#and I'm obsessed with my surgeon

[secretobsessionstuff]

Guess What!

Guys I'm so excited! I'm getting top surgery in November!! I can't believe it's actually happening, I'm gonna cry!

[valoale]

WIP

Harry claims he hit his head on duty (he did not). In other words he constantly finds reasons to go to the hospital just to see Dr. Malfoy only to ask him out

#if you wanna see your favourite neurosurgeon you gotta do what you gotta do

My little surgeon AU is growing and I can't help it, so, firefighter (& EMT) Harry, anyone? prev & prev

[succikko-nebulae]

The more I think about my appt with my tit surgeon the more I beat myself over the head for not preparing more...

I don't doubt that more fat tissue means hard work for her probably... But when 8t comes to more complications... Isn't every surgery prone to complications? Doesn't it depend form an individual to another? Can't a thin woman have complication risks as well?

I'm pretty sure that any surgery can have complications... Aren't hospital staff supposed to like, know how to treat stuff if complications happen?

I'm still puzzled at how fat phobic to the core this entire shit is... Surgeons better start knowing how to operate fat bodies bc we exists and we can't all lose weight. Sure you can push me away from a surgery like cheats reduction but I imagine the BMi risk for complications is there for other surgeries and yet there has to be fat people who get surgeries, you can't make me believe that no fat people ever are getting surgeries

[potatoesandsunshine]

me when the character reincarnated as the villainess decides she needs to break her engagement: oh good luck kid, you're gonna need it

[genderqueerdykes]

one of the most evil parts about me being told that i needed to lose weight before i could get my diseased gallbladder removed was that without telling me at all whatsoever, the physician's assistant who was responsible for my surgery consult silently gave me a referral for bariatric weight loss surgery. she told me that i'd have to get my gallbladder removal surgery with that department as well because they're used to working on bigger bodies.

she told me this, but that's not what she meant. she wanted me to get bariatric weight loss surgery all because i told her that i have poly cystic ovarian syndrome and that it's hard for me to willingly lose weight. when i called the bariatric surgeons about scheduling my consult for my gallbladder removal, they were extremely confused and were like "well is this for the bariatric surgery referral or the gallbladder removal referral?"

without my permission, without me asking, the physician's assistant silently signed me up for weight loss surgery that i never consented to. i never once mentioned wanting this surgery. i never once mentioned that my weight is affecting my health or bothering me. this person saw this as a mandatory step in order to get the surgery to remove my diseased organ. as if there were no other options. i never want to get bariatric weight loss surgery because i know it will completely devastate my health. this PA was so stuck on my weight. she could not get over it, she was literally obsessed. she did not care about my health, safety or well being, she was just obsessed with her hatred of fat people

she saw my weight as a higher priority than my diseased gallbladder. she was so stuck up her own ass that she was convinced that my weight was doing more damage to me than my gallbladder was. she wanted to keep blaming me for eating a high fat diet (i'm a vegetarian- i don't eat a high fat diet) and mocking me for being fat. she literally saw me being fat as a bigger issue than the fact that i had a literal rock stuck in the neck of one of my organs. if you ask me, if the surgeons and anesthesiologists have problems working on fat patients, that's a skill issue on them. that means you're a bad surgeon or anesthesiologist and you need to try to improve your skills. this is a literal skill issue, it's not the patient's fault that the medical professional fucking sucks at their job!

i can't describe to you how evil and insidious that is. the fact that she looked at me and went "oh my fucking god it's your weight that's the problem just go lose weight you fat asshole" just showed how much disregard she has for her fat patients. it's like she relishes torturing us or leaving us to be sick or die. there's no reason to behave this way. there's no reason to FORCE someone into weight loss surgery. my health is NOT being negatively impacted by my weight- gallstones are not caused by being overweight, and you can't give yourself gallstones. no matter how much fat you eat you can't give yourself gallstones- this is something that happens outside of your control

i hate medical professionals who are proudly fatphobic. they wear the fact that they let people remain sick and die as a badge of honor. like they're doing the world a favor. like staying sick or dying is better off for the patient. like the patient somehow doesn't "DESERVE" to be in good health. fat people DO deserve to be in good health. we DON'T have to "EARN" surgeries or life saving procedures. we are alive and human just like everyone else. this qualifies us for being cared for medically, no matter what. leave your prejudices at home. you can't just kill fat people because you don't like that we exist.

[moondirti]

JIGSAWS [ surgeon! simon riley x f! reader ] — masterlist / each part can be read separately : dealing with cruelty is hard when stress has a crippling effect. simon gives you a place to find comfort, however unconventional

dom/sub. dubcon (power dynamics). adjustment disorder. sexual harassment and battery. dacryphilia. hurt/comfort. biting. marking. brief fluff. medical settings. 2.8k

"Fuck aff, ya useless pillock."

At 0600 hours, a belligerent intake is the last thing you need.

Fatigue works her wily fingers into you, kneading staunchly into your shoulders to add resistance for every step forward. The sun hasn't yet peeked over the horizon, pellucid blue sky outside somehow consolidating every misery from the past week. If your exhaustion felt impregnable during the bright stretch of summer, autumn encroaches vindictive, dreary winds intent on teaching you to count your blessings, next time.

"Good morning, Mr. Cook. I'm one of the daytime neurosurgical residents, here to see how you’re doing since your admission last night at... 2100, is that right?" The script, if not plainly artificial, is a cornerstone for when you cannot muster your own words. Too often, you opt to lean into its guidance – a habit you picked up the hard way during intern year. Control all variables. That way, if things go sour, you can be almost sure that the error did not lie with you.

But perfunctoriness doesn't always bode over well. Mr. Cook's face twists into something foul, sunken eyes assessing you spitefully from his cot. You should have known to affect a different approach. He called you useless after all, for what you assume is frustrated reason. No one likes spending their time here without answers.

Try cutting to the chase, then.

"I see from your chart that you came in complaining about headaches, fever, and nausea. I understand how tired you must be. If it's alright with you, I’d like to perform a quick exam to get to the bottom of things."

"Ye'd be wasting my damn time, girl. Jus' lookin' at ya, I can tell the only thing ye're good for s'wetting my cock."

You sip a startled breath, consoling the erratic stutter of your heart with oxygen and four fingernails curled into your palm. It's not a serious threat – that much is evident by the slurred cadence, the unfocused hands he waves accusatorially in your direction. The overnight resident hadn't noted any aggression on his chart, either; which suggests this is new. Exacerbated by his condition, else the pain has loosened his tongue.

(And Kyle knows better than to schedule you with the tough ones. It's noted especially in your file, documented as a corrective action plan in prim, red ink.)

Though the smile has long since slipped off your lips, you amass what sympathy you can, nodding like it'll do anything to dissuade his suffering. Useless. "A little civility would help things run a lot smoother, Mr. Cook. It's just a few questions that will give me insight to your malaise. I'll even forward those to a senior physician, if you would prefer more qualified care."

Just one face refines itself in your mind's eye. Deep-set brown eyes, prying behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Sentiment that teeters the tightrope between indifference and affection. The days have buried their thumbs into your obsession, urging it deeper, beyond professionalism. Nudging your lungs, finding place amidst life-sustaining organs to become one of its own. Now, veins wire through, supplying blood to what should not be encouraged, should not be sustained–

You think of him, anyway.

"A'll tell y'what." A blurry shape swipes for your face. You flinch, neck snapping back, before finding that the rest of your body can't follow suit, arm held in a vice grip by a set of gnarled fingers. Mr. Cook's hold curls into bone, urging a whole world of pain to match the terror storming through your head. Your blood pressure skyrockets. Stress whistles sirens behind your ears. "How 'bout you call a proper doctor in now, and put on a li'l show for me in th'meanwhile, eh?"

A multitude of scenes, each more harrowing than the last, unfurl at his implication. If you cannot wrench yourself from him, what's to say you can fight back should he decide to pull you closer? Oh god. Your wrist struggles, thrashing wildly, disregarding its wellbeing for the opportunity to screw out of his grasp. The clipboard clatters to the floor. Your heart palpitates arrhythmically, unsteady palpitations battering war drums on your ribs. Though you've been trained for this, you cannot regulate your response to adrenaline. The exercises given to you by your therapist scatter at the first sign of real turmoil. Your body shuts down. Things spiral out of your control.

But your assailant's condition is not usual. Where a healthy man would only grow more determined in your struggle, he lets his aggression get the best of him. Roaring, his legs kick from beneath tight-fitted sheets, arm shuddering with the force it takes to keep you tethered in place. Eventually, your panic grows too much for him to subdue. With a final push of your heel off the floor, you free yourself, stumble three steps back, and fall flat on your ass. Hurt, but safe.

Mr. Cook grumbles, moving on too quickly for someone who had been so passionate just moments ago.

Safe, safe, safe.

You force yourself to repeat only that as you straighten yourself out. Hone in the truth of the matter, and not what your body tries desperately to have you believe. Safe. It's just another patient with neurological deficits. Safe. You have reason to hand his check-ups to someone else.

Safe. There's a place you can go to sap this off your chest.

"I'll order a CT scan for later this afternoon. We will do our best to help you once the results come in. Have a good day, Mr. Cook."

Still, as you scuttle out into the white-lit hall, you feel anything but.

"Come in."

Dr. Riley's office is comparatively dark to the fluorescent rest of the hospital, brightened only by the warm light of his desk lamp. Though his curtains are drawn shut, beams of pink from the vibrant dusk outside sneak their way through, casting everything in a rich glow. The day has been long, leagues more taxing than usual. Stepping into the space offers brief respite, then, like sinking into bed to reach for better dreams.

He looks up at you, impassive. There's never any indication to how he truly feels – whether creeping adoration curls around his heart at the very sight of you, or if he reserves it for after hours – but you've found that the puzzle attracts you more than it pushes you away. You like feeling pinned under his scrutiny, a little lab mouse tested for its wit. Even now, with a whole host of real matters to discuss, you can't help but pick apart the minutia in his expression.

"Dr. Riley," You whisper, careful not to disturb the tranquillity.

"Yes?"

"Um, I'm so sorry to bother you–"

"No need for that." He clips, the liquid of his eyes shifting as they coast back to assess his screen. The monitor projects stark shadows onto his face, harsher than usual. Despite your... relationship, it's hard not to feel discouraged. He wouldn't look away if he were interested in what you had to say. "We're alone."

"Right." Clearing your throat, you shuffle through the glossy prints in your arms. Cross-sectional imaging from Mr. Cook's CT scans, annotated in your illegible hand. The aftershocks of your stress are evident in the writing; loopy letters boasting sharp corners, a liberal use of shorthand where it wouldn't be allowed. When you place them on his desk, you pray he doesn't take heed of it. "A patient who was admitted last night. Though the tomographs are nonspecific, I have reason to believe it might be a brain abscess. If that is the case, I'd like to schedule him for surgery as soon as possible, and I know you're in the OR tomorrow, so..."

He doesn't look up at you while you speak, opting instead to skim the analysis you've left for him in the margins. Only after a long moment's silence do his lashes quiver, a voiceless acknowledgement to your request. The details come later. Tomorrow morning, likely, assigned by Kyle upon clocking in.

"You'll serve as my resident."

Your lips part. Seeing Mr. Cook again, even while under the effects of anaesthesia, brings a queasy ache to your stomach. It's about the most unprofessional thing you could voice, however – more so than any nasty promise Dr. Riley whispers to you in private – so you settle on keeping it to yourself.

"Okay."

But he doesn't miss a thing. The warble in your tone catches his attention like steaming gore to a predator, jaw ticking as salivate floods his mouth. You should have schooled your emotions better, should have given it a good, long mourn before coming to see him – because if you know anything, you know that there's nothing he loves more than seeing you cry.

And now–

Now, it's too late to renege. You're on a fixed path, the only variable being a matter of time until when. The rush of it already devastates your throat, stone lodged in a white river rapid of sentiment. Warmth fogs your eyes. Prelude to collapse, tremors buried deep beneath the earth's crust come to light.

"Out with it." He says.

And your body serves him, better than it could ever serve you.

A sob breaks the dam, first – snarling, ugly thing, face screwing up in a vain effort to tamp the subsequent flow of tears. Your head feels heavy, weighed down by briny devastation and the culmination of your pressures. Yet catharsis never fails; immediately, you feel it unravelling, hiccups picking the presumably impossible knots in your chest until they are nothing more than strings, meant to eventually tie back up again.

So it goes.

But it doesn't matter here. Can't. Not when Dr. Riley scoots his seat back, clearing a space by his legs. Parting heaven's gates, a little sanctuary for the desperate. You run to it, crumpling to the floor to bury your wet face in his trousers, hugging the wide breadth of his calves. It is as though your troubles melt off your skin, wax held close to a flame. No cologne or scented-soap veils the true essence of him; him, who's able to pacify you with little word. Musk, traces of sweat, a sage and cedar-wood body wash that still clings to him, despite the day and several layers. You suck in a chest-straining whiff of it all, stitching your eyes shut to etch the smell into your memory.

"H-He was awful. Said I was... was good for n-nothing but bei-ing a whore." You sniff, curling tighter around him. A lab mouse indeed, basking in the hand that feeds it. His own – large, dry, warm – pets your nape, tugging a little at the baby hairs below your ear. Idly playing, as though your grief does not necessitate his full notice.

"Comes with the job, little thing." You know that. You know that – have heard it many a time from your parents, your therapists, your peers and higher-ups. Anyone who has ever been privy to your condition has warned you that the medical field is never stressless, that you'll spend years miserable until it grows to be too much. And he must feel your bristling, the discomfort his advice affords, for he moves on sooner than you can state your case. "Did he touch you?"

You doubt it's meant as more than a simple inquiry. Still, you fumble for the right answer. Though the one you tend to is yes, yes he did – a childish grasp for some cosseting – you wonder if he'll take your minor wounds seriously at all. Does it count if what you have to show for it are surface-level contusions? Or will it only warrant mention if you can match the fissures of his flesh?

Tucking your arm between your legs, you shake your head no. Dr. Riley's forehead creases, brows knitting together reflexively. The move must not have been subtle enough, because he extends an expectant hand, impatience igniting his tail. Bones work under the scarred skin of his knuckles, muscles rippling in the quarter-length of an exposed forearm. He doesn't need to say anything. Just sits there and waits, the ire emanating off him enough to urge you into lift your bruised wrist.

(Splitting to his will like brain matter to the knife.)

Anyone would look delicate when set against him, yet you marvel at the contrast nonetheless. It resembles porcelain, fine china in his grip. His thick fingers twist to inspect the splotchy discolouration, set there by Mr. Cook's hold.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when– ah," You huff. His thumb presses into the tender flesh, recalling the pain you've worked all day to ignore. "you do that."

"Hm."

The words tumble from your tongue before you can catch them.

"Are you mad?" You ask, softly, then cringe as the question finds its place in the lull. It's an awkward echo, like the ocean gnawing desperately on shore, trying to make its mark in the sand. No matter how hard the spume and saltwater crashes, no matter the devastation it wreaks, it will always be pulled back, away from what it hardly affected.

(You used to liken him to choppy waters, feeling drowned in all his callousness. Yet as you wipe your tears with the back of your hand, your passions warring with each other within a vessel that cannot contain it, it has never been more clear that he is the earth. The ground. Unfixed, unmoved. It is an impossible endeavour for you, whose impact is as thin as the tides.)

More than anything, you covet an admission of his concern. Warmth to feel him in your corner, eternally there, even as your sight’s set on other horizons. With it, you'd be able to stand it all, you think.

"No." He says. "Brain abscesses can exacerbate aggressive behaviour. I don't fault him for that."

It needles right over where it hurts, mangling the softened muscle of your heart.

"Oh."

"But," Dr. Riley adds, guiding you to a wobbly stand. If he didn't plan on transferring you to his lap, you would have fallen right back down. As it is, though, he uses your fawn-like strength to nestle you across his thighs, brushing the flyaways from your temple. "Don't like seein' the marks on you."

Your cheeks heat. Pressing them into his collarbone, you speak against his pulse. It flutters, tandem to your breath. "I'll put a warm compress on it tonight."

"Better. Should only be mine you carry, pet." His voice vibrates through you, sound waves absorbing to become one with your body. Never did you think it could feel so good, yet as he continues to speak, you find yourself wishing that he’ll do so forever, eternal, so that you may weld together eventually.

"Sir…"

"Lift your head f'me." He whispers, nipping your jaw when you follow his instruction. Thin lips scratch your neck, chapped from the tight constraints of his mask and the dry hospital air. You dizzy to think of wetting them with your tongue, running the muscle along his cupids bow, sharp canines, dunking to map the inside of his cheeks. But that isn’t what this is; he’s made sure to clarify that, of all things.

So, you dip your head, neck arching to widen the canvas to his onslaught.

His groan is hot, ticklish as it fans over the area. You wriggle in his firm lap, coming to expect something much more permanent once he latches to your sweet spot. Practiced, trained to the hollow of your throat. Blood rushes to the capillaries sitting just under the skin there, bursting when it grows to be too much. Building pressure that takes away from your brain, your numbing extremities. Your cunt throbs, balmy and slick. He keeps a large hand anchored between your thighs as if he’s aware of what you’ll try to do without direction.

As a high whine pitches from your chest, and you darken to the shape of his maw, Dr. Riley doesn’t budge. He pushes further, rather. Digging his teeth into you, laving over the iron that surfaces. It hurts something terrible. If it weren’t so late into the night, you would doubtlessly be interrupted as a louder wail splits the sheltered office space, carrying through the labyrinth halls. Pain eclipses any internal worry, though. And perhaps that was the intention, mind buzzing with white noise once he pulls away.

Blinking, you clear the gossamer webs of delirium off your eyes. His mouth comes into view, first; swollen, tinted with a diluted wash of ichor, purpling with a bruise that no doubt mirror yours. You can only imagine what a mess he’s made of you, if the evidence of his own undoing is so stark.

The dual marks brings a dumb smile to your face.

“There.” He resolves, at last. It sounds like pride and feels a lot like damnation. “Good.”

You can’t help but agree.

(Even the earth will eventually erode away. Even the earth.)

[the-dormant-ocean]

Dean gets hexed causing him to have no inhibitions. It brings to light his obsession with Sam and it gets weird really fast.

Sam wakes up in the middle of the night and almost dies of a heart attack. Dean is in his room, sitting on his bed and lovingly watching him sleep. "It’s just me, Sammy. Go back to sleep. " "No! What is wrong with you???"

Sam is back from his run and tells Dean he's going to take a shower. "I'm coming with." "Coming with me where???" "To the shower." "You're also going to take a shower?" "Yeah, with you. Are you alright?" "With me???? You want to shower together???" "Yeah, why?" "WHY???"

They are reminiscing about the past, and suddenly, Dean brings up a surgery Sam had to get after he got hurt during a hunt. "Some stranger had his hands inside you and fastened your bones in place with metal rods! I never got to do that! I've reset bones at best and it still drives me insane to this day! It's just not fair!" Sam just stares at him, weirded the fuck out, because how the fuck are you jealous of a surgeon who was just doing his job???

Dean is just drinking beer, and suddenly, he just starts saying the wildest shit like it's absolutely normal. "You know I've always wanted you to mouth-to-mouth feed me bee-" "STOP! PLEASE I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!" " Here, come in this jar so I can use your load as creamer in my coffee as a substi-" "DEAN WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Sam's voicemails to Rowena are escalating in urgency because shit he knew that Dean was way more codependent than him but he did not know it was this bad. After the hex is lifted, Dean barely leaves his room for a week because he's dying of embarrassment. How is Dean supposed to explain away the things he said to his brother?

[educatedsimps]

— bonus headcanons, iwaizumi hajime

≪ back to fics masterlist

iwaizumi hajime x gn!reader

a/n: idea dump based on this iwa request (main fic) so this is basically just everything i wanted to put into the fic but i kinda lost the energy and the bandwidth to write everything up to the standard i wanted so now this exists HAHA hope u like this and tysm for reading! :)

headcanons under the cut!

You remember asking him once, "Hajime, why do you do that?"

And he replied "Do what?" with deadass the most confused look on his face.

"Kiss my wrists and palms all the time," You clarified.

"Oh," He stopped. "Yeah, why do I do that-"

ok so basically, Iwa finds the wrists a very delicate part of the body, and given his experience as a volleyball player, and the nature of his job, he takes extra special care of them.

he remembers his coaches always reminding him and his teammates not to injure their wrists during training, which translates to "YOU BETTER HAVE GOOD FORM WHILE SPIKING, SERVING AND SETTING, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

anyway, i think he started noticing wrists when he was in high school, especially since he was seijoh's ace and had to use his wrists a lot to spike. he probably injured his wrist(s) once and has always listened to his coaches ever since.

now that he's a professional volleyball trainer he makes sure that his athletes don't injure their wrists either.

so i think all of this adds to why he pays extra attention to your wrists especially.

bonus if your job requires you to use or rely on your wrists a lot, eg. musician (like me), athletes, surgeon, author, artist, etc... idk.

YOU CANNOT CONVINCE ME THAT HE DOESN'T GIVE THE BEST 👏 FKING 👏 MASSAGES 👏 ON EARTH 👏 and at the end of the massage he'll always kiss your hands and wrists and idk why but it just feels so chivalrous. like ofc it feels intimate when you hold his face in your hands and he plants kisses on your wrists/palms and but sometimes it just feels so chivalrous and gentlemanly ykwim?

OMG WHEN HE PROPOSES TO YOU like after he slides the ring onto your finger AND THEN KISSES YOUR WRIST/HAND AND IT FEELS LIKE YOUR HEART COULD EXPLODE 'cause i know mine would actually explode if he did that.

anyway some instances i thought of adding to the fic (but couldn't cuz i don't have the ability or capacity to write them out well) include:

waking up in the morning together or when you hold his face and kiss his forehead (these two are in the main fic linked above!)

when you're cuddling on the couch after a long day and just watching a show together or napping. if you're laying on him and touch his face he'll 100% kiss your wrists/palms

when he hugs you from behind and you reach up to run your fingers through his hair (like when you're cooking dinner together or something) and he'll pull your hand down to kiss your wrist

when you hug him with your arms around his neck and he catches your wrist before you pull away

when you shower together (SFW, DON'T WORRY) and you're facing each other and he's tilting his head / bending down while you wash his hair or massage his scalp and when you're done washing it he'll give your wrists a gentle kiss before returning the favour

BONUS: when he holds your face in his hands and you decide to give him a taste of his (very sweet) medicine. you’d twist your head to kiss his wrist and then his palm and he'd be BLUSHING because he's usually the one who does that AND HE'S SO CUTE he's like, "hey... you can't do that. i'm supposed to be the one doing that for you." while blushing and smiling and getting a lil shy and everything and HE'S JUST TOO CUTE FOR MY HEART 😭😭💕

a/n: ok that's all for the iwa brainrot ... i'm kidding, the iwa brainrot will never end. THANKS FOR READING THOUGH and thank you anon for sparking my two week long obsession with iwa once again

© educatedsimps 2024. do not repost, copy, translate or plagiarize any work from this blog on tumblr or any other platforms. if you do, the simps will hunt you down. likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[barcaatthemoon]

end of an era || jenni hermoso x reader ||

things don't always get better, but jenni tries to help you.

major angst warning, like implied/mentioned suicide attempt angst. proceed with caution.

everything and everyone went silent the moment you fell. it was daunting to watch back as you replayed the stream of your last game over and over again. jenni sighed as she glanced over at you. the two of you had been waiting in the doctor's office for hours now to see how your surgery had gone. both of you knew that it was going to be a long and hard road back, one that you honestly weren't even sure you'd have the chance to attempt.

"will you turn it off please?" jenni asked you. she was beyond trying to be nice about it. you got upset every single time that you watched it, and jenni hated hearing you get hit and go down again and again. she hadn't been there for that game, and it was one of her greatest regrets.

your teammates had told jenni how you had been immediately following the game. jenni almost couldn't believe it, not until she saw for herself that every ounce of happiness had been sucked out of you. you had become obsessive, attempting to figure out where you could have done something to reduce the damage. rather than listen to the countless people who had assured you time and time again that it was a freak accident, you still searched for an answer.

"it's not like i have anything else to do," you grumbled. jenni was really starting to get on your nerves. she was always a little annoying, but it had gone from being endearing to infuriating. "they're just going to tell me that i'm finished. my career is over, even if i can make a comeback. it will be too fucking late, jenni."

"no. no, stop talking like that. you're gonna be fine," jenni told you. oh how you wished that the doctors hadn't made her out to be a liar. jenni believed her words right up until the surgeon came in with a team of people that neither of you had ever seen before.

you felt numb as they gave the time frame of your possible return. it would be well over a year since you required multiple surgeries to fix the tears and breaks. you didn't understand how you had fucked up your body so badly, and it was obvious that jenni didn't either. however, you weren't left wondering for very long. the doctor mentioned old injuries that hadn't healed properly, claiming that your leg was a ticking time bomb that had been resting for nearly a decade.

"that was a waste of fucking time," you grumbled as you rushed towards the car. you were on crutches, so you weren't really moving that fast. jenni had slowed her pace down signficantly to keep up with you. she was carrying your bags, something that you only let her do today because she normally did it for you anyway.

"no, we have a timeline now. that's a good first step towards getting you back to where you need to be." jenni sounded so optimistic still, but you knew that it didn't matter. you'd miss the olympics, and you'd definitely have to retire by the next world cup. your time was running out, and it had essentially been cut in half by your injury.

"jenni, i'll be lucky if i ever get to step foot on a pitch again. let's just get home. i need a fucking drink." you got into the car, ignoring the look that jenni gave you. she was worried about you, despite you technically not doing anything worrisome yet.

you were depressed, and rightfully so. jenni had hoped that the doctors would have some good news for you, but they hadn't. your mood reflected that in the coming weeks as you moped around until you were cleared to start your physical therapy and rehab. your schedule for that was pretty light, especially since you had at least two more surgeries before you were in the clear.

jenni was great, and despite it being her off season, she didn't go back to spain. instead, she had moved temporarily to america to take care of you. you could tell that the move was hard on her, but she couldn't think of letting you stay by yourself. she was afraid that you'd do something stupid or dangerous if she left you alone.

you hated it, and because of that, you started to hate her as well. you hated that jenni kept looking at you like you were made of glass. you hated that she touched you so gently whenever all you wanted was for her to hold you down against the mattress and make you forget the past four months of your life. you hated jenni, and even more so, you hated that she never showed any resentment towards you.

there was always only ever going to be so much that jenni could handle. ten months out of your injury with only one more surgery to go, it all came crashing down around the two of you. the cracks in jenni's patience with you were starting to show, so she had taken a little vacation to spain without you. it wasn't for more than a few days, but it was long enough for your anger to betray you and turn into complete despair.

you had a family history of being fucked up. addiction, depression, anxiety, and a long list of other issues had plagued nearly every other member of your family for as long as you could remember. your parents had both tried to prepare you for the worst of it, and for a time, you thought that you had seen it. you had forgone taking your pain medicine because you had been terrified fo getting hooked on it. there never should have been so many pills in the house, but jenni knew she couldn't have just taken your extra ones with her to spain.

you wanted to call jenni, but she'd talk you down. you didn't feel like you deserved it. you had treated her so badly for nearly a year, to the point where she left the continent to get away from you. however, you believed that you owed her at least a text. something to thank her for taking care of you and apologize for being such a piece of shit for so long.

the time zone different meant that jenni should have been fast asleep. you didn't count on jenni being wide awake at 2 am. how could you have known that she hadn't been sleeping well since you got hurt. the vacation to spain should have been relaxing, but jenni couldn't quiet the voice in the back of her head warning her that you still weren't doing any better mentally. that was why she hadn't even finished reading your text before she was calling some of your american teammates to check up on you, hopeful that it wasn't too late.

…

"i'm here! i'm here!" jenni was nearly tripping over herself as she ran into your hospital room. she stopped when she saw you. you had expected her to start yelling at you or something, but instead she just broke down in front of you.

"i'm sorry," you apologized. jenni tried to tell you not to be sorry, but she couldn't get it out. all she could do is kneel by your bed and cry as your hand weakly ran through your hair. "it should have worked."

"i-is that how you really feel?" jenni asked you. you realized that wasn't at all what she wanted to hear, and suddenly you were filled with guilt. all of that hate and anger that you had felt before came back, but this time it was fully directed towards yourself.

"yes," you whispered. jenni wiped her eyes and stood up as she stared down at you. "i've been awful to you. how can you still love me?"

"are you fucking stupid?" jenni regretted her words as soon as they left her mouth. for the first time in months, jenni finally saw you cry. "shit. shit, shit, shit, c'mere. i'm sorry, i didn't mean it like that. i love you, i want to see you get better."

"jenni, i'm not sure that there is a better. what if i come back and this happens all over again? i think that i need to retire and take some time by myself," you told her.

"a-are you breaking up with me?" jenni asked you. there was a flash of anger in her eyes, one that completely overshadowed the hurt. "i took care of you for almost a year. i waited for you to get better, to be yourself again because i love you so much. you can't just make a decision like this by yourself, not when you aren't in the right headspace."

"jenni, they're keeping me here on a hold for a while until i can prove that i'm okay. i'm selling my place here. i don't want us to be over, but i think that if you can find someone who actually deserves you while i'm gone, then you should go for it. and if you don't by the time that i'm better, then i'd really like you to consider letting me come back to you," you told her. jenni didn't like the sound of that, but it wasn't a clear breakup. it was a break, if anything, and jenni knew for a fact that she wouldn't find someone else unless you actually forced her to. "i've already been let out of my contracts, they're just waiting to make the announcements."

"i wish that you'd reconsider this, but i am glad that you can make rational decisions," jenni said. you nodded as you gave her hand a little squeeze. there was a chair by your bed, but jenni crawled right in next to you. she had a couple days to stay with you before you were moved to the facility that you'd call home for as long as it took you to get better. jenni didn't know when you'd be back, but she kept a calendar to keep count of the days you were gone.

[makeyoumine69]

Flesh n' Bones | Hospital AU (INTRO)

PAIRING: Doctor!Patrick Bateman x gn!Nurse!Reader

SUMMARY: My name is Patrick Bateman. I'm 27 years old. I live in the American Gardens building on West 81st Street in New York City. I work as a surgeon at St. Pierce's Hospital—one of the most upscale medical centers in Manhattan—which happens to be owned by my father. And even though I hate my job, sometimes I can find a little bit of fun in making the experience of my patients in the hospital really unforgettable. Not to mention the dozens of missing nurses who definitely regretted crossing the threshold of St. Pierce's Hospital, but who cares—I was the best thing that ever happened to them.

CONTAINS: Swearing, medical procedures, evil plans, gaslighting, pain, blood and injury, interns & internships, power dynamics, flirting, perversion, pet names, Patrick Bateman's POV.

WORDS: 2.4k

A/N: Hello my dears! This story is based on Hospital AU by @peepoo79! Since the first day I saw her Hospital AU comic I was obsessed with this idea so I decided to write it! Since I am not a doctor myself, some things might not be that accurate to medical standards, but I am always open to critique. As always, I hope you enjoy it! Also, many thanks to @mothhmannn for the amazing Patrick art!

LINKS: [MASTERLIST]; [AO3].

October 28, 1987.

Today started so shitty that I didn't even want to go to work, but how could I? I was a fucking surgeon who was supposed to save lives, and when I finally arrived at St. Pierce's Hospital, several nurses crowded around me and started bitching about some shitty stuff I didn't even care about.

"Dr. Bateman, your intern has arrived and is waiting for you in your office," one of the nurses said, handing me a folder of papers. "They seem to be very shy, so please treat them right."

Scowling, I took the papers and nodded. "Uh…Thank you."

Without further ado, I walked past another nurse and down the long corridors, avoiding all of my coworkers as I tried to concentrate on the music blaring from my Walkman headphones. Stopping at the door to my office, I made sure my hair was neatly slicked back before opening the door and stepping inside to see a beautiful person sitting in the chair. The blue medical uniform fit them so well that I even wanted to compliment them, but I stopped myself and just offered them a handshake instead.

"Well, hello there, my name is Dr. Bateman," I smiled and continued to examine my new plaything. "It's...uh...nice to see some young blood in our hospital these days."

You were embarrassed so quickly, probably from such a warm welcome, which was more of an exception for me than a regular thing.

"Thank you, Dr. Bateman...it's an honor to be your intern," you replied politely, trying to hide your nervousness as your hands visibly shook. "This hospital is so...amazing! Literally everything I have seen so far is amazing...including this office!"

The office did look luxurious. Everything screamed wealth and prestige, including the wooden desk and a high-end clock on it, the way you looked at the white leather couch in the corner of the room probably sent shivers down your spine, and somehow I really hoped it did.

"So...when can we start?" You asked as you watched me flip through your portfolio, my face stoic, blank, and absolutely unreadable.

As I stopped flipping through the documents and frowned to add some tension between us, I looked at you stealthily out of the corners of my eyes, and when I saw you chewing on your lower lip, I smiled in wicked satisfaction, but that smile never reached my eyes.

"It's very inspiring that you're so eager to get started," I said, placing several pages on the desk, then picking up my Montblanc pen to make some notes. "I see you've been studying pretty well...considering your grades."

Another shy chuckle fell from your lips at my words. "Oh, I did my best," you replied, settling more comfortably in your chair. "Although I didn't really want to reflect on my college years."

"Why?" I asked, writing down all the personal information I could get from your file, including your address, phone number, blood type...

"It was..." your voice wavered and you paused, causing me to look up at you again. "...hard as hell."

"As it should be. Our jobs require hard work as we carry a huge responsibility on our shoulders," I grinned, closing the folder before I could see the name of the college.  "So where did you study exactly?"

Just as you were about to answer, a loud knock on the door rang through the office and I couldn't help but grumble in anger.

Can I have a break, for fuck's sake!

"Come in," I almost barked, my attention shifting away from you as I saw a nurse - one of the hottest hardbodies in our hospital - walk in. "Courtney? What happened?"

"Dr. Bateman..." She walked over to my desk, completely ignoring your presence. 

"Yes, Courtney?" My patience was about to explode if she didn't answer right away.

"I know you told us not to bother you with non-emergent cases, but other surgeons are busy," she stammered as our gazes met, her blue eyes seeming to brighten even more. "We have a girl whose hand is so full of broken glass, can you please examine her?"

I sighed before glancing quickly at you, a little impressed that you still hadn't said a word. "Does she have insurance? How old is she?"

"Uh," Courtney hiccuped, looking at the patient's medical card. "I checked her insurance, it's valid and... she's nineteen."

"Nineteen?" I replied, suddenly feeling excited. "Well, I think this can be a good start for your internship. What do you think?"

Courtney seemed to finally notice that we were not alone, her plump lips pursed back into a thin line, and I really wanted to laugh at her reaction, but I told myself to stay professional. 

"I'm ready when you are, Dr. Bateman," your suddenly confident voice sounded so challenging that it struck a chord in my chest and brought back a long forgotten feeling of thrill. "I'm sure we'd make a great team under your guidance."

How sweet.

I managed to hold back puke at such a silly, saccharine statement. It reminded me of the cliché every doctor used whenever someone asked them why they chose to work in a hospital.

'Oh, we want to save people's lives! And we're not doing it because doctors have almost the highest salaries in the country!'

I grinned insistently, reveling in my own sense of superiority.  "All right then," I stood up and put on my doctor's coat over my custom-made scrubs with my initials on them. "Courtney, give the medical card to the intern."

The woman froze in shock. "But...but I thought I would assist you..."

I rolled my eyes as I checked myself in the mirror, adjusting the collar of my scrubs and pulling up the sleeves a bit to reveal my Rolex. "I think I made it very clear that your help won't be needed this time.”

If we were alone, I would probably just boff her before doing my work and that would help me get rid of her until the next time, but hell no, now I had a pain in the ass. And why should I have to teach an intern when I didn't even ask for one?

Meanwhile, you were waiting for me at the door, holding a medical card to your chest as if Courtney or I were about to snatch it from your hands. After I was completely satisfied with my appearance, I pinned my ID badge to my chest and walked to the door, trying not to stare too much at Courtney's ass while she was doing something at my desk that I never really bothered to know.

"You know what," I stopped suddenly before leaving. "Wait for me here," the blonde nurse turned to look at me, still bent over the table. "We'll discuss your new assignment."

A few minutes later, we finally entered the Surgery Division, and since you were a newbie here, I had to guide you all the way, telling you some things from time to time, and at some point I realized that I didn't really hate it, because I could blather on about being a super professional surgeon, and this whole place being mine.

Just like the whole hospital.

"I think this is our ward," I muttered and opened the door to let you in. " C'mon, don't be shy." I pushed you forward a bit before closing the door behind you.

The patient—a young red-haired girl with big green eyes whose tight top stuck to her chest so that her nipples poked out—looked at us the moment we entered the ward. 

"Oh, finally," she mumbled in sheer annoyance, her right hand covered in blood-stained bandages. "I was beginning to think everyone had forgotten about me."

Still nervous, you cleared your throat and quickly looked down at the medical card. "Sorry for the long wait, Miss...Miss Ray," you managed to smile, even though you looked like a patient who was afraid to get treatment, but not her, "My name is (y/n) and this is Dr. Bateman, he's one of the best surgeons in this hospital."

One of the best?

Your slightly incorrect comment made me furrow my brow, but in the next second I was smiling seductively at the girl whose scrutinizing look I couldn't miss. She was pretty attractive, hell, just the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra made her attractive. 

With practiced ease, I put on medical gloves after washing my hands very meticulously. Then I glanced at the patient's medical card, not taking it in my hands, but letting you hold it for me.

"Can I take a look?" I finally asked, taking a seat next to the examination table and putting the mask on. Carefully I began to unfold the bandages, the little whimpering the girl made gave me undeniable pleasure. "Well, that doesn't look too bad," I said when I could finally see the wound, and several pieces of glass had sunk quite deep into her flesh. "How did you manage that?"

The girl blushed as I began to examine her forearm, moving higher up to her shoulder, though it wasn't really necessary. I just loved how soft her skin was, as much as I could tell by feeling it through the elastic material of my gloves.

"I...I accidentally broke the mirror." She replied, her breathing uneven and her pulse quickening as I took a moment to check her. "My name is Liza, by the way."

I chuckled charmingly before turning to look at you, as you stood behind my back, watching my work very intently. "Can you bring me forceps? And...a scalpel?"

"Scalpel?" You replied a little confused.

"Yes," I confirmed and repositioned Liza's arm for better access. "And I'll also need a suture kit."

The girl tensed at my words that I would need a scalpel. "Is it...necessary?"

"Hmm?" I hummed, asking her a silent question while you busied yourself with preparing the instruments. 

"A scalpel...are you going to make an incision?" Liza asked, giving me a pleading glare, her fear was palpable in the air and I couldn't help but savor it.

"I just want all the instruments to be close by in case I have a need for them, that's all. Now please relax." I murmured this with fake sympathy before resuming the examination, pressing down on one of the shards and making Liza whimper. "Shh, it's okay."

The redhead frowned in pain. "It hurts...doctor...it hurts so much!"

When I heard you return, I removed my fingers from the wound. "All right, no nerve damage and that's good." I smiled, obviously lying, my hand was already extended, ready to take the forceps.

"Your forceps, doctor," the way you said 'doctor' made my eyes glow with a mischievous spark. "Clean and sterilized, just like the scalpel and suture kit."

"Very well," I replied, feeling a chill in the metal in my hand. "Put them here," I tapped the spot on the examination table, wondering how you would do that. "And where's your mask?"

Confused, you stuttered. "Oh...yeah...sorry," you mumbled in embarrassment before putting on a mask. "I'm still a little nervous."

Liza knitted her eyebrows in a skeptical way that almost made me burst out laughing.

Okay, now I'm really starting to like this.

"Don't worry, my pill fairy," I watched you place a metal tray with instruments on the spot I showed you. "It's your first day in the hospital...it's...always a little nerve wracking."

As soon as I said it, you stopped in your tracks, and even though your face was covered by the mask, I was pretty sure you were so damn embarrassed that I was going to burn my finger off your cheek. You didn't make any comments though, which made me a little frustrated, but I didn't show it, I took the forceps more comfortably in my hand and began to remove the broken glass from Liza's shaky arm. The way I used the instruments was always mesmerizing - a work of art - as some nurses said, including Courtney, but today I was trying my best because I wanted to impress you. Shard by shard, I took them all out without causing any pain, something I usually couldn't find anything to be proud of.

"Done," I muttered, throwing the last piece of glass into the steel bow. "You took it so bravely."

The redhead smiled tiredly, trying not to look down at her hand. "Thank you, Doctor."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," I allowed you to clean the wound with the antiseptic and dab it with a swab. "It's my job, after all. Now, (y/n), can you please show me how you were taught to make stitches?"

"Of course, Dr. Bateman," you replied without hesitation, and this kind of obedience seemed to become my personal drug.

Standing up, I took a moment to admire how your uniform accentuated all of your curves, especially the roundness of your ass and the arch of your hips.

Shit, maybe I shouldn't have let Courtney stay in my office?

With these thoughts I leaned against the white wall and took off my mask as I suddenly felt a strong urge to smoke, luckily I still had the box of cigars my father had brought me from Cuba. I imagined inhaling the sharp scent of snuff when Liza's sudden whimper pulled me out of my trance.

"Can I have an anesthetic?" She asked, squirming in her place as she watched you prepare a suture kit.

"Just a local one," I muttered, a bit annoyed. "That will be enough. (Y/n), what should you do before using anesthesia?"

My question made you freeze. "Ask the patient about any allergies?"

"Right, but in this case you can find all the information on the medical card," I took off the gloves and took the card in my hands. "Well, I don't see anything that would prevent us from using bupivacaine."

As Liza sighed with relief and I watched you take a syringe, I had to admit that I was amazed at how carefully and attentively you worked.

Maybe you're not gonna get kicked out of the hospital as fast as I thought.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!

[jenny-in-a-jar]

🐸 3 days until my surgery 🐸

(Picture taken March 17, 2024)

I'm very very excited for my surgery (it's my second gender affirming surgery but this one is more significant to me since it'll be top and bottom surgery) and I'm obviously counting the days until it and I thought some people might be interested in my trans journey 🏳️‍⚧️ So see part 8 below the cut.

Part 1 here

Yesterday we ended off right before my Facial Feminization Surgery.

I have pictures of the first few weeks of recovery after FFS but they are not pretty!! But I'll show you all just so you can see the recovery process. So cw for swelling and visible scarring

(Pictures taken between February 20 through March 4th of 2024)

Yeah one eye was swollen shut and I'm trying to smile in all the pictures but couldn't 😅 Recovery was pretty tried so I slept most of the time and just watched TV for the first week or so lol.

Honestly there wasn't a big difference. Like when I went back to work, I'm sure that most people didn't even realize I had work done to my face. But I didn't do it for them. Before the surgery I had a really hard time not obsessing over certain dysphoric traits so it's quite a relief to get rid of them 🥰

(Picture taken March 17, 2024)

The one big long term side effect my eyes point in different directions when I look in a certain angle 😬 The surgeon and other doctors I've seen about it were surprised so my big takeaway and unforeseen consequences is a cost of surgery. And despite that, I don't regret it 😤

(Picture taken April 28, 2024)

The other big update for this era was I joined the board for the queer nonprofit I mentioned before! One of our big new projects I'm helping with is taking an empty lot and abandoned home and turn them into a community garden and transitional home 🌱

(Picture taken May 12, 2024)

And now we're up to date!! I do have some small ideas for my last two countdown posts so don't worry I'll be back tomorrow with some pictures 😁

Next part here

[dreaisgrayte]

NSFW I See All | Kyojuro x reader

A/n: just a lil something ♡

MDNI/stalking/smut/mentions of plastic surgery/a bit psychotic/crazy loves crazy

I did it all for you. Our marriage fell apart because I was too complacent. I pushed you away with my lack of attention and late nights at work.

I will never make that mistake again.

You look beautiful tonight, your eyes aren't as puffy as the night you handed me the divorce papers. I could tell you'd been crying and it made my heart ache to know I'd been the reason. Yet, here you are, dining with me at the small Cafe you'd been frequenting after our separation. Though, all you seem to mention is my name. How much you loved me and how little faith you have in this ever working out.

Given the way you don't meet my eyes fully you don't know. How could you? I spent most of my money to make sure you wouldn't know. All I can think about is how good my plastic surgeon is and how delicious you'll taste cumming on my tongue like before I'd let you down.

I'd become a hungry man, starved even. I prayed to only drink your ambrosia, feast upon the supple flesh of your body, and worship you for eternity. I required no sustenance unless given by you.

"Kyojuro was good to me," my name from your lips brings my attention back to the physical you. For the last 3 months I'd been consumed by fantasies that the real you was a shock to my system. I was being selfish thinking of what I wanted to do with you when you're in front of me, craving the attention I hadn't been giving you.

I reach out to caress your bare arm, the contact nearly making me grow erect. A gentle smile curves the corners of my mouth upwards. "I can be good to you too." The words were said in earnest, but what I truly meant was I can be better for you. There wouldn't be a moment of dissatisfaction for you. I would fuck you until you were peacefully asleep, food ready when you awoke in the morning.

A smile flutters across your lips, the ache growing in the pit of my stomach as you lean forward. "Even if I'm still in love with my ex husband?" The boiling sensation floods over until I'm dripping with anticipation.

My cock had been tortured enough by the realistic memory of your cunt taking it to the very base. The temptation to grab your hand and lead you back to my car was growing by the second. "Especially then." I huff out and you lean back with a far off grin.

"Would you like to come back to my house?" You muse, your eyes finally staring into my own. "Back to our house?" Her words sink in after a beat and my eyes widen as I slowly turn to meet her gaze. "Really Kyojuro? Did you think your own wife wouldn't recognize you? Or could it be how careless you are about your surroundings?"

"What?" A cloudy emotion curls around my stomach as I watch the woman I've been obsessing over ever since I lost her.

You fold your hands under your chin, a leizurly grin molding your lips. "I was there Kyojuro, every time you were watching me I was watching you twice as hard."

I can feel my cock harden at the thought. "I knew there was a reason I couldn't let you go." I laugh, ready to leave this place and fuck you hard into the mattress of our room. You smirk.

"No, Kyojuro, I was the one that didn't let you go."

[godbirdart]

tomorrow the bandages come off for the first time and while Most People getting top surgery look forward to seeing their bare chest, I am Particularly excited to see what my future scar lines are gonna be like bc my surgeon drew a cool line that my obsessed-with-triangle-shape brain is Very enthused about

medical context: my surgeon suspected my skin may heal weird in the middle so the upward point was to trim some extra out so i wouldn't have to return for a touch-up later

but aaAA even if it's NOT super pointy in shape i'm still gonna be delighted over the simple fact that TIDDY GONE

[pommedepersephone]

You Say Potato, I Say Excellent! Or blocking, accents and legacy of morality tales in ‘The Resurrectionists’ minisode PART II

Alternate title: how Aziraphale’s naivety in this episode was supposed to make you a bit outraged

I have to shout out to @bowtiepastabitch for their AMAZING historical analysis of this minisode - it prompted me to finish this long ramble that has been drifting in my notes. Anyway, I have a major obsession with the ways blocking and dialogue interplay in Good Omens - you can check out my analysis of the blocking in the flashbacks in S1. But The Resurrectionists is really something special. This got so long I am splitting it into two parts. 

What we see in this minisode is a morality tale - a genre of children’s literature that was extremely popular in the early 1800s where the minisode is taking place. Catch up on the historical background in Part I.

When looking at this minisode, it is really important to look at two complementary narrative tools - Crowley’s accent and the placement of Aziraphale in relation to Crowley. Through the minisode, Crowley switches between his standard English accent and a delightful Scottish accent. But the switching isn’t random!

Scottish lines =  character Demon Crowley, who moves the plot of the story along

English lines = Crowley, the moral guide leading Aziraphale

Additionally, the two of them swap sides in their blocking frequently in this episode. Their standard placement is A/R + C/L but the swap to C/R + A/L is almost the norm in this minisode.

Analyzing Blocking and Dialogue

We open in the graveyard, with Aziraphale and Crowley in their standard placement, observing the statue of Gabriel. But then they notice Elspeth, digging up a corpse. When Aziraphale approaches Elspeth to inform her that her actions are Not Good, he actually ends up swapped with Crowley and finds himself on the left because what he is doing - making moral judgments on the actions of Elspeth with no understanding of what led her here - is doing Good, not good.

The next scene finds Crowley helping Elspeth cart the corpse away from the graveyard, while the trio debate all the other ways Elspeth could make money - Aziraphale suggests running a bookshop, farming, weaving, giving the standard Good party line about hard work blah blah blah. Aziraphale remains on the left - after all, those supposed options are completely unrealistic, unobtainable professions for someone in Elspeth's socioeconomic position. They aren't remotely helpful suggestions.

Aziraphale only finds himself back on the right when he and Crowley are introduced to Wee Morag, and have some time to listen and observe the reality of their situation.

Then, off we go to complete our journey to sell the body. Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves having a debate about morality, but Aziraphale is again ON THE LEFT as he waxes poetic about the virtues of poverty - doing Good, not good again. What I loved here was you saw the clear purpose between Crowley’s two accents as he switched mid-line -

Crowley: (SC) Oh, I'm down with wicked! (EN) Anyway, is it wicked? She needed the money. 

Upon reaching the lodging of Mr. Dalrymple, FRCSE, Crowley and Aziraphale take their standard places but this scene has one really important moment that I want to highlight. When they open the barrel to find the rotted corpse, the look on Crowley’s face is so telling. He often finds Aziraphale’s machinations amusing even when they are annoying, but here he looks decidedly disappointed. Aziraphale might have done Good by rendering the body unsellable, but what good did it do? The body is still been un-interred. Elspeth has wasted her energy, and has made a terrible first impression of the surgeon whom she needs to pay her for her services. It looks like Crowley wants to say something, but he stops himself and clenches his jaw. The PATIENCE he is showing to Aziraphale - this is a quality that Crowley has in SPADES but we really see him exercise it here.

After the discussion with Mr. Dalrymple, in which Aziraphale realizes the importance of dissections for educating medical students and thus leading to better care for the living, he asks the right question - why should the poor have to risk death to obtain bodies? But he let's himself get sidetracked by a blatant appeal to his emotions...

At this point, Aziraphale goes all in on body snatching being Good. Which... it still isn't because it is based on a broken system that disadvantages the poor? FOCUS, angel. He even goes as far as to offer to help Elspeth and Wee Morag in obtaining another corpse but note that again, he is on the LEFT -

Remember, Wee Morag is deeply conflicted about the morality of body snatching, and instead of explaining anything to her (like, that having your body dissected won't keep you out of heaven would be start) Aziraphale just sort of joins Elspeth in pressuring her to join in - which is pretty awful and coercive, but gee if that isn't just heaven's playbook for doing Good, not good.

So we return to the graveyard, and this is where everything goes sideways. Aziraphale spends basically this entire sequence on the left. First, he notices the ingenuity of the grave guns but fails to acknowledge the travesty of so much energy being spent on protecting wealthy corpses while the poor suffer. Then, the tragedy strikes. After Wee Morag is shot, Aziraphale wastes time justifying saving her, resulting in her dying before he can act. And after all this, after the heart break of seeing her partner die, we see Elspeth come to the logical conclusion. If body snatching is Good, then might as well take Wee Morag off to Mr. Dalrymple, right?

What shouldn't be overlooked is what takes place when Elspeth gets Wee Morag's body to Mr. Dalrymple. Because while Aziraphale is very clearly illustrating the dangers of black and white morality through religion, Dalrymple is showing that black and white morality through science is just as bad. Dalrymple has unshakable belief in the power of science and knowledge to alleviate human suffering and sees his work at Good. He cares about preventing illness, but ignore his role in perpetuating poverty - an unfortunate side effect of rigid belief systems of all shapes and sizes. He is downright cruel to Elspeth.

This is already getting real long, so we won't go into the absurdist comedy of the scene in the tomb - suffice to say that the surreal nature of Crowley's bargaining with Elspeth smacks of a fantastic tales of pacts made with the devil. It's delightfully unhinged.

The one line I think worth pointing out?

"Do I sound like a goat?"

I think this line is key in the narrative connection between the three minisodes in S2. All three flashbacks show Crowley and Aziraphale engaging in acts of deception, but they all have important differences:

In A Companion to Owls, the two work together, and they manage to pull off the trick and evade punishment.

In Nazi Zombies from Hell, Aziraphale comes up with a plan and Crowley goes along with it, and they barely manage to evade punishment.

In The Resurrectionists, Crowley comes up with a plan and Aziraphale goes along with it, and Crowley is sucked down to hell.

I think it's worth noting just how silly Crowley is in the first two minisodes. Bildad and Scottish Crowley are FUN even when dealing real heavy shit. Just a complete joy to watch. And we never see that level of silly from him again. Whatever happened in hell was clearly really bad since the next time we see him in St. James Park he is asking for holy water. He may have moments, but he is never the same.

Questions, comments, additional thoughts? Lay them on me. I'd love to dig into new lines of inquiry on this minisode because I just love it so much <3

[kittyit]

This is a long and loaded ask so feel free to delete but it's completely earnest

I've been a radfem for about 3-4 years now (radfemhagen but I got termed) and honestly I still struggle w genuine dysphoria. All the reading, critical thinking, talking w detrans women is definitely eye opening and helped me but it hasn't healed me of my ~gender feels~ if you know what I mean. I remember trying to get tips from other blogs but all I remember was something about doing physical labor with other women or just being around other women but that isn't helping either, I'm so disgusted by my female body and how I'm seen (especially by men and especially as a lesbian) and it's just getting worse. I've been thinking about going on a low dose of T even but I know there's other options to coping, like there HAS to be SOMETHING. I can't just will it out anymore.

Help a gyn out

this and it's probably better saved for an essay but i felt moved to respond to you straight up. i'm going to explain three really important parts of my journey to a place where i almost never experience the intense and life-disrupting distress around my sex (diagnosed as dysphoria) except in times of extreme stress, and even then it's fleeting.

one essential thing i did was stop thinking of transition as an option for myself. this is something i see a lot of detrans/desisted women struggle with. i think this is a mental trap. "if i don't feel better in x amount of time or when i do x, i'll transition" removes the urgency and necessary nature of working through the distress around your sex. i've written in a few pieces about when my girlfriend max asked me to not do it 3 days before my first t shot, it genuinely felt like the last light in a dark harbor going out. i felt utterly hopeless. i felt like my last solution had been taken from me and i would never feel better.

i came to my decision to never pursue transitional medicine first through listening from my girlfriend and other detrans women. to take seriously the pain & trauma detrans women go through. to listen when they said this did not help me, this was not help, it did not fix these feelings of distress. to listen to detrans women is to understand that transitional medicine is an unethical practice being done by unethical practitioners. it's also to understand that this solution is not what it's presented as. taking these women's experiences and analysis seriously meant ruling it out as a coping mechanism for myself, ever. but there are so many reasons to make the decision not to participate in transition medicine - political & practical. not giving money to surgeons who traffic in literal female flesh. not wanting to risk all of the under-studied, ignored negative long-term health effects. not wanting to signal to the women around you that there is no way to survive as a woman like you without transitional medicine. defiance of new patriarchal expectations for women like you. defiance of the pressures that tell you that this is the thing that will make you feel better - like makeup, like labiaplasty, like breast implants, like an elective double mastectomy. defiance in general.

so the first thing was to stop thinking of transitioning as an option. i said no. the second thing was to stop thinking of my distress as dysphoria. to un-diagnose myself with this word that means i need to take T and get a mastectomy and undergo phalloplasty to have a chance of ever being happy. you mention disgust for your body, you mention disgust for how you're seen by men and as a lesbian. disgust for yourself on these points is anger at patriarchy, lesbian-hating society & men turned inward on yourself instead of the people who deserve it. it's an impulse of someone dealing with oppression to blame one's self for it and think there are things we can do to escape it. it's no different than a woman trapped in domestic violence obsessing over what she could have done differently to not set him off this time - the right dinner, place setting, clothing & tone. the idea that woman- and lesbian-hating can be escaped as easily as transitional medicine claims it can is simply not true. the experiece of a woman who passes as a man is another exerperience of womanhood, still under the bell jar of misogyny.

what helped me with these feelings of distress was pinpointing exactly where they came from and what they meant. i know this isn't helpful for everyone. but it's almost like going deeper and deeper on the feeling make it more and more clear what needed to be addressed. here's one spiral to the center: i want to chop off my tits → why? → i hate my breasts → why? → they feel ugly and disgusting → why? → i got them so young, they're so large and people stare → why does that bother you? → i feel so ugly and out of place → why does that bother you? → i feel so alone and worthless → how do you feel? → i feel lonely → what do you need? → i need connection.

"i want to chop off my tits" is not a coherent feeling - every human alive has complex reasons for the things they say, think and do. if you can get to the bottom of where these sensations and feelings and disturbances diangosed as dysphoria are coming from, you can figure out how to address them. what is the feeling at the bottom, what is going unaddressed? and quite honestly a lot of the time it's not an easy answer. sometimes the answers are super hard to grapple with. sometimes the need cannot be fulfilled or are very difficult to fulfill. but once you've decided that transition is not on the table, the quest to find those answers becomes a lot more essential.

this isn't something anyone is really meant to do alone. when i hear you say you hate being seen as a lesbian and how men treat you, i hear an inherent isolation in that. i could be wrong, i know a lot of people can still feel lonely when they have a strong support system, but i would say the majority of women do not have the kind of friend group and number of connections they need to be socially supported. so another big part of this is breaking out of isolation and being around other women who "get it" - whether virutally or in real life. humans are a pack animal and this is an isolating age.

so that's my three parter to your question

1. say no to transitional medicine

2. undiagnose yourself with dysphoria and instead figure out why you're feeling what you're feeling

3. seek out friendship, community, and ways of thought that can help you address those feelings

[3liza]

The poster is the worst advertising for what the film actually turns out to be. You think you're getting into another screwball millennial cringefest and it's actually a deep-blue chiaroscuro of neuroses. I really thought I would not be surprised by the depths of male anxiety and weirdness going into a movie about sperm donation, because the topic itself is so trammeled at this point and so obvious that you assume you already know everything such a documentary could teach you, but I got my tits blown clean off.

No one does anything BAD, it's not that kind of film, it's simply a silent and eerie observation of people acting completely independently to either provide or acquire human semen. Necessarily, the receivers in this setup are all buying the same product for the same purpose: they want to conceive a baby and don't have access to the missing gamete for some reason and don't have the extortionate amount of money required to go the official route through a sperm bank. The providers are all doing it for completely different reasons, and all of the reasons besides "making a bit of extra cash" are in fact weird, no matter how stubbornly some of the reviewers here insist the motives of the donors are simply "to help people out :)". Sperm is just the kind of thing you really don't want to get from a stranger unless money is exchanging hands, so by this property the male subjects in the film become perfect documentary protagonists: profoundly damaged, bizarre, or obsessive in ways that stand up to steady, direct observation.

I'm not judging anyone here, by the way. I guess if you have a lot of money to throw around you probably would waste it on genetically profiling strangers in a lookbook in a nice office in order to breed your ubermensch or whatever. I'm being nasty, there are lots of good reasons to want to anonymize, institutionalize and vet sperm donors, it's just that the idea is ludicrous on its face because this is a substance people never ever stop trying to push on you for free, or pay you money to take off their hands. Epigenetics and environmental factors being what they are, I question the utility of "genetic testing" beyond a certain point anyway. No one is being exploited or misled. The people who want babies can conceive and it doesn't really matter in the big picture whether the donors are doing it for "the right reasons" or not.

There are some more esoteric ethical considerations here that aren't addressed at all, which is probably for the best in consideration for the pacing of the film, but I could have used at least one interview with a genetics expert who winced at hearing some of these donors have 100+ sperm babies because of the very real possibility of creating future half-sibling incest crises unawares, a problem that real sperm banks and actual legislation have to grapple with. You get one good-looking Norwegian brain surgeon on the books at a sperm bank and you get a line out the door of people with too much money who know what being 6' tall and blue-eyed and symmetrical is worth down to fractional shares and have already put a down payment on the local private montessouri pre-K prep program. Genetic Sexual Attraction or GSA for short is a documented (and controversial) phenomenon that causes a lot of high-profile scandals when long-lost siblings or birth parents are reunited with a child who was the subject of a closed adoption, fall in love with them, and reenact various historical and mythological tragedies. That thing where you tend to find your blood relatives sexually repulsive or at least uninteresting is a way that social animals avoid getting into failure spirals of incest and birth defects, but humans have a tendency to be attracted to people who resemble themselves physically and personality-wise, so meeting a sibling or parent you didn't grow up with can sometimes short-circuit the incest-avoidance failsafes and create instantaneous, passionate obsession. That's what people who are involved in cases of GSA report, anyway. Half-sibling pairings aren't quite as bad in terms of the mutation issues, but it is definitely not good for the health of the resulting offspring or the mental health of the related parents. These lone gunmen fathering dozens of children in the same school district are potentially creating serious problems down the line. 

The cinematography is breathtaking. It's truly a phenomenal film from any angle.

My mother is a family lawyer by the way, if you ever find yourself in this situation (for example you are someone's friend and they ask you to be a donor) you need to make sure you have an IRON CLAD contract checked by an actual lawyer and probably notarized that you are absolved of all parental rights and obligations irreversibly, or you WILL eventually find yourself in the position one donor did at the end of the film: suddenly being the sole custodian of a little girl named "Italeigh". Family law is not like any other field of law in the USA, the judges in family court care about one thing only and that's Who Is Gonna Pay for This Damn Kid. Which is correct, and I'm not saying family court is always fair or that the judges make the right decisions all the time, but a proper family court judge will walk to Hell to bring the devil in for a wage garnishment and you need to be aware of that. Legally you are someone's dad until another dad legally enters the picture and supplants you (for example a stepfather officially adopting a child) or you have irrefutable paperwork saying you're excused. By the way, legal status pre-empts biological status. The guy who is married to the person who gives birth is legally on the hook for child support and caretaking of any child produced during the union unless there's a paternity suit and a bunch of rigamarole. This may appear unfair to the casual observer but family law is designed to prioritize the survival and wellbeing of the child above the rights of the parents and potential parents. So a freelance sperm donor without REALLY good paperwork is on the hook, absolutely.