#and i feel obligated to answer because well they are medical professionals

[sag-dab-sar]

Medical professional: *who has no actual reason to know why I'm using my wheelchair* so why are you using a wheelchair?

Me: Legs don't work well 🫤

Medical professional:

[suiana]

(yandere! doctor x gn! patient) (cw: nsfw, yandere stuff, drugging, bribery, dubcon?)

your doctor is a little weird, you think.

he's a nice guy, yeah. does his work well, always smiling and constantly reassuring you that nothing's wrong with you. sending you off with a nice pat on the back as he emails you your prescription yet again.

but he's nowhere near professional.

his hands linger on your body far longer than what would be considered appropriate. eyes dark and unreadable as you tell him about your lovely significant other that's waiting for you outside of his office. how he'd try and talk bout his own life in an attempt to get you to stay in his office more...

if anything, he acts more like a possessive boyfriend than your doctor.

though you suppose he's just a little eccentric like that. he's a reputable doctor. everyone loves him, and so do you! he's treated you numerous times and his checkups are always so thorough. surely you can just let his... odd behaviour slide.

today you're coming in for a body checkup. lately you've been feeling dizzy and warm despite it being the middle of winter. you wonder if it's because you've gotten ill or someone's poisioning you. after all, there's been some weird holes in your arm whenever you wake up lately.

your excellent doctor has scheduled you in at 4.30 in the afternoon. he was busy earlier today, he says. you understand, he's a busy doctor. your spouse hasn't ended their shift yet so you came in alone. they haven't been answering your texts since they left home earlier today. you can only hope that they've been busy, you'll ask them when they come home.

entering his office, you are met with his polite smile and his melodious voice.

"please sit."

you obey, sitting down in the seat in front of him as you fiddle with your fingers. your doctor looks rather... distracted today. his usually tidy hair is a mess, his glasses wet as though they had just been cleaned.

"it seems that you are feeling warm and under the weather. do you have any other symptoms, my dear?"

"yes... i've been feeling rather..."

you pause, not knowing how to say it.

"aroused?"

you nod. your doctor seems to know you so well.

he hums, going back to his screen before putting on a pair of medical gloves and gesturing for you to lay down on the bed nearby. you oblige. hopefully he'll figure out what's going on with your body.

he starts off normally, prodding and pressing against certain areas of your body. you answer accordingly when he asks you whether they hurt, whether you feel weird or not. it's like any other medical examination.

"so how's your lover been?"

small talk. you realize he's always been a big fan of small talk. asking about your life, humming and smiling as he replies with answers about his own life too. sometimes he says something personal about your life, like how you go shopping on saturdays with your lover or how you sleep with the lights off. you wonder how he knows, is he stalking you? but you shake your head at the thought. you must've told him and forgot.

"they've been... fine. haven't texted me back yet unfortunately."

"mn, i see."

silence washes over the two of you as he continues prodding and touching you. his touches linger, soft and almost as though he was yearning to touch you even more. his tone of voice was nonchalant, like he didn't care.

you feel slightly uncomfortable.

"um..."

"hm?"

"i-i... i guess i'm worried about them. ever since they went out to work in the morning they haven't replied..."

"i am aware."

you remain quiet after that, pursing your lips as you ignore the way his touches have you growing progressively more turned on. you figure it must be a side effect of your condition.

"my dear, can you tell me what you feel what i touch you here?"

"huh? w- h-hey..."

you let out a soft moan as his gloved hands caress your clothed thighs. calm down, he says. it's just a part of the examination. you shudder slightly, squeezing your eyes shut. you feel the warmth in you grow as he continues to gently caress your thighs.

he's right, it's just a medical examination. he wouldn't touch you like that. plus, you have a significant other already. you shouldn't be feeling like this because of his touches. it's wrong.

you exhale shakily, fluttering your eyes open as you stare at him.

"i-it feels nice..? it makes the warmth worse, doc."

"i see... what about over here?"

you let out a gasp, eyes widening so wide you were sure they'd pop out of your skull. where... were his hands touching? surely you're dreaming?

but you weren't. when you looked down, you could clearly see his hands on your nether regions, gently groping and caressing the area.

"w-what are you-"

"i am merely testing to see which parts of your body react to my touch. please do not worry, my dear. this is all medical procedure."

"but it's my-"

"shh... i know. does it feel good? what do you feel?"

you shiver under his touch, whimpering softly as you try sitting up. were you overthinking it? he's just your doctor. this is part of the examination, it's fine.

yet you feel as though his touches have a deeper and more sinister meaning behind them.

"please don't-"

"why not? i've seen your significant other touch you like this multiple times. you've always reacted wonderfully under their touch."

"h-huh?"

your doctor pauses, eyes widening slightly before he lets out a chuckle. his hands continue palming and caressing your privates, almost as though he was... toying with you. with every touch you feel yourself getting more and more worked up, cheeks flushing even more.

"oh dear, i haven't told you have i? i've been keeping a close eye on you... i thought you'd have figured it out by now. your lover certainly has."

you squeeze your eyes shut as his touch, your mind growing fuzzy. what.. did he say? you can't quite understand... all you can feel is how bothered you're getting and how you want him to touch you even more.

"i am pleasantly surprised with how well you are reacting to my touch. i never expected you to react so positively to the drug."

"d-drug? ah... no... don't grope me like that..."

he continues palming at your clothed privates, a calm smile on his face. you can faintly make out the way his cheeks were turning red and the hardening of his pants.

"right, i did tell them not to tell you... my dear, your significant other has left you."

"no... what are you... talking about doc? hah... how would you know anyway..?"

"oh, because i told them to. i gave them some money a few months back and they've been working for me up until... today."

if you were a little more sober, you would've pushed him away and ran for your phone. unfortunately, the aphrodisiac you had been injected with last night has reduced you into a needy thing desperate for his touch.

"what did you do-"

"well my dear, didn't you notice the injection marks in your arm? your significant other had been administering you with tiny dosages of this particular drug i've given them. it's supposed to make you feel good."

"g-good..?"

you hear your doctor chuckle, his hands moving away from your sensitive parts. only to quickly undo the buckle of your pants and slip his hand down on your newly exposed skin.

your breath hitches, hips instictively bucking against his hand as you let out a low whine. you can't think anymore. your brain is so muddled with feeling good that you aren't even worried or disgusted by what he's saying. all you want is him, him, him. he makes you feel good.

"yes my love, good. aren't you feeling good right now?"

"mn mhm!"

you nod your head eagerly as his hands gently toy with your sex, rubbing and fondling you gently. he continues smiling down at you, pleasuring you with his fingers before pulling away. you whimper, face hot and red as you desperately try and pull him back. why would he do that? he was just making you feel so good...

"haha, you want me to continue touching you?"

you nod again. your doctor grins widely at your words, taking off his gloves before you hear the clink of his belt hit the floor.

"well, i suppose i'll get on with my second part of the medical examination now then."

[another-lost-mc]

When MC Needs Surgery

Featuring: The Demon Brothers, the Dateables (most briefly/vaguely mentioned) + gn!Reader

Content/Warnings: Mentions of unspecified health problems, surgical procedures and medical devices. Relationships with the cast are intended to be platonic but may be interpreted as romantic in nature (friendship was the focus here rather than romance). Word count: 3.2k.

A/N: This is dedicated to surgery!anon who requested something for their upcoming surgery. Based on the vague details mentioned to me, I assumed there might be some overlap with my own experiences which is what this is loosely based on. I guess I wrote what I would've liked to have read before my own procedures. I hope this provides some comfort to you as well.

PRE-OP

Some of the demons might wonder why they can't just find some spell to fix what's wrong with you, because how tricky can human anatomy really be? But after Satan does some research and helps you explain to the others (in easy to understand terms while being sensitive of the private details you might not want to share), they realize that perhaps your medical care is best left to the professionals after all.

Lucifer, Diavolo and Barbatos handle the logistics of your care before and after your surgery. Details from your appointments with your medical team help them get a better idea of how long your recovery will be and where you should stay once you leave the human world hospital.

There is some disagreement about whether you should stay at the House of Lamentation or the Demon Lord's Castle. There are pros and cons about staying at the House of Lamentation.

Pros: all of the demon brothers are there to help you when you need assistance.

Cons: all of the demon brothers are there.

One of the concerns – and it's a reasonable one, if you ask anyone but the brothers themselves – is that they might be too demanding of your company in your condition or inconsiderate of your privacy, and possibly neglectful of your need to rest comfortably and quietly.

As the other alternative available to you, the Demon Lord's Castle has spacious rooms so that you'll be able to have everything you need. Your friends are welcome to come and go within reason, but their visitations will be limited to prevent you from being overwhelmed. Ultimately, the choice is left to you.

When you start attending your pre-op appointments, Lucifer goes with you if you don't ask one of the others to go in his place. He's one of the best choices despite his unfamiliarity with the medical ordeal you're about to go through. He quickly picks up on the details of your procedure and the types of support you'll need during your hospital stay and once you're discharged. He helps you prepare a list of questions and concerns for each appointment; the doctors and nurses can't brush your questions aside easily, not when Lucifer is there to ensure that the answers you're given meet his satisfaction.

Later on, Lucifer provides updates to his siblings and your other friends who are keeping tabs on these developments. It's best that they're all aware of what to expect and so that they can help you prepare for what's to come.

In the days leading up to your surgery, everyone does their best to ease your nerves but do a poor job of hiding their own anxieties. It doesn't really register as a real thing that's about to happen until you get notification that your surgery is only a couple days away, and suddenly it feels very, very real.

Lucifer prepares for your long-term absence from RAD and makes sure that any of your obligations – your clubs or student council duties or your part-time job – are dealt with. He buys anything and everything the doctors recommended for your recovery once you return home. If any modifications are required for your bedroom or private bathroom, he plans to have those completed during your hospital stay. (He's grateful your room is already on the first floor of the house, although he would've built one for you if he needed to.)

Mammon and Levi spend as much time with you as they can when they're not busy with other things they try to keep secret: Mammon's new job so he has extra money to buy you get-well presents (bigger and better than all his brothers) and the games and movies Levi has been ordering since he anticipates your recovery will be boring. What better way than to pass the time (hopefully with him?). Satan wanted to go to your appointments with you but he kept grumbling things like, if someone cuts you open, I'm going to cut them open. He's been focusing his efforts on researching which sorts of potions, elixirs or spells might help you recover faster and obtaining the materials he needs for them.

Asmo took you shopping (more than once) to pick up the items on your pre-op checklist of things to bring with you to the hospital: comfortable loose-fitting clothing, slippers, basic toiletries like your toothbrush. Everything he picked for you wouldn't fit in three overnight bags, let alone the single duffel bag you planned to take with you. He just put everything in your dresser and closet and insisted they'd be useful once you were discharged and allowed to come back home.

Beel was curious about your diet recommendations when you come home and he realized that the spicy Devildom foods you like are probably going to be too difficult for you to eat for the foreseeable future . He spoke to Lucifer and Barbatos about his concerns, and they plan to stock the fridge and pantry with all the recommended foods that would ease your recovery and reduce the risk of complications later. Beel took you out for dinner one evening, as a sort of last hurrah. He felt guilty that he didn't realize how serious this was and he admires you for being so brave about something he can't imagine going through himself. He offered to follow your post-surgery diet with you as a show of support because he doesn't want to be insensitive and eat all the delicious foods you won't be able to.

Belphie gets a bit irritated that his brothers take up so much of your time leading up to your surgery date. If you've been feeling tired or unwell leading up to your surgery, you put on a brave face for their sakes but he knows better. He can't take away your pain or discomfort, and he certainly can't fix you the way these human world doctors claim they can, but he can help you relax after a long day of appointments and preparations and pretending you're not as nervous as they all are. He can sense your anxiety rising as the date of your surgery draws near: you're not sleeping as well as you used to, tossing and turning into the late hours of the night and showing up to breakfast looking worse than you did the morning before. Fortunately, that's something he can help you with. He leads you to the attic to sleep and tries not dwell on how long it'll be before after your surgery when you'll be able to climb those steps again. He lulls you into a comfortable, dreamless sleep so that you can as much rest as possible leading up to the big day.

The evening before your surgery, the brothers are practically vibrating from nervousness. Everyone seems on edge and distracted. Asmo ruins his eye makeup from getting teary-eyed and he's especially clingy. Dinner is awkward when the brothers remember that you can't eat your regular diet anymore. You're limited to bland fluids in addition to the jug of prep you need to drink. You drink the powder mixed with ice-cold water and gulp it down – after the first pouch, you disappear into your bedroom. Eventually you come back and rinse and repeat, drinking and refilling that jug until its as empty as you are. (Beel was curious and drank a bit of it despite your warning that he probably shouldn't – his stomach made the strangest sounds the rest of the evening.)

When it's time for bed, you expect to collapse onto your mattress and toss and turn until your early-morning alarm goes off. What you don't expect is for Lucifer and his brothers to lead to you his room with the giant bed that happens to be big enough for all of them. The mood feels somber and you can tell they're as nervous as you are – even Cerberus spends the night in Lucifer's room, lifting his heads up once in a while to check on you while he keeps guard at the foot of the bed. It's the Devildom's most awkward cuddle pile, but eventually you fall asleep surrounded by seven very worried demons who can't manage to sleep themselves.

THE HOSPITAL

Your alarm goes off early that morning – far too early for your liking, but you're eager to get this entire thing over with. Most of the brothers are already awake and finalizing preparations to accompany you to the hospital. You have time for a quick shower and toss on a comfortable shirt, sweatpants and slip-on shoes – you don't need to look good where you're going, and you won't be wearing these clothes for very long.

The others arrive so Barbatos can summon a portal for everyone to take. Despite your many reminders, everyone insists they want to come and support you, including your friends from Purgatory Hall and Diavolo himself.

(What you suspect but don't know for certain is that Diavolo arranged for your care in the human world hospital you'll be staying at. There were concerns about visitor limits and securing the largest and best private room for your recovery, but a generous donation from the Hotel Corvo corporation helped ease some of those administrative hurdles.)

You're only allowed one support person to accompany you to the surgical unit, so the others grab coffee and pre-packaged muffins and slowly make their way down to the waiting area. Lucifer – or whoever you asked to accompany you instead – sits with you while you wait for your name to be called.

Time passes in a blur. You put on a starchy hospital gown and housecoat while you tuck your belongings into a plastic bag and carry it with you. The nurses direct you to a chair and go over the standard medical questions you've answered a million times before. You look away when the IV goes in, and on the other side of you, warm fingers squeeze your hand.

You're tired and nervous and there are too many thoughts racing through your mind, but you sit in silence while the clock ticks down. You shuffle awkwardly down a sterile hall with too-bright lights when it's finally time, and you hope the smile you shoot over your shoulder at your companion is convincing. (It's as unsteady as you both feel when you disappear with the nurse who leads you to the operating room.)

Maybe it's the exhaustion or the empty, upset stomach distracting you while you sit on a table and ignore the cool fingers and pinching sensation in your back while they prepare the epidural because you barely feel it. You lay on a narrow table with a blood pressure cuff on one arm and your IV in another, and when the medications quickly pull you into a dreamless sleep, you feel a last-minute sense of comfort knowing that your friends are waiting close by and they won't let anything bad happen to you.

While you're in the OR, your friends make themselves comfortable in the visitor's lounge and they wait for news. Four hours, six hours, eight hours later – none of them want to leave until they can see you're alive and well with their own eyes. You warned them all it would be a long and boring day and they insisted they wanted to come no matter what.

Some of them fidget in their seats and pace when their nerves get the best of them. Levi's handheld beeps and the buttons click noisily as he plays his game, and Satan tries to focus on a paperback he picked up in the gift shop. Mammon spends way too much money buying Nevada tickets from a vendor in the hospital lobby (“It's for charity, ain't it?!”) and rubs it in Lucifer's face when he actually wins something. Asmo frets with embarrassment when he sees the SCENT-RESTRICTED FACILITY poster on the wall and covers the scent of his expensive fragrance with a dampening charm to avoid upsetting the staff (and makes note to skip the heavily-scented body products for future visits). Belphie accompanies Beel to sample the cafeteria's food, multiple times.

Throughout the day, small groups take turns leaving the waiting room to grab fresh cups of coffee or sandwiches to snack on. Diavolo and Barbatos confirm with the hospital staff that your private room is ready with the special amenities they requested for you, including a cot that an overnight guest can sleep on. You chose your preferred companion in advance, and none of the others dared voice their petty disappointment that they weren't chosen instead. What matters most is that one of them is with you at all times to assist you in your weakened state (they called it protecting you, but you tried to reassure them without success that they were being too dramatic). The others are free to visit as much as they like, as long as you're comfortable with it of course.

It feels like eternity before news reaches your friends as your surgery ends, and then another update a couple hours later when you're moved from PACU to your hospital room. The nurses have already gotten you settled into your accommodations by the time the first visitors hesitantly step inside to see you. Despite the preparations and expectations and warnings, they're still not prepared for the machine humming and beeping at your side as it pumps various medications through your IV. There's a remote looped around the bed by your arm that lets you administer more pain medication through your epidural.

It's gotten late and the surgical ward is quiet except for the ambient sounds of nurses chatting quietly at their station or other machines beeping in nearby rooms. Against the standard-issue hospital linens and the thin gown you wear, you look more vulnerable than they've ever seen you, their perfectly imperfect human who’s gone through so much in such a short amount of time. Perhaps it's a good thing that you're overcome with exhaustion and only have fleeting memories of your friends' worried faces when they each came to see you before bidding you goodnight with a promise to come back in the morning. Some struggle to contain their emotions more than others, and there's a collective understanding between all of them that perhaps they've taken you for granted because they never want to see you like this again – not if they can prevent it.

Your nighttime companion sits at your bedside most of the night and watches over you in case you show signs of discomfort or pain. They pull the cord to alert the nurses when you wake up queasy and you request something for your upset stomach with your scratchy voice and dry throat. You can't eat or drink yet, but the nurse leaves a small plastic cup of ice chips at your bedside – it's enough to remove the cottony feeling from your tongue and throat, and you can sleep once more.

Your demon friends aren't familiar with modern medicine and none of them know what the bags of fluids hanging next to your bed are. RINGERS scrolls across the screen of the IV pump but it’s anyone’s guess what it means. All they know is that it seems to be important as it’s one of the last medications you stop taking before your IV is eventually removed. Tonight and throughout the days that will soon follow, the machine beeps loudly – and often – when the bag runs dry. They remember which button to hit to turn off the awful alarm so that the disturbance doesn't wake you while they wait for a nurse to come with a replacement.

RECOVERY

The first few days are some of the most challenging, but all of your friends are there to support you as much as they can. At least one of them is present when the surgeon and his residents make their early morning rounds. You can't bear to look at the staples and incisions hidden under the thick dressings that cover a large part of your lower belly, but the surgeon and nurses all claim that things look fantastic. You can't help but snort at the odd feedback, and Asmo reminds you that there's plenty of creams that can help with minimizing those scars later, if you want them. (He prefers you exactly the way you are, scars and all, but he keeps his opinion on that subject to himself.)

Your post-surgery diet is severely restricted until you're able to tolerate basic fluids again, and solid foods are introduced slowly too. Beel reads over your daily menu selection and glares at the abysmal tray of hospital food that is delivered to your room. He tastes some of the dishes and wonders how they can make something as simple as broth or cream of wheat so unappealing. Barbatos sips the lukewarm mug of tea on your tray that you ignore with each meal; you warn him that it's not good, and the pain in your stomach is worth it when you shake with laughter at the offended grimace that sours his expression. He promises to bring you drinkable tea from now on, and he and Beel both bring acceptable alternatives to your hospital fare in accordance with your current meal plan.

One of the most challenging things you didn't expect – and it catches your friends off-guard too – is how difficult it is to get up and walking again. After a few days in bed with the epidural numbing you to the worst of the pain and being mostly stationary aside from some breathing exercises, it's time to get up and take the literal first step towards your journey home.

Your friends scoff at the idea of a physiotherapist coming to help you, until they hear the first cry of pain when you sit up on the edge of the bed and breathe heavily like it's the most ardious feat you've ever accomplished. It's another reminder that this was a tremendous thing for your delicate human body to go through, and even though they can't just take away your pain or fix things magically (no matter how much some of them might want to), they'll do what they can to help.

They don't tease you when they slip your shoes onto your feet, and they don't stare or ask about the various bags of fluids hanging from the IV pole you lean on for support while you shuffle your way around the ward one lap at a time. They match your pace and are ready in a moment's notice to support you if you lose your balance, and as soon as they sense you're pushing yourself just a little too hard, they help you back into bed where you fall asleep not long after.

Things carry on that way until the surgeon announces tentative plans for your release. By now, you're bored out of your mind and eager to be anywhere but in that bloody hospital room. Your friends are eager to have you home again, and the air is charged with excitement for the first time since your surgery. Everything you need for your recovery at the House of Lamentation – medications and supplies and your diet plan and anything else you could possibly need – are ready for you.

On the day you're finally discharged, they help scan your room to make sure all of your personal items have been packed away for the trip home. One of them carries your duffel bag for you while a couple others carry boxes filled with the numerous gifts, cards, and vases of flowers that filled nearly every available space of your room. (The human world flowers have started to wilt, but the arrangements from the Devildom and the Celestial Realm, including the bouquet you received one day with a note signed only with “M”, are still blooming flawlessly as ever.)

[addermoray]

Tim Drake: Civilian Life

As many of you know, Tim Drake is my favorite comic book character and has been for decades. And being the long time fan that I am, I hate to see my boy's wheels spinning. But I also hate to see writers try to advance him to places he really shouldn't be going.

Some of you may have read previous posts I've made about the character and know that I agree with the thoroughly ingrained concept that, in the future, Tim will become Batman, despite not wanting to be, out of obligation and doing the job will make him miserable.

Why would I want to inflict this kind of suffering on my favorite character? Because it's the only route that has ever made sense for him. Tim's entire character, his entire reason for becoming Robin in the first place, has been stepping up because someone had to, despite never wanting to be that someone.

His other defining character trait is his loyalty to the people close to him. Not just the Batfamily, but the original Young Justice as well. When Tower of Babel happened, the team got nervous about Tim doing the same to them and he swore he could never treat his friends that way. Years later

Your first instinct might be to say he went back on his word. But you'll notice that his list includes not one single member of his Young Justice team.

Why do I bring this up in a post about what I would do with Tim Drake if given free reign at DC? We'll get there.

The answer to the question, by the way, is that I would do one last story arc tying up loose ends as Robin and then I would have him move on...

To civilian life.

Tim was never meant to stay a super hero. It is a tragedy, in universe, that he's done it as long as he has. And the day he comes back to be Batman because someone has to will always be some distance in the future. So one final story line. One last long string of triumphs before he hangs up his cape (except, ya know, for big giant crossover stories where it's all hands on deck) and is sidelined into the background of the DCU.

Sidelined, but not removed.

Because while I'd take him out of active hero duty, there are a bunch of dangling threads that would make for a beautiful bow to keep him in the loop while off of the front lines.

Tim Drake's mother was killed. And then his father was killed. But he has a Step-Mother that survived, vanishing from the story. As did the failing, but not failed, Drake Industries.

Let's bring those back. The final chapter of Tim Drake's final story as an active super hero would be reconnecting with Dana-Winters Drake. After her mental crisis, following her husband's death, she was able to recover. Tim had been helping, but keeping his distance. His being a hero has gotten enough of his parents killed. The company he inherited? He gave to her once she was fit to take it, expecting her to sell it.

Instead, she brought it back from the brink, never taking it public.

Tim, finally putting his super heroics behind him, can at last feel safe reuniting with her.

Flash forward and Tim's got a role in what was his father's company. Not in charge of it, why would he ever want to take that from his stepmom? But he runs his own division and has full autonomy. Over the years there have been many companies purporting to provide aid to super heroes. The problem is that they were all inevitably revealed to be evil ploys, run by villains, or taken over by greedy fat cats.

But what if there was one that was guaranteed to be trustworthy?

From equipment, to safe houses, to access to medical and psychiatric professionals, Drake Industries has you covered. And, of course, the first people we see Tim, in a suit and tie instead of a cape and mask, extending these services to are his old team.

And with this being the new status quo, Tim is still around to be used in stories and is freed up to take a background role that can have him appear in any number of books, not just bat and Young Justice books. Like Nightwing and Oracle before him, he becomes a major player in the DCU overall. But he's also finally living the life he wanted to, balancing his sense of obligation with at last being free from the rooftops.

[lesbianrobin]

what are your thoughts on Steve's depression or possible PTSD, I saw on steveharrington an anon gave thanks to you as well for depicting it accurately in your writing and as someone who actually has it, I'd say you and sarah have done a fuckin' A of a job depicting "episodes" or thought patterns that come with it

( A as in A+ )

thank you!! so first off before i say this i wanna be clear that this is not a level of transparency anybody should ever feel obligated to have on tumblr, i'm sharing this bc i want to: i personally am diagnosed with depression and generalized anxiety disorder, and i take medication to manage both conditions.

i don't usually think about steve Having Depression or some other specific mental illness. when i'm writing, i don't write to a diagnosis. instead, i consider the following:

my overall goal with the fic. is it focused on steve and his mental state? will i have time to address and possibly resolve any problematic thought processes or behaviors that i bring up?

steve's mental state. which season am i writing in? who is he with? what's been going on in his life? how does he view himself and those around him?

the situation. how would steve respond to what's happening? how has he responded to similar situations in canon? how would his state of mind in the fic influence his behavior?

and all of the rest just kinda follows. i'm not a psych professional yknow i'm not trying to necessarily depict specific symptoms, i'm trying to depict steve as best as i can, and any potential labels that could apply come after the fact. the only exception to this is in my ongoing fic, young strangers, where part of the Point is like how mental illness can impact a family and an individual, but even then i'm kinda more focused on like. steve's specific unhealthy thought patterns and behaviors than i am a specific condition.

i think when you consider the full psychological state of a character in a show like stranger things where people die and get tortured and lose their loved ones, it's inevitable that you'll have to consider their mental health, so that's what i do. a lot of how i write steve comes from my own mind and my own unhealthy thought patterns, and that's like. sorta on purpose? sorta not? idk.

sorry i realize i didn't really like answer your question coherently but that's because i don't have super coherent thoughts on the topic yknow i just try to give steve like realistic psychological complexity and maybe sometimes make him mentally ill in the process.

[themainspoon]

Just found out that I didn’t get into my Universities paid summer internship program, and I’m heartbroken. This would have let me work in the field I’m studying to be a part of, it would have let me get my name on an actual academic paper, it would have given me a ton of useful experience, and it would have allowed me to produce knowledge instead of simply receiving it (something I’ve wanted to do since the beginning of my first year). I have just missed a huge opportunity, and it feels terrible.

(Big long emotional self reflective post below. I don’t expect anybody to undergo the emotional labour of engaging with this post, this is mainly just me thinking out loud into/onto something. It isn’t really a rant or a vent, I’m not trying to blast my emotions at others so I can feel better, and I’m not just pointlessly rambling. However, this is all personal IRL stuff, you have no obligation to engage with it.)

Now I’m just kind of left with several months of nothing until the start of March next year. This also once again highlights one of my biggest personal issues, which is that the entirety of my self esteem is built upon my academic success. I do well, and in university I actually receive affirmation. My success actually gets noticed (unlike my experience in school), I have good relationships with my tutors and professors, and I seem to be well liked by most of them. I was directly told by my academic advisor that it will be tragic if I don’t continue onto a masters degree after completing my bachelors, and I’ve made it onto the deans merit list twice!

For the first time in my life I’ve felt like I have actual meaningful talent, like I have value. I’ve come to believe that I am actually intelligent! Back when I was younger if you asked me what my best qualities were I wouldn’t have been able to answer you. I was a neurodivergent kid who grew up in the world of the primary and secondary education system, who bounced between professionals and “professionals”, who lived under the control of the biomedical gaze, and who was only able to understand themself through the language of the medical discourses that defined me by my hardship and suffering. I grew up trapped within systems that only focused on what I couldn’t do.

And so when I found myself in a system in which what I COULD do was the focus. When I found myself not being defined by my inability, but instead affirmed for my ability, I began to develop an ego and some actual self esteem. However, the issue is that when your entire positive sense of self is built upon one thing, when that singular thing is challenged (as it just has been) it is not simply a piece of your positive self image that has been challenged, it is the entirety of your self worth that gets challenged.

I know I’m not stupid, I know the fact that I didn’t get selected doesn’t mean that I wasn’t good enough (just that somebody else was better suited for the position). But this still feels like failure, and the entirety of my self esteem rests on my lack of failure.

It reminds me with a discussion I had with my therapist in which we were talking about my self esteem, and she asked me what things I liked about myself. I told her that I like to think that I’m pretty smart, and that I do well in subjects that I care about. She accepted this, but then she threw me a curveball: “What else do you like about yourself? What else do you think you’re good at? What are the other pieces that form your positive self esteem?” I couldn’t answer her, I had nothing to say, because the answer was that there wasn’t anything else.

Right now I am experiencing the effects of building your entire self esteem upon a single factor. My advice? Don’t do that, because even the smallest challenge to that idea will deal significant emotional damage to you, and it feels like shit.

I don’t know what to do now, I feel like this should be a wakeup call for me to find other sources of self esteem, to find other ways to feel like I matter, to find other things I’m good at, to discover that I have value in other ways.

But I’ve spent the vast majority of my life feeling like I don’t, like I was an issue to be solved, being told to try harder, do better, work harder, I experienced life of never feeling like I was good enough. I know that everybody is supposed to have inherent value, and that I am supposedly good enough simply by being me, but on an emotional level I feel like I can’t accept that. It feels like toxic positivity bullshit, “love yourself!!1!” feels like unhelpful bullshit, because my self-love is conditional, and it always has been. How can I “love myself” when I have not earned my own love, when I do not deserve my own love? I am told to love myself, but I don’t, and I don’t want too.

Why would I?

I’ll be ok, I always end up being ok. It just fucking sucks to be reminded that you aren’t exactly a well adjusted person, and that you don’t know what to do about that.

[writeyouin]

Hi there, can I request a headcannon list for tfp ratchet? Something where Reader, who is usually very easy going and wears a smile on their face is one day very quiet, only for Ratchet to find out that their family is practically estranged from them when they found out that they're gay. ty for your work!

Transformers Prime / Reader Insert – Family

A/N – Hey, so this got pretty angsty and bittersweet. I just hope that all of you know that being gay is great. It can be so difficult to be proud when someone doesn’t accept you, but I promise that the world gets better, especially when you find other supportive people. Friends are the family we choose for ourselves, and I hope that message stays with all of us.

Warnings – Angst.

Rating – T

For once, Ratchet found himself able to work peacefully in the base. The other Autobots were out on various missions. Jack, Miko and Raf were in school. Agent Fowler was at his own official place of work, and you had gone straight to the archives room as soon as you had entered the base.

‘Yes,’ Ratchet thought, satisfied. ‘All is quiet.’

It took him a long time to turn his processor to you. While it wasn’t unusual for you to go about your own business, it was certainly out of character for you to pay so little heed to Ratchet.

Sure, you always let him work when he was busy, but you also always greeted him with a smile, pestering him until you got one in return.

Ratchet couldn’t remember a day when you hadn’t told him not to be such a sour-puss, or sang his name until he paid you heed. Out of the humans, you were his partner, helping him in many a scientific task, once he had taught you what to do.

You joked, you sang, you danced, and you laughed. So, what had changed today?

Yes, Ratchet had found that he was able to work better in the peace and quiet that had befallen the base, but was there such a thing as it being too quiet?

“Bah,” Ratchet grumbled. He was over-reacting.

You couldn’t always be the easy-going, happy-go-lucky person who radiated warmth and life throughout the base. There had to be a limit to your seemingly endless supply of energy. Reassured in his conclusions, Ratchet got back to work. You would come to see him when you were ready to, and probably with some data from the archives that he needed.

Hours later, when Ratchet was sure that he was close to a breakthrough in his research, he found that he had hit something of a mental block. On the rare occasions when that happened, you were always there to talk him through his problems, or listen to him rant until he figured out what he was missing. It seemed that you always had a way of sensing his troubles.

Ratchet waited to hear your voice, but he was met with only silence. There had been a time when he worked alone, needing no such reassurances from anyone, but that time was long gone. The simple fact of the matter was that he needed your seemingly endless supply of positivity to spur him on.

Muttering to himself in a way that only those with old souls do, Ratchet left his work console in search of you.

“(Y/N), do you have a minute?” He called, upon distractedly entering the archive room. “I need to bounce some ideas off you.”

You stared up at Ratchet with hollow eyes. Ratchet had seen every emotion possible in his fellow Cybertronians. He knew sadness, guilt, despair, anger, resentment, and longing. As a medic, it was his job to heal the mind as well as the body. He had sworn an oath to help those in need where he could, and clearly, you needed his help now.

“(Y/N), what’s wrong?” Ratchet said, getting straight to the point; he never wasted time beating around the bush where people’s health was concerned.

“Hm? It’s nothing,” You answered in a dull monotone that didn’t suit you.

“Don’t lie,” Ratchet reprimanded.

You looked to the ground sadly, making Ratchet feel somewhat guilty that he hadn’t spent more time adopting a soothing tone. Still, it was too late for pleasantries now, so instead he waited for you to speak.

When it became apparent that you weren’t going to answer him, Ratchet spoke again.

“You can tell me now, or you can tell me later. Either way, neither of us are leaving this room until you talk. Clearly something is bothering you, so you may as well get it over with now.”

You knew that Ratchet wouldn’t really hold you verbally hostage against your will. If you told him that you weren’t ready to talk about what was bothering you yet, he would leave you be. Still, you didn’t want him to worry over you, nor did you want him to treat you like you were made of glass, afraid to say or do anything that might upset you.

“I’m just having a hard time right now… With my family,” You admitted.

Ratchet considered your statement momentarily. Cybertronians rarely had problems with so called ‘family.’ While all Cybertronians had creators, it didn’t seem to hold the same weight as the title of parent. Besides that, the few Cybertronians that did have family by Earth definitions were usually estranged from them, or their relatives were dead. Ratchet had a nephew, Medix, out in the galaxy somewhere, but he had not seen the young bot for quite some time.

Humans, he had learned, had strong familial bonds where possible. Ratchet wasn’t sure that he had the cultural understanding to help with whatever was troubling you; however, perhaps just the simple act of listening would alleviate your troubles.

“Would you like to talk about it?” He asked.

You swallowed your fears, wondering exactly where you should start. Although you knew that Ratchet would not judge you for whatever you might say, your irrational mind reminded you of your previous rejection, injecting you with fear that it would happen again.

“I…” You began, closing your eyes against tears that threatened to spill. “My family don’t want anything to do with me.”

“Why?” Ratchet demanded, offended on your behalf. You were wonderful, positive, intelligent, and caring. What cause could they possibly have for abandoning you?

There was a time that Ratchet believed that Miko was estranged from her family, but it turned out that they simply wanted what was best for her, and they thought the answer to that lay in America. All the same, sometimes the girl would take the ground-bridge to Japan, so she could watch her parents through the windows of their familial home; it was the only time that she was ever sombre.

Ratchet instantly knew from your tone that this wasn’t the same.

“Don’t worry about this, Ratchet,” You told him, courage abandoning you when faced with telling him of your troubles.

One stern look from Ratchet told you that this issue wasn’t going to be dropped. You loved that he cared for you enough to ask about this, yet you also hated it. There was a time that you felt that you could tell your family anything, and it had cost you everything; you would be remiss to make the same mistake again.

However, pinned by Ratchet’s penetrating gaze, you felt obliged to continue with your story, explaining what had happened.

“Three years ago today, my family stopped talking to me… I just get sad around this time when I think of it.”

“(Y/N), please tell me what happened between you and your family.”

You wiped your eyes with the back of your arm, your voice cracking when you next spoke, “They don’t want me because I’m gay.”

Gay? Ratchet searched his memory banks for a brief conversation he’d had with Jack. Gay was the term humans used for attraction to the same gender. He remembered that humans had this primitive idea, usually based on perversions of religious texts, that attraction to the same gender was shameful, disgusting, or dangerous.

Anger flared inside Ratchet’s processor. Both as a medical professional, and your friend, he wanted nothing more than to give your family the telling off that they deserved. However, as good as that would make him feel, this wasn’t about him, nor would it help the situation.

“There is nothing wrong with being gay,” Ratchet said resolutely, showing support in his unwavering stubbornness. “And your family are foolish for thinking so. I hope one day they get their heads out of their afts long enough to see what a wonderful person you have grown to be, and when that day comes, they had better beg your forgiveness.”

Although those weren’t traditional words of comfort that Ratchet was offering you, you knew that he was doing his best.

“Thanks, Ratchet,” You murmured. “I hope so too.”

“Well…” He hummed, clearly unsure of where to go from here. “Would you like to help me with my research?”

You smiled sadly, “If it’s all the same to you, do you mind if I have a little alone time today?”

“Of course,” Ratchet nodded. He was about to leave when he thought of one more thing that had to be said. “Cybertronians know little of family matters. That being said, the other Autobots and I are honoured to have you as a part of ours.”

“Thank you, I needed that.”

Ratchet gave a sympathetic smile, leaving you in the archive room and vowing to check on you again before you left.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Maybe, if you have any extra time, would you consider doing a continuation of the good villain rehab center prompt??? 🥺

🥺 I loved writing that one. Here you go! Just as a heads up, I’m going to start making prompt fills like this a little shorter, just because they’re starting to pile up a little. I wanna make sure I can answer all of them!

Thank you so much for the request!! Continued from here. This one is fluffy but also just a little sad.

CW//Hospital setting, pill mention, nausea mention, low self esteem

Visiting hours were from one to four.

That was the first thing Villain learned about the Supervillain Memorial Villainous Recovery Center, or, as it was far more commonly known, for the sake of brevity, the RC. That visiting hours were from one to four.

They could not help but hear the fact, echoing in their mind, as they glanced to the clock. Half after noon.

Half an hour.

Lunch was served at noon sharp-- they had learned that, too. Villain glanced down at the plate, sitting on the desk before them. It had been picked clean, to the point of nigh-spotlessness, leaving behind only the smeared residue of sauces and spices.

Two days. Three, they supposed, now, since the clock’s hands had already passed well into the afternoon. Three days, spent at the RC.

72 hours. Not counting the time they’d spent without their consciousness intact.

They sighed, placing down their fork-- a real, metal fork-- and listening to its soft clatter against the porcelain dishware.

Visiting hours were from one to four. Meaning that, in half an hour, Hero would be there. They’d grown familiar with, though not particularly fond of, the knock on their door-- the age-old call: “Villain, you have a visitor.”

Lunchtime had quickly become their least favorite time of day.

Things were peaceful before food was served. They woke up when wakefulness stirred them, spurred by no alarm, human or otherwise. The room was... comfortable. Light coaxed its way between the shades of their closed blind, leaving sunspots on the wood-paneled floor.

Though they awoke alone, when they emerged from bed, it was never long before someone came to see them. Doctor, it had been so far. A face they had learned to find kind and welcoming, even if their movements still made them uneasy.

Every day, the doctor would coax a light knocking upon their door, greeting them with a soft call of ‘good morning.’ They would ask how they had slept, how they were doing.

It was always the less practical questions that came before those of a medical nature. ‘Have you been feeling well?’ ‘Is there anything you need?’ ‘Would you like some tea?’

Then came the medical questionnaire-- a short affair of simple ‘yes’s’ and ‘no’s.’ Yes, their head still hurt. No, they weren’t having any trouble breathing. Yes, they were drinking their water. And their pills. Based upon the doctor’s warm, content smile, Villain’s recovery was going well, though they never mentioned the way that the taste of smoke refused to remove itself from the back of their tongue.

And, finally, the apologies.

To Doctor, Villain’s living conditions must have seemed to be torturous, considering the way they spoke of them.

“I’m so sorry you have to stay in here. Your doctors want a clean bill of health before you move to the main wing. It’s flu season, they say. Something like that could land you in the hospital while your lungs are still weak.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you could come visit with the nurses for a while... Oh, you must be so lonely. Are you sure there’s no one you want to call?”

“You aren’t getting bored, are you? The library is just down the street, are there any books you want? There’s a TV in the employee lounge...”

Yet, despite their countless worries, each and every one went unfounded. Villain’s room was a cell, yes. The door was locked. The window was bolted shut. They were a prisoner, and they knew that.

But, inexplicably, they were happy. On the first day, they had gone so far as to wonder if their food had been tampered with. They’d soon found otherwise, however. There was a far less sinister explanation.

They were simply happy. Perhaps not euphoric. Not overjoyed. But... content.

The time they spent in their cell was serene. Staring out over the window, watching the ocean play, the flowers in the botanical garden flash their extravagant petals. On the second day, when their fatigue had receded, they had obliged one of the doctor’s many offers. A book from the library.

Later that day, a chatty intern had brought in five, jabbering about how they didn’t know how fast of a reader Villain was.

So far, they’d only gotten through one, flipping leisurely through its pages. There was something nearly overwhelming about the experience. Letting the words flow to their mind as waves whorled in the ocean outdoors.

Prisoner or not, they were happy. They enjoyed their cell. There was room to roam, room to breathe. They couldn’t remember the last time they had been able to simply pause. To let every part of them relax.

And, during most of the day, they did relax.

Except during visiting hours. One to four.

Villain’s gaze glanced to the clock. 12:45.

Three days they’d been in the RC. Three days Hero would visit. Even if the hour had no struck yet, there was no doubt in their mind that the hero would be there, right on time, smiling and bringing gifts. The first day, it had been cookies. The second, a handful of candies. Today, they’d promised a brownie.

Villain never ate the food. It went right in the trash, every piece of it. It wasn’t an act of spite, not an act of distrust. But an act of nausea. When Hero left after their visits, they had no desire to eat.

Hero was... nice. That was undeniable. They entered with a grin and left with one, even as it fluttered throughout their meeting. Never had they uttered to Villain an insulting word, an aggressive tone. That was exactly the problem.

Why?

Why hadn’t they harmed them?

By name alone, the RC would have made any villain keep far from its walls. A recovery center was certainly a misnomer, a joke at those inside. Those being held captive, broken down and shattered into fiberglass particles of themself.

Because the heroes were evil. They were in the wrong. Regardless of what they said, regardless of what the public thought, it was the villains who were fighting the good fight. Any facility they had control over was certainly a torture chamber, intent on inflicting nothing but suffering on those inside.

Not bringing them tea and library books.

During visiting hours, from one to four, Villain would hardly speak. They allowed Hero to do that for them-- even as they asked them questions, requested their input, nudged them for anecdotes. There were no words that villain could say that would sound right.

So, they listened. Listened to the hero’s stories, how their day had gone, what stupid think their drunk teammates had done last weekend. Yet, they never strayed to topics of villainy. Never to topics of work. When such things would come up, they were brushed over with professional efficiency. ‘Then we fought downtown, but you’ll never guess how Teammate managed to set off the fire alarm.’

Because they didn’t care. Hero didn’t care.

They didn’t care that they were speaking to a villain. One who had caused untold harm, unending, ceaseless, meaningless destruction. Every time they prompted Villain to speak, they struggled to open their mouth. To let a stream of apologies spill forth, greater than the ocean outside their window.

But, not a single word would emerge. Because it wouldn’t be enough.

In the Supervillain Memorial Villainous Recovery Center, Villain was recovering. That was the problem.

They didn’t deserve it.

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and a minor depiction of a fight. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: I am a nerd for a good Victorian novel and a sexy Alienist.I have always been charmed by Laszlo’s mind and inner conflicts. So I took the chance and tried to have a run into that rollercoaster.  The story is placed between season 1 and season 2.

Diary belonging to Dr. Laszlo Kreizler.  This is a professional book of annotations over medical treatments of an alienist toward his patients. Do not disclose and send it back to the address if found: Kreizler’s Institute, xxxxxx, New York City (NY) L.K.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Illustrated Natural History of the Animal Kingdom (c1859). Contributed for digitization by University Library, University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.

Schiller in his “Die Weltweisen” wrote: So long as philosophy keeps together the structure of the Universe so long does it maintain the world’s machinery by hunger and love. From the philosopher point of view sexual life takes a subordinate position in human’s life, from recent studies pushed by European philosophers, everything is about sexuality and its development. I like to think of the experience of being an alienist as the process of Queen Penelope that, while waiting for her husband Ulysses return, undoes her craftwork every night. I undo the fabulous constructs of people’s beliefs to go back to the rough sketch that stands at the beginning of their loss, their complex, their pain. Maybe that’s why working with children is so motivating and fascinating. They can be saved and yet, I am well aware, some of those sketches already traced in their young lives equal to scars that not even the most advanced theories could cure. But I can sooth them. I can prevent them the torment, the anguish, the recollection at night of those monsters. I feel like a poet would be a better alienist than a philosopher, but I have got no poetry nor philosophy in my veins, but the cold experience of the razor blade judgment of Life itself.

Today I observed a fight among the children at the Institute. Age range between 10 and 12. Boys. The fight was over the possession of a side of the playground, the territory of a pack  of youngsters formed under the name of Steven. Peculiar lad, coming from a military background finds comfort in replicating the schemes he lived in his family. He takes the role of the Father/Captain of the team and subjects children that come from a similar background story, but do not posses his same attitude to the command. All quiet on the front, until the space he declared is own spot got affected by the presence of others.  Intruders. I knowingly let the events unfold to see how Steven would react to his challenged authority. His reaction was, at first, worded, a sketch, a stage-play of an action he witnessed over and over, and he knew the part so well that some of the contending kids lowered their stance against him. Among considering to mildly intervene into this pyramid scheme of authority, another boy, Jan, calls himself on the role of the educator and hero of the masses and proceeds to unfold a wild and well assessed punch on the newly declared dictator face. Balance is established again. No need for me to arbitrate, once more the laws of nature seem to apply to children as in a state of nature.

Meet John Moore over lunch. His job at the newspaper is picking up, he is charmed by the spirits and the wits that he finds in his shared office with all the other writers. He mentions many, goes on and on over qualities and troubles, gossips and tendencies, and even little scandals here and there. To be aware of all those details gives me no interest, but to see a dear friend so invested clearly gives me something to pick up. To consider also the amount of details and the way he describes this or that member of the journal, I can do a small exercise of analysis. It is almost too easy because John is painfully genuine, even some of the kids at the institute would beat him hands down in a battle of lies. The more he likes somebody, the more he goes on about all the details and the characteristics, often letting aside the physical appearance. When he doesn’t like somebody he has a couple of adjectives for the wits and around four or five for the physical aspects that usually indulge on some repulsive idiosyncrasies.  John is a man that painfully fits in the storyline of The Picture of Dorian Gray: to him physical beauty is spiritual beauty and, of course, the other way around. This part of him surely intrigues me, makes me want to tease more from him. But, as a friend, it concerns me as John is way too prone to purposelessly decide that somebody with good eyes is also a good human being, which is a very romantic and admirably naive way of judging matters. I noticed some names that keep repeating in his narration. I dread that it is synonymous of a soon encounter from my side with the objects of his admiration. Fetiches, I dare to say, that I will have to annihilate before they sediment into his mind, perpetuating a narration that soon sees John being mislead by others.

Reserved: Tickets for the Eroica, Symphony n. 3 by Ludwig van Beethoven. Thursday evening.

Note on the show: the first movement lacked the pathos needed to begin with, I am not sure that the guest orchestra really managed to portray the wider emotional ground needed to withstand the whole representation. As the evening progressed there were some outstanding performances by the cellists. Still not approving the choice of reprising the early quick finale movement against the lengthy set of variations and fugue that we are used to in presence of the Eroica. Underwhelming the performance of the horn and oboe, vital in the comprehension of the genius of Beethoven. 

Niki is a new addition of the Institute, quite old for the standards. He is already 16, he will leave when summer ends to some expensive college his family meant him to stay. His parents expect me to make him “normal” in the time we are allowed together.  He is Austrian and I let him act it out like I don’t understand German for the first week of hist stay until today. I believe I hit his pride, which is good, in the moment I answered back to one of his sneaky comments. Now he knows. He is not safe from me, he doesn’t like it. The young man has a tendency to danger, risky tasks and edgy situations. In his mother’s own words “Niki is not afraid of anything”. The phrase didn’t raise any excitement in the father, rather some sort of painful acceptance that is role as the alpha male of the house is probably not only being challenged, but  already diminished, if not abolished. I have taken in consideration that Niki will break himself a bone or two in the process of the therapy, probably out of the spite of boredom or rebellion. It took him less than few days to turn himself into an outcast among the outcasts, which only drives me closer to analyse the complexity of his narcissistic wall of self defence. I gave him a physical challenge to lift a certain weight, he is a pretty skinny one, he didn’t like the challenge, but I am sure he will take it. He is a brainy guy, he hates to be questioned on unfamiliar ground. He won’t sleep at night thinking about it.  A challenge, in this first phase, can only bring me closer to the ease of his pains. To continue the observation.

It is a sad privilege of medicine, in particular the one I practice, to be able to witness the weaknesses of the human nature and the reverse side of life. Nevertheless, I oblige this same privilege of the study as life moves into shades of darkness. To be aware of it gives more solace to my soul than to be victim of patiently waiting for the inevitable unfolding of the events. To be able to understand more about psychology would bring more comfort and elevation to any human being, the times might not be there yet, but eventually something will move into the direction of a more wholesome approach.

Dinner meeting with Sara Howard, at the restaurant Jardin Des Cygnes, 7 pm sharp.  Do not expect to reach the dessert. Do not know if John will be participating due to undeniable tension among the two and the fatal despise of John over French cuisine.

The case that Sara unfolded tonight to my ears feels more and more like pulled out from some gothic book or from the mind of a Roman historian that needed to justify the godly origins of an Emperor. One killing, apparently random, a very constructed iconography over the body. Signs and insults, shapes and drawings. Is this a work of art? Does the killer wants his victim to be his Mona Lisa? His David? I am charmed and destabilised. If this was a murder like any other, then why to spend so much time into it? Based on the description the act of killing itself was quick: a sharp cut over the throat, almost like not wanting to ruin too much the surface to use as base for, what? I keep rerunning those symbols over and over as Sara described them to me, my mind is flooded with the designs of greek philosophers that needed to explain themselves why the sky is above our head and never collapses on us. Hilarious how, no matter the science advancement, in the mind of many the sky stands inevitably overt their shoulders, suffocates them, brings them to a death of the soul and not of the body. Is all this graphic charade indeed only a form to scream for attention?  To stress the eyes of an unaware viewer? It seems ridiculously elaborate, a scream for attention would be quick, it would be like guided by instinct, not reasoning, craftwork. Any man with a knife can paint in blood red the walls of a room and that’s asking for attention. That is the primal howl: look at me! I am here! But this one.  I don’t know yet.

Spent the early morning reading anew my copy of The Metamorphosis by Ovid. Didn’t touch it in a long time and I got bedazzled by the world of terrible sensuality, anger and selfishness of those gods and mortals. I think back at all the deviances and weaknesses of human kind and I try to relate it to all of those humanoid figures. Niki would be a minotaur, the lonesome son left in the labyrinth and his strive for success is his bull’s head. Or maybe a centaur, because of his wits and strategic thinking. I might keep up the process, maybe this is the way to understand my patients better, to understand the killer better. Must remember not to romanticise it. Greek gods were probably the first form of self indulging of a society that needed gods to be forgiving and allowing favours and punishments, but only in exchange of sacrifices. But the sacrifice never comes from the God’s will, but from the will of the man that perpetuates the act of killing. To sacrifice someone or something is the sadistic response to a lack of love deeply inherited in human mind that becomes neurotic. Is the killer giving the God of his own neurosis a body to feast upon? 

I talked with Jan this morning. The young boy is about 10, but he acts like a full grown adult. I could easily asses that’s the reason why he could challenge Steven in that fight. Two children mimicking adults situations they know too well. Jan is son of an industrial man, but he is also son of the dialectics of the industrial revolution. He sounds like he swallowed some of those books about working class rights and communism, probably pushed by a resentful surrounding (mother?uncle? the midwife?) over the social role of his father. As much as incredibly smart and lectured, Jan lost most of his early occasions in life by spending a considerable amount of time using his fists. The anger ever present in the young boy always surprises me, he seems to be holding a power, a strength of a full grown man in those tiny arms. Nevertheless, he is already the tallest of the group. He is surely an idealist, which makes him also tragically fragile. His strength mixed with his heart of gold can make him the best of the heroes or the worst of the villains. He apologised for the fight, he specified how he didn’t like the sound of Steven’s voice, more than the sound, the level of pitch.  I can’t stand somebody shouting orders, I just don’t listen anymore. He is so mature even about his own feelings, almost a gentleman in his chivalry toward the weaker children, honest with his open heart and resentful against any form of injustice.  I am not spared by his ways, he would come at me whenever he feels like I was being partial over some of the kids, his sense of justice blinds him and transform a perfectly balanced boy into a ranging animal.

Ordered book, to be delivered around tomorrow evening: Introduction à la méthode de Léonard de Vinci by Paul Valéry. Suddenly feeling myself as a gross ignorant in art themes. I always regarded myself aware of the artistic personalities and tendencies of present and past, but this new amount of perceptions over the human figure and the human body leads me to document myself more. I could ask John for advice, but he wouldn’t take things at matter that seriously. I can almost hear him say how I can make gruesome a pleasant topic such as art. I should probably wait to see the body to push any further aesthetic study, but I find myself not being able to stop. I reckon, I can allow myself a vice or two.

Today I saw the body of the killed man, courtesy of the Isaacson's. To be fair, I had underestimated it. In Sara’s descriptions, probably due to her more analytic mind, all the charm of the representation got lost in favour of a less cryptic and reasonable understanding of the act. Sara got what some alienists will call a masculine mind, which I don’t perfectly agree on. If I apply that same approach John would be a very feminine mind, all wrapped up in romanticising even the ugliest. I guess that dividing the world in “fragile and gentle” and “strong and powerful” is just easier to explain the fluctuation of something that doesn’t need a real name or a category like human inclinations on thoughts.  I got a feverish sense of patience by looking at the body. Each symbol traced with sapient slowness, dense of the time that the killer spent with the body. That is a work of hours, he had time and meaning. He had resources and was able to spend not less than the time he needed to reach, a vision? An ideal? A message? Is it the message meant to be understood? Am I supposed to unravel it or it is maybe just the way the killer communicates within himself? And if I do decifrate the code, will that bring me closer to him? Or to his next victim?

Reminder: ask John to replicate all the symbols on the bodies in the correct measure and order. It might be needed some hard convincing. Addition: scheduled meeting, his house, 3 pm.

It wasn’t a day like any other when I met you. Or maybe it was, and that’s why I got so struck by it and now I am here playing it over and over through what my memory clung on so desperately. In my own experience, life was often similar to swimming in a lake. Those rich, dense lakes in the north of (illegible cancelled word) were my father used to bring us during summer. I still feel the pull, the draw down toward the abyss. It ashamed me, in a way, the fear that such a simple feeling aroused in my young mind, unaware nevertheless, that such a feeling would follow me through all my existence. It was a prophecy and, like most of the prophecies, was a riddle. I cradle in my heart the charm of those days, the mindless happiness. The foolish feeling of freedom. Little I knew that freedom would be taken away from me that soon, that the body that used to navigate me over the dense waters, helping me to fight the haul toward the unknown, would become my own cage. That day. Today. The day where I met you, the day I was afloat.  The child gasping for air felt the wrench become a gentle push and now he is floating on his back over the scary waters of reality and malice. It gave me relief and it gave me terror, because since that very moment I knew that I would never be able to move on from the sight of you. From the feeling of your eyes lingering on me. From the smile you so easily shone upon me. From the whiff of imported perfume that hit me when you turned on side exploding that swan like neck. And nothing, not even my stern look, could dim that wave of hope that your sole presence washed over me. The abyss roars, calls me to a home of damnation and terror and curses my name and yet you repeated that hell-bound name of mine after me and I felt safe.

John told me so much about you, it feels like I have always known you.

The rope is gone from my neck, the guillotine won’t fall on me, I am spared, I am free.

I have read your latest article, I am thrilled to help with the case.

I am in disbelief.

Your voice.

Dr. Kreizler

How dare you? How dare you to come into my life, to appear, like a vision, mystical, in a way I despised at University when all those theology students talked about the divine. In this very moment I can’t recollect much of what you said, something about the case, about going with John at the obituary. It feels confusing, I feel overstimulated, my memory fails me, I am not sure anymore. I write these few lines and it is passed the hour of the witches and I wish, I demand, to never see you again, because life should never grant hope to a condemned man. 

[paula-of-christ]

I very desperately want to become Catholic and receive Christ via the Eucharist but I am having an incredibly hard time with the Church’s teaching that I (as a fertile woman who will probably be married in the next few years) am obligated to have children. The day may come where I want to have a kid but the idea of motherhood is quite frankly terrifying to me since my mom was never nurturing, constantly stressing, and had many health issues while pregnant with my younger brother. Plus, I’ve seen so many posts from people who say parenthood ruined their marriages or that they’re in absolute misery. I have prayed and prayed but I don’t think God wants to force me in a position where I’m depressed and closed off from him for years of my life. I just so desperately don’t want my hypothetical children to feel unloved when I might not have the capacity to give them the love they need. I guess I’m selfish in this regard but I see the potential for so much disaster and pain not just in my own life. What if I die in childbirth? What if they have mental limitations and violently lash out at me or others? What if they’re born premature and we accumulate hundreds of thousands in medical bills? The list goes on and on…. Do you have any advice or can I ask that you pray for me? Thank you <3

So first thing's first, the only "obligation" you truly have is to be open to children. If you aren't open to children, then you shouldn't be married, because that is what marriage is for. I know you've waited a long time for this to be answered so I apologize for this sounding blunt, but this is the only thing I can think reading the first few lines of this since the first time I read it. I have no other way of saying it in another way that doesn't dance around the teaching of the Church that if you aren't willing to have children, you shouldn't enter into a contract (vow) that is specifically for having and raising children.

Motherhood is terrifying, in any capacity. I highly recommend reading St. John Paul II's address on the Dignity of Women, as well as his letter to women. He talks about motherhood in both. If you can be nurturing to your spouse, which to be in a healthy relationship you would have to be, you can and will be nurturing to your children. It sounds a lot like you may, in my unprofessional and unstudied opinion, have a lot of trauma surrounding your childhood and outdated opinions on childbirth and childrearing that just isn't that true anymore. Is having a child expensive? Yes. Is it dangerous? If it were half as dangerous as you fear it is, the human race would have died out. Yet, we have more than 7 billion of us on this earth. Obviously postpartem depression is a real thing and for some women that can last a long time, but understanding it and working through it with medical professionals and having a good support network of family or friends, will make that a lot easier.

If you do want to get married but are so terrified of the idea of having children, I highly encourage you to volunteer with young kids, or find some way to safely (for you and them) spend time with them. Almost all of those fears that you have will be eliminated by actually spending time with kids over a period of time and watching them grow. It will be awkward at first, but that's okay. But if you really don't want to have kids, look into religious life or work you can do as a single woman in the local diocese (there is a TON of work always).

[the-final-sif]

Alright, since my prior post about consent has been getting a lot of attention, I wanted to make another to clarify some things that came up.

The TL:DR of the prior post is;

It’s on adults to make sure that we are behaving appropriately around minors online, and make sure that we’re setting boundaries in those relationships. But it’s on minors to communicate that they are minors, and respect those boundaries that are set.

Lying about your age to access a porn site is fine. Lying about your age to engage in sexual situations/adult-only spaces where other real human beings are involved is not.

So, some things I wanted to add to this based on my own thoughts and stuff I was seeing in the reblogs;

1. “If an adult is still willing to talk to you/interact with you in any way regarding sex while you’re a minor, then you run away.”

This is one of those things that sounds good but I actually purposefully avoided putting in my original post because it’s way too big of a blanket statement to be helpful advice for minors in practice.

First and foremost, “adult” and “minor” are broad terms. If you’re a 17 year old and dating/interested in an 18 year old or visa versa, that’s probably fine. 16 and 18 might be pushing it a bit, but as long as things are healthy and legal, a relationship like that is not inherently bad.

Check out what the laws are regarding age of consent for your respective state/countries and make sure you’re following those. Most places have laws that account for things like people being close together in age. Be sure that you’re following the law, because they are serious. If an adult is telling you it’s fine even when it’s illegal, or ‘you could wait for me’ or ‘don’t worry, nobody will find out’, then you block them. No exceptions.

Second, putting aside the more gray areas of ‘adult’ and ‘minor’, there are still situations where it’s appropriate to talk to an adult about sex as long as they are fully aware you’re a minor.

Some examples of situations where it would be appropriate to ask an adult you know online if they would be willing to talk to you about something regarding sex, particularly if you lack adults in real life who you feel you could ask:

You need advice from someone you trust about a sexual situation, maybe something happened that made you uncomfortable and you’re not sure what to do about it.

You need advice on finding trustworthy sexual health resources (side note, check out scarletteen, they’re wonderful).

You’re worried about something regarding your sexual health, and wanted to ask if it was normal (adults aren’t all medical professionals, but I also get that sometimes this is your most reasonable option).

You’ve been told something by other adults in your life about sex, and you aren’t sure if it’s true (sex ed is shitty af in some places, I get it). 

In general, if you’re talking about sex because you need advice or help from an adult you trust, then that’s fine. You may have trouble with finding conflict answers on google, or not be able to google things if your parents track your internet history (side note, a VPN can get around parental blocks and prevent your parents from tracking your internet usage, if you’re in a situation where those blocks/tracking is putting you at risk). But before you jump into asking an adult about anything regarding sex, make sure 1) that they’re aware you’re a minor, and 2) that they’re comfortable with answering your questions. Not all adults will be. Not all adults will have answers to your questions. You have to respect it if an adult says they aren’t comfortable discussing this stuff.

All in all, be careful about anything regarding sex that involves an adult. Make sure everyone is on the same page, that everything is legal and comfortable, and if you’re unsure about something, air on the side of caution.

2. “You should have your age publicly listed at all times.”

I saw a lot of people bringing my post to this conclusion, and I wanted to be clear that this is not something I believe in. You do not need to feel obligated to publicly flag yourself as a minor, because that can be uncomfortable for any number of reasons.

If you’re in fandom / sfw spaces, and you aren’t engaging in any nsfw situations (whether they’re sexual or other heavy topics that aren’t always appropriate for minors), then you are not obligated to publicly display your age. If you’re in a fandom / interest group that’s more adult oriented for whatever reason, I would encourage you to flag yourself as a minor in your bio, but you still don’t have to.

The point where you have to disclose your age (or give a rough approximation like 14-15 or 16-17) is the moment you are engaging in any kind of nsfw situation. I’m not going to say that you can never rp a sex scene with someone your own age. That works about as well as telling teenagers they’re not allowed to have sex till marriage. However, you do need to be upfront with anyone you’re engaging in nsfw activity with. You need to be honest about your age, and that should be one of the first things you check in with before you start any kind of nsfw activity.

Experimenting with sex is okay, but be careful about the law in your areas, be careful about who you experiment with, and be upfront and honest with your partner(s) at all times.

[star-maiden]

Hey I was wondering what does seeing heart shape everywhere and all the time mean!!???

Hello There! It sounds like you may be experiencing a synchronicity in seeing hearts everywhere and all the time. This is going to be another long post. Before we get into some possible meanings, let’s chat for a bit about what a synchronicity is and isn’t. That way we can be sure to practice using our discernment when synchronicities are involved, and make informed and empowering choices. To be clear though, seeing symbols (repeating numbers, images like hearts, names etc) isn’t bad or dangourous. It is, however, always a good idea to look at many possible avenues before deciding what something means and then acting on it. Also for the record, I’ll be discussing synchronicities through the lense of tarot since that’s what I primarily work with and know well. Just something to keep in mind for anyone reading this.

⭐️ Google defines a synchronicity as “the simultaneous occurrence of events which appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection.” This is a pretty good definition, but when people talk about seeing signs everywhere, they are often referring to the more recent and occult definition.

⭐️ In the world of the occult (which in some capacity encompass witchcraft, paganism, the New Age movement and alternative spirituality), synchronicities have taken on a significance beyond their original definition. Nowadays, we tend to see anecdotes of people noticing repeating symbols showing up, such as repeating numbers, letters, images like hearts, certain animals or even songs. Seeing these things over and over again is often interpreted as being a special sign from the universe or from spirit guides, or angels or any higher power that we hope to communicate with. As such, synchronicities can hold special meanging for the recipients. Very much like tarot, synchronicities have become a way to communicate with the unseen world of spirit and the subconscious.

⭐️ The word “synchronicity” actually hasn’t been around for that long. It was coined in the 1950’s by the psychologist Carl Jung to describe what he referred to as “meaningful coincidences”. I’ve linked some reading below if you’d like to learn some more about this. In a nutshell, Jung believed that a synchronicity was part of a deep and complex psychological process that could provide information on an individual’s subconscious and emotional experience. The idea that synchronicities were messages from Spirit guides, angels or deities was perhaps alluded to, but not explicitly part of Jung’s work.

⭐️ Today, we can use synchronicities as waymarkers of sorts. Think of them as the awake and conscious version of dream symbolism. Seeing something over and over again may trigger certain emotions or remind you of something important. The difficult thing about seeing repeating symbols everywhere is that no one else will be able to accurately interpret them for you. They are only meaningful because your mind has created emotional and/or sensory attatchments to them. For example, smelling vanilla might trigger someone’s memory of baking with grandma. This is an example of a sensory attachment that has meaning for an individual because the scent of vanilla is encoded into their memory by a particular experience.

🌟 What a synchronicity is:

A form of symbolism. Thinking through the lense of tarot, we can interpret synchronicities in a similar way. More on that in a bit. It’s important to keep in mind that all symbolism is subjective and individualistic. Because groups of people share culture and language, there is some general overlap (like a rose representing love), but the truest interpretation will always be a personal one.

An affirmation - Seeing synchronicities can affirm that we are in the right path or in the right place. They do this by helping us recall important experiences that remind us of certain qualities, goals or states that we want to achieve.

A message from Spirit, Angels or a Higher Power - This is the common belief. If your spiritual path includes some of these elements and you seek confirmation or messages through symbolism, then it’s possible that a synchronicity could be a message. This won’t be the case for everyone or all the time though. A message recieved through synchronicity or symbolism is also likely to be guidance or affirmation, rather than hard facts. We should always use our discernment when working with synchronicity in this way.

🌟 What a synchronicity isn’t:

A demand from Spirit, spirit guides or a higher power. You are never obligated do do anything when you notice synchronicities beginning to appear in your life. Instead, you can reflect on them. What might they mean in the moment that you notice them? What messages are they trying to convey.

A dire warning. Sometimes I see things floating around the internet about predicting death or serious illness, etc. These kinds of concerns are best addressed with a licensed medical professional. If you have a worry about something, seeing a synchronicity might prompt you to get it checked out with your doctor, but a synchronicty is not a diagnosis.

Universal. Synchronicities are unique and meaningful only to the recipient. While we can generalize and compare similar experiences to generate some possible interpretations, nothing will be truer than an individual’s own personal interpretation. Essentially, you know yourself best. No one else can tell you about your thoughts better than you. It is wise to use some caution here because it’s quite common for unscrupulous “psychics” to charge quite a bit of money to interpret synchronicities for other people. I’m not saying that all tarot readers and psychics who talk about synchronicities are scam artists, but there are definitely some who are. Be discerning in your selection if you go that route. Also be careful with symbolism dictionaries and interpretation guides. There’s nothing inherently wrong with them, but they may not be 100% accurate for you. If you are able to, it’s actually better (and cheaper) to create your own personal symbolism guide.

🌟 How to interpret synchronicities as symbolism.

Like tarot, symbols are a type of visual language. The most useful and meaningful interpretation is always going to be one that you create yourself. This isn’t a glamorous and magical answer, but it’s true. It also might take a bit of digging to uncover. Scott Cunningham’s book, Dreaming the Divine, outlines this process nicely for dream symbolims. I will briefly describe how to create your own personal symbolism dictionary here.

Think of what thoughts, emotions and/or physical sensations arise when you see a heart. Write this down. What words do you associate with “hearts”? Make a list and write those down too. Don’t worry if they don’t make sense. Write down everything that comes up.

Next, you’ll need to spend some time taking inventory of every time you see a heart. This doesn’t need to be fancy. You can even use the voice notes app on your phone. Every time you see a heart, make note of what you were doing and what you were thinking about in that moment. What emotions do you experience before and after noticing the heart. Write everything down.

Compare your notes from steps 1 and 2. Where do you see overlap? Make a venn diagram if this is is helpful. Otherwise, make a list. The places where both notes intersect is where you will find meaning.

🌟 Heart Symbolism

Sometimes we need a little boost to get started. I also recognize that you probably weren’t asking me to ramble on for a million years about synchronicities, and are hoping for some nice, solid info. (Sorry about that. I do have a tendency to go overboard in the explanation department.) Here are some of my personal interpretations of heart symbolism that I’ve put together after years of reading tarot. Please keep in mind that these might not work for everyone. Some are generalized and others are personal. You are welcome to use them if they resonate.

Hearts can represent: 💕

Love & Relationships

Something that you are passionate about

Something that is secret or guarded (close to the heart)

Someone’s innermost desires or feelings

A secret admirer

The core or foundation of something/the reason for something’s existence

Deeply felt or raw emotions

Connection and Empathy

Vulnerability or that someone is easily wounded by words. Sensitivity.

A wound. May be literal or metaphorical.

🌟 Sources & Links

Synchronicities: A Sure Sign You’re on the Right Path. An article from Psychology Today. Describes synchronicities as symbols of affirmation.

Synchronicity: Definition and Meaning. An article from Live Science. Goes into some of Carl Jung’s ideas and presents an opposing perspective.

Dreaming the Divine by Scott Cunningham - Not specifically about synchronicities, but addresses the subjectivity of symbolism and suggests that our own personal interpretations are more meaningful.

The Call of Intuition: How to Recognize & Honor Your Intuition, Instinct & Insight by Kris Franken - This book is about creating an empowering state of awareness for yourself and discusses how to follow the voice of your own intuition. A great starting point for anyone interested in developing stronger intuitive abilities.

[commanderserwin]

patch me up?

↦ pairing(s): erwin smith x reader

↦ word count: 2.6k (sorry not sorry!!!)

↦ anon request: 

↦ warnings(s): mentions of blood, bruises, stitches 

↦ author’s note(s): the actual way i went DUMB crazy on this one!! i really enjoyed writing this!! thank u for requesting it so please enjoy !!! ahhh!!!!! 

╍╍╍╍╍╍╍╍╍╍╍

It was a busy day in the medical bay, moving from bed to bed to accommodate the injuries of the soldiers and the citizens alike. Although, you were handling mostly children because summer has just began, and the little rascals has got nothing better to do but run and play, resulting in broken ankles from tripping over a rock or even broken wrists because of falling face-first right in the ground. You handled parents easily, and treated their children's summer injuries with a smile on your face to somewhat ease their pain. The children also smiled even though they were close to crying, and they hold on to your arm for comfort. 

"Hi." 

You looked up quickly, idenitifying a solder with pristine uniform. The girl you were treating groaned in pain, and you gently comforted her with a pat on the hair. She began sniffling as you moved her arm over the pillow to make her feel more comfortable. 

"Hi," you breathed, looking up quickly again, "How can I help you?" 

The soldier cleared his throat, trying to catch up with you as you moved to another bed. This kid scraped both knees pretty badly, so he needs to change his bandages from time to time to prevent infection. 

You sensed the soldier following you from your side, but you paid no attention, still waiting for his response. He began clearing his throat again, and you met his blue eyes that looked straight at you with, filled with attention. 

"No, it's not that serious, but I-," he paused, as you spoke. 

"How are you feeling?" 

"I'm okay." 

You smiled at him, and pointed at the kid. The soldier blushed pretty quickly, as he looked down to somewhat fix his pants wherein you quickly glanced down to see that nothing was wrong. He caught you looking, and it was your time to blush. 

Great, you thought, exactly when you looked at his crotch. 

She is blushing, Erwin gushed on the inside. He could see the blush creeping through your neck, and he snapped out of it when you spoke. 

"I was asking the kid," you hurried said, turning your attention back to the kid who was watching the whole thing, "If you need quick help, I suggest you go look for someone else." 

"I could wait," the soldier offered. 

"Okay, I'll be with you in a second. Why don't you wait for me over there?" 

Erwin didn't realize that he was standing too close to your crouched position to help the kid. He shuffled quickly to the end of the bed, not really knowing what to do with his arms. Should he fold it over his chest? Should he keep his hands in his pocket? Does he look ridiculous? He waited for five minutes, watching you look up to him with a soft smile once in a while as if to check if he was still there. Should he leave? he thought. 

He really is going to wait, you thought. You looked up a few times, looking at different parts of his face and body to quickly assess where he is hurt. Since he's a soldier, they are on your top priority, but this kid has a bad wound, so you took care of him first. The soldier didn't even look hurt anywhere, as you finally looked at his face, meeting his dark, blue eyes, matched with a handsome face, and blonde hair, and a nice physique, and he's tall, and he's standing with his arms crossed, and he quickly pointed at the kid, as the boy was now crying as you applied too much pressure on his wound. 

"I'm so sorry!" You wiped at his wound quickly, wrapping it up in clean bandages, "I am so sorry about that!" 

The kid eased his cry, wiping away at his own tears. You feel so bad, so you handed him a piece of cloth so that he could wipe his face. You also patted him on the shoulder, and sent a comforting squeeze on his arm as an apology. With that, you hurriedly walked away, clucthing your tray with both hands. 

"Oh!" 

You turned around to summon the soldier, but he was right behind you, causing you to crash on to him. He quickly bent over to pick up your medical instruments as he insisted right away. You looked down to see him staring at you as he picked your things up. You felt like a giddy kid, as you blushed very quickly when he gently laid your things on the tray. 

"Right," you flustered, placing down your tray to the nearest table, "How can I help you?" 

Erwin made note of how quickly you blushed, and he thought that it was... cute. 

"I'm Erwin," he said, holding out his hand. 

You obliged, feeling his hand engulf your own. "Hi. I'm [Y/N], where are you hurt?" 

He turned over his hand with an embarrassed look on his face, and you looked at his bruising hand. "I was training, and it bruised..." 

"I can give you some ice," you hurried to the back of the medical bay. You sensed him following as you looked over your shoulder, "Doesn't the military have its own bay?" 

"No. I mean-, yes, they do," he stammered, fixing yet again his pants, and you foolishly followed. 

You're blushing again, he thought and his heart jumped from your reaction. 

"You should probably ice that," you shyly continued, asking for his hand as you applied the ice on to it, "You should also bandange your hand the next time you train, so it'll ease the pain." 

"I'll keep that in check," he answered, covering your hand with his as he took the ice, practically caught in the middle of his hands. 

You retracted your hand with another shy smile, and stepped back away from him as if to help yourself to not blush for nth time in front of this soldier. 

Erwin, you thought. 

"Come back if it hurts again," you said, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"I sure will," he said smugly, laughing slightly. 

"No! I mean!" You hurriedly tried to help in yourself in this situation, but he shook his head with a lovely smile on his face. 

"Thank you, [Y/N]." 

╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾

There hasn't been a week ever since that meeting when you don't see Erwin standing by the door. It made you smile, as if looking forward to whatever little injuries he had that needs your utmost and professional healing skills with the use of ice packs on various parts of his body. It was mostly his hands, and with his smooth talking he got you to stay with him as he wasted all the ice of the medical bay on his tiny bruises. 

"I've got you something," he mused, using his other hand to pick something out of his back pocket. 

"Other than your miniscule bruises?" You smiled, crossing your hands over your chest as you sat down on the chair in front of him, after you slightly moved the cubicle curtains.

He colored your space with his deep laughter, as he finally picked out whatever he was hiding in his back pocket. He placed a small flower pin on the table where his bruised hand was and slided the pin to you. "I found it in the capital, it made me think of you." 

It was a small yellow flower, and you quickly nodded with a big smile as you picked it up. Thinking how it made him think of you, you instantly blushed red. "It's beautiful," you gushed, turning it around to pin on your blouse, "I love it!" 

"Here, let me help you," Erwin took the pin from your hand and ushered you forward to him with two fingers, and mesmerized you did. His calloused fingers hovered above your skin as he took the collar of your blouse to pin his gift. 

"Thank you, Erwin," you whispered, looking up at him. You didn't realize that he was too close to you, his blue eyes scanning your face with a coy look on his face. He was too close that you could already feel his breath fan your face, and he moved a little closer, his hands slowly moving up to your shoulders, and behind your neck. 

His lips were close to yours, and Erwin thought that he stopped breathing, when you ever so slightly angled your neck to his touch. He smirked on how your blush crept up to your neck and to your cheeks, to the tips of you ears, as he moved his hand on your neck to meet his, and your lips were almost touching. He scanned your eyes for a confirmation, if he could please kiss you, and you nodded lightly.

If only you know how much he is falling for you, he thought, holding you. 

He could already feel his lips touch yours for the quickest second, when--.

"[Y/N]! Your patients needs you! Where are you?" The other nurse boomed further away from where the both of you were. 

Erwin watched your face contort in embarrassment and he moved away as you took his hands off of your shoulders. You stood up fairly quick, as you placed the ice pack back on his hand. 

"I have to go," you hurriedly said, staring at him with sympathetic eyes as you pulled back the curtains.

He didn't even get to say a goodbye as he watched you walk away to tend to your patients. 

Once you reached your patient's bed, you quickly treated them with changing their bandages, grabbing them a glass of water. Out of curiousity, you peeked where Erwin was, just to check if he was still there. 

The blonde soldier waved his hand at you with shaking his head showing his beautiful smile. 

You don't know how long he was there, but it made you completely skittish to see that was staring right you, and was waiting.

╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾

It has been two weeks since Erwin visited the hospital. You looked out the window, and it was well past the time he usually visits. You missed treating his small bruises on his hands, and lingering stares while you busy yourself with other patients, and always coming back to him to talk for hours- the ice pack warm and melted. 

"[Y/N...]"

You swiftly moved your feet towards the voice in a hurry to see Erwin slumped with his bloodied hand and cut on his right cheek. He wrapped his arm over your shoulder, and you took a peek to see that he's got small cuts on them too, but his right cheek was worst. That was also when you realized he's got a slightly swollen lips. 

"What happened to you?" You asked, helping him sit down on the chair as you pulled the curtains over your cubicle. You rushed to get your medical tray and his favorite ice pack to help ease the huge bruises on his body. He groaned as you cleaned his cuts and applied cream to prevent infection. You sat on the chair in front of him, applying more on his hands as he slumped on the wall to rest his back. "Did you get into a fight?" 

"Just a little disagreement," he nodded, groaning as he closed his eyes in pain as he tended to the cut on his cheek. 

"Open your legs," you said, moving his legs to stand in the middle of it, as you cleaned his wound. "Tsk, you should really be careful, Erwin." 

You didn't realize he was rightfully staring at you with a surprised face, his arms laid idly on his thighs, slightly touching your legs when you moved in closer to his face. None of you said a word for a few minutes, while he was busy scanning your face for any expression. 

"Is it that bad?" He asked, his lips almost as close as before.

"Yes," you breathed, touching his cheek, "You need a stitch." 

"Are you going to patch me up then?" 

You rolled your eyes at him, as you leaned on one foot as you grabbed your materials to begin fixing him up. "Well, you finally gave me something to actually patch up, so yes." 

"Will it hurt?" 

"Oh, you big baby!" 

He laughed and groaned real quick as he touched his cheek as if to comfort him. You pulled it away, and pointed at him so he won't touch it. Erwin shut right up as he saw how serious you are when you began stitching him up. It did hurt, and he balled his fist everytime it stung, which is every second. The only comfort he has was your light hands and your shuffling of feet as you leaned on his leg to balance yourself. 

You stopped in your movement as he rest his hand on your hip to help you stand up. The sudden movement made you blush and it didn't help when he finally commented on it. 

"You're always blushing," he chuckled lightly, his hand going ever so slightly on your lower back as if to inch you forward. 

You moved in closer, and you felt his thighs touch the sides of your legs in response when you hummed an agreement with a smile. His idle hands now rest on your lower back and hip. Thankfully, the curtains are drawn so you weren't that much worried about anyone seeing the both of you. His breath fanned your face as he leaned in your touch as you sewed him right up. His grip tightened everytime the needle goes out, and you couldn't help but squeak in surprise everytime. 

And it got him smiling. Painfully handsome. 

"It's finished," you sighed, holding on to his face, peeking at your handiwork. "Don't get punched again in the near future, all right?" 

"Okay," he whispered as he angled his face to yours with ease as you followed his guide. He took a sharp breath as your lips hovered over his, "Can I kiss you now then?" 

"You want to kiss me with your swollen lips?" You asked, wrapping your arms on his shoulder, moving in closer with a happier smile, and he held you tightly. 

"Not really my ideal first kiss," Erwin whispered against your lips as he hands roamed your back to move you to him. 

Erwin could feel his heart beating faster than his horse has ever galloped. He has been crushing on you since the beginning ever since he started coming in the medical bay to get his wounds cleaned. He admits that sometimes he trains harder than usual to visit you so you could apply ice on his bruises. It took a while of persuasion from Levi to send his ass over to the medical bay so that he could see you even just a few hours every week. Erwin is stoic in administering strategies for their expeditions, but when it comes to you, his mind goes everywhere- scrambled, giddy, ecstatic, not really knowing how to do the first move. 

His thoughts were filled by your soft touches, and quiet stares as you two sat in comfortable silence, feeling his hand numb in the coldness just so he could visit you. His heart jumps and smile widens whenever he sees the flower pin he gives you everytime he visits. 

It was the same with you. You were always waiting for Erwin to come by with his bruising complains but however small it is, you always treat him. Usually with the curtains drawn so that your superior wouldn't see you just sitting down while Erwin tells you about he got his bruise, and it was always the same thing. Erwin would make your whole body buzz in excitement whenever he comes to visit, and your crush on him get bigger and bigger the longer he chooses to stay even if you were busy. 

"Erwin," you breathe, drowning in his blue eyes, while he smiled at you, "Kiss me." 

[hypnofur1]

Out For Delivery in Dallas

By Hypnofur

Mid February 2021

The irony was, none of the three beings in this tale had lived in Dallas for more than a month. Brittany and Timothy Cosgrove had just purchased their expensive condo on the North side of Dallas in January. Carlos Torres had been living in El Paso Texas for a very long time, and had just recently come to the Dallas area.

None of them, actually no one in all of Texas, expected the winter blast they got in mid February. The entire state was a disaster. Texans just didn’t know how to handle winter weather. Brittany and Timothy had just moved here from Indianapolis, so to them, this wasn’t even that bad a winter storm. However, agreeing to the purchase of matching his and her’s Corvettes was part of the Brittany’s compromise to get her husband to agree to move to Dallas. Brittany had just gotten a job with one of the DFW area’s top hospitals as their chief nutritionist. More importantly, she had struck a deal with the ABC affiliate to be their on air Nutrition expert. Brittany’s ultimate goal was to parlay her beauty, and nutrition expertise, into a gig on the national scene. Good Morning America or something.

Timothy knew this, and he loved Brittany very much. He would have moved to Dallas without the Corvette deal, as he knew it was a much bigger media market than Indy. However, he was an attorney, and it was in his DNA to negotiate. Thus, the two corvettes. He of course didn’t know it was going to snow here in Texas, thus, he didn’t really care much that his luxury condo was on one of the few hills in Dallas. Corvettes did not go up hill in the snow very well.

It was about 6:00 when Brittany forced Timothy to watch the #freebrittany documentary with her on FX. She was always fascinated with Brittany Spears, due to them having the same name and being about the same age. Timothy agreed to watch it, as he had been hogging the TV with sports for a few days now. By the time the show was over, it was like 7:30, and both were starving.

Each of the young urban professionals scanned their phones for some place that would deliver. But between the weather and power outages all around, there were no good restaurants that were options. The only place open was a McDonalds two blocks away.

“No way!” Brittany laughed. “Tim, I haven’t been to a McDonalds in like 11 years. I’m not starting tonight. I’ll starve first thanks.”

“OK, but I don’t want to. Come with me, you can at least get a salad. They have those.” Tim negotiated.

“Do you know what is in those???” Brittany said, then stopped herself. She had learned a while ago that people didn’t like when she annoyingly listed all of the bad ingredients in food. “Argh, ok. I’ll take a walk with you there.” She relented with a smile.

Once there, she remembered how much she loved Orange Soda. Tim smiled, but didn’t tease her about it. She appreciated that. She actually hated being teased. She snuggled up to him as they walked out of the McDonalds and headed back to their condo through the snowy mess.

Carlos was also very hungry on this winter night. He was miserable, he absolutely hated the cold. Born in Mexico, and then spending a tremendous amount of time in El Paso, he had never had to deal with cold and snow like this. He wished he was back in Mexico this evening. Carlos’ move to Dallas wasn’t based on career advancement though, it was based on Covid-19 vaccinations. More specifically, the blood of humans who had been vaccinated.

This past year had been the worst of Carlos’ 209 on this earth. The last 150 in El Paso had been wonderful. Feeding on the blood of Mexican immigrants who crossed the border with little identification. Knowing that the secretive nature of the illegal immigrant community would stop any real deep inquisitions into mysterious deaths. It was also nice and warm. It was the perfect place for the vampire.

However, Covid-19 changed all that. Feasting on the blood of a human with Covid made him incredibly sick, for weeks at a time. Over and over everytime he bit someone with the disease. He eventually learned how to smell Covid, but only in humans that had it bad. He, like everyone else, couldn’t detect it in the asymptomatic. Therefore, also like everyone else, he was very pleased when the vaccines started coming out. Much to his pleasure, he could smell the chemicals in vaccinated humans’ blood. He could detect who was vaccinated, and who was not.

That’s why he migrated up to Dallas. People in El Paso were getting the vaccine, but it was largely the elderly. Elderly blood didn’t taste nearly as good as the blood of those in their prime. The large medical community in Dallas meant lots of people in their 20’s and 30’s who had gotten the vaccine as part of the “first responder” roll out.

Brittany and Timothy had both received their shots (both doses) in Indianapolis. Brittany got it because she worked for a hospital, and she was able to get Timothy in because of her connections. As he approached the young urban couple, Carlos could smell the Moderna in them. He had quickly come to love that scent. His mood, which had been quite dour due to the snow and ice and cold, was quickly improving. He thought he’d have a very hard time finding food tonight, but here it was being delivered right to him.

Brittany and Timothy saw the short, somewhat rotund Mexican man approaching them as they were still laughing about McDonalds. Brittany had actually gotten a refill of Orange Soda before they left. They laughed as they joked about cameras seeing them and her soda getting reported to ABC. Carlos was really caught off guard by this weather, and was wearing what would be considered “summer clothes”.

“Look at this poor guy” Timothy said to his wife. While he was a very aggressive, very greedy corporate attorney, he was also very kind and generous. That is one of the reasons Brittany loved him with her whole heart and soul.

“Are you ok my friend?” Timothy asked the man as he and his wife slowly came to a stop on the icy hill to greet the stranger who was coming up it.

“Actually, I’m very hungry and I hate the cold.” the man answered back. Neither Brittany or Timothy immediately noticed that unlike them, when he spoke, there was no steam coming from his mouth on this frigid evening.

“Here, why don’t you take my scarf and some money. There is a McDonalds two blocks North. They are open, we just came from there.” Timothy said, handing the man both his expensive scarf, and $50. Brittany had never loved him more. As she watched with love and admiration as her tall, athletic, handsome husband committed a random act of kindness for a hungry, short, poor, sexy Mexican man.

Wait, why do I find that little guy sexy? Brittany suddenly asked herself. What was it about him? She studied him a little more, and as she did, she felt her pussy actually tingle a bit. God, he was hot. She had never been attracted to Hispanic guys before, especially little short fat ones. What the hell was going on? Why was he so fucking sexy? Brittany was suddenly very glad she had put a cute outfit on and decided to look good going to McDonalds.

“Do you live around here?” Carlos asked Timothy.

“Y-yes” Timothy answered, also oddly affected by the stranger as well.

“Do you own your home?” Carlos asked.

“yes” Timothy confirmed again.

Now Carlos’ mood really improved. Humans knew a lot about Vampire lore, but there were some things that they didn’t truly understand. This was very true surrounding some of the rules of being invited into a home. It could only be done by the true owner of the home. Therefore, renters could not invite a vampire in. Also, another little known fact was that a vampire could hypnotically compel his victim to invite him into their home, but only if the victim was not currently in the home. So, that meant while he couldn’t just knock on a door and get someone to invite him in, these two humans that were “out for delivery” fit the bill just perfect.

“Soy tu Maestra” Carlos said to Timothy, who understood perfectly as he stared back deep into the vampire’s eyes. “Invitame a tu casa”

“Please, won’t you come inside?” Timothy asked.

This was enough to wake Brittany from the light sexual trance she was in. She suddenly felt the coolness of her now damp panties. Wait, Tim shouldn’t invite a stranger into their home… “Tim, hold on…” she said.

“Mirame a los ojos” Carlos said to the Irish Scotish Italian American beauty who took French in high school and did not speak a lick of Spanish. Yet, her eyes immediately darted to his. She could almost feel her thoughts being unavoidably pushed aside. Even her concern over this odd situation was fading away, replaced by a growing sexual attraction, and a need to submit… to obey as he said to her, “Soy tu Maestra”

“Lead the way” Carlos directed Timothy. The husband took his wife’s hand and lead the stranger the rest of the way down the snow covered street back to their condo. Brittany continued to look back at Carlos, she couldn’t help it. He was so fascinating, so sexual. She tried to stop herself. She knew she was married, and she had truly never wanted anyone other than Timothy since they met a decade ago. But Carlos, the short, pudgy little Mexican man, was absolutely irresistible.

Carlos asked Timothy to formally invite him in once more as they reached the condo. He of course obliged. Carlos looked around as he stepped inside. First of all, it felt nice to be warm again. He was also glad he had found these two out and about in a neighborhood that actually had power. So much of Texas was in the dark. The condo was very tastefully decorated, and Carlos could quickly tell that the couple had money.

He politely asked Brittany to lock all the doors and close all the blinds, which she did immediately. She was so turned on by him that she didn’t even wonder why he was doing that. When the last of the drapes were pulled closed, he thanked her. They locked eyes. She felt her heart jump and her nipples harden. Her pussy was already soaked. She seductively walked over to him as he embraced her in a long sensual kiss. Carlos was all that mattered to her. Timothy had been forgotten.

However, Timothy had not forgotten her. The sight of his beautiful, beloved wife passionately making out with another man was enough to snap him out of his trance.

“Brittany, stop! Something is fucked up here!” Timothy shouted.

Carlos stopped kissing and glared over at Timothy. Brittany however was still kissing his face as he looked away, lovingly stroking his hair, completely in his thrall. Timothy felt a cold chill as Carlos cast his eyes upon him.

The vampire gently took Brittany’s arms and placed them down by her side as she continued to stare down Timothy, to stare down his prey. Timothy knew his life was in danger. Fight or flight kicked in, but with his wife also in trouble, he couldn’t escape. He had no choice but to fight. He lunged at the much smaller Carlos.

With supernatural quickness and strength, Carlos caught the pouncing Timothy by the neck with his hand. He then lifted him up with one arm, rising his shoes about two feet off the ground. Timothy’s eyes widened at shock as he realized the might of this beast. Carlos angrily threw Timothy over the granite kitchen island, causing him to smash the stools on the other side. With equal quickness, Carlos leapt over the island and feasted on Timothy’s neck. Quickly and efficiently, he drained the attorney of blood and life force. The vampire felt his own strength grow with each ounce.

Brittany’s kiss with Carlos had exchanged some bodily fluids between them. Even some of Carlos’ saliva in her mouth was enough to keep her much deeper under his spell than Timothy had been. However, this was her beloved husband on the ground, being attacked by this stranger. She slowly moved over to the counter and peered over to see what was happening.

“Timothy?” she said quietly, causing Carlos to stop feeding and turn his attention to her.

His mouth showing only trickles of blood (he had spent years learning how to eat cleanly), he rose from his victim. Brittany’s eyes were stuck on her lifeless husband on the kitchen floor. Carlos looked at her as he moved slowly to her. He heard her breathing get quicker as he got closer. She had a look on her, like she was asking him to fuck her right now but did not have the courage to say anything. He had seen that look many times. Slowly, Carlos circled her, getting behind her, grinding his hard cock in his pants along her ass. "He was your husband, but he wasn’t your Master, was he?"

"No." Brittany said softly and immediately Carlos dropped his pants. Brittany was in heat and followed, pulling her skirt down along her knees. Instantly, she was bent over the counter and getting rammed by his vampiric cock in her tight pussy.

"Harder! Fuck me Harder!" Brittany begged him, speaking in a way she never had. "Oh! My! God!" she repeated with every thrust he pushed. Her hands knocking over things on the counter as he thrusted.

"Yesss my slave!" Carlos said, fucking her with all his might, grunting like a wild animal,. Brittany wrapped her arms around his waist encouraging him go even harder.

Carlos turned the married nutritionist around and she quickly stepped out her skirt. He picked her up like she was a feather, Brittany let out a loud yelp, and sat her on his rigid cock as he really started fucking her. Brittany was bouncing on his cock up and down, her shirt pulled up to reveal her tits. Their chests sliding along each other as she rose and fell on his cock.

Brittany looked him dead in the eyes and move in for a passionate sloppy kiss, not noticing or caring about the bits of Timothy’s blood. Carlos kept his fast fucking motion as he returned her kiss. They tongues were dancing and exploring each other's mouths.

Brittany pulled away and kept screaming, "Yassss!! Give it to me! FUCK ME MASTER!"

Carlos pulled her into his cock as he thrusted in, as he lets out some powerful grunts, BAM! Brittany let out whimper and moan as she bounced off his hips, before she could escape the full length of his cock, Carlos pulled her back in again and with even more force. BAM! BAM! BAM

Brittany was beyond her limits, she was dead weight barely able to keep herself on him as she flopped around, obsessively thanking and begging creature who had just killed her husband.

Finally Carlos lifted her off his cock and set her down on her knees. Then aggressively grabbed her head and plunged his cock into her mouth. Brittany had never sucked a cock before, but she quickly got up to speed as she was getting used to her new Master’s cock. It began to slide inside her mouth easily as she began gulping it in with each thrust. Saliva was running down chin and onto her chest.

"Yes my pet!" Carlos screamed, as pulled his glistening cock out her mouth. He held his cock by the base slapping Brittany side to side until...

"Uhhhhnnnggg!" Carlos's wailed, as he shot several thick stream of creamy white cum onto Brittany's face.

Carlos brought Brittany's face back in and immediately, she knew what to do. Her succulent lips instantly wrapped around his cock’s head and began sucking the remaining juices out and around his cock. Carlos knew full well that his essence was going to give him full and utter control of this beautiful woman.

When she was finally finished, he looked down at her. “What do you do for work?” he asked. He noticed his English was much better after consuming Timothy’s blood. Little things like that always intrigued him, even after 150 or more years of being a vampire.

“I’m a nutritionist” she answered him as she lovingly caressed his leg, still on her knees.

Carlos laughed, as he briefly wondered what the nutritional value of a vampire’s cum was. “Where do you work?”

“Baylor Specialty Hospital, here in North Dallas” she answered. Her heart jumped as her Master nodded approvingly.

“Can you get me to the coroner?” he asked, as he began the plan to dispose of Timothy without alerting the authorities. The coroner would become his human slave, just as Brittany would. There was some work ahead of him, but for what began as a cold hungry night, this unexpected delivery had drastically improved Carlos’ outlook here in North Dallas.

[thanksjro]

“Bullets”, a Last Stand of the Wreckers prose story- Ironfist Solves a Murder Mystery

Now that Overlord and Rewind have been exploded horribly in the vacuum of space, multiple people have died, and Chromedome’s horrifically single, let’s take a look at all those Last Stand of the Wreckers extras, yeah?

We more or less start with a Furmanism, as is tradition.

One day Furmanisms won’t be nearly as prevalent within the comic publications, and that is a day that I cannot wait to see. Forget politics, forget misogyny, forget basically NEEDING Death of the Author in effect to enjoy anything the man’s done- Furmanisms are a crutch that everybody in this franchise uses, but nobody needs. They never feel natural, in my opinion. It’s like a literary obligation at this point, and you can tell, because it never quite meshes with any writer’s style.

Anyway, this is the setup for what would happen on Pova- the Wreckers have been watching Squadron X fix up their ship, and now that the thing’s airborne again they’ve gotten itchy trigger fingers. Well, some of them, anyway. Rack n Ruin aren’t so sure about this whole thing, seeing as there are eight of them and an entire battalion up there. Impactor’s working the crowd though, as a leader of such a high turnover rate group is required to do, and that’s the point where First Aid stops reading.

Yep, this is one of Fisitron’s datalog entries, of which First Aid is a fan.

This isn’t First Aid’s first appearance within the IDW continuity- he played a role in Spotlight: Jazz, where he lived up to his name, and in Transformers: Ironhide #1, where he was in the background. This IS his premiere as a major player in a story, however, and it’s here that he’s revealed to be a bit of a slacker- he should be making the rounds at Delphi right now, but instead he’s reading entry logs about the wartime equivalent of a boyband.

He hits a key to quicktab to something at least somewhat medically-related as he feels someone approaching from behind. It’s the CMO, and he is in no way fooled by First Aid’s attempt to hide his shame. He gets back to work, but that particular entry- 113, because of course it is- is still on his mind. Hope he never finds out it’s a load of bunk.

I REALLY hope he never finds out this is all bunk. We all need something, you know?

Of course, First Aid- y’know, not to brag or anything- personally met one of the Wreckers. Roughly five years ago, Springer had approached him at a medical conference on Kimia. Why a medical conference was being held on Kimia of all places isn’t addressed, but it was probably because half the folks stationed there are doctors. First Aid, being a classy guy, fucking ogles Springer the entire time they’re talking.

You’ve heard of “Men Writing Women”, now it’s time for “Roberts Writing Robots”. Yes, this is THAT scene, and it’s on the first goddamn page.

First Aid, wanting to be of use to his idol, offers his medical expertise, completely willing to fix Springer’s nose, give him a breast reduction, and even update the circuit dampeners he doesn’t have. Springer, while flattered, isn’t looking for that sort of help. He’s looking for folks who have a lot to give.

The phrasing he uses makes First Aid think that he’s about to be recruited to the Wreckers- in other words, about to be put in line for a slow and awful death- but Springer clarifies that he’s looking more for eyes and ears to help him, not so much bodies. He hands First Aid a card with his number, and says to give him a call sometime.

Cutting back to the present, First Aid is walking through the rows of patient slabs, where we see an honestly horrifying practice in play- every patient in Delphi has their non-essential functions turned off to conserve power. This includes things like the ability to move, and speak.

Because that couldn’t possibly have any negative repercussions.

He checks in on the Fader he’s been assigned, confirms that, yes, his head IS still missing from his neck, then makes to walk out of the room, only to be startled by the sudden entry of a stretcher and Ambulon. Here, Ambulon is identified as a chief paramedic, as opposed to being a ward manager. Whether this is early installment weirdness or a simple mistake isn’t clear.

Ambulon is quickly followed by Dogfight, Dodger, and Backstreet(’s back, alright!) First Aid gets to work, by checking the three of them for injuries, paying special attention to their Autobot badges.

This is the reason Rung had to call in at the beginning of MTMTE #4, though it might be more because First Aid can’t act like a professional of five friggin’ minutes.

Oh, Delphi’s HR department is getting a call for sure.

First Aid, while a known fondler of badges, has never had this exact reaction. He runs off to make a phone call, leaving the injured Dodger to wait for the surgery he’s going to undergo the moment First Aid gets back.

Meanwhile, somewhere else- I’m guessing Kimia- Rung has an appointment underway with a dude named Flattop.

Flattop’s TFWiki article is one of the most depressing on the entire site, and it’s completely “Bullets”’s fault.

You see, Flattop’s attempting to talk through his trauma, but it’s difficult.

This level of insight is why they pay Rung the big bucks.

The war, while terrible for everyone’s mental health, has given Rung a slew of patients to handle.

Gee, wonder who that medic was.

Anyway, so Flattop’s deal- he was at Babu Yar, which was an event that was apparently so terrible, everyone involved was offered brand new bodies as compensation. He’s currently hiding underneath a table, which Rung identifies as “playing to type”. Flattop isn’t even here to talk about Babu Yar, but it’s good to know that war is still hell.

The reason Flattop’s actually here is this: he was serving under Silverstreak- another one of Rung’s patients, and someone who I’m convinced might actually be a Warrior cat given the name- and was going to check something out when he saw something utterly terrifying.

Rung gets Flattop out from under the table, and they talk about what the Shimmer means. Flattop is convinced that since he’s seen the thing, he’s going to die. You see, folklore in space is very similar to its counterpart on Earth, in that it’s a warning swathed in story to make it easily digestible.

Rung, who tries to keep things rational, offers to give Flattop a few possible explanations for what he saw. Because Flattop had only recently gotten his hot new bod a short while before he saw the Shimmer, it’s completely possible he had had a hallucination due to the adjustment period. Another theory is that Flattop has PTSD. Which, I mean, yeah.

While Rung was busy trying to explain what had happened, Flattop friggin’ died.

Awkward.

Over with Ironfist- because “Bullets” is a prequel- we’re in the middle of a meeting with the Ethics Committee. Xaaron, Animus, and Trailbreaker of all people, have come together to pass judgement on Ironfist’s cerebro-sensitive bullets. There’s a lot of hemming and hawing, and Ironfist reflects on how they got to this moment, while fiddling with a data slug to burn off the nerves.

This is just after the Surge happened, an event kicked off by the betrayal of the Autobot cause allowed Megatron to seize a majority of the Autobot outposts. It was a huge deal, a lot of shit was stolen, including the Weak Anthropic Principle, and it left everyone a little twitchy towards one another. Trust is not in vogue at present.

Kimia’s in a mess of trouble anyway, however, due to the events of Babu Yar, where Gideon’s Glue had rained down on the Autobot troops under Flame’s command, eaten to Swiss cheese by something eerily similar to something being developed on the station.

So an investigation was established. Brainstorm, who’s apparently big man on campus here at Kimia, is questioned, as is everyone else. Of course, no one cops to having invented Gideon’s Glue, because that’s a big ol’ war crime, so the questioning goes nowhere, but now there’s a precedent for mistrust on this science station.

Anyway, back to the bullet thing.

Ironfist’s cerebro-sensitive bullets are designed to hit the head, every single time, ignoring trajectory, ballistic physics, what you think is possible, and the Geneva Convention. It’s fired, it hits the first brain it identifies. Brutal stuff. Effective, but brutal.

Trailbreaker’s not a fan.

I mean, maybe? I guess it depends how gray your morality is. I bet Prowl would like them.

After telling Trailbreaker to keep it professional, Xaaron tells Ironfist that using these bullets would be a literal war crime, and he’s got a little over a day to hand them over to the Committee for destruction. Meeting adjourned!

Ironfist is left standing there until his good buddy Skyfall checks in on him. Ironfist is kind of bummed out, but Skyfall knows how to cheer him up- by comparing him to Impactor, former leader of the Wreckers, and one of Ironfist’s fan-crushes.

Man, this makes the Pova reveal a little harsher in hindsight, huh?

Skyfall invites Ironfist to the Exit Rooms, a place where the Kimia employees can drink and no one will give a shit, and as they make their way over they run into Brainstorm.

Brainstorm gets some interesting development in this story.

That’s right, not only are his weapons completely insane, and in some cases literally abstract, they’re apparently often so incredibly dangerous that the Ethics Committee loses sleep over the fact that they exist.

And Brainstorm loves it.

No wonder Trailbreaker was so annoyed in his Spotlight.

Skyfall asks about what’s in Brainstorm’s briefcase, gets an answer that’s likely a lie, then the boys head over to the Exit Rooms.

Over on Hydrus 5, it’s raining cats and dogs, and this is somehow the Transformers fault. I guess the universe bends to the will of what would be the most dramatic, as everyone takes a break from warmongering to soul-search.

Or ego-stroking. That works too.

Here is our dear Pyro, reveling in the aftermath of a battle that destroyed the natural ecosystem of the land, but at least they kicked those ‘Cons’ asses!

Pyro, who’s revealed to be maybe perhaps not the best at coming up with one-liners, is left alone for a bit as Afterburner goes to check on the rest of their men. As he tries to piece together a speech to deliver, he sees a green something- they’re always green, aren’t they?- and that something is the Shimmer.

Well, heck.

Over on the dilapidated space station of Debris (wow, that’s even less subtle than usual for this franchise) Springer’s holding a bullet. I mean, it’s not really a bullet, and the Decepticon who fired it wasn’t really a Decepticon.

I want you to know that I keep track of how many times 113 comes up in these stories, and for “Bullets" it’s a LOT.

Today’s letter from Agent 113 foreshadows/hindshadows the events of Last Stand, claiming that the DJD hasn’t heard anything from Garrus-9 since the Surge happened. Prowl’s concerned that Fortress Maximus is still alive in there and fighting off the Decepticons while waiting for backup, so he recently called Springer and invited the Wreckers on a mission.

All Springer has to do is pick some sorry sons of guns to die.

Over with Guzzle, who is romanticizing a weapon, comparing his gun to a religious artifact, our dear little bastard man has realized that he does, in fact, have emotions, and is in mourning over his lost comrades, who died rescuing Kup from Tsiehshi. Guzzle doesn’t much appreciate this whole “feeling” thing, and would rather it didn’t get in the way of him shooting statues for no other reason than him wanting to. Then he sees the Shimmer, and feels fear. He doesn’t much care for that, either.

Even Nick Roche is powerless to stop this madness.

We reconfirm the fact that Ironfist is a massive nerd, then are shown that the bullet accident that will have killed him by the end of Last Stand #5 has already happened. Ever so slowly, the bullet is heading for Ironfist’s brain. Every time it hits a new layer of his noggin, he blacks out.

Ironfist is going to leave on his super-fun, not-at-all-traumatizing Wrecker adventure soon, and he’s promised Skyfall his workshop. Skyfall was at Grindcore for a while, and that kind of gave him PTSD, so when Ironfist had gotten accepted to Kimia, he’d brought him along for the ride.

I like to call Grindcore Eugenesis-lite.

Because Skyfall is a reckless son of a gun with access to Ironfist’s workshop, he inadvertently caused a major incident with something called Black Phosphex, which resulted in the deaths of several Autobots because it wasn’t properly tested. This landed him in Garrus-9 for a bit, in a temporary career-path deviation, until it was time to come home to Kimia, just in time for the Inquiry.

Are stans always this intense? Because good lord, Ironfist.

Over at Karashi Delta, in the aftermath of a fierce battle, Rotorstorm is hyping himself the fuck up.

But does he buy it himself?

Hmm, survey says no.

Of course, verbal abuse isn’t the only thing we’ll be getting here. No, things begin to escalate pretty rapidly with Jetstream, who moves from shoving to almost beating Rotorstorm to death in a matter of months, before disappearing from the station forever.

Dang, this Jetstream fella kinda sucks. What’s his friggin’ problem?

Ah.

Again, I can’t stress this enough, Whirl’s awful flipper claws from back during his time as a cop do not make a nice fist. He was basically stabbing Rotorstorm. Who let this man be a teacher?

Rotorstorm is snapped out of his self-deprecating flashbacks by the sight of something on the canyon lip up ahead. It’s the gotdang Shimmer. Rotorstorm books it, not wanting to be caught by a harbinger of death. It doesn’t work, but points for trying.

Back on Debris, Springer’s picked his new recruits. Now all he has to do is call them up. Hey, isn’t Springer green? Green like the Shimmer? How about that.

Back on Kimia, Skyfall’s wandered into Ironfist’s workshop to share the gossip on Fisitron’s latest Wreckers: Declassified. Folks are a bit critical of his writing style, it would seem.

Of course Swerve knows what fan-fiction is. He seems like exactly the type to make fun of it, then read a 43,000 word fic in a single sitting, under cover of darkness, burning with shame all the while.

After making a note on his current Wreckers: Declassified document to ease up on the adverbs, Ironfist switches gears and gets busy on his other project: an Unofficial Wreckers’ Training Guide. I wonder when the switch from Primal Vanguard to Wreckers as a hyperfixation happened for him.

Ironfist asks Skyfall what entry he’s currently on, and the answer is a ways away from the latest one. Skyfall’s a slow reader, but he doesn’t want to just beam it all into his brain because it feels like cheating. He asks Ironfist when he’s going to cover the Wreckers’ mission to Garrus-9, the one that happened while he was there being not-imprisoned. Ironfist gives a non-answer, then asks if Skyfall wants to help with packing up the war-crime guns. Skyfall most certainly does not.

Ironfist starts breaking everything down when he gets a call from Prowl, as happened in Last Stand #4.

Back with Springer, we’re giving our dad a hug, as he greets Kup. It’s here we find out who Ironfist replaced on the Wrecker team for Operation: Retrieval- it was Skyfall. Skyfall had impressed Springer during their last Garrus-9 excursion, and thought that he’d be a good fit for the team, despite the Black Phosphex incident.

Kup goes full old man story time mode about how insanely boring Prowl is, while Springer gets the door. On the other side is Twin Twist, Top Spin, and Perceptor. They hold the vote, Ironfist given immunity due to unmentioned Prowl reasons, and Springer gets ready to call all their new pals.

Back at Ironfist’s workshop, Ironfist reflects on just how his life got to this point. He’s going to join the Wreckers! Never mind the fact that he’ll be going to die, and that’s if the bullet crawling around in his skull doesn’t get him first. Never mind the very likely possibility that he’s being exploited by Prowl. Nah, he’s gonna go on an adventure! It’s gonna be awesome! Yaaaaay!

It doesn’t pay to be blue and naive when Roberts is handling the story. Just ask Pipes.

Or don’t. You won’t get an answer.

Called it.

Ironfist, starstruck, bumbles his way through the conversation we saw in the Mosaic, and so it was that he became a Wrecker. All he has to do is pop on over to Rung’s office, get his head examined, then get his butt on over to Babu Yar.

Telecon work completed, Springer reflects on the fact that Guzzle turned him down. It’s not often someone turns down the chance to be a Wrecker.

Oh, well, never mind then.

Ironfist immediately tells Skyfall about what’s happened, because he’s just so jazzed to be a Wrecker. Skyfall isn’t quite as thrilled, but does his best to be supportive.

And by that I mean he’s not listening in the slightest as he’s already planning out the interior design for the workshop once Ironfist is gone. I bet he’ll get Atomizer to help him, the tacky bastard.

Skyfall runs off to go look at paint swatches or whatever, and Ironfist finalizes the stuff for the Ethics Committee pickup.

Oh, so that appointment wasn’t on Kimia after all. Can we please get some sort of fast-track program for the mental health specific degrees? We can’t keep using Rung for everybody, he’s only one person.

Oh heavens, Ironfist, be careful.

Ironfist gets another call, and we jump scenes before we can figure out just who rang or why.

Brief timeskip, and we find ourselves at Babu Yar, as Ironfist introduces himself to Guzzle and his gun.

Ironfist is about as smooth as coarse-grit sandpaper.

While Ironfist is busy revealing his nerd shame to Guzzle, someone’s decided to be a cocky little asshole.

Oh, dramatic irony. Always a delightful sort of pain.

Rotorstorm cranks up the “I’m hot shit” act to 11.5, doing completely unnecessary flips and talking himself up like he will literally die if he doesn’t.

Off in the distance, something disingenuously impressive comes up over the hill.

Of course, it’s not Optimus Prime, but it is someone who would very much like to be him. Such is the nature of primus apotheosis. Gang’s all here!

This is going to turn out fan-fucking-tastic.

Rotorstorm and Guzzle want to play with the big gun Ironfist brought along, and since Ironfist is going to die anyway, he lets them go for it. This would be why everything was on fire at the start of the miniseries.

Yep. Just gotta make it hurt just a little more, doncha Roberts? Just gotta twist the knife.

Nine months after the events of the Garrus-9 mission, Skyfall is upset. He’s gone and played himself by not attending the Ethics Committee hearings, and they’ve taken all his toys away as a result. He tries to mask his lack of concern for safety precautions behind a facade of missing Ironfist, but it doesn’t get him the weapons back.

Feeling cross, he decides it’s about time he made a visit to the Exit Rooms to blow off a little steam.

Later, he gets a call. Worried that his lack of ethics and/or his drunken squabbling has gotten him in trouble yet again, he’s loathe to answer, but does anyway.

Ghost call!

No, it’s actually a prerecorded message, one that claims that Skyfall killed Ironfist. Ironfist had asked Brainstorm to take a gander at the gun after he got shot, and found that it had been tampered with, set to go off on its own when held a certain way. That’s who was calling before he left for his Wrecker mission. 

Skyfall starts to panic, expecting the security detail for Kimia to bust into the workshop at any second. 

Ironfist knows that only Skyfall could have done this to him, but he doesn’t know the exact motive. Was it because he was jealous of how good a weapons expert he was? A chip on his shoulder about Grindcore? Whatever the reason, Ironfist isn’t terribly concerned at the time of the recording. What he is concerned about is Gideon’s Glue.

Ironfist had, in fact, invented Gideon’s Glue, but he’d been so horrified by what the shit actually did, he flushed it into space and destroyed all research before the Ethics Committee even knew about it. It still got to the Decepticons, though, didn’t it? How could such a thing happen?

Probably not, considering what happens next.

Ironfist is a smart guy, but more importantly, he knows how to reach his audience. Literally, in this case, as Skyfall finds out, when the Enforcement Squad starts trying to break down the door. Ironfist had the message that Skyfall is currently listening to primed for beaming into all of Fisitron’s reader’s brains. Everyone knows what happened. Swerve. Atomizer. Ratchet, who’s over on Earth right now. First Aid, who has enough bullshit to worry about on Delphi without this nonsense. You. Me. Everyone.

Skyfall, in a mad attempt to save himself, throws some of Ironfist’s Wrecker memorabilia at the door, and out pops that last tube of Gideon’s Glue.

There’s only one way out of this one.

This got really intense at the end, didn’t it?

[denmaar01]

Communicate Much better With Your Mental-Well being Treatment Prescriber

    A person of the most common communications gaps is involving doctors and consumers. Quite a few clientele build "white-coat brain lock" when it comes to inquiring queries in the course of appointments. Some sense inferior and are intimidated by what they believe to be the doctor's remarkable skills. Even now some others, when leaving the business office, question what alien language the doctor was speaking. How well do your purchasers connect with their psychological-health and fitness medication prescribers? Irrespective of whether that is their major-care medical professional, psychiatrist, nurse practitioner or physician assistant, the far more open a client's communications, the much better the odds at getting optimal treatment. Clinicians can help. Here are 10 ideas to share with your shoppers to support them with communicating additional effectively with prescribers all through office environment visits. one.  Prepare for the appointment: Doctor's offices these times are a flurry of activity. So except they're having an original analysis, visits are likely to be as temporary as 20 to thirty minutes. Listed here are some typical recommendations for clients: Arrive early. Each individual doctor's business office will check with you to fill out forms. Arriving early will support make certain that you've received all the things in buy in advance of you meet with your medical doctor. Convey a record of your indications. The extra unique the descriptions, the higher the chance your health care provider will be in a position to zero in on your difficulty.   If you have any inquiries regarding where and how you can make use of behavioral health codes for billing, you can call us at our own web-site. For case in point, these are very clear, useful descriptions: "I have been feeling unhappy recently, and I have no strength." "I have missing my hunger in excess of the earlier several days, and I am sleeping badly." "I have not long ago began emotion enthusiastic and agitated, but I cannot seem to calm down." Bring a checklist of all medications you now take. Be positive to include things like all in excess of-the-counter medicines -- including natural vitamins, herbals and other health supplements. These are remedies, much too. Carry all your insurance info and any health care directives. Acquire a spiral notebook and title it just "My Mental Health and fitness." Use it to jot down particular inquiries you have for the health practitioner, and to take notes as your questions are answered. two. Keep it Uncomplicated: The consumer ought to inquire: "What do you believe is improper with me? Then request these a few comply with-up questions: What lead you to that conclusion? What may well be triggering this to come about? What else could it be? 3. Question About Tests: The prescriber may perhaps advise that certain psychological assessments are warranted to better make clear the client's trouble. If so, suggest they ask these inquiries: What do these exams entail? How should I get ready for these assessments, if at all? Will you perform the tests? Or will I be referred to yet another psychological-health skilled? four. Remedy Solutions: Queries to request: Is there much more than one treatment for my problem? If so, what are the execs and downsides of each and every procedure? 5. Prescription Medicine: This can be a thorny situation, as prescriptions are often created at the close of a check out. At a minimum amount, your shopper will want to know the pursuing: What kind of medicine is becoming prescribed for me? For what length of time will I be taking it? What can I realistically expect from this medicine? What are the medication's standard side results? Can I beat these side results, and if so, how? Do these aspect results diminish above time? six. Other referrals. A dilemma for your consumer to request: Physician, do you believe that a referral to a expert - these as a psychiatrist - could possibly be in purchase? 7.  You should not hold thy tongue: Your consumer is the purchaser! Suggest that they not go away the business without having getting their issues answered and being familiar with anything the prescriber has informed them in language they can comprehend. eight. Will not Withhold Data: Medical professionals usually are not brain-audience. If your shopper isn't really sharing data because they think it is too delicate or irrelevant to their pay a visit to, question them to severely reconsider. 9. Bring a Buddy: Doctor's visits are substantially additional tolerable if shoppers provide alongside a buddy, family members member or colleague for guidance. ten. Generally Stick to Up: There's an aged declaring in present business enterprise: "Really don't simply call us, we are going to get in touch with you." But when it will come to a client's relationship with their prescriber, the reverse is real. In modern frenetic planet of drugs, next up has come to be the client's obligation. Instruct your purchasers to inquire about stick to-up visits. More than probably, they will be ready to program their subsequent appointment in advance of leaving the office. Also, building a trusting and gratifying partnership with a prescriber takes time. When it comes to no matter whether the connection is a good suit, purchasers must have faith in their instincts. If the relationship is not a appropriate healthy, then consumers really should admit that it is probably in their very best desire to transfer their care to an individual else.