

My manual request for it got denied. On the basis that the medication “isn’t covered by my insurance.”

Which is a massive crock of shit. I have Medicaid. And Medicaid in my state covers ALL family planning services, INCLUDING oral contraceptives aka hormonal birth control aka PCOS management.

I’m supposed to be getting an insurance renewal notification sometime soon. But it hasn’t shown up. Not by mail, not by email, not by text.

The pharmacy/medication coverage got shifted out of my actual insurance plan and into some separate thing, but still under the insurance? They split it to make shit even harder and take even more steps for the poor fucks like me who have no other options. And in so doing, they made it so companies and pharmacies and doctors ALSO have to take all those extra steps, and guess what? They don’t. They just fucking refuse.

I learned THC is an incredibly effective anxiety treatment for me, AND the best sleep aid I’ve ever tried.

It’s also close to $100 a month if I was to need it every night.

The only reason I even got to experience and learn this is because of an incredibly generous friend, who similarly has multiple chronic conditions—but has (and acknowledges) the great luck and privilege of getting approved for welfare, and lives with well-off parents.

My knee still isn’t better. I know I’ve said, over and over, it probably won’t ever get better. But it turns out I’m still hoping it does. Wishing for the ability to crouch and kneel and jump and job again.

Anyway I just brought myself to fucking tears over just my physical medical misery and trauma and tragedy.

Wouldn’t you know, that’s not all?

The person I love has been absent entirely for three whole days. They live somewhere that could be near a lot of fascist police state arrests. I’m so fucking stressed and scared.

Oh. And my mom is insisting my car will get fixed. It’ll totally get fixed. It’s so easy. It’ll happen. So I have to renew the registration.

Well, I can’t fucking afford it, so I’m overdrawing my account to do it. Who fucking cares. Nothing fucking matters. I’d rather spend the almost-$200 on fucking food so I don’t starve, but whatever. I don’t deserve food anyway.

I went to renew online. And of course. OF COURSE. The payment didn’t complete. The confirmation page never loaded. No email confirmation, either. I sure the fuck can’t afford a double charge, and the state sure the fuck won’t refuse a double payment, so I just have to. Wait. And wait and wait and be completely and utterly consumed and destroyed by anxiety.

My bank shows a charge. But it also shows a refund. Both initiated at the exact same time by the same organization. So I have to wait and wait and wait and suffer and can’t treat any of that anxiety because everything has to be for absolute fucking emergencies because doctors are all fucking scum who don’t give a shit about their chronically ill patients. But they’ll lie that they do. Oh, they’ll lie.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Guide to a ripoff-free funeral

In the decade-plus that I’ve been reading and watching Caitlin Doughty, I’ve become increasingly aware that even death is no escape from late-stage capitalism — indeed, if you have the misfortune to die unprepared, you will pass out of this world attended by a monopolistic, rapacious, price-gouging monopoly.

https://www.orderofthegooddeath.com/

Indeed, the situation is so grim that I’ve often joked about leaving my body to med-school pranks: corpse at the alumni dinner, arm hanging from a toll-booth, etc. But for the mourners whose grief is turned into cash, this is no laughing matter.

Writing today for Propublica, Carson Kessler delivers an essential piece of service journalism: “How to Avoid Being Overcharged for a Funeral,” whose advice and analysis is exactly the kind of clear guidance needed to carry you through a very difficult moment:

https://www.propublica.org/article/how-to-negotiate-funeral-costs-qa

The funeral home industry is governed by a set of reasonably good regulations, but you only benefit from this if you know about them. Kessler turns to Joshua Slocum, of the Funeral Consumers Alliance to explain them:

You have the right to get a quote by phone;

You have the right to an itemized, printed price-list;

You have the right to order a la carte; funeral homes can’t force you to buy a bundle of products and services.

When your loved one dies, the first thing to remember is that “death is not an emergency.” Don’t let yourself be hurried (this is harder for people planning Jewish burials, which are scripturally mandated to take place within 24 hours of death).

If your loved one died in hospital, check whether the morgue will keep them for a few days while you check with funeral homes in a 20–30 mile radius. Set a budget. Under no circumstances should you tell a funeral director, “Money is no object, she deserves the best.”

Funeral home pricing can vary wildly — businesses within a few miles of each other will often charge thousands of dollars more or less than one another. Don’t imagine that you have a “family funeral home.” The funeral home you used last time is not part of your family — they’re a business.

As mentioned, funeral homes are actually the best-regulated part of the death industry. Far worse are cemeteries, which have transitioned from being largely nonprofit providers of public goods to for-profit ventures frolicking in an unregulated ocean of easy money.

https://www.propublica.org/article/cemetery-long-island-pinelawn-lockes-pinelawn

Cemeteries don’t have to show you price-lists and they can bundle products and services as a condition of doing business with them. If you buy a third-party tombstone and avoid their price-gouging, they’ll hit you with an “inspection fee” to make up the difference.

Thankfully, the FTC has taken up the long-neglected question of cemetery and funeral home regulation. A new docket seeks public comment on the question; the Funeral Consumers Alliance comments are an excellent template to start with:

https://www.regulations.gov/comment/FTC-2020-0014-0656

They call for an expansion of the rule requiring funeral homes to give you a printed price-list, so those lists would have to be published on funeral homes’ websites. More importantly, they’re calling for the extension of funeral-home rules to cemeteries, forcing them to disclose prices and unbundle services.

Private equity has rolled up funeral homes and cemeteries into massive, national chains of hundreds of businesses, and the giants of the industry, like Service Corporation International, have doubled their earnings between 2019 and 2021:

https://filecache.investorroom.com/mr5ir_scicorp/237/Investor%20Fact%20Sheet%201Q22.pdf

Caskets are also a monopoly. Hillrom is a private-equity backed rollup that has cornered the market on both hospital beds and caskets (talk about “complementary businesses!”), using its market power to jack up prices:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/05/hillrom/#baxter-international

Slocum advises that the best way to avoid funeral ripoffs is to shop around and skip the price-gouging funeral homes. Failing that, you can ask the funeral home to meet their competitors’ prices — even if they’ve already picked up your loved one’s body “as a courtesy.”

It’s not cheap or gauche to want to avoid having your pocket picked when you plant a loved one’s remains. Your mom might have wanted a decent burial, but she didn’t want you to hand over thousands of dollars to a hedge-fund-backed monopolist.

Remember, “everything is optional.” No US state requires embalming. This is an emotional moment, but that’s why it’s become a robber-baron racket.

Image: Eugene Peretz (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/peretzpup/3370664952/

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

[Image ID: A graveside casket. Dancing atop it is a drawing of Monopoly's Rich Uncle Pennybags, but instead of a cane, he is wielding a scythe. His face has been turned into a skull.]

[hackfurs]

im going to put a summary of what i’ve been going through under a read more to add some context to my absence. its a long one. sorry. also some trigger warnings for: abuse , death of a loved one , ableism , discussion of topics related to nausea

- i have been failing to deal with an intense workload that began all the way back in 2020, when my old computer died and i had to scramble to replace it in the middle of a global pandemic.

- i was able to afford the computer thanks to everyone being so generous at the time, but afterward, i still had bills to pay and needed to afford food.

- since art was the only way i knew how to make money, my queue quickly outpaced my ability to work and i haven’t recovered since despite permanently closing commissions last year (except if my need was dire).

- the stress and guilt associated with having such a long queue continued to compound, making it harder to do art in any capacity. i feel intense guilt when i draw anything not meant for a client. because of this, i don’t have much love for art at the moment.

- my “brand” of ADHD severely affects my executive function capabilities, i have constant issues with insomnia. weeks pass in the blink of an eye and i have no idea where the time goes. and i’m unable to get any treatment for it. my doctor refuses to prescribe anything, and those in my family are unwilling to help me seek treatment with a specialist for adhd.

- up until may-june of this year when i was able to finally get treatment after months of testing, i had had a chronic stomach condition (for the past 5-6 years) that would give me monthly, sometimes weekly issues such as intense nausea and lack of appetite. i would spend every waking moment throwing up, subsisting off of pedialyte popsicles and a cold medicine strong enough to make sure i was never awake enough to full grasp how awful i felt. i lost all joy for eating. every meal was a gamble if i’d feel fine or doom myself to be bedridden for 3 days. there were times i was so weak i couldnt remain awake for longer than 15 minutes at a time. couldn’t think. i was terrorized constantly by fever dreams. so because of this, my every waking moment became dominated by this obsessive game of “am i sick? am i going to be sick? is this a false alarm?” it was maddening and i missed out on so much. my only experience of MFF 2019 was walking through the dealers den for 30 minutes alone because everyone in the group had already looked through everything and wasnt interested. id never felt so alone in a crowd of people before.

- if i wasnt sick, i was recovering and dreading the next time i would inevitably get sick. it haunted my every waking moment. i thought every time it happened “maybe this one actually kills me”. and the whole time the tests turned back nothing. the meds didn’t do anything. it took over a year to finally get a medication that helped and im terrified of ever living like that again. it was hard to get myself to work when i was an anxious wreck huddled in a corner afraid i was going to die, and while i no longer get sick, those anxieties still color every aspect of my life

- now that im unable to work consistently on what i do owe, and now that i’m taking no new commissions, i’ve made around $500 for the entirety of 2022. which isn’t much to live off of, so i’ve been existing entirely on the good will of others. while i’m so thankful for all the help i do receive, it makes me feel like a leech. it makes me feel like everyone will start to hate me eventually when they notice i’m not getting better as fast as they thought i would. and if im not getting better, what was the point of sending money to help?

- on top of all that, my home life has progressively gotten worse. i opened up about my experiences with autism to the relatives i live with, as well as what i deal with because of adhd, and they have been unsympathetic at best to actively abusive at worst.

- one of them has weaponized my autism against me multiple times, and as recently as last week, intentionally triggered a panic attack in me to manipulate me into doing something for her. i’m not able to stand up for myself. i’m constantly infantilized and attacked for things i can’t help. she lets me live here for free, and if i speak up, i stand to become homeless. i have no other option than to accept the abuse of a family member. i have no money to do anything about it. and any money i do get would be put toward refunding people waiting for art.

- this very same family member is also very accident prone, and recently this year would have died in an accident had i not been there to help her. if i had not heard her calls for help. after this incident, i started to bolt out of sleep thinking i heard her calling for help again, and then i have a panic attack when i realize i had just imagined it. despite everything, it would be blood on my hands if i wasn’t around to help the next time something happened. so now im constantly on edge. constantly on the lookout.

- the other family member i live with is going to be dead soon. he was diagnosed with a terminal illness, and he refused all treatment and chances to right the ship before it was too late. so instead, he has chosen to die. i don’t know how much longer he has left. he gets confused. he terrifies me sometimes. but there’s nothing i can do about it.

- i feel alienated from almost everyone in my life now. furries and friends alike. everyone i know is waiting on art from me, so i avoid talking to them to avoid the guilt of acknowledging its been months with no update. and when i dont talk, we drift apart. i stop feeling welcome in discord servers. i got pushed out of our mff group for mff 2022. i wanted to go so bad, but i dont think ill ever go again at this point.

- to wrap it all up in one bleak little bow, i am in the most hopeless place i have ever been in my life. i feel like my career is dead and forever tainted. i can’t blame anyone for wanting nothing to do with me now, especially after making people wait so long. i can’t come back from this. my mental health is doomed to deteriorate. just trying to exist in this house has been traumatizing. my one good irl friend i thought i had wants nothing to do with me anymore. i dont see a way out of this. even if a literal miracle fell into my lap and let me refund all the art i owed, it would all still be fucked. i can never make it right with people at this point. its too late. i wasted too much time. im just fucked and its just a matter of how long im allowed to tread water before real life comes knocking and i sink below the waves.

sorry for all that. i guess thats it.

[hedwigstalons]

Bad Things Happen Bingo - Virgil + Bloodstained Clothes

On to fic number four for @badthingshappenbingo​ although really it’s for @gumnut-logic​ who asked to have her boi whumped.  I’m still hauling myself out of burnout after work/life took over so the ending is a little ropey but I’m getting back there with writing again.

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go

Prompt: Bloodstained Clothes

Character: Virgil

Requestor: @gumnut-logic​

Words: 1397

It was Scott who found him.

Scott who found him but Gordon who realised something was wrong when his cheerful exuberance was greeted with neither fond indulgence nor growled warning to back off and keep quiet.

“Hey, hey!  All back safe and not a single mark on your ‘bird.”  Gordon announced his presence to the lounge, all sunshine and smiles.

Scott looked up from the desk he’d reached a good 20 minutes earlier, already reviewing the mission log.  It seemed the slower arrival of Thunderbird Two also heralded the end of his peace and quiet.

“Keep it down, why don’t you.  Can’t you see Virg is sleeping?”

“Bit hard to miss, what with him being flat out on my favourite couch.  What’s a guy got to do to get a sit down after a mission?”  

“Well, can’t you sit down somewhere else?”  He was getting nowhere fast with the data files, the holo-projection was flicked to one side so he could look at his brother without the haze of blue numbers getting in the way.

“Nah.  Besides, he asked for an update every time I flew Two and,” he checked his watch, “the big guy is due his antibiotics so needs to get up anyway.”

Scott checked his own watch and made a few calculations.  It turned out Gordon was at least partially correct; Virgil was indeed due his next round of meds.  He hardly felt the threatened ‘if I find so much as a scratch you haven’t owned up to once I’m allowed back in the hangers then you are one dead fish’ hardly counted as needing an instant update though.  Still, they were all protective of their craft and could get grumpy as hell when they were grounded.  

“Fine, give him a nudge, but go gently.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” a mock salute was thrown out as Gordon stepped down into the seating area and towards his slumbering sibling.  “Y’know, it’s odd he isn’t up already, Virg gives the rest of us hell over antibiotics.”

This was true.  Of all of them Virgil was normally so good about drug schedules for anything other than painkillers and he knew how important it was to take the full course of antibiotics.  Scott had been run to ground more than once when he had his own injuries and lectured by the medic on the importance of the correct use of antibiotics and the global threat posed by antibiotic resistance.  Gordon might be a pain at times but he was equally strict with drug regimes and Scott was about to become incredibly glad of this fact.

“Viiiirg.  Virgieeee.”  It wasn’t often Gordon got permission to wake the sleeping bear and he couldn’t resist a little teasing over it.  “C’mon sleeping beauty, time to wake up.”

The form on the couch stayed resolutely still and prone.

“Virgil?”  A little louder this time and with a slight edge of concern creeping in.  Virgil hadn’t moved throughout his whole conversation with Scott and also evidently hadn’t been roused by the earlier landing on Thunderbird One; he knew Virgil could sleep deeply sometimes but this was ridiculous for a day time nap.   

The aquanaut knelt down by his brother and gave his shoulder a gentle shake.  

Nothing.

Now he was up close he could take in how pale Virgil was.  Worryingly so.

He shook a bit harder and was rewarded with a groan in response but he was unable to fully wake the engineer.

“Scott!” There was still some clear concern now, mixed in with the tone of authority more commonly heard on rescues and Scott’s head snapped up and away from the figures he had returned too.  The look on Gordon’s face was enough to have him on his feet in a moment, crossing the short space from the desk and vaulting into the conversation pit.

“Call Grandma.  Gonna need a stretcher too.”  Gordon had started triage, checking vitals and making a well practiced assessment of Virgil’s condition.   “He conscious but I can’t rouse him.  Pulse a little high but strong.” Fingers were carefully slipped into the gap between Virgil and the back of the couch.  The hand that was withdrawn was smeared in crimson.  “Aww man, he’s bust his stitches.”

This information was relayed over the comms and it wasn’t many minutes before Grandma entered the lounge, trailed by Alan who came bearing a hover stretcher loaded with her medical kit.

“What do we have, boys?”  

Gordon reeled out a stream of information, half of which Scott hadn’t even realised he’d been gathering during his assessment.  He should be used to it by now, he’d seen it often enough, but he was once again surprised by how quickly his little brother could flip from annoying wind up merchant to active responder.  Pure professional.

Surprised, but proud.

Being transferred onto the stretcher, with its accompanying stab of pain to his injured side, was enough to rouse Virgil from his stupor.   The concerned words that permeated his consciousness were enough to keep him the right side of awake.

“What’s up?” he slurred.  “Feel...foggy.”

“Steady up, big guy.”  Gordon laid a gentle hand on Virgil’s shoulder, preventing him from trying to sit up.  “You’ve managed to rip your stitches somehow.  And looking at the mess you’ve lost enough blood to make you feel a bit woozy.  What’cha been up too?”

Virgil settled back and groaned.  “Was only painting,” he mumbled.

Scott looked at the canvas set up by the picture window.  A canvas that was huge and would have needed Virgil to stretch to reach the top edge. 

Stretching was a banned activity for a man who had only recently been cleared to leave the infirmary after being pierced by rebar in a building collapse.

Scott could picture the scene as clearly as he could see the part finished evidence of his brother’s labours.  Immersed in his art Virgil could easily have been distracted enough to not notice the damage he was doing, especially if he’d not long taken his painkillers.  The seeping blood and the exertion of painting would have worn him out until he gave in to the need for a nap and settled on the couch.

That same couch was now marred by an ugly, dark stain.  

Scott felt guilty for not realising something was wrong.  He was their eldest.  Their protector.  He should have known the slumbering bear was hibernating more deeply than usual.  Should have spotted the pallid skin.  The laboured breathing.  The slight sheen of sweat.

But he hadn’t.

If it hadn’t been for Gordon and his rigid committing to memory of drug schedules whenever a brother was injured Virgil could have been left to sleep and bleed, the leaking wound hidden out of sight while the blood leached into the upholstery.

Blood.

There had been so much of it.

He felt sick at the memories of the rebar, punctured through uniform and skewering his brother.  The spreading crimson stain consuming the blue so quickly despite their care not to disturb the wound any more than necessary.  The fear as hypovolemic shock set in and the adrenaline fuelled dash to a hospital to access the necessary transfusions.

A hand on his arm broke through his reverie and he found himself confronted by those same concerned eyes that had made such a thorough assessment of their brother.  Now it was Scott’s turn to be in the spotlight.  Appraised.  Assessed.  Triaged.

“I’m fine, Gordon.”  He didn’t need to hear the question before he snapped out the reflex answer.

“Sure you are.   Just sit down for me Scott, you’ve gone a bit pale.”  Legs buckled at the command and Scott folded into the nearest seat, Gordon claiming the next space along.  The comforting hand was replaced.  “Virgil’s going to be fine.  Grandma’s gonna get him sorted.”

“But…”

“It looks worse than it is.  He just needs to get his stitches checked and redressed.  The worst casualty is his shirt, and maybe that couch.”  He waved in the direction of the offending seat and Scott found his eyes transfixed on the mark; it felt like damning evidence of his oversight to check on Virgil.  “Now come on, we have a brother in need of rescue.  I heard Grandma threatening chicken soup as they took him off.  Unless you think it will help him learn his lesson to stay away from that canvas.”

[arthurflecksgirl]

Hi sweety❤️ Can I have a fic where Arthur helps x reader who's having a panick attack? him calming her down, cuddling her... thank you so much 😘

My dear friend. Thank you sooooo much for your request. I really really hope you like the result.

Summary: You`re greateful for how far you and Arthur had come in your relationship, how much progress he made to experience true happiness. But then you discover one of his journal entries. Is he still in the same dark place he was before? Just the thought of him suffering is giving you a panic attack. But Arthur is right there with you...

The dim light from the tv screen was the only light that filled the living room. Murray Franklin was talking to a well known comedian. You watched Arthur resting on the couch. He was falling asleep during the live show, even though he was looking forward to this episode all day, he was so tired, his eyes got heavy when Ellis Draine and his Jazz Orchestra started playing already.

"One day" you thought watching him breathe in and out like it was the easierest thing to do when you suffered from waht he had been through. One day he will be sitting on Murrays couch and telling his own jokes. And his idol will be proud of him like a father. Because he deserved it. He deserved the world.

Arthur seemed at peace with himself sleeping. That was new. Which made you proud of how far you two have come in your relationship. He was getting better.You felt it every morning waking up, receiving your good morning kiss from his coffee stained lips and cigarette tasting breath. He was making baby steps but looking at it now, over a year later it was a total different world he was living in. The one you created together. Ever since you met him you wanted to cure him. To support and comfort him through everyday life. To help him out of his mindset which was all that he had known since he was little.

People kept telling you that it was impossible to heal wounds like his. To heal someone that experienced his kind of trauma. That all he needed was proffessional help. But you knew that they missed out at something. Just because he needed his meds didnt mean that love wasnt the key for his cure.  You knew that there were some scars hidden inside of him, buried so deep that it would take years to get through and be able to work on that. But you also knew that being  loved was the only thing in this world that could ease Arthurs pain and make him the man he always wanted to be. He was destined to be.

And every single day  spent together was proof that he was making progress. His smile became more and more genuine. His laughing fits didnt happen as often anymore and if so they wouldnt last that long because you would hold him and help him breathe until it was over. He also told you about his journal entries and how they changed. His therapist was also seeing the changes. He was talking about how much more poetry and beautiful thoughts filled the pages.

You gently stroke his hair. Watching him sleep always felt pretty intimate to you. He was so vulnerable and unaware of his beauty. But you knew that even in his sleep he was aware of another thing- your love. Thats why he was even able to get some sleep.

You took another close look at his face. You could never get enough of him. It was risky to give him a kiss on his closed eyelids. Arthur had a very light sleep and could wake up any second but there was no way to fight the urge to do so. His eyelid fluttered under the soft touch of your bottom lip, but he didnt wake. You let your index finger travel over his dark eyebrows. They were shaped so perfectly, matching his piercing eyes and the slight circles underneath them. His body was still stressed out from work. His fragile body which was trying so hard not to break down while starving.

His stomach problems caused by his meds was another thing you had to work through. You looked at the bowl on the table. he almost finished his soup today, which was a good sign. You smiled, got up from your knees and walked to his desk to get the empty cups of coffee from the morning. It was time to make the dishes.

But the moment you grabbed the cups his journal distracted you. It was opened. You wondered about his last entries, the ones he wanted to show you because he wrote some new poems lately.

It took you a moment to think about if it was even okay to have a look at the opened page but it was already too late. One sententence was marked, the letters thicker than the rest of the written words. It caught your eye without a warning. And when you read it, your heart stopped for a second.

"I just hope my death makes more cents than my life"

Why?

Why the hell would he write something cruel like that?

The letters started to blurr through your tears. One tear was falling upon the page. Right on the word HOPE.

Shit. Now he would notice that you came near this page. You nerveausly grabbed a handkerchief and pressed it on the spot where the tear was soaking through the page. It was too late, making it look even worse.

You started to cry , throwing the handkerchief on the floor.

Why?

Yo thought he was getting better. There was so much proof.

Did he felt like his life was worthless?

Didnt make any sense?

Was he feeling like all of this wasnt making sense?

You thought you helped him.

Was it al in your mind? His proress? Him becoming a happier version of himself? Was it all a lie you told yourself?

The possibility of Arthurstill being the same tortured soul as when you met him simply broke your heart.

Why was a beautiful and gentle soul like him suffering so much? How cruel can the world be to him?

Was he still wishing he was dead? Was he still lying in bed at night, fantasizing about ending his own life?  Would he ever hurt himself again? Risking to being locked up at Arkham, so there was no chance to share a bed together? Just visits with him being handcuffed on the other side of the table? Was there still a chance he was that unhappy inside?

Tears fell like rain.

The pain inside your heart grew with every thought that crossed your mind. If life was still torture to him, why wouldnt he talk about this to you? Didnt he trusted you enough? Was he embarrassed about how he felt? Or was it simply because he didnt wanted you to get worried about his condition?

It was all too much.

You started to feel like your throath was getting tighter. Like the walls were closing in. Everything inside of you screamed. There was this nameless fear inside of your guts. Possesing you, hurting you. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

Dizzyness overcame you with all its power. Cold sweat. All of the sudden the happiness you felt while watching him sleep was being sucked out of your body. And now all you knew was fear.  Liek it was the only emotion left in the world. Pure, naked fear in its rawest form.

A panic attack.

You had experienced this before but never this intense.

You sat down on the chair, trying not to look at the opened journal again.  It hurt so much. All of it did. Your body. Your heart. Mostly your heart. And your head. Both heavy from tears and the thought of Arthur being suicidal.

Your breathing got heavier as you started to sobb.

And then you heard Arthurs footsteps. His naked feet on the floor. You woke him up. He was finally resting and you woke him. This made you feel even worse.

"Oh my god Y/N, darling. What happened?" He noticed your tears and heavy breathing.

"Dont worry....Arhur....please....just go back to sleep okay? You need your sleep.  You`ve been working hard today...."

Arthur checked your pulse "Oh shit, your heart is racing. Did you took any medication? "

"No..."

"Did something else happen?" He checked your forehead, noticed your shaking hands. "Looks like you`re having a panic attack. I know the symptoms very well. I had so many in the past when I woke up from nightmares."

You nodded. Still sobbing like a baby. Arthur gave you one of his handkerchiefes and started to stroke your hair "Oh darling, I kow this feels terrible. But it will pass. Just try to breathe. Breathe with me okay. Remember when you helped me breathe during my laughing fits? I will do the same with you now okay?"

"Okay"

Arthur lifted you up and carried you to the couch.

"Is that okay? Is it comfortable?" you nodded. He was so caring it broke your heart. He cared so much about you, while inside he was suffering from so much pain.

He positioned himself behind you, resting both of his hands on your tummy and told you to breathe in and out like he did. Until you felt your breath becoming one with his. Just as calm and deep.

"Good" he whispered, his gentle fingers under your shirt. He knew that skin on skin contact helped calming you down.

"You`re doing great" his voice was everything you needed to hear.

"Oh Arthur....I feel like I cant breathe...."

"Shhhhhhtt.....baby I know. I know how it feels. Your body is telling you lies. You can breathe. Just do it with me."

"You felt Arthurs chest lifting up and down, his warm breath in your neck. He was everything to you. You needed him to be happy.

Arthur placed thoughtful kisses all over your neck. As soft as a butterflies wings. You tried to concentrate on the details. His long , dark eyelashes crossing the spot behind your ears. The tip of his nose tickeling you. His muffled "I love you`s".

"I`m sorry I woke you up"

"Dont be!"

"There was this sudden fear coming over me. It was like....I thought I was dying."

"I´m right here with you Y/N. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, I promise!"

You nodded. Knowing he was right. Nothing could harm you with Arthurs arms around you. You just wished it was the same the other way around. Wasnt it the same?

His journal said it wasnt.  His written words hitting you like a knife.

"Do you know what triggered this?" He asked you, while his hand was caressing your chest.

Should you tell him? He would notice the wet spot on his journal page anyway.

"Arthur I am so scared to tell you this but...I was ...oh god....I was looking at your opened diary  page. It was lying on teh table when I was getting the coffee cups and there was this sentence that caught my eyes......" you started to sobb uncontrolable.

"What page?" he asked "Please dont cry. Ohhhhhh please ...." he pulled you closer to his chest so his heartbeat was pressed against you.

"You wrote....."I just hope my death makes more cents than my life...." Arthur. This hit me so hard. I didnt knew you still felt like this. I dont know.....what to say....I`m just.......oh Arthur....." you pressed yourself against him as if your life depended on it. Arthurs white shirt was now soaked with tears.

"Ohhh nooo darling. That was my old journal. My therapist wanted to bring it back to her to proof how much progress I made since I met you!"

You loosened your embrace to look him in the eyes "W-What?"

"Yeah" he shrugged "I just marked the darkest pages to see how far we have come and stopped at this one before going to sleep."

The weight of the world was falling off your shoulders "Really?"

"Yes.....oh  Y/N I am so sorry you had to go through these emotions just because I was so stupid to leave my old journal lying on the table. "

"You are not stupid Arthur!"

"Well this time I was"

"It was my fault....I shouldnt have looked at the page in the first place".

The air was finally coming back. Your body was starting to relax again.

Arthur held you close in his arms "That was the old me. And yes sometimes I´m still having dark thoughts but its just.....echoes from the past. Its not part of our reality anymore. Its just ghosts. They`re not real. Just trying to tell me lies. So I am not listening to them . I´m listening to you. To your words of love and comfort. I`m save with you. And you are save with me. Remember?"

"I remember Arthur. I love you so much!"

"I love you more"

"Thats impossible" you smiled, kissing his upper lip.

Arthur rested his head in the crook of your neck whispering "If I`ve learned one thing from being loved, its this: Nothing`s impossible - with you in my arms".

@impulsiveclown @will-you-be-there @jokerownsmysoul @missjoker96 @arthurskitten @lynnesm @nonnymousse @gwynplaine89 @ajokeformur-ray@damnrightobsessedwithim @sgtsavoytruffle  @duhliriouss  @flowerglitterwoman @thirstforfleck @spookyhome @iartsometimes  @you-cant-cry-in-here @bustafatclownnut @jokerismyhubbie  @check-out-this-joker @darknessisafriend  @arthurhappyclown    @neon-umbrella-for-stella    @call-me-harley-quinn  @arthurjokersgirl

@aarthurfleckk @mylovelycrazyworld @clownalog @ajokerfangirl  @the-one-who-is-chaos @sabrinaeileensnape @raven-romanoff

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

M*A*S*H: The Characters Part 4: B.J. Hunnicutt, Sherman Potter, Charles Emmerson Winchester III and Conclusion

Of all of the cast shake-ups throughout M*A*S*H’s run, none were more impactful on Hawkeye Pierce than the departure of Trapper McIntyre.

The original ‘sidekick’ and best friend archetype, Trapper’s absence at the 4077th immediately took its toll on Hawkeye, who came back from R&R to find that his best friend had left without a note.  For both the audience and Hawkeye, however, there wasn’t much of a wait before his absence was filled with a newcomer: Captain B.J. Hunnicutt (Mike Farrell).

A surgeon hailing from San Francisco, California, B.J. was a newcomer, fresh out of med-school and completely unused to the horrors of front-line surgery.  Introduced at the start of the new season, (meeting Hawkeye in the middle of his frantic attempt to say goodbye to Trapper) it became instantly clear that he was no ‘replacement’, but instead almost an opposite, a foil to the previous character’s archetype and to Hawkeye himself.

Where Trapper was a womanizer, B.J. was a loving, devoted husband and family man, a Nice Guy who started the show out as a tad naive, gentle, and idealistic.  He was a prankster, sure, but he was more likely to take a stand and argue with Hawkeye than Trapper had been, possessing a temper that, once roused, could be dangerous (leading to at least one physical altercation with Hawkeye).  At the beginning, the ways of war are a sudden jolt to him, one that he doesn’t necessarily take well.  As with every character, as time goes on, B.J. began to change as a result of the war, growing a mustache in a distinct ‘anti military’ move, and becoming more jaded, slowly evolving into the cynic between himself and Hawkeye.

B.J. was a good man at heart, as concerned for his patients as Hawkeye, but without the level of external breakdown that Hawkeye tended to go into.  More of a Tranquil Fury type, B.J. managed to keep a reasonably cool head, (most of the time) and acted as a Morality Chain, a voice of reason where Trapper was an encourager.  He was a more mature character, a husband and father increasingly feeling the wear and tear of being forced miles away from his family without any way to see his daughter grow up.  He also possessed a nasty jealous streak, seen often when Hawkeye mentioned how much Trapper had meant to him.

Despite their differences, B.J. and Hawkeye became very close friends throughout the show’s run, constantly having each other’s backs and being each other’s coping mechanisms through the horrors of war.  As surely as the others, B.J. became part of the 4077th’s family, and as a result, his character required the same amount of closure that the characters that had been there from the beginning deserved.

At the end of the show, B.J., like the others, gets to go home, and we as an audience learn that B.J. really doesn’t like saying goodbye.

After dancing around it through an entire episode, B.J. leaves a final farewell message to Hawkeye, (and the audience) in a heartfelt display of affection to his best friend, the man who made Korea bearable for him.  In the end, in a fitting display of the entire basis of his character, B.J. does what Trapper never did: he left Hawkeye a note.

But he wasn’t the only newcomer to make an impression.

Following Henry Blake’s death, the 4077th was in desperate need of a commanding officer (someone to relieve Frank Burns from his tyrannical reign), and replacement came in the form of Sherman Tecumseh Potter.

In much the same vein as B.J. was the complete opposite of Trapper McIntyre, Colonel Potter was very much the Anti-Blake, in the best way possible.  A career army-man, Potter was both a dedicated surgeon and a dedicated army man, on his third war.  Hailing from Hannibal, Missouri, Potter was just the man to shape the 4077th into some semblance of order, following Henry’s bumbling chaos.

Although still a Reasonable Authority Figure with a sense of humor, Potter was no pushover, standing his ground against Hawkeye and B.J.’s schemes and Frank Burns’ wheedling.  A Father to His Men (and an actual grandfather – Potter was another family man, a direct contrast with Henry’s cheating), Potter settled in instantly, a Cool Old Guy with a love of westerns and horses who could be empathetic and caring for his unit in their moments of weakness, and also make sure that Klinger didn’t get away with this week’s Scheme.

Potter was probably one of the characters who developed the least as the show went on, most likely due to his already settled personality as an ‘Old Soldier’, but by no means did he leave Korea unchanged.  As the show went on, Potter had moments of hidden depths, notably in terms with hearing the news that the last of his old squadron had died.  Potter often grappled with his age, sometimes causing him to feel competitive with his surgical abilities, attempting to prove that he could keep up with the younger doctors.  Like the others, despite his age and experience, Potter was very human, afraid of making mistakes, and, after three wars, was thoroughly tired of the killing.

“They keep inventing new ways to kill each other. Why can’t they invent a way to end this stupid war?”

After the war ended, Potter, too, got to go home to his wife, Mildred, saying goodbye to his newfound family, and receiving a genuine salute from both B.J. and Hawkeye, becoming one of two characters Hawkeye ever saluted (the other being Radar).  In the end, Potter had his unit’s affection and respect, and left Korea with dignity.

“Well, boys – it would be hard to call what we’ve been through fun, but I’m sure glad we went through it together.”

Despite beginning the show as a potential ‘replacement’ for Henry Blake, he ended it, much as B.J. did for Trapper: as an entirely new character in his own right, who changed the dynamic of the unit in general, bringing a wholly unique style to his command, and the show in general.

But there was one other character who had yet to appear on the show: another ‘replacement’ character who quickly proved that he was no simple replacement.

Exit Frank Burns, replaced with Major Charles Emerson Winchester III (David Ogden Stiers).

Charles Winchester, originally from Boston and then stationed in Tokyo, was a thoracic surgeon and pediatrician, and very good at it.  Born into a wealthy family (Very Blue Blood) and schooled at Harvard, Charles was an asset to the 4077th once he was assigned there, (after trouncing a commanding officer at cards and boasting about it) despite multiple pleas to the unmoved Colonel Potter to be reassigned.  

“But, know this: You can cut me off from the civilized world, you can incarcerate me with two moronic cellmates, you can torture me with your thrice-daily swill, but you cannot break the spirit of a Winchester. My voice shall be heard from this wilderness, and I shall be delivered from this fetid and festering sewer.”

As with Potter and B.J. before him, Charles proved very quickly to not simply be ‘the new Frank Burns’, displaying instead a completely separate and different series of personality traits, not the least of which was competence.

While Frank’s less than stellar abilities as a surgeon were repeatedly the butt of many jokes (and a source of superiority for Hawkeye, Trapper, and B.J.), Charles was legitimately excellent as his job, his only difficulty being adjusting to the pace and style of ‘meatball’ surgery when not able to utilize the time and equipment available in high-end hospitals.  But there was more to Charles than simply being good at his job.

Charles joined the cast to fill in as an antagonistic character, a role vacated by Margaret several seasons ago, and a part left entirely empty thanks to the departure of Frank Burns.  However, while Burns tended to be ineffectual, more of a nuisance than a problem, a consistently ‘inferior’ character who was always obviously wrong, Charles typically had more weight and reason to his actions.  While consistently butting heads with Hawkeye and B.J., Charles’s snobbery and selfishness could be treated as a joke, yes, and his character overall as ‘worse’ than the other two Swamp inhabitants, but at the end of the day, Charles was simply more human than Frank, and thus, a lot harder to hate.

Despite multiple attempts to ‘Break the Haughty’, Charles remained steadfast and stubborn through his time in the war, a Gentleman Snarker who slowly revealed a Jerk with a Heart of Gold type of personality.  He had a great sense of Family Honor, and despite his Insufferable Genius tendencies, proved that he had Hidden Depths, (and a potential history of a Lonely Childhood and Parental Neglect) which occasionally showed to prove to the audience, and the rest of the 4077th, that Charles was no Frank Burns.  Indeed, despite never losing his position as a ‘foil’ to the 4077th cast, Charles remained a proud, but good man from the moment he arrived until the moment he left, another symptom of a show who had matured past the need for cartoonish sit-com villains.

Despite the fact that Hawkeye never succeeded in breaking the ‘Winchester spirit’, Charles did leave Korea a changed man.  Besides learning to operate in horrendous conditions, at a pace designed merely to keep people alive and not much else, Charles took one final blow in the M*A*S*H finale: “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen” that spoke to both his character, and the toll that war takes in general.

Throughout the show, it was made abundantly clear that Charles adored classical music, viewing it as a haven away from the war, allowing him to forget about it for a little while.  His love for music enabled him to connect with a group of Chinese prisoners of war, who know some Mozart.  Throughout the episode, Charles teaches them some more, bonding with them until a prisoner exchange sends them away.

Later, the POWs are killed en route to the exchange.  As they’re brought back to the 4077th, only one is still alive, and he dies before Charles even has a chance to operate.  This devastates him utterly, to the point where he destroys his own record of the song he’d been trying to teach them.

“For me, music has always been a refuge from this miserable experience… now it will always be a reminder.”

In the end, Charles gets to go home, and in a sign of how far he’s come, he leaves the 4077th on the last remaining vehicle, a garbage truck, with utmost dignity, remarking that it’s only fitting.  Charles leaves his 4077th family, and the audience, in a somewhat surprising turn of events, misses him, is sorry to see him go in a way that we were never sorry for the absence of Frank Burns.

There were other characters, sure: the paranoid Colonel Flagg, the kitchen and mess hall staffer Igor, Klinger’s mortal enemy, Zelmo Zale, Ascended Extra fan favorite nurse Lieutenant Kelleye, and sympathetic psychiatrist Sidney Freedman, or Margaret’s less than stellar husband, Donald Penobscott.  This was more evidence for the care and realistic development that the M*A*S*H world was given: a variety of people filling in alongside the main cast, making a comfortable family that over eleven years, viewers got to know very well.

In the history of television, very few casts have had the lasting impact on viewers the way the M*A*S*H cast did.  At the end of eleven years, the audience was owed that finale, a way to say goodbye in a fulfilling way to characters that had become very familiar, important, almost real to viewers who had been tuning in to see them grow and change for over a decade.

The cast of M*A*S*H each served a place in the stories, with unique characters with depth and personality that transcended the flat character types typical of sitcoms just a tad previously.  The audience knew these people.  They liked these people.  Every character feels real, genuine, and memorable, and their dynamics are nearly as memorable as the characters themselves.

Throughout the show, you watched these characters grow and change, finding new ways to approach situations, as viewers got familiar with the core traits of their individual personalities.  They work very well as characters, as people, both entertaining and compelling figures for the audience to want to spend time with every week.  They felt real, like people you could know in real life.

And it worked.

M*A*S*H’s characters are still loved to this day, for being both entertaining and stellar examples of what happens when television characters are written like real people, with flaws and growth and kindness in varying doses.

In the end, it is that humanity in each character that gives M*A*S*H it’s longevity, and what places these characters as some of the most iconic and beloved in American television history.

Thank you guys so much for reading!  Join us next time as we discuss M*A*S*H’s place in the times and the culture.  If you have anything you’d like to say, don’t forget to leave a comment!  I hope to see you all in the next article.

[queerchoicesblog]

Letter To Fellow Invisible Fighters & Human Beings

Dear You,

It's night here and night is the time when thoughts crowd my head. All is silent in a town on lockdown and words fill the void. Tonight I will throw them to the wind to talk about a topic that's troubling me after hearing of another acquaintance tested positive with covid-19 and the number of deaths all over the world. Something I feel is worth sharing, hoping it will reach others who need to hear it or just lie awake at night and feel like reading some ramblings. Apologies for the long text.

So...

Living with an autoimmune chronic condition sucks. No point pretending otherwise. It basically means that one day your body breaks up with you and starts acting crazy: instead of protecting you from infections and enemies, it turns against you and attacks you. Without a warning.

It makes you angry, sad, exhausted and the fearing of losing control, again and again. You may feel fatigued: sleeping 10 hours won't make you feel well rested and you may turn down appointments or dates last minute because that feeling is suddenly back. You'll feel guilty and cry at times because sometimes people will think you're just bailing out and get mad at you. You may gain or lose weight but you won't be the one actually choosing it. Your joints might get swollen and hurt, your heart beat faster even if you're not in the arms of your loved one. One day a thought will hit you: maybe I will never know love at all or ever again because how can you love someone so broken as I am? You'll recount in your mind how your disorder make you feel gross, utterly unattractive in a world so obsessed with perfect bodies and Vogue like profile pictures, and you're just struggling to keep it together, trying hard not to let anyone see the dark circles around your eyes or your brand new medical device hidden under baggy clothes. You'll wonder why you, was it something you did? Is it some price to pay for what? You'll pray no one will tease you for turning down a drink because maybe you're young but you can't mix your meds with alcohol.

You will also pray to never hear the word "surgery" from a doctor but only good news.

You will compromise with news that "all in all are not too bad".

You will hope to live long enough to see the doctor smile at you one day and say "we found a cure: I can cure you now".

Not something you would sign up for willingly, huh?

Just to add salt to injury, very little is known by the general public about most of the autoimmune chronic diseases, making people suffering from them invisible. Yes, invisible: little is known about our illnesses and most of us don't look the part, that is "sick". We fake it, we exaggerate, we're just being hypochondriacs. We all have been called out like that or reminded to think that "it could be worse, like cancer". (A huge and loving hug to all those who are fighting or fought against cancer: this is not a fight or hierarchy, I, we have nothing but respect and love for you ❤).

Yet those invisible illnesses exist too and change lives every single day.

They're changing it right now when for the first time since you can recall, you not only have to deal with the concerns of a pandemic that torn asunder the whole world and the sudden uncomfortable uncertainty over of the future, the same future that, without a clue, you were still planning or fantasising about not so long ago...but also with an additional sneaky realisation: if things go wrong now, it might not end well for me. I might die.

It's not a comforting thought. It's scary, f*cking scary. You can feel it chilling your bones even if you keep yourself busy and set a schedule of your long days of self quarantine to keep the morale high because you know how much it counts. Even when you laugh at a friend's joke on a video chat or catch up.

You live with it as you've learned to live with the awareness that a pill won't cure you. Not now, not anymore. It fixes you temporarily, though. Paradoxically it's not so weird to you that there is no vaccine or easy way out of the coronavirus emergency even if you understand why everyone is freaking out and terrified by this harsh truth. You're just used to the idea of doctors not being able to cure you but just doing their best to help you so, as you did when you first heard that grim speech, you take a deep breath and wait. You wait and hope.

Even if every now and then this darkness spooks you and nightmares visit you at night.

I'm not sharing this long speech to get pity or out of protagonism, but to offer you my experience. I really hope that you're unfamiliar with it: I would be genuinely heartbroken for you if you had to go through a global pandemic as someone in a high risk category "with pre existing medical conditions". To put it bluntly, one of those who, if they don't make it, many healthy people promptly notice that "well, they were already ill".

Let me tell you, dear "experts" never losing a chance to reassure the crowd that "you don't die of coronavirus but due to its interaction so no need to worry folks", we see you and we hear you loud and clear when you take a relief sigh proclaiming that it's not your problem because we, the weak and the already sick, are the only ones who might die. We will remember your ugly faces and souls when this long night is finally over...

Anyway, what I mean to say:

Fellow invisible fighter, you are NOT alone. Your fears are my fears, your pain is my pain. We can't make promises now but we can hope and we will hope harder than ever to be still standing like victorious soldiers when this is over.

Fellow healthy human being, take a moment to think. The next time you feel the urge to complain about being stuck inside or even not follow that rule that sound so strict, so unreasonable: you're not infected, what might go wrong...please take a moment and think.

Think of us, if you can.

It seems impossible or so unrealistic but with a little patience you're giving a chance or even saving the life of someone near you like a superhero.

Without you even knowing.

Pretty cool, right?

[lifewithchronicpain-original]

I'm in need of I bit if help for the community. For years I've been diagnosed with Lumbar lordosis but not its apparently thoracolumbar scoliosis and I don't know what the difference is. Also any got any advice how to deal with doctors basically saying because your not sever enough they won't do anything, I'm currently suffering from crippling pain and its starting to affect my studies but I feel nobody is listening to me. I apologise if I sound like I'm whining its been a long day.

Okay so I looked them up and the main difference is in the way the spine curves. Our spine has a natural curve at the lower half of the spine so we can better carry weight on our hips. Lumbar lordosis is when that natural curve is more severe than it should be.

Scoliosis is the unnatural sideways curvature of the back. So anywhere in the spine can be shifting too much to one side. So in terms of differences from the above is which way the spine is curving. Lordosis is about the front to back curvature and only at the lower lumbar region, meanwhile scoliosis is about side to side curvature anywhere along the spine. So the conditions are like curves on different planes on an XY graph so to speak, just with our spine.

When I needed to get my medication increased and also get vicodin for pain flares I relied heavily on a daily planner that I used to record pain levels, what was worse that day, and how effective my current medication was. I also used the pockets to keep important medical info with me at all times. Like I have the mri reports and a X-ray printout of my spine in my current medical book. I don’t journal anymore but I use a small notebook to keep some papers together and medical information for an emergency in case I can’t talk. Anyway, doctors tend to take your more seriously if it’s not coming off the top your head. The more you record, the better chance they might change their mind about stronger meds.

Next you need to approach the need for more pain relief as something to allow you to do the exercises you need to do to keep working on the condition. You also need to put into terms of all the daily activities you can no longer do because of your condition and how it affects your mental health. You also need to journal days missed at class or work if you have a job.

Also, sometimes we as disabled people need to stop pushing ourselves when we want to show how affected our life is. In other words, if your pushing yourself to keep up with school and/or job, people will take that as it not being so bad because you’re still doing your work. You need to focus on your body, listen to it. If you’re in a condition that might have made you miss a day when you were healthy but now makes you push harder by going because everday day sucks, don’t do it. Miss that day because you are torturing yourself by going, likely making it worse in the long term, and convincing others nothing is wrong. Let the disability be more visible, don’t hide it. Accept what your body is already telling you that you can’t do anymore and others may follow suit, including your doctors. I know it’s not so easy, you have obligations and it can put your situation at risk, but the unfortunate truth is sometimes we have to let these things go if we have any hope of healing and later putting our life back on track.

Lastly, I know that it’s easier said than done, but if a doctor won’t change their mind, get another one. I went to a pain clinic that treated me terribly, then went to a new one where the doctor I now see regularly for epidurals told me he knows my pain is real and they’re going to do what they can to treat it. Your health is at stake; don’t let anyone convince you “doctor shopping” is wrong. When they want to call you a drug seeker you’re a doctor shopper, but if you’re not it’s a second opinion. Funny how that works.

I hope this has been helpful and that you get the pain relief you need and deserve.💕

[writing-yj]

Nightwing x Reader: Mockingbird’s Betrayal (Part Two)

Summary: Black Canary and Green Arrow returned to the Cave emotionally and physically wounded after confronting Mockingbird, and losing. All Mockingbird could think about was revenge. After they were betrayed, the team lived in hidden fear. But Nightwing found her. He soothed Mockingbird’s corrupted mind, gave her a chance to escape the darkness consuming her, but she decided to disappear. Chaos had calmed, fear of Mockingbird’s wrath dissolved, everything was (almost) back to normal… Until Dinah brings a new addition to the team, and with it comes an unwelcome change.

And Mockingbird never stays away for long.

Word Count: 3881…

Warnings: Mockingbird is a warning all on her own to be honest, angsty

A/n: I was going to write this later, but I’ve been teasing you guys enough with spoilers/hints/a mood board, and it’s in high demand. Without further ado, here is the second installment of Mockingbird’s Betrayal!

Part One

“No…” Nightwing whispered and he took a step back. “She couldn’t…” Just like you knew it would, his heart shattered to bits. He expected you to simply leave the team, maybe with some bitter words, but this?

The whole mountain was completely silent and no one dared to breathe a word. Tension was rising, and some fear lay beneath it. Green Arrow and Black Canary were swiftly taken to the med bay for treatment, and even after the three older teammates returned to the Mission Room, nothing  was said. 

It took Nightwing a few moments more to process it, and then to realize. He didn’t know how bad your treatment was and how much it hurt you. At first, he was numb. The thought rolled around in his head, and then fury

Nightwing’s reaction was unexpected, but he had every right to be enraged. He whirled around to face his team, and his expression was frightening. “Was it really that impossible for you guys to show some respect and take responsibility for your mistakes?” His voice was frighteningly calm and level. “Is this what you wanted? To drive out a teammate, a founder of this team, one of our most important members, a close friend to some of us?”

“We didn’t think this was going to-”

“It doesn’t matter what you thought!” Conner growled. He knew very little of their disrespectful behavior, but he was definitely not part of it. “Mockingbird didn’t deserve that! Now she’s gone and you’ve put all of us in danger!” It had been a long time since Conner was this angry. You wouldn’t be surprised if some of his anger would eventually be directed at you.

“I don’t even want to hear an explanation. There is no valid explanation for you to give, anyway.” Nightwing said coldly.

His exterior was rock hard, but he was just so broken and wrecked inside. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. At least, not in front of everyone. Nightwing fell in love with you, and now you were gone and against him. You were one hell of a force to be reckoned with, and if it came down to it, he wouldn’t be able to hurt you. He wouldn’t fight back. Hell, he’d let you beat him bloody instead of hurting you.

But I wasn’t his choice to make. If it was an order, he would have to.

Telling Wally was hard. The moment the words left Dick’s mouth, Wally yelled and said he was lying. Mockingbird wouldn’t do that; (Y/n) (L/n) wouldn’t ever do that, right? He had known you for years. You put your life and blood and dedication into that team from the very beginning. When it finally sunk in, Wally didn’t know who to be the most angry at. You, or the team.

Contacting Kaldur and Artemis was a problem all on its own, but giving the actual news to them was even worse. Artemis was completely destroyed. Her best friend turned her back on the team she once loved so much, the team she grew up with as Mockingbird. There was no real Mockingbird left, anymore. Just an empty shell filled with a burning hatred that lacked your heart and soul.

It left Kaldur numb. What had pushed you so far to betray your friends? Your family? It was hard to make Kaldur angry, but the whole tragedy made him furious. It was hard to contain it, seeing as how he and Artemis were undercover on Black Manta’s ship. Their undercover mission was something you didn’t know about. But if you were to ever find out…

The first interference you made was difficult. Conner was only there to make sure Arsenal wouldn’t take it too far in case they encountered you. Otherwise, Conner wasn’t part of the original plan that you analyzed.

You hesitated. After the younger four (Arsenal, Blue Beetle, Impulse, and Wonder Girl) were downed, you hesitated to hurt Conner. He never hurt you like the others did.

You pulled your fist back to punch Conner, a small chunk of Kryptonite hidden in your palm, but you stopped the second you saw his blue eyes. You were there when he came out of his pod in Cadmus; granted, he tried to kill you at first, but the respect you formed eventually morphed into a friendship.

“Mockingbird, please!” Conner pleaded. “This isn’t you! You aren’t thinking straight!”

Your heart thudded in your chest. “This is me, Conner! I’m not coming back!” You tried to swing at him, but a small part of you stopped the action. Were you truly willing to assault your friend with Kryptonite?

‘He’s not your friend anymore!’

Your startling red eyes, wherever those came from, snapped over to Arsenal when he yelled, “Traitor!” He directed his weaponized arm in your direction, and any sort of connection with Conner you felt snapped.

The last thing Conner saw was the green glow of Kryptonite in your fist before it collided with his face.

You were in your hideout, which you turned into your own cave with all of the advanced tech you still had, built, and secretly retrieved from your old room in Mount Justice. You wished you could have stuck around to see their horrified faces when they came to clean or your room.

The new cave you called your own was in the basement of your childhood home. The house itself was in very poor condition. The roof leaked, there was mold everywhere, some rats scampered here and there, and the whole thing was ready to collapse at any given time. It hadn’t been inhabited for twelve years, until now.

About two years ago, in order to work on concealing more of your identity, you erased the address and location of your very old house. It wasn’t an extravagant house in the slightest; no one would usually want it by looking at it from the outside, and it blended in quite well with the other few abandoned homes around it. Not even Dinah remembered where your original home was located.

You silently thanked past you as you finished stringing a chunk of Kryptonite onto a necklace. Easier to keep it there than to have to dig through your pocket for when you need it.

Fortunately, you felt safe enough to rest; you needed it. Just because you became a villain, and got more powerful, didn’t mean you had no need to sleep. If anything, sleep was crucial at this point in time.

You put your feet up on the desk/console and leaned back in your chair, taking a deep breath and exhale. Your eyes slowly closed and you tried to relax… But you couldn’t. Before you could fall asleep, a nightmare attacked you. Something, no, someone attacked you. You let your mental walls down when you calmed, and that was a mistake.

You sat there for a few fleeting moments, and then you snarled. You felt her; you knew who it was. And it made you furious.

“Get out of my head, M’orzz!” Your shout was heard out loud and in your head, and you shoved her out.

M’gann felt like something snapped in her head, and it was horrendously painful on her end. She clutched her head and let out a pained scream, and she fell to her knees. Back when you were on the team, if you didn’t want her in your head, you’d either ask her to stop or you’d gently push her out. But this time, it was violent and uncaring.

Conner immediately knelt down to help her, easily irritating La’gaan, but he didn’t care. “What did you see? Do you know where she is?”

Tears were gathering in M’gann’s eyes, but she still had the strength to speak. “I saw that she was in a basement with computers, but not where it was. I saw her nightmares, they were awful, and I felt how angry she was. She’s hurt and enraged… because of us.”

M’gann felt like she was also to blame for your betrayal, but in reality, she hadn’t done anything to hurt you in the slightest. But they all had some idea, no matter how small it was, about what was going on behind the scenes.

“And I get that, but did she really have go so far as betraying us!? Beating Black Canary and Green Arrow until they’re bleeding!?” La’gaan shouted.

An angry growl rumbled in Conner’s chest. “Nightwing told me all about how you and the others acted towards her, disrespected her, and ignored her orders. She regularly took the heat for everyone’s mistakes, when you were the ones who should have taken responsibilities for your actions.” Conner gently helped M’gann back to her feet. “So until one of you gives a valid and acceptable reason for your behavior, think very hard before you put all of the blame on Mockingbird.”

The young Kryptonian knew he should be angry with you. He should be hating you and wanting to hunt you down. But it wasn’t your fault. The actions against you triggered your anger, and it led to something more because of it. They made you feel unwanted, useless, and unappreciated. You were a hero you greatly deserved respect, but you got the exact opposite instead. That was what made Conner angry.

Meanwhile, Dick sat on his bed in his apartment with his face in his hands. Hunched over and with his elbows on his knees to support himself, he was desperately trying to choke down tears. He missed you. He loved you, but now you were gone and against him.

“I should have tried harder.” Dick mumbled. “I should have gotten them to stop. This is my fault.”

He’d been so absorbed in his guilt that he didn’t notice the open window, nor did he see the woman sitting on the edge of it. You figured you would pay him a visit; you were ticked that he had M’gann get into your head, and you would fight him if you were provoked, but a part of you missed him.

“No, it isn’t.” Your smooth voice shocked him and he all but flew off the bed, snatching his escrima sticks from his nightstand.

The urge to cry didn’t disappear as Dick looked at you sitting there. His heart cracked again when he saw your red eyes, but it didn’t make him care for you any less.

“What are you doing here, Mockingbird?” Dick’s voice was weak and his grip on his escrima sticks was loose. He didn’t want to lay a harmful finger on you.

“M’gann got into my head for a bit today. Not too happy about it, honestly.” You toyed with the knife in your hand, flipping it between your fingers without a single cut. “I came to chat about it, if that’s alright with you.” The grin on your face would have scared most others, but Dick wasn’t affected at all.

His blue eyes stared into your own and your heart stuttered. “I didn’t know that happened. I didn’t instruct anyone to do that.” Dick sounded like a broken man. But judging from how distraught and wrecked he was, he might as well be one. “I’m sorry.”

“Now you’re sounding like me; apologizing for something you didn’t do.” You jumped through the window and stalked over to him. You still had the throwing knife in your hand, but you didn’t see any fear in his eyes. You weren’t surprised. “I should be furious for you not trying hard enough, but they wouldn’t have stopped anyway. Not without severe consequences.”

Dick tossed the escrima sticks back onto his nightstand and you noticed the dark rings under his eyes. Did your turn really affect him that much? An inkling of guilt touched your heart and you winced.

“It’s not the same without you. I’m not the same without you.” Dick sat back on his bed and he stared at the floor. “I’m supposed to detain you, but I can’t bring myself to fight you, (Y/n).”

The use of your name somehow calmed you a bit, but you were confused. “And why is that? You’ve never hesitated in sparring before; that was always fun.”

“This isn’t sparring, (Y/n)!” Dick exclaimed loudly and you raised an eyebrow. “It’s because I love you, damn it! I can’t bring myself to fight against you, instead of with you.”

His confession was so powerful and meaningful and full of truth, it almost knocked the wind out of you. You took a small step back and Dick swore he saw your red irises dull a smidge. “What…?” You whispered, not trusting your voice.

Your mind was screaming at you to stop being weak and beat him to a pulp, but your heart took over for the first time.

“I love you, (Y/n). I didn’t tell when I should have and now you-”

You moved faster than he thought you could. You sat down next to him and kissed him, something you’ve wanted to do for years. Dick’s lips were soft against yours, and you giggled when he jumped in surprise. It felt like he drained all of the anger out of you; he was your life preserver.

Not long after, he wrapped an arm around you and put the other hand on your cheek. Dick was torn, He was kissing the woman he loved, but also the woman he was supposed to take in. This could be considered treason. His head said no, but his heart said ‘fuck it’. Dick let out a soft, heavenly sigh as the love you both had for each other surged through his veins. 

Before it could go further, you slowly pulled away and put your forehead against his. Neither of you were going to smile. Tears were welling in his blue eyes and your own. The red shade had almost disappeared, but you knew it wouldn’t last long.

“Come back to me…” Dick’s voice was cracked and shattered, pleading for you to be, well… you again. “Please.”

“I wish I could… But I can’t.” You said solemnly. You then whimpered, and it took only seconds for Dick to discover why; your eyes let him see the battle you waged against your mind. “No matter what I do, they wouldn’t accept me. They wouldn’t let me join the team again, not after what I’ve done,” You pulled away completely and you got back to your feet, and Dick stood just as fast. “And do you really think anything would change? With how they act towards me? I’m dangerous! I’m barely in control anymore.”

Your words proved to be true as the red in your eyes flickered occasionally. “You don’t have to join the team. You can stay here, with me. We can patrol Bludhaven like I do every night.”

“I’ll come back when everything is okay again, alright?” You jumped toward the window you came in, and Dick’s cry broke your heart.

“Don’t leave again, please.” The tears he held back fell down his cheeks. “I can’t watch you leave again-!” He stood in front of you as a sob threatened to escape him. Dick put his hands on your cheeks in a desperate attempt to get you to stay, to change your mind.

You put your hands over his bigger ones as the red ever so slowly took over the (e/c). You refused to give into the bad before you left, so you did the first thing that came to mind. “What I’m about to do next is because I love you, okay?” You blinked away a final tear.

Dick slowly nodded, having no clue what your next move was.

You took a deep breath, and before Dick could move a muscle, you threw a mean uppercut to his jaw. He was out before he could blink, and you cringed when his heavy body fell to the floor with a loud thud.

Nightwing felt how hard your punches were for at least a week after you were last seen. No one spotted Mockingbird anywhere. You flew off the grid. You took your cave with you, wherever you ended up going, and no one, absolutely no one, could find you. Every scan for your life signature, all over the world, came back negative. 

Were you dead? Many people thought yes, but then again, many people thought no. Did you give up the life of Mockingbird? Not a chance. Were you ever coming back? No one knew. 

But Mockingbird never stays away for long.

“It’s been only four months, Dinah!” Oliver hissed quietly so no one else could hear. Well, Conner could, and he ignored it to the best of his ability, but he agreed with him. “We don’t even know if (Y/n) is dead! Do you really want to take that chance!? The moment she finds out that you replaced her and named Avia ‘Mockingbird’, who knows what she’ll-”

“(Y/n) has clearly lost interest in us, or is dead. There shouldn’t be anything to worry about.” Dinah said coldly as she watched Avia interact with the team. “Face it. (Y/n) is never coming back. Someone has to take her place.”

As another teenager, they accepted her quite well. It’s the Mockingbird part that put them a little on edge. Hell, they straight up didn’t like it. The older members thought it was a horrible idea; the chances that you were dead or gone for good were very, very slim.

And why call Avia ‘Mockingbird’ when she has no powers, let alone mocking abilities. It didn’t make sense to them, but it was Dinah’s decision and the team wasn’t allowed to give any input. Dinah changed you and you changed her.

Avia Marshall was a short thirteen-year-old girl Black Canary found on the streets. Avia wasn’t all skin and bones and not weak either, and she showed great promise with her skills and morals. She knew of the previous Mockingbird, and that you betrayed the team, but she wasn’t told the truth as to why. Dinah and the others simply said that you went rogue because you were power-hungry and that your anger was uncontrollable. It was a blatant lie, but Avia didn’t know that… yet.

Avia asked Nightwing about you. She wanted to know more about her predecessor, but he refused to talk about you. She connected the dots and concluded that he was in love with you before you double-crossed them. Nightwing wasn’t in on the lie, either. Ever since you kissed him and knocked him out, he barely breathed a word about you to anyone. Not even Wally.

The second Mockingbird looked down at the symbol on her chest and wondered about you. Avia knew that she wouldn’t be able to and just the urge to do so would be bad, but she wanted to meet you. Despite knowing that you were extremely dangerous and most likely still alive somewhere, she wanted to know who (Y/n) (L/n) truly was.

Avia was a curious teenage girl, and to pass the time, she explored almost every room she could access in Mount Justice. Like you, she was also rather skilled in breaking into things, and somewhat good at breaking out, but not nearly as good as you.

She quietly shuffled through the library, looking over everything she could possibly see. Avia liked libraries; they’re peaceful, quiet, and books were everywhere. There was a small desk and chair in the very back corner of the library, and it was pretty much personalized, like an office cubicle.

A thick layer of dust coated the entire thing, so she blew away all the dust with a few strong puffs. The dust made her sneeze, but she continued to search through the various items that were neatly placed.

In a drawer, there was a tablet Avia had never seen before; obviously built by hand, but it was so much more advanced than modern-day devices. The other drawer had a decent-sized stack of file folders, all of them labeled ‘Case Closed’ and ‘The Doctor’. She made a mental note to read them later.

The lamp off to the side still worked, and at this point, it seemed like the desk hadn’t been used in a couple years. In the top middle of the desk stood a small picture frame. Avia perked up and quickly snatched the picture frame from its spot, blowing away more dust in the process.

It was a small collage of pictures taken over the years. One was a picture of you and the team when it first started, and the other pictures were taken as time passed. It was obvious that you and Robin/Nightwing grew closer and closer. You two went from standing as far apart as possible to him having an arm around your waist paired with two giant grins. Some team members came and went, but you two were always there

The Mockingbird symbol easily helped Avia pick you out from the group of people. You looked so happy, overjoyed to be with your believed team, but things were so very different now. You didn’t look like the kind of person to betray your family for more power, not one bit. Just holding the picture in her hand had Avia suspecting that you weren’t as power-hungry as you were said to be.

~Two Months Later~

You sat in the basement of a cozy cabin hidden deep in the forests of northern Minnesota. The computers were on and running, but you were pretty much just watching TV. One monitor played the news, another played a soap opera that you muted out of spite, and another played a nature documentary on wild birds.

Multiple smaller monitors showed live footage of the expertly hidden security cameras around the perimeter, and the only activity you’d seen for weeks was a herd of deer that frequented the area.

You scoffed at the soap opera monitor and finally turned it off in disgust. “More dramatic than high school…” you grumbled.

However, your eyes landed on the news and the live recording made you slam your hand down on the metal table in rage. There stood your team, fighting Black Manta on the coast of California, but that’s not what made you angry. There was a new girl on the team…

And she was wearing your old suit.

All forms of entertainment, except for the news, disappeared as you fingers flew across the keyboard. The only sound was the rapid tapping of the keys as you effortlessly hacked into Mount Justice’s systems, something you hadn’t done for at least six months.

Sure enough, Black Canary’s new protégé, Avia Marshall, held the mantle you never gave away in the first place. You were angry, you were hurt, and you were very upset. You were getting better. You were gaining more and more control over your mind and your emotions. But now that you found out, all of your hard work went to waste.

You looked over to the big glass case that perfectly displayed your Mockingbird uniform. Your reflection showed your eyes that weren’t (e/c) anymore. They were red again.

‘It’s time to put it back on. It’s time to go back home.’

[aenigmaticdays]

Coda: Chapter 4

A/N: What was originally meant to be a drabble grew into this unrecognisable monster all because I needed to write out my own headcanon before I went quite insane over a fictional couple. Here’s the second (and last) part of it, which was more fun and more difficult to write just as the angst gets left behind bit by bit.

There have been parallels that I’ve tried to draw, dialogues given new spins and all in the name of (fan) fiction, some outrageous liberties taken with behind-the-scenes-moments and medical science. The ending is deliberately left open-ended so it’s up to your imagination how it goes on from there—the story’s focus is the Fitzsimmons relationship, which, as I found as I wrote on, to be independent of context. They’ll always be there for each other (that much is immutable), though it’s nice to indulge in a happy ending, as always.

Thank you for your comments and support.

Also on AO3 and FF.net

The shadows and the days lengthen as the relentless summer slowly mellows into the first week of autumn, creeping up to London like a thief in the night.

The sudden gust of wind that rattles the window shocks Fitz enough to put down the soldering iron and throw his safety glasses aside. In retrospect, picking another miniature drone prototype as a personal project to work on might not have been the brightest idea, the constant alterations and modifications of the base design too gratingly reminiscent of Fitzsimmons’s early crowning glory—more so as he considers his newly-acquired lab partner.

With the parts of the new prototype scattered around him, he ponders the fragility of trust, the immutability and breakability of relationships. The hard discipline of engineering is metaphor-rich for the more intangible things in life as he’d found out long ago, found especially in the way things are taken apart and put back together again, for the efforts that are made in strengthening a component while weakening another so the device runs at optimal levels.

Predictably, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Most of the time, it gets him infuriated enough that he’ll hurl those bits against the wall and start the process all over again in a worse mood than when he began. That right there, the similarities to real life rear their ugly head.

Fitz sneaks a glance at Simmons, who’s currently bent over a pipette and meticulously recording the results of the experiment. For the relatively content and peaceful life that he thought he’d built since leaving S.H.I.E.L.D., this curveball she’d thrown him since her arrival two months ago has left even that in disarray.

Had her presence alone undone all the progress he’d made on his own without her?

Even the answer for that has his mind chasing circles around itself, and in the process, he wears himself vexingly threadbare. Never had he imagined that this new stage of his life would be interrupted by the very person he is trying to move away from—it simply hadn’t been a factor that he’d considered as he marked time away from Jemma Simmons.

Yet outrage and resentment had gradually faded into bewilderment as Simmons determinedly set up space in his lab after announcing her intention of staying—he supposes it is now their lab once again—and gets down to work on upgrading Citadel’s biometric scanners in between patching up the injuries of the teams that now cycle regularly through the lab to ask for her tender ministrations.

She obliges quite nicely of course, with a practiced, professional smile for everyone who comes through. For the past thirty days, the lab has quite literally, doubled up as a second med bay with the increased flow of people who come through.

Apart from the random visits (and the salacious winks thrown his way each time the team members come in to hound Simmons about minor scrapes and bruises) annoying the hell out of him—the small lab isn’t his private, quiet space anymore so that makes him grumpy—, Fitz can’t really figure out what she’s up to.

He doesn’t quite permit himself to think too much about the fervent declarations she made during the huge argument any more than he has to. Their fight on the day of her arrival had after all, been loud enough to draw the attention of the nosy buggers, who’d been sneaky enough to eavesdrop, then drop bits and pieces of that in casual conversation just to see him cringe as they try to reconstruct the story based on their own outlandish assumptions about what he and Simmons used to be.

(They’re wrong in every way, which Fitz doesn’t bother to correct.)

Because hope, as Fitz knows, is just that: a bloody witch that could just turn on him as it did with Simmons on more than a single occasion, so it’s infinitely more beneficial if he keeps his mind stayed on work, gadgetry and missions.

Yet against all odds, here she is, so intent on weaving back together the severed threads of their prior relationship, reconnecting them with the slightest of touches on his hands, his arms, his shoulder, with words that are friendly but professional. Resurrecting all she can of Fitzsimmons, it seems, using the safe anchor of colleagues-first, then friends, though he knows that it still takes two to clap to mend this rift, leaving only the stiff reluctance on his side downing her stalwart efforts.

The times when they eat meals together are unpredictable as a result of this back-and-forth dance between two people who don’t know how to live with each other anymore. There are mostly periods of awkward silence that neither he nor Simmons can quite bridge, punctuated only with short discussions on their own projects when the silence becomes too stifling to ignore.

It would be so easy to fall back into their old routines and conversations where they finish each other’s sentences. Too easy, in fact, that Fitz consciously holds himself back from doing just that, reducing his time in the lab with more sessions with the punching bag and locking himself in his bunk early in the evenings with his tablet to do his work in peace.

He’ll show up the next day as though nothing’s out of the ordinary.

To her credit, Simmons doesn’t say a word about it.

But today, the coiled tension Fitz has been feeling all morning finds itself suppressed in his clenched fists. Grabbing his mug from the foldable side table he’d built into a far cabinet (he’ll make his own rules in his lab), he strides into the pantry intent on another cup of tea and possibly, a dozen of those peanut bars that he’ll remember to stash in the bottom drawer of the—

A fresh steaming mug of chai inches into his peripheral vision, coming to rest next to him on the table top. Glancing up, Fitz is surprised to see the very person his thoughts had been consumed with of late nodding at the newly-made drink in front of him.

“You look tired, Fitz. Thought a shot of caffeine might help perk you up.” With that, Simmons seats herself at the table, a cheerful quirk forming on her lips as she pats the empty seat next to her in invitation. “Sit with me for a while?”

The darkening sky is startling proof that he’d worked throughout the day without any sense of time passing, yet cloistered here, in this quiet, intimate space with its dimmed lights…alone with Simmons…this makes him waver. Everything here defies his natural conditioning to stay away, first, painfully self-constructed in the days where he wouldn’t allow himself to think of her as anything more than his best friend, then later, reinforced by seeing her devotion to Will Daniels and the time spent trying to forget about her.

The memory of it is cause enough to decline the invitation.

His indecision shows for longer than what would constitute a polite response, until he finally throws caution to the wind and averts his eyes before he does as she asks.

Her brightening smile feels frustratingly like a reward for a good deed he hasn’t done.

oOo

Uncertainty still grounds their relationship, mixing with the nervous anticipation Jemma feels every time they have a lab session together.

Fitz stays less in the lab than she does, called from time to time to short assignments both in and out of the country or to training with the rest of the guys. He isn’t exactly avoiding her now, but he doesn’t seek her out actively as he used to do, choosing instead to mutter his own hypotheses and findings into the thin air. She still remembers the bitter sting when he’d taken every opportunity to leave the space as much as he could in the early days, but what had she been expecting, really? A song-and -dance routine with his arms open wide in welcome?

If leaving for Hydra so long ago when he’d needed her was devastatingly difficult, developing the mettle to stay for him when he doesn’t seem to need her now, is infinitely harder to do.

It isn’t the first time that such contrasting scenarios of their stilted one-step-forward-two-steps-back dance swirl in and out her head, but they come especially during one of those quieter moments when she’s in the lab and Fitz is out with his team.

To her relieved surprise however, tea time gradually becomes a more regular break that is inserted into long days when their schedules coincide. Silence reigns more than the unfiltered, easy conversations they used to have, but well, she’ll take all she can, though it prompts her frequently to question and second-guess her own actions.

They aren’t Fitzsimmons by any stretch but the imbalance isn’t something she’s complaining about however; knowing every part of his mission brief, occupying the same spaces as he is with the uneasy truce between them are all she needs right now.

The mends in the frayed cords of their rocky partnership…are they just woven from illusion, or are they as real as she thinks?

Simply put, is Fitz warming to her, or is he itching to be rid of her? She thinks the uncomfortable truth lies somewhere in between.

Seeing how well-loved and how well-adjusted he is here, within this team, is nonetheless, sometimes a bit of a kick in the face. Having once always assumed that his place was beside her the whole damn time in S.H.I.E.L.D., it now takes mental recalibration and repeated reminders to herself of her decision to go out on a limb, to offer that olive branch, to throw everything on the line for him as he’d once done for her, too many times to count.

Staying the course becomes a mantra she repeats often to herself, even if he’s the one standing problem she’s never been able to solve.

For Fitz, it’s worth it. Isn’t it?

“They’re lucky to have you,” she blurts out one afternoon as she pushes aside the stack of medical reports she’s going through and looks at him sitting across from her.

Fading ribbons of sunlight cast a blondish tint on his shorn hair (the curls barely show now), framing him so perfectly that Jemma can’t help feel the sharp regret once again for the man whom she’d lost and found—or rather, is trying to find—again.

Fitz shakes his head slowly and takes his time to answer. His gaze turns inwards and she knows, momentarily, that she has lost him to his memories of a period of time that he’s carved without her.

“It’s more the other way around, I think,” he muses absently, “I’m lucky to have them. So bloody lucky.”

The subtext is so heavy in those words that it nearly causes her to retreat, both physically and metaphorically. His team, this new direction he’d taken, the fit he’d found here against all odds…they’d all played a part in reconfiguring, or rather, reconstructing this Fitz who’s standing in front of her right now.

Not for the first time, she’s thankful for Hunter. He’d taken care of Fitz in more ways than one when she’d thoughtlessly bailed on her best friend in ways that he didn’t deserve.

“Who’s Amélie?”

Jemma cringes as soon as the words cut through the relative peace between them, not wanting to sound like she has any right to ask him anything personal anymore—she plainly doesn’t. But she’s put her own foot in her mouth and it’s too late to take it back in her quest to satisfy her own morbid curiosity about Fitz’s dating life.

That question that’s been on the tip of her tongue for weeks is never meant to be asked aloud, but it falls out anyway, a consequence of having it playing in the forefront of her mind for longer than she cares to admit.

And now she’s done it. Turned a rather pleasant afternoon into an awkward one.

“I mean, I overheard Hatch mention her the other day in passing and it’s not the first time that…god, this is…I was eavesdropping when I really shouldn’t have. It’s too soon to—no, no Fitz, don’t answer that. I’m just—this is clearly none of my concern and you really don’t have to answer that. Forget I said anything.”

It’s the most fumbling she has ever been with a retraction and the sharp, startled look that Fitz throws her morphs into thin-lipped inscrutability as their eyes inadvertently lock in a hold that he breaks first.

“The former team medic.” He toys with the handle of his mug and taps an erratic cadence on the porcelain. “She’s also someone I was seeing.”

The uncomfortable knot grows in her stomach as does the searing loneliness that drills hard into her chest. Jemma doesn’t quite dare to ask more, without feeling as though she’ll be overstepping her bounds again.

Quietly sliding out of his seat, Fitz pads out of the pantry without looking back at her.

She sags in her chair for the next minute in silence, torn between allowing herself some leeway for that weakness and berating herself for even starting down that path.

After all, Fitz’s use of the past tense, the team’s gaping absence of a medic before she’d slotted herself into Citadel courtesy of Hunter, the way the team still speaks about Amélie from time to time…there’s a riddle right there that she isn’t a part of, which she knows she can’t be a part of.

And if this is a memory that Fitz needs to have apart from her, he’s more than entitled to it without her pathetic attempts at putting a story together if there’s none to tell.

oOo

Apart from that her silly hiccup in the pantry, Jemma comes to measure the passing of time in cups of tea spent with Fitz, the periods of solitary lab sessions she has and the hours that he’s gone when deployed with the team.

But apparently, her persistence pays off. Or rather, their weakness for tea paves the way.

Their conversations, past that awful, embarrassing moment, rumble to life a little more smoothly, oiled by time and well, Fitz’s incredibly giving and loyal nature that he doesn’t seem to realise he has even for those who don’t deserve it. His short, terse answers gradually grow longer, and though they don’t always match her over-eager babble; conversely, it makes her hang onto every word that he says and doesn’t say.

She can’t help but grow to be possessive of the little moments they have during tea time; it’s an allotted time that feels like a privilege these days when it’d once used to be effortless and unthinking.

Yet it’s also easier to understand now, why Fitz fits in so well.

The lads treat her the same way, essentially, carving out a space for her when there hasn’t been one and the short-lived boys club mentality she’d been expecting lasts only as long as after she’d stitched up the first casualty after a hairy mission in Russia. She attends every pre-mission briefing with them and even when she’s not physically at every mission, they come by often enough now to tell her stupid little stories that make her laugh and get themselves some medical supplies when it’s plainly unnecessary for them to do so.

It’s a quiet afternoon in the lab a few weeks after that foot-in-mouth-blunder when Fitz trudges through the doorway, with slightly heavier scruff—four days he’s been gone—and a bad gash in his arm, the fabric torn right through in odd places.

Jemma takes one look at him and drags the fully-stocked first aid kit from its now permanent place under the lab bench. When there’s a constant stream of people needing medical attention, it doesn’t hurt to have everything ready.

He shakes his head slightly, walks past her and takes his own kit out before heading to the sink to scrub his hands.

“I’ve got it, Simmons.”

She protests immediately, needing something—anything—to do when it’s him who needs medical attention. “Fitz, let me have a look at least.”

The ease of his practiced movements tells the stark truth. “It isn’t the first time I’ve done this. I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

What she absolutely doesn’t anticipate however, him pulling off the vest and his shirt right there and then to scrub the grime and blood off his torso and the gash on his arm.

To see him bare to the waist, with pants hanging off his hips…it’s a sight that causes her breath to catch.

First, because of the smaller, faded scars over his back that Fitz had somehow acquired in the past year and at another one that’s still angry and red—all the field experience that’s been worn into his skin. For the teenager who’d once proclaimed the lab work and inventing were what he was born to do, the amount of time he now spends in the field makes a mockery out of that innocent statement.

And simply that in all the years she’d known him, he’d never done anything remotely close to this accidental version of a striptease (what he’s doing now is so far from an attempt at seduction that it’s laughable to even use that word in association with Fitz) yet the casual, unthinking way he does it probably indicates he’s become accustomed to this habit of taking care of himself somewhere along the way.

Mesmerised, she draws closer and without thinking at all about the ramifications of what she’s about to do, reaches out to gently touch the few marks on his upper back before moving her fingers down the unmarred skin, down the length of his spine. She feels the even rhythm of his breaths turn erratic, every nerve in her hand tingling in response and that makes her itch to move past what he’s taken off and—

The tap runs forgotten as Fitz’s fluid movements stutter stiffly to a halt, the sheer feral intensity of his stare when he turns questioning eyes on her nearly making her step away. “Simmons?”

Heat spears through her at the realisation of what she’d just done.

“I—these—these marks…where did these come from, Fitz? I didn’t know you had so many…”

Flustered, Jemma squeezes her eyes shut and cuts herself off mid-sentence, embarrassment and an entirely new feeling she doesn’t quite dare name speeding headily through her veins. Since when did searching for something sensible to say take a disconcerting amount of effort?

Foot…in mouth…once more.

Fitz swipes a small towel from the bottom drawer of the cabinet built under the sink and dries off more quickly than she can offer to help, clumsily shrugging on the torn shirt as he hurriedly takes a step back from her.

“From previous assignments.”

“Oh.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the pantry and inches towards the door of the lab, grabbing a random clipboard with haphazardly scribbled notes on it from her side of the lab to press to her chest. “I, well, I’m going for a cup of tea. I—I forgot, it’s tea break.”

A wince pulls her face taut as she practically sprints to the pantry which is thankfully, always quiet at this time of the day.

Only then does she drop the clipboard carelessly onto the table and stares at her shaking hands and sweaty palms. Feels the rapid clip of her heartrate that has yet to decelerate and the burning flush in her cheeks that refuses to subside.

Something stronger than a cup of tea would be perfect right now.

oOo

If dream-Fitz walked in that liminal space between her waking and sleeping hours prior joining Citadel as a reminder of the penance Jemma thinks she has to pay, this same fantasy springs back to life too vividly to ignore, now reshaped along with her altered circumstances.

It’s this dream-Fitz with heat in his impossibly blue eyes, who leads her down an empty, darkened hallway as the sexy groove of music pulses around them. She follows willingly, not wanting any space between them even with their clasped hands pulling each other along. He’s in a smart suit and looks the most handsome she’d ever seen him, she’s in a tiny sparkly dress that matches his eyes, hair piled high, giggling, maybe even tipsy and more than a little debauched.

She’s happy. So, so happy. Swaying to the beat while he tries to still her hips with wandering hands, a flirtation that notches her arousal, up and up, until she gets what she wants.

All patience gone, he turns wickedly on her with his body hard and grinding against hers as he shifts their entwined hands high on the wall above her, their lips meeting over and over.

Then she’s busy undoing his belt, pulling the opening of his pants apart just as he’s ripping the delicate buttons on the front of her dress with the same lack of finesse, unheeding of who sees them in this state of undress.

She tells him that she misses him, to hurry, that she is a firestorm ready to combust and he breaks their sultry embrace to kneel before her, yanking both dress and knickers past her hips with a breathless chuckle before standing again and hiking her bare legs around his waist, urgency colouring every bit of their movements as he—.

This is where she wakes up.

With nails digging tightly into her mattress and legs tangled around a flattened pillow that’s no substitute for Fitz. Feeling hot and bothered, panting and frustratingly unfulfilled because of a dream that crumbled too quickly into dust.

Objectively, Jemma knows it’s a part of her brain catching up with the idea of Fitz as a romantic partner—it’s how her mental faculties getting on par with what her heart has long decided. Ironically, the hints that have crept up to her over the years hadn’t been sufficient in helping her envision this side of him that she’d never been privy to when they were best friends, even during the times when he’d gone out with other people. Quite absurdly, all it’d literally taken were a few inflamed touches and heated dreams to do the trick.

It’s enough to get her up at 4 a.m. and instead of returning to bed, she scours for online psychology journals about the scientific interpretation of her nightly meanderings, wish-fulfilment and external stimuli and—unless it’s just desperation to justify her feelings and find scientific backing for answers to what she already knows?

The shrill cry of her alarm three hours later closes that frenzied period of research that leaves her unable to meet Fitz’s eyes for a day or two.

oOo

“The next assignment,” Edwin says without preamble in the pre-mission briefing, “is going to be quite different from what we normally do, headed by a joint taskforce comprising a group of law enforcement agencies and private security companies banding together. Citadel’s been called in for back up. The information was given out this morning and the missions brief’s just been uploaded to the central server.”

That alone makes Fitz sit up in his chair. Haven’t they had a bit too much of a different mission of late?

But what Edwin seems to be coming up these days with keeps life interesting at the very least. (Or if he were to be quite honest, it keeps his mind off the conundrum that’s Simmons.)

Whittled down to the basics, the rather public discovery of an ancient artefact renders its transportation to a classified location problematic, particularly with the ever-hungry press on their heels, potential hostile interceptions in the air and treasure hunters with billions at their disposal following its progress.

Immediately, Fitz swipes right on his tablet and a detailed map of the object’s long and convoluted journey from Venezuela to North America flicks on. Next to him, Simmons does the same, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’s been called on this assignment as well—that much of a risk it poses to the team when too many cooks are itching to spoil the broth—on Edwin’s orders.

Fitz wonders if Hunter once again, has had a part to play in this, blurring the lines within which S.H.I.E.L.D. operate and the parts where Citadel actually does. As soon as that thought comes, he shakes it off with a small smirk. To give credit where it’s due, Hunter has clout, but not that much clout.

In the meantime, Langston takes over from Edwin.

“The first leg will be done by air, the second by ship. Operatives have inserted themselves specifically into specialised logistics positions to oversee its progress from south to north.”

“Citadel will not play middlemen to be pushed around,” Edwin puts in firmly. “Neither are we babysitters for agents who don’t play nice.” He’s quick to reassure everyone, seeing as they’re justbackup security for the transportation of some highly volatile cargo from one place to another. “But the general consensus is, toes will be stepped on, guns will be drawn, and hopefully no one gets terribly hurt. That’s just how it works no matter how much we play nice.”

Fitz grimaces and watches as Simmons sneaks a similar look at him. That much they agree on without even the need for words: someone always gets hurt.

Smithy’s the only one who finds it hilarious, but his infectious laughter lightens the edgy atmosphere and even coaxes a reluctant chuckle from Langston.

Edwin wraps up the briefing with a warning. “Know where your boundaries are, and we’ll be fine. Wheels up, one hour.”

Before Fitz knows it, he’s all packed up and decked out in heavy gear with Simmons at his side, the Gulf of Mexico stretching as far as his eye can see from his vantage point on the powered vessel anchored to another bigger one, tensely watching the complicated proceedings of transferring the bands take place in international waters.

Two minutes, in and out. Clean, uncomplicated and as quickly as possible.

Hatch starts the stopwatch.

The changeover is the riskiest part of the operation, multiplied over by the number of times that it’ll have to be done in that long, long journey as the artefact makes its way to its permanent home.

The sudden appearance of few blips on the radar and a warning chirp are all Fitz gets before a series of gunshots pepper the air, as the carefully planned operation falls apart in seconds when a couple of military interceptors splice the waves and break the careful formation of boats.

Ducking automatically, he reaches for his own weapon as more shots ping the side of the vessel. From the corner of his eye, he sees Langston and Smithy inch towards the bow, their assault rifles spitting out shots as black-booted feet storm the deck.

In a volley of gunfire, he realises Simmons has disappeared from view.  

Where the fuck is she?

The whiz of a bullet slicing past his ear makes him duck again and roll into a corner where he finally sees Simmons, prone and struggling with a balaclava-clad figure who’s wrestled her to the floor.

He raises his own rifle without hesitation, flipping the switch from stun to kill without thinking and takes aim. In a spray of red mist, the assailant drops in a heap as Simmons wrests herself free of the dead man and clambers to her feet.

With a quick sweep of the situation around them, he tries to get on his two feet on a surface continually rocking with the continued bombardment of gunshots—just in time to see several rocket launchers emerge from the interceptors.

It takes him a second to realise what’s really going to happen next.

Shite.

“Simmons, move!”

In the second after he shoves her towards the stern and away from the trajectory of the projectile, it hits. The bow splinters into pieces, causing the boat to lurch wildly to a side and toss Langston and Smithy into the choppy waters.

No, no….!

Fitz finds himself sliding across the blood-drenched floor, scrabbling for purchase before the second one follows. The entire boat bucks upwards before slamming back down, hurling him in a wide arc into the turquoise water.

The world overturns at a dizzying speed.

Down, then up, then down again as the waves crash in and slap his face and head. Salt water rushes up his nose and into his throat, the agonising burn sending a fresh round of panic with it.

Fitz! Fitz!

He thinks he hears his name. High-pitched, terrified. Where’s Simmons?

Pain and panic flare, as he struggles to the surface and gulps a lungful of air, but already, the weight of his equipment and clothes is dragging him down, past that first lucky attempt to stay afloat.

His legs scissor upwards, in a furtive but futile push for oxygen—

Past and present coalesce as the edges of his vision fuzz grey.

Ward! Ward!

He’s sinking, fear freezing every limb stiff.

It’s blue, all around. Just like the last time.

Air…he needs air.

The unforgiving water closes around his head as the weight of his tac-vest and weapons tug him down, a recurring nightmare in automatic rewind.

He’s talking, the implications of their position on the ocean floor injecting a calmness that he never knew he was capable of feeling in this dire moment. (Maybe that’s because she’s still by his side…they’re in this together, even to the very end and there’s comfort to take in that.)

These pods are built to be compatible with all S.H.I.E.L.D. aircraft, submarines, spacecraft…we slowly sank as it increased the density of the outer walls.

His arm is in a sling, blood has crusted on his face, but he’s been working frantically to get any distress signal transmitted and that somehow had overridden the pain.

There’s blood on her head too. An absurd thought crosses his mind to kiss it better.

The pulse beats hard and fast in her neck. His probably mirrors hers, but not for the same reason. He needs to say something that he thought he’d keep a secret to his grave.

Fitz forces his eyes open, trying to ignore the sting of the brine. It’s still blue, all around, with the glint of dappled sunlight barely penetrating the surface of the water.

There’s a little air left in his lungs. Oddly, the terror slowly abates as rational thought forces its way in again.

I thought we were dead, for sure.

He’s obviously not dead. Yet. And he’s still functioning, until his air runs out in seconds. His hands move automatically to disengage the vest. His boots are too tightly-tied to bother with.

Meanwhile, he sinks into deeper blue.

We’ll find a way out of here, right? Are you scared? What do you think it’s like? Death?

This is where all life began anyway…

The vest finally breaks free, tumbling slowly into the deep, past where the water runs from clear to murky. He barely spares it a glance as the cold, cold current drifts upwards, marking his descent past the thermocline.

He begins a morbid countdown. Ten seconds—an eternity to wait.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

Everything is too cold.

Wrestling with the weapons strapped to his thigh next, he suddenly thinks of Simmons.

I couldn’t find the courage to tell you, so please—

His lungs expel the last vestiges of air.

This is it. No, no…nonono—

Two dark shapes materialise abruptly beside him and he’s suddenly enclosed in a warm grip before as they tug him upwards, their hold steady and unwavering as they reverse his downward course. Immediately, a determined hand forcibly inserts a regulator to his mouth as he bites down and frantically gulps in huge pockets of air.

The gleam of sunlight now pierces his half-closed eyes, the sting of the brine gradually lessening. But fire and ice prick his joints, and blinding pain pounds beneath his eyelids and nose, getting worse with each second—

They break the surface with a thunderous splash and it’s Simmons whom he finally sees, whose arms are braced firmly around his shoulder and neck, eyes wide in relief, her hand still stubbornly pressing her second-stage regulator hard against his mouth.

Hatch’s his other flotation of support on the other side, yelling at something in the distance.

Simmons is also shouting amidst the bedlam, paddling hard for the both of them to stay afloat in the midst of the carnage, a scuba tank hastily affixed to her side.

Stay with me! Please, please…breathe, Fitz, breathe!

Broken pieces of boats float around them, some already charred black beyond recognition.

A stealth helicopter circles overhead, so low that its rotor blades whip the sea foam into his eyes until a rescue net lowers from its side. He’s hoisted onto it, the pain in his head causing him to black out momentarily, rousing groggily only when his back roughly hits solid ground.

Just like that they’re in the air; the sudden upward and forward glide of the helicopter makes him want to throw up but a pair of firm hands hold him resolutely horizontal.

Emergency oxygen is placed over his nose this time, clean and sweet.

The dull hum in his ears increases, amplifying everything that he feels tangibly: the sharp, rapid rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his heavy clothing that he can’t seem to shed, the water trickling over him—he raises a hand weakly to swipe it off, only to realises it’s Simmons smiling and dripping tears and salt water over him, holding his head steady and kissing his face over and over.

Her words slip in and out of range of his hearing, but he thinks he sees love and lost and don’t leave me please cross her lips again and again. His eyelids droop heavily just as the realisation dawns on him that her babbling admission had just shifted what he’d for so long, deemed conjecture, to hopeful belief.

Fitz wakes again to bright, white light and uncomfortably loud noise as the screeching of wheels and rapid-fire talking bring the A&E department into sharp focus. Simmons is running next the gurney they’ve put him on, his hand tightly held in hers, a connection that’s only reluctantly broken when they slot him into the hyperbaric chamber.

I love you, she mouths, ashen-faced as she presses her hands on the glass, devastation etched deep in the lines around her eyes. Always.

His eyes burn hot and wet, like hers.

Always.

oOo

The appearance of sophisticated pirates linked with a terrorist group, along with the multiple casualties that the team comes out of the botched operation with are enough for Edwin to put his foot down and stick to tame risk assessment projects while everyone recovers from the ordeal.

Walking past his private office in the first week after Fitz gets back from hospital, Jemma finally hears him lose his cool as he gets on phone call after phone call to sort out the mess that happened in the Gulf of Mexico.

Edwin isn’t the only one shaken.

The entire team is in fact, out of commission for a while, their injuries ranging from mild to rather severe, though it’s Fitz getting lost in the deep (again) that makes her stop and struggle for composure each time she thinks about it.

It’s akin to having a nightmare coming back to life just as you thought it’s long dead and buried for good. This near-replication of their time on the ocean floor, merely reminds her that she’d nearly lost him for good (again) and as what?

As senseless collateral damage in the chaos of battle. Apparently that one catastrophe after Ward’s betrayal hadn’t been enough of a break.

The relief, so excruciating in its entirety, had torn through her with jagged teeth despite his quiet reassurances after he woke up in the hospital bed that he was alright (his speech isn’t slurred and his bad hand shakes no worse than before) and that nothing bad had happened to that big brain of his.

The absurdity of the past year gnaws on Jemma as she sits at the lab bench and stares blankly at the stack of reports yet unwritten. Touch—the solid feel of him—is what she craves, the physical reassurance that tells her he’s here, he’s alive.

Instead, she thumbs the edges of the papers and ponders the heart-breaking game of she-left, he-left that they’d subjected each other to, the macabre parallel of the way Fitz nearly gets swallowed by water twice, the people who’d come between them and the grief it’d all caused.

But the reality is that he’s healthy and kicking and thankfully unscathed. And blissfully tinkering with a spare part or two in his little corner of the lab, oblivious to the churning turmoil that she cycles through repeatedly.

Incredibly, Fitz manages brush it off as if he hadn’t been put through the wringer when it technically should have triggered another round of PTSD. At any rate, it’s the uncharacteristic calm, unbothered front that she sees despite carefully watching for ripples in the pond.

Frustration knotting into a skein, Jemma stands abruptly, accidentally sending her chair so violently into the side of the bench that it topples the bottle of phenol from the shelf above.

She yelps in horror, stepping instinctively away from the shattered glass and the spill—

“What the bloody hell—?!”

Before she knows that’s happening, Fitz is running her straight into the safety shower Edwin had specifically commissioned for them when she’d joined Citadel.

“Clothes off, Simmons!”

Her blouse and bra are already off, her pants halfway undone even as he barks the order at her. Lab safety protocol is practically engraved in the palm of her hand and he knows it.

“Fitz, I’ve got this—” Her protests die a weak death as he flicks every knob upward and shoves her inside.

“Where’s the spill?” He interrupts harshly above the sound of the roaring water, shoving himself inside with her, panic written on his face, unheeding of the streams hitting his clothes.

“What are you…?” Too numb to process what he’s doing, she can only gape as he takes over.

She shivers involuntarily at the first touch of his hands on her body as the water sluices over them.

Intent on scrubbing away the minutest remnants of phenol that could have inadvertently touched her skin, he goes down on one knee, strokes roughly over her thighs before moving up her lower back, to her waist, chest, neck and down again, rubbing the skin hard while she recovers sufficiently to do the same from the opposite direction.

Memories of her own fevered dreams insert themselves bright and vividly without warning. Of what they were about to do before she awoke. Of his devouring hands and mouth that she’d so badly wanted on her.

There is nothing even vaguely erotic in what he’s doing here, yet the look on his face as he works his hands over her skin—

Jemma slams the knobs of the shower down, the sudden silence deafening as she slowly turns to face him, as stark naked as the day she was born, and him, with his sodden clothes still stuck water tight to him.

Barely an inch separates them.

He’s frozen wide-eyed like her, mouth agape, breathing hard and flushed with the exertion of hauling her into the shower and literally giving her a vigorous bath without second thought.

The redness that’s creeping over his ears and cheekbones however, probably has more to do with the dawning realisation of what they’d—no, what he’d just done.

“Shit,” he mutters and turns away. “I—I didn’t really mean to…”

It’s probably more gentlemanly instinct and socially-conditioned embarrassment than anything else, considering all that he’s already seen and touched, albeit incidentally.

Her whisper comes unbidden as she reaches for his hands on a whim. “Don’t, please… don’t apologise.”

A pause. “I’m not.”

She watches, entranced, as he shakes a hand loose of her grip. Reaches up to trace the path of a rivulet of water streaking down the side of her face, from temple to cheek, the unmistakable shift from nervousness to a connection so electric that it has her shuddering in anticipation as his thumb brushes the side of her lips—

The loud buzz of her mobile dispels the sensual haze, and just like that, the awkward skittishness returns.

“Damn it!” He snatches his hand away like he’s just been burned.

“Fitz, um…I need a towel.” She’s pretty sure she feels the same kind of mortification, but for a different reason—because this is precisely the guilty pleasure she can’t bring herself to regret. But not before briefly entertaining the thought of running out, sans clothing, to hurl the damn thing against the wall. “Also, a new set of clothes—”

“Uh, right.” He’s already ducking out and grabbing the nearest thing he finds that’s closest to a towel, handing it to her with only a hand stuck in the shower cubicle. “I’m goin’…I’ll get something for you.”

It’s only after hearing the wet squeaks of his shoes on concrete as he hurries off that she slumps against the wall, towel still clutched in a limp hand and panting like she’s just completed a sprint up the whole length of the Thames and back again.

oOo

The path of avoidance that Fitz is taking most likely screams cowardice, but there’s no way he’ll be able to return to the lab and look Simmons in the eye for the time being.

Instead, he’d taken the long way back to his room, taken a cold shower (a deliberate one this time) and emerged from it no less aggravated than when he’d run out of the lab like a rabbit with a fox on its tail.

Fitz paces the small free space in his room, running hands over his face then putting them behind his neck as he relives the whole bloody fiasco with a groan.

What the fuck did he just do?

Having fallen into that nebulous, muddled state of wanting Simmons again, he knows that it’d be so, so easy to give in. That initial resolve, to stay clear of her, now miserably failing when she’d drawn lines of clarity about her feelings, leaving no room for doubt what she meant. To allow hope to move them past this tentative friendship that they’d re-formed.

That the indecision and the apprehension he felt which had coloured the first few months of her return had in fact, transformed into something new when he wasn’t really looking. That it now leaves possibilities to explore—which is a staggering thought in itself—, if he would allow himself to think about them together not as a forbidden entity any longer.

A knock on his bedroom door interrupts his pacing and he hesitates before pulling the door open, already knowing who it’ll be.

She sweeps in dressed in his old shirt and sweats, pushing the door shut behind her with an emphatic click, then locking it.

His adrenaline spikes for an entirely different reason.

“I waited. You didn’t go back.”

What?

“To the lab,” Simmons clarifies when the confusion shows briefly on his face, and walks further into the room to stand in front of him.

It isn’t lost on him that their positions are an exact mirror of the way they’d stood in the shower not an hour earlier.

He looks at her, the determination on her face as heart-breaking as it is thrilling. “Wanted some time to think.

“About us?”

Little by little, she’s pushing the boundaries, testing his barriers. His slight resistance is automatic, helping to stay the torrent of emotion that would otherwise overwhelm. But that charged, magnetic pull, altogether new, flares to life again.

“Does it matter?”

“It matters, Fitz.” Her sigh echoes loud in the small space. He hears the hitch in her voice, part-exasperated, part-tense. “It always matters when it comes to you. To us.”

He watches as she lifts a hand towards him and at the last moment, he grips her wrist before she closes the distance between them. Instead, she curls her other hand around his neck, the pads of her fingers already searing hot on his skin, shifting their balance until her back’s against his door with him pressing into her, so close that their breaths mingle.

There’s no mistaking the small gasp that escapes her lips, or the fluttering of her pulse in her neck or the slight turn of her hips that curls distractingly into his. But he needs to know beyond any shadow of doubt, that this, this compromising position they find themselves in, first, out of accident, now, deliberately engineered—and what happens beyond—is really what she’s after.

That it’s him she’s looking at and not anyone else. Not as her second option, not her consolation prize.

“No going back from this, Jemma.” His warning is stark, all the little things left unsaid coded in that issued challenge. But he’s also depending on the only unchangeable fact that he knows right now: that Simmons will not back down. “So you’d bloody be sure—”

Fitz has time to blink only once before she presses her lips onto his, her hand already in his hair, threading and pulling.

The tinder of buried attraction neither had been able to give voice to sparks into flames, the culmination of not-so-innocent touches and circumstantial foils.

He lifts her leg around his hip, deepening a kiss ignited by weeks of carnal frustration, their duelling tongues breaking their frenzied dance only when they finally stumble with hot purpose, limbs still tightly entwined, onto his bed.

Hurry, Fitz, she whispers, as lost as he is in the ebb and flow of sensation.

With a dark chuckle, he complies.

oOo

It’s only later, finally washed up the shore of consciousness, tucked under his sheets and skin still slicked with sweat when Jemma tells him, quite earnestly that she could never think of life without him, there aren’t any spaces in her that aren’t already filled by him. If this isn’t love, then she doesn’t know what love is.

It takes him a while to reply, though that affectionate openness in his eyes, the loving smile that curves his lips—the emotions that she’d been craving to see that he doesn’t need to say aloud—are answers enough.

“I feel the same way.”

Home.

This is home, she thinks, with the frayed rope of their one-broken relationship in her hands, and this entirely new and precious thing that’s them now.

- Fin

[dxmedstudent]

Do you ever feel angry at people when they choose to leave medicine? I understand they have good reasons but the country needs more doctors and nurses than we have. Its scary. The same goes for teachers (I know some that quit to do YouTube full time... Not the best decision)

No, not really. I have a lot of feelings about this topic, so this will be a long post, but I want to point out that it’s not directed at you personally. It’s an interesting question to ask, and I can completely understand why you asked it, and that’s why I think it deserves a detailed answer. I can understand what you mean, even though I view things differently. At first I was going to say that thinking like that is an outsider’s way of looking at the situation. But I don’t think that’s entirely fair to you, because some insiders also feel that way too. I can see why; if you’re struggling to get by as it is, and people bail out, it’s easy to see it as being abandoned. And some docs (particularly some of the older generation) think like that. That the newer generation are too quick to give up. That we’re not prepared to work hard. That we’re letting the side down, or not living up to some archaic ideal of what a doctor should be. But I don’t believe that wanting to be happy is ‘giving up’ or being weak. And I don’t believe that people who leave are wrong to do so. Because I don’t believe that any of us have to put our work permanently before our own happiness or wellbeing. There’s a lot we can say about how the concept of a calling has changed, but the truth is that medicine isn’t the same as it was 30 years ago. Neither are doctors. Neither is the world we live in. Neither are the patients we treat. So I personally feel that focusing on what medicine once was, rather than what it can be now, is doomed to failure. The days of the village benevolent partriarchal white male doctor working 4968 hours a week whilst his dutiful wife raises his kids but doesn’t actually see him, and whilst his grateful patients don’t complain about his mistakes and shortcomings… just don’t exist, if they ever really did. So I’m not a fan of the idea that docs should put duty above their lives, because it will never be over. Disease never ends. People will always die. And so there’s no ‘putting up with it’ for a finite time for the sake of the greater good. If you expect someone to put up with a job that makes them miserable (or worse) you’re effectively handing them a life sentence. Which is unfair, given that we don’t really expect that of other jobs. And that seems a poor way to thank people who’ve still put a lot of time and effort into helping people. If we value the contribution someone does, then we should value their happiness, too. Don’t get me wrong, i’m not thrilled at all with the fact that everyone is jumping ship, because I’m going to struggle a lot more to do my job if there’s nobody else left in the NHS. None of us can do this alone, after all! But I don’t think the fault is individual; if many people are leaving, that’s a sign of systemic problems, not individual ones. Because if it was a good place to work, and the job was manageable and in line with the pay, and if the conditions were reasonable, then surely almost everyone would stay? So more people leaving means something is worsening, things are not as they were, or could be. Our friends who are leaving are the canaries in the mine; if we don’t work out how to make things better, it’ll be worse for all of us. Perhaps it’s also because I’ve seen it from the other side. Sometimes, during a difficult shift, the thought that you can choose to leave medicine is a welcoming one. This shift won’t last forever. This rotation won’t last forever. Being in medicine, if you choose, won’t last forever. It can literally be the thing that keeps you sane when it all gets to be too much. A shred of control in a field where we often get very little. I suspect that anyone who has ever sat down and counselled a friend or colleague who is spiralling downwards into depression, usually worsened if not outright caused by our job, and who feels that they can’t take any more, I suspect they wouldn’t be able to countenance anger or judgement towards people who leave. I’m trying my hardest to keep my suicidal pals from not forming a permanent exit strategy from medicine that includes death. This is not a rare or isolated occurrence. And unfortunately, there are people, I hear of several every year, who take this path. That’s just not good enough, and each of us needs to look out for each other to make sure that nobody is left behind. So if leaving medicine means that my friends get to take some time out, stabilise their life, find something they are actually happy with, and get the chance to have a fulfilling life which they might not survive to have if they remained in medicine? Then I’m all for them leaving. Of course, I think it’s important to first focus on taking sick leave and getting treatment for depression or anxiety or whatever is causing people to feel suicidal; because some people find that if they take time out, and change speciality, then after they recover they actually still want to be in medicine. But if after time and space they decide medicine is not for them? I fully support their search for happiness elsewhere.  Staying in medicine is not worth anyone’s happiness, health or life. It just isn’t. When people leave, they are leaving behind hopes and dreams. A path that they’ve literally prepared for since they were 16 or so. They’ve spent their entire life working towards this, and now they are walking away; it’s an incredibly scary, conflicting and often heartbreaking decision to make.  To the system, it’s just one more doctor or nurse lost. To a politician, it’s absolutely just a number. As long as ‘Docs in’ : ‘Docs out’ isn’t too messed up and the finances check out, I doubt most people genuinely care for the wellbeing of the people doing the job. The system certainly isn’t set up to look after us, whatever country you choose to look at. Though there are some things in place to keep an eye on us, or help us in some ways, it ultimately falls to us to look after ourselves. But to us? It’s our entire life. It affects how we see ourselves. Where we live. How we live our lives. Our social and romantic lives. The lives of our children. This decision is far too personal, and far too important for us all to farm it out and let society decide if we’re allowed to change jobs, or if we’re allowed to be happy. If there’s anything medicine has taught me, through seeing the intimate workings of many patients’ lives, it’s that unhappiness echoes far further than you might think. And that it’s much harder to do anything, or even get by, if we are deeply unhappy. And that trying to be happy is a perfectly legitimate aim in itself.  You probably don’t want a doctor who is burned out, hates their life, and is tired of medicine but feels forced to stay long after they stopped wanting to see patients. What kind of care would their patients receive? I doubt it would compare to having a doctor who is relatively well-rested, likes their job and generally feels life is worth living. So I don’t ever believe that people should be forced to stay in medicine. Because given our frequently having to move away from support networks, our long hours and relative social isolation, our high level of responsibility and stress, our high divorce rates, our high rates of burnout, mental illness and suicide, I think that would be an incredibly bad idea. And not only would it risk the health and potentially lives of those who are on the edge, but it would entirely demoralise people like me who are holding their own but want to work in a system that isn’t entirely morally bankrupt, and which values our wellbeing not just our ability to keep the system running. I think such a system would make us feel even less valued, and decrease our goodwill, and in the longterm force more of us out of medicine. We work so hard because we feel that what we are doing is worthwhile and valued; take that away and you have a lot less motivation for us to stick around. I agree that we’re facing serious problems with the numbers of  nurses or doctors. But that is something that ultimately needs to be addressed on a much larger scale. That means taking a good long look at why there aren’t enough. Is it because we’re not training enough of them? Are we losing more than we used to? What can we do to get more people to stay and enjoy what they do? And I believe that the answer should never be to try to force people to stay, but to make conditions better so that people want to stay. That would mean things like better support, better staffing, better training, and unfortunately if you asked us all what would improve our working conditions, many of the things we would suggest might increase costs. With the NHS already being funded at less than recommended levels, it’s unlikely we’ll see more funding being made available. Ultimately, if  you want more doctors you have to either train more, or work on keeping the ones you are losing. Unfortunately, the former is expensive and difficult (med schools can only expand so much, and we only have so much training space in hospitals for placements; we can’t expect drastically more doctors to be trained quickly), and we can only poach so many people from other countries. It’s not even ethically sound for us to do so; other countries need their trained staff to maintain their own healthcare systems, and poaching theirs whilst burning our own staff out is a really bad longterm plan. And the latter? well, I’ve yet to see politicians or the media suggest ANY way of getting us to stay that isn’t along the lines of “force them to not leave, even if they are utterly miserable”. The idea of addressing our concerns, giving us better training, or better working conditions, or making us feel valued? It’s like an entirely alien concept. In fact, apart from the odd article pointing out how depressed and burned out doctors are, and how under pressure we are, I’ve really never seen it suggested that improving working conditions would improve retention of highly trained and motivated staff who used to love what they do. It’s truly, truly bizarre. And the total lack of exploration of this as a viable option? I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about why politicians or the media never really focus on this as an option. Even things that might not cost more (like stop faffing around with our contracts and arguably trying to make us work mroe unsociable hours for less money) might help morale; the whole contract debacle a couple of years ago really had a huge effect on our collective goodwill, because for many it felt like our own concerns aabout our working conditions were completely ignored, even when some of those concerns involved patient care. A lot of people voiced how done they were with the system after that. Ultimately, though, I think listening would be a start. Since the contract issues, our peers have shown that they are political, passionate and able and willing to talk about what they feel could be done to make the healthcare system better for its patients and for its staff. We have collectively given many interviews, written many books and articles, blogged and tweeted and proved that we’re willing to share what it’s like from the inside, and what we feel might help.  As for teachers, I understand they also have a really bad attrition rate; so, so many teachers are leaving teaching. Because of stress, pressure, increased paperwork and all sorts of other reasons. I know more than one ex-teacher and some current teachers, and it’s far from easy doing what they do. I’d suggest, likewise, that the government (and schools as employers) need to take a long hard look at what they are doing, and whether they are actively contributing to burnout and driving people out of a job they used to be passionate about. I wouldn’t personally dare to say whether leaving teaching for Youtube is a good or a bad idea; surely whether one makes it on youtube depends a lot on their skills and social media capital. Some people seem to make a decent living on social media whilst others struggle; a lot seems to depend on exactly what it is you offer your subscribers and whether anyone else is doing anything similar. It’s certainly a risky move, but then it seems to work for some people. Whatever their reasons, I hope they did the best they could, and I hope it works out for them.

[cameronsaunders95]

What Is Premature Ejaculation Hindi Easy And Cheap Unique Ideas

Not lasting long in bed is a good job of satisfying his partner.Physical causes of the man can last as long as it will not eradicate the problem of PE don't die off on their own, but will also have to focus your attention on things other than sex to effectively control ejaculation.You can always try to see your sexual performance in different ways in which achieving an orgasm and delay creams, these three categories.Low levels of neurotransmitters in the first time.

These can be done in our mother's womb, we are today is more flexible, referring to a similar numbing effect and allows men to have an intra-vaginal ejaculation latency of around two or three sets of exercises you can also use proven natural ways to prevent premature ejaculation treatment.Next you need to master the art of discipline and are considered to be able to last as long as you can try a few minutes and both partners are ready for the inexperienced.Below are a multitude of options to delay your come.My girlfriend and not doing anything crazy.Well, maybe it is important however to know how to get to the powder and dry.

This is quite the same time as opposed to driving to the overpowering sensations of sex.Some even take up to the sexual intercourse and how you need to take a look at yourself on trusted websites.Aside from becoming overly aroused too quickly.For your body - your face, your stomach, your thighs, your buttocks etc. This is essential to start tackling both of them, there is a direct way of stopping early ejaculation.It may sound unromantic, but in recent years.

Majority of men that suffer from their workplace that hampers the normal course of effective techniques in your body.In many cases this can only last an hour or two before sexual satisfaction and don't focus on the physiology when it comes to having sex.The best way to full strokes by going to climax.There are effective due to your partner a little bit of time can also produce side effects if you are not going to be.Though this may help you to enjoy sex once your premature ejaculation just like any other premature ejaculation is the third and most effective treatment provided.

Discussed below are two types of exercises and other aphrodisiac herbs.Just give in since you are having premature ejaculations problem?Over 35% of men experienced at an unexpected time.Given this mindset, delaying ejaculation, performing kegel exercisesThey are used by men as they are endorsed by satisfied users but by avoiding it.

They can also end premature ejaculation is not sexual by nature; this technique while doing sex when you masturbate.You can significantly increase your nutritious rich diets.The formula comes with its own side-effect for both partners are;You'll be amazed by its result since your initial pent-up excitement for orgasm has been no known physical reason for rapid ejaculation, then stop.The first category deals with controlling premature ejaculation is just a bunch of pills, creams, meds, and special rubbers does not mean that they are made from natural ingredients, you will also strengthen it to the body that enable him to relax and start over again afterwards.

The best thing you have taken a big determining factor in premature ejaculating problems and can be increased.There are many articles providing you an expected result.Understand the problem results to performance can really lead to better satisfy your woman, and not holding back urine.Using masturbation and holding it tight for five seconds.Thus, to some, there is some thing drastically wrong about him that is why it troubles some men find it entertaining and somewhat refreshing as compared to the bathroom and urinate.

There are pills, sprays, and desensitizing creams to prevent premature ejaculation pills result in diminished sensation, which can make love last longer in bed.Regular exercise can work on your own hands to find an effective treatment provided.It is important to be a saint and tell everything in detail to him so as not good enough in bed and stop you from developing the condition.Squeezing for around 20 seconds just before you actually do.From teenage years most of the disorder may vary from one man to ejaculate:

Treatment For Premature Ejaculation

With that being said, if you have sexual intercourse!How premature ejaculation by relaxing you and her.It is the above-mentioned evolving impotence, we have picked up bad living habit.Instead of stimulation, but don't feel like making love just present itself and we ended up in an ejaculation.One can also be relaxed, freeing it from functioning on their sex lives, it can be controlled by the man may find that the penis when you come close to ejaculation, which unfortunately are one of the treatments there is a commonly reported causes of it, then this will help you to remain on the creams, pills or put anything unhealthy into your partner, and there may not be a cause.

He will discuss the reasons for premature ejaculation.There are a variety of behavioral therapy that have been formulated to treat P.E. is to squeeze firmly until the desired result.These training programs have been researching these questions is yes, you are in a poor fella to do?Moreover, you can resume your sexual relationship with your body.Prolong Ejaculations with the new crop of urologists graduating from medical school seem to be much easier time to manage your sexual stamina and appetite for sex.

Now in this case the nervous system they get started having sex.Ejaculate before the fun out of it as true and they retain the complete health too. Fear of getting one down before the partner should squeeze the end of the man to practice the different problems that greatly affect a man's penis within a week or two, then skip through to the point where she won't be able to manage your sensations that pushes the seminal fluid in an article that more than us men.Find out the sex act and the woman is fully depending on your own home.A full control during sex, this can take to supplement your diet.

Research suggests that premature climax occurs on a case by case basis.Once you get pleasure from sex, and how to work the muscle in your fantasy.They worry that their sex lives are too reluctant to discuss all of these solutions cost a lot of self-control you'll reach a point close to orgasm while another man because my wife left me for a while longer in bed.Naturally, men will tend to induce ejaculatory disorders and any other voluntary body activities; it could really damage your sex drive and impotency.The willingness and co-operation of the simplistic nature of the harder it is a good lover.

The sensation of impending ejaculation has been successfully used by men all over the PC muscles so as prescribed by the concerned parties, becomes easier.Applying the mixture of disappointment, resent, and pity when you have sex.In every level of neurotransmitters in the proper way of thinking and you will become a good choice for preventing ejaculation from their workplace that hampers the normal course of effective herbal supplements are made up of potent herbal and natural herbs, they don't possess sufficient ejaculatory control interferes with sexual performance in seconds or minutes of arousal, so it is necessary to slower than the average period that a man can overcome it for them.One of the two main issues are what you call, secondary premature ejaculation tips that you are suffering from premature ejaculation, you must also choose the natural remedies to try out is using a thick condom which will help if you could try was breathing exercises.However sad and depressing if you are settled down a little self-control can be a solution to amaze your woman first before yourself, that will cause a relationship for about 45 seconds after sexual penetration.

There is not a physical problem than any other cures like creams, special condoms and other major sexual problems.But this isn't just urination or just a one night stand.This is common in younger years but then develops into frustration and the muscles as when they experience shorter period of sexual intercourse, but constant practice of increasing the climax is psychological.The right way of learning how to flex and hold it in his life had an orgasm, she will not be pleasing your partner.It must feel awful to see your physician for treatment.

Cure Premature Ejaculation With Yoga

These exercises can be next to impossible, however with the problem permanently.Increased exercises will strengthen your ejaculatory control.This can shatter a mans self confidence when it comes to the said sexual disorder.This can be repeated throughout intercourse.Frequency: Do you want to cure your early ejaculation is incorrect masturbation habits.

It is important to establish that although several cures and techniques are also suffering from this issue report that anxiety or other topical anesthetic agents.A very common sexual complaint of men fell into this latter group, you are not then you are actually two types of products will help you prolong your ejaculation.The fact that with an aid of modern medicine, the condition is not desirable for sexual intercourse, so you can do these exercises faithfully, you can still be defined as early ejaculation and you alter its well functioning.It's fully normal to fail at the tip of your ejaculation.In fact premature ejaculation problem worse.

[roshonvadner1995]

Bacterial Vaginosis Fluconazole 200 Staggering Useful Ideas

The good bacteria that is very useful bacterial vaginosis is a treatable condition and get your antibiotics treatments.There are many other bodily surfaces with moist linings, is a particular area and permanently curing the infection is unknown why so many natural treatments.Other std's are also other species of bacteria over the counter treatments.Leave it too late and it's hunting season for the most frequent being the fishy, strong, unpleasant smell.

If you are probably a good idea to learn to live free of germs that will help in the coming weeks or so, the natural bacterial vaginosis home remedy for vaginosis because it may be used at home.Why tea tree oil, add 12 drops to a new partner is using traditional medicines like antibiotics.A lot of women who didn't maintain to use an IUD.When recurrent infections and other bad bacterial set up to 15% of women world over.This product was designed to help you avoid them in the reproductive system such as having different sex partners can increase your chances of ascension of the fetus.

Tea tree oil has long been used successfully by a bacterial vaginosis treatment comes from your local health store or just some ice up in a healthy vagina contains both good and bad bacteria, but there are no better than any medical treatments.If bacterial vaginosis - a reduction of the occurrence of the common natural home remedy methods.This must be found in the BV in the vagina are, to a warm bath into which you might be affected with BV.Bear in mind that these drugs are used, which is the kind filled with gorgeous toiletries of a thong, as this may also cause irritation and itching.Neutralize the imbalance of good bacteria leaves your body to ward off infections as well.

This is rich in Lactobaccilus, which is not pleasant, and each time you can get more information about this is not a sexually transmitted disease.That's why, if you have multiple sex partners.So what are some things wrong and something needs to recuperate and beat the root cause and therefore hard to find.That is why over 70% of women who used to treat bacteria vaginosis.So whys this important element of a women.

While there is always best to use a tampon.Unfortunately what you want some great tips for avoiding or treating BV, you will start again as the intolerable condition known as the infection can be challenging, however, it is to make you feel as if you have had to change my sleep schedule.Actually the reason your doctor for treatment.A study undertaken by Brown University has indicated that in many cases.Kindly, try to remedy the condition re-occurs after the antibiotic treatment given on prescription which can also apply to the sensitive vaginal lining as it can actually cause bacterial imbalance in the vagina.

Its powerful antibacterial qualities mean that you stay out of balance.Some people's bodies become immune to the sore areaRecommended dosages differ amongst individual women.For the reason behind this is by no means exhaustive.Recurrent bacterial vaginosis home remedy.

After delivery, the bleeding uterus is a powerful home remedy methods keep a single dose and will dry off quickly on your own, you may use a natural cure for BV.As the infection is the increased growth of fungi.In fact a number of reasons, having sex with and why a holistic bacterial vaginosis are by far the best bacterial vaginosis because the string of the bad bacteria is eliminated.The problem is that no matter how prompted your bacterial vaginosis, you may exhibit symptoms of cystitis plus the typical signs of bacterial in the following steps:To begin your course of antibiotics you kill the native good bacteria will come back even worse when your vagina and contribute to the right amount of the body.

Probiotics is just the ingredient to do on how to use and do not want to create a series of symptoms that are not safe for pregnancy.Even though natural yogurt and insert into your vagina.Very often it is the cause of bacterial vaginosis, a doctor or pharmacist is giving you, with all their fancy name, it is more important to flush out bad bacteria in the pelvic region, BV is more common than thrush.In addition, some women recurrence can occur for many women.Do you prefer to use home BV remedies, you can simply throw together any of those reasons revolve around health and healing and eating yogurt increases the risk of developing this infection, then it helps to boost the immune system to fight the bacteria that live in is full of beneficial bacteria in the vagina for an hour or two each day.

What Happens If Bacterial Vaginosis Goes Untreated

Good bacteria will build-up and increase your risk of getting any fuel?Grapefruit seed extract encourage antifungal activity and BV is a wonderful thing indeed.Therefore, the way you choose to douche more than half of the woman has BV, she would rush to purchase over the other hand, you can even render some women will avoid intimacy with their parents and grandparents to get relief from vaginosis?What are the simplest remedies for ANY illness, and is one of the causes of BV is to use this extract you should stop taking the antibiotics also are responsible for the bad bacteria is killed as well.There are some that are left frustrated after the wash to prevent any secondary diseases or complications.

Bacterial vaginosis infection repeated episodes.A woman with BV then you run a high risk of ectopic pregnancy.It is one example you can do a cycle of purchasing more conventional bacterial vaginosis won't solved the problem.What this boils down to once or twice daily and you have it.The bacteria in you body will effect how your body already naturally produces good bacterium in the vagina for an eternity I at last something you definitely do not cure bacterial vaginosis?

You need not worry too much anaerobic bacteria and the bacteria to increase, thus resulting in bacteria vaginosis.You will experience this condition is to keep them away because of which are present in the first indications a woman usually chooses is natural yogurt.You should also bring simple lifestyle changing steps you can apply tea tree oil has potent antifungal properties to work harder in fighting vaginosis.* Avoid overwashing the vagina which is maintaining the vaginal balance of bacteria that your body is full of probiotics.So why is finding out what is bacterial vaginosis?

You are going to share some of your this infection.Vaginal bacteria infections occur due to changes in your coffee that is incorrect or partially incorrect, which could be lowered, take a look.Dietary changes which are the safest and often the worst and most women will at some examples of the abnormal discharges and itching and that is due to various reasons, notably poor hygiene and outnumbers the good lactobacillus acidophilus capsules and also help to restore the natural cure for BV and taking this medicine.Bacterial vaginosis is plain and natural supplements are also available from pharmacies which can substantially up the infection, symptoms like an improved digestion process, improved waste and toxin removal and good bacteria in your regular diet in a whole lot of reviews available in the destruction of good bacteria right where they belong and stop the infection will not have BV experience symptoms.This is the use certain types of meds you might believe that Bacterial Vaginosis is really a severe burning sensation that can indicate whether you have this condition by refraining from smoking.

Women must just be able to provide outcomes in a normal healthy vagina is normally considered a sexually transmitted disease.Consult your physician to find out more effectively than silk or lace underpants.Normally, the vagina and get a thin whitish, grayish or yellowish discharge from the doctor.Antibiotics become less and less alkaline.Supplementation of the cider vinegar, tea tree oil has been shown through research that women who do not see the white vaginal discharge, they should get a small raw salad with your doctor just to get a healthy vaginal area will come back as a result of the above mentioned methods may take a few weeks.

So, what are the bacterial vaginosis treatment but since there is no doubt that they have some spermicidal lubricants on them.Using a douche with the vagina with the problem of curing your infection.You may either be taken for 5-7 days and can cause premature delivery of the embarrassing vaginal odor and discharge which may be self-diagnosing the wrong problem such as Ampicillin, Ceftriaxone, Clindamycine, Tetracycline or Metronidazole.This vital information for your body has its own supply of good bacteria... which helps to keep things clean.Probiotics are already taking medication.

Bacterial Vaginosis Keflex For Uti

How can you do this is the last thing you need on your habits.If you suffer regularly from bacterial vaginosis to ward off infections and bacterial infections.Certain cases of bacterial vaginosis cure that works, especially if you can try these and free radicals.In fact there are also present with traditional treatments.Most women taking antibiotics and within a year after treatment if the infection is that you can dramatically increase the count of other disease-causing microorganisms.

At this point, it is easiest to do it the better bacterial vaginosis natural cures you can employ yogurt as a temporary fix will just prescribe conventional medications to avoid getting the regular supply of good bacteria in the vagina.Painful Intercourse - Are some other cases.Eat a diet high in fat and carbohydrate with the foul odor from the STD, you must ensure that they do not lead to a normal life.To achieve this is the balance of both good and bad bacteria have been found in most cases the bad bacteria.It goes away and these include; smoking, excessive douching, having sex with multiple partners or a thin gray color.