#medical professionals hate you apparently

[sleepyparalysisdmon]

SVT with a bipolar partner

Requested? No! (But they are still open!)

Genre: comfort, some unavoidable angst, suggestive (MDNI)

Sensitive Topics Ahead!

TW/CW: discussions of struggling with and managing bipolar symptoms, up to and including things like self-harm (though this is not explicitly discussed). One suggestive section. 

A/N: This one is also entirely self-indulgent because I’m feeling some type of way right now.

If this topic might be triggering for you, please proceed with caution or skip. If you’re struggling (not just with bipolar, but with anything), I encourage you to reach out for help. Could be a friend, a family member, a coworker or classmate, or a professional. Things like this should not be shameful!! Be kind to yourself, love you. 

Seungcheol

You desperately want to buy an item and Seungcheol knows it. So he casually hands you his credit card (he’ll never be able to stop the sugar daddy allegations, I fear). He’s kind of surprised by how vehemently you deny it. ‘No way, I don’t want to waste your money,’ you’ll say and he’ll roll his eyes. “Baby, I have more than enough, I’ll buy you whatever you want.” The relationship is still somewhat new, so he’s confused when you deny it again, saying you absolutely can’t take his card because you’ll be reckless with it. Does not understand what the problem is with that, honestly, but when you eventually tell him about your diagnosis and particularly how mania works, he’ll pause, if only because of how upset you seem by the topic. It’s fine. If you spending the money is the problem, he’ll spend it for you and he won’t let you feel guilty about it for a single second. 

Jeonghan

Now, I believe Hannie can be a bit of a fashionista. He likes your style. In fact, it was something that attracted him to you in the beginning because it was unique and unapologetic. So when you’re getting ready for a date, he’s confused when you don’t put on the things that you usually do, opting for a baggy sweater and leggings. “Feeling okay?” He’ll ask. “You’re cute as always, but this isn’t your normal look.” You’ll openly tell him that you feel less confident during a depressive episode because the two of you simply do not have secrets, so this is what you want to go with today. You get out of the way, letting him get ready, and you’re kind of surprised when he comes out in equally baggy clothes. He’ll absolutely match your energy, no matter what that means. 

Joshua

He raises an eyebrow when he comes home to find you scrubbing the walls down. “A little spring cleaning?” He’ll ask, but it becomes apparent that it’s not anything ‘little’. The house is absolutely sparkling like you just moved in. This isn’t a problem by any means, but it’s kind of suspicious because you low key hate cleaning and he happily carries the burden of these types of things on a normal day. Still, he knows what’s happening and there’s nothing he can do to stop the manic episode. He’ll just have to let you ride it out. But it won’t stop him from changing clothes and asking what’s next on your list so he can help. 

Jun

Knows he can’t do a whole lot about the typical mood swings that you have periodically, but when you tell him that some of these mood swings are not totally random and can actually be triggered, he becomes the most observant person you’ve ever met. Keeps a little list in his notes app of things that you’ve mentioned before and the things that he’s simply observed that switch your mood. He tries to help you manage your stress at work to prevent a depressive episode and encourages you to limit your caffeine intake to prevent mania. He intentionally stops buying alcohol and keeping it in the house because it’s not a good combination with your medications. He buys you a light for light therapy during the winter when the seasonal depression kicks in. He helps you find a nighttime routine that works for you so sleep disturbances aren’t so prominent. Really is the sweetest and most thoughtful.

Hoshi

Man, thinking about this one makes me emotional. Say the relationship is new, but it’s been so, so good. You match his energy so well and he really feels like you get him, you know? So he’s kind of surprised when his calls and texts go unanswered for a while. After a few days, he finally goes to your apartment, flowers, coffee, and a bag of pastries in hand just in case he did something wrong. Your roommate answers the door and points to your bedroom with an ominous warning. You look like you haven’t moved from the bed in a few days. Your clothes and sheets are wrinkled, laundry is overflowing from the hamper, and dishes are piled up on your bedside table. You come right out and tell him about your diagnosis and that you’ve been in a depressive episode, and that you’d understand if he wants to break up. He simply crawls into bed with you because it’s his turn to get you. 

Wonwoo

Listen, I genuinely believe that you can tell him anything. Quite literally anything, including when you’re having some bad thoughts. He gives you an intentionally blank look when you ask him to remove the razors from the bathroom, but immediately does it. He doesn’t ask questions when he comes back, just hugging you tight and thanking you for telling him. Trust that he’ll watch you like a hawk over the next few days, doing soft, yet somehow non-invasive check-ins. A week later when that particular feeling passes and you ask for the razors again to shave, he does ask a few questions, just to make sure you’re in a good headspace. It makes you feel secure that you have someone right there that will help you if you have to cry for help.

Woozi

He’s pretty independent and so are you, but after you tell him about your diagnosis and the medications you’re on, he becomes a bit clingy. Let me explain. Before, you could go hours, maybe even days without really hearing from him when he got busy. No big deal, you knew that was just part of it. Now, no matter what he’s doing at work or whatever timezone he might be in, he’s calling you before you go to bed to make sure you’ve taken your medication. He’ll, of course, be there to talk if you want, but you usually don’t and that’s thanks to how much the medication is doing for you. He will never, ever let you miss a day. 

DK

You know you’re in a manic episode, which is why you jumped at the chance to go out with Seokmin and a few of his members for dinner. You’re feeling good, talking rapidly and animatedly about something and Seungkwan laughs, saying something along the lines of, “Okay, motor mouth.” It kind of makes you deflate. Not that he meant anything by it, not that he knew about your diagnosis or that you were in a manic episode. Still, Seokmin is next to you, encouraging you to continue talking because he was following, no problem. He’ll always be a motor mouth with you. Even if your mood doesn’t come back as high as it was before, it’s still comforting that he’ll listen to you ramble about whatever comes to mind, even if it’s sometimes a stream of consciousness more than anything specific. 

Mingyu

It’s not like sex is uncommon in your relationship, but after you initiate multiple rounds in one night, Mingyu will sort of laugh and ask what’s gotten into you. When you stop and kind of tear up, he realizes he might have said something wrong and he’s holding onto you immediately. You tell him you’re kind of upset because you didn’t realize that you were manic until he said that. Increased libido is a common symptom for you and now you’re feeling bad for maybe pressuring him into it. He’ll squish your face and insist that you absolutely did not and he has no complaints. You can always come to him for this, or for anything for that matter. 

Minghao

Now, I think he might be a bit of a believer in home remedies for a lot of things, but not for this. Does not let you miss a counseling or psychiatrist appointment. Does not let you forget your medication. Knows by heart everything you’re taking, including the dosage. He even gets a little organizer and sorts it out for you every week. Insists that you stick to a routine and practice self-care when you’re in a manic episode and makes sure you eat, sleep, and find things to enjoy during a depressive episode. Really, genuinely might understand your disorder and what you need for it better than you do. 

Seungkwan

He knows you’ve been down and that’s just the nature of the disorder sometimes. He does little things to help you manage it - chores are taken care of, dinner is already started, medication is already picked up from the pharmacy, etc. But when you admit late at night that you don’t know why he’s with you and you feel worthless, he doesn’t have a little reaction. It makes you cry despite how numb you were feeling earlier when he squishes your face with a bit more aggression than he probably intended and in great detail tells you how much he loves you and what he loves about you and why no one else will ever compare. It’s what you needed to hear, and he makes a mental note to be more vocal about these things, particularly when you’re down. 

Vernon

You two are relaxing at home when you ask him if he can hear that sound. He’ll say no, feeling kind of clueless. You’ll frown and ask, “Are you sure? It’s so loud.” Your insistence makes him pause. “Tell me about it,” he’ll say. You’ll describe it in great detail, convincing him that you do in fact believe you’re hearing something. Will not let you feel bad about the fact that he doesn’t hear it and that it must be an auditory hallucination. He’s offering you his noise cancelling headphones to blast some music and drown out the sound until it goes away. 

Chan

You’re usually pretty easy going and agreeable. But Chan knows something is up because you’ve been picking fights left and right all day. First it was that he left a mug on the side of the sink instead of in the sink or inside the dishwasher. Okay, easy to fix next time, he thinks. Then it’s that he’s going out for lunch with a couple of his members, even though he told you yesterday, which leaves him confused. Then it’s that he didn’t appear to be listening to you when you talked at dinner. He was absolutely listening, but the way you huff angrily at him makes him approach, holding your face and asking what’s going on with you today. He won’t let you escalate this into a fight, and eventually you deflate, tearing up. You admit you’ve just been feeling restless, both physically and emotionally, and that you don’t think this new medication is doing much. He cuddles with you the rest of the night, shushing you when you say you don’t deserve it after picking fights all day, and encourages you to make an appointment to talk about your medication.

[manicpanicpixienightmare]

I was trying very hard to be chipper and optimistic but this is actually a nightmare

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Infected

Miguel O'Hara X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info

Summary: An accident at one of Alchemax’s labs has led to Miguel being briefly contaminated with cA1m - a prototype drug that is meant to calm animals. However it seems to have a very different effect in humans.

A/N: A massive thank you to @midgardian-witch for reading the beginning of this (catching a hilarious typo), making some excellent suggestions,  and reassuring me that I hadn’t just lost my mind completely (yet).

Reader doesn’t know Miguel’s spiderman.

Warnings: dubious consent - it’s basically a sex pollen fic, blood, hair pulling (can I write a fic without an Oscar Isaac character getting their hair pulled?), so much cum, hand job, oral (both m and f receiving), things get a little rough, face fucking, cum eating, biting, scratching, p in v sex, typos, please let me know if I’ve missed a warning!

Word Count: 5433

________________________________

“It’s mainly preliminary.” You said with a smile. “You weren’t in the room, but the filtration system links four of the labs.” 

You check over Miguel’s notes, so far, he didn’t have any symptoms. 

There had been an ‘accident’ in Lab B2, an accident that was being rapidly looked into. Lab B1, and B4 had been empty, but Miguel had been in B3. 

Miguel was currently in a rapidly repurposed testing room, sitting on the bed with his shirt rolled up his forearms. His specific request for somewhere with reinforced walls, doors and windows had been… unusual. But he was a big guy, couldn’t hurt to be too careful. 

“How are the others doing?” He asked with a slightly raised eyebrow. 

“Okay,” you nodded. There had been eight people in Lab B2 when the container had broken. Two people, like Miguel, weren’t showing any symptoms. 

The chemical compound, nicknamed cA1m, while liquid in its storage unit, turned to a gas at above zero degrees. Luckily it also denatured quickly, and there was a good chance that those who still weren’t showing symptoms were unaffected. 

The chemical’s intention was for a more humane way to calm wild animals and livestock during veterinary checks. That way the animal in question didn’t need potentially dangerous anaesthetic for basic to mild level medical care. 

It also wore off in 24 hours. 

However, it still needed some work. And while early tests had gone well, apparently it did not have the desired effect in humans. 

Four of the six infected had gone feral, absolutely crazy with rage, trying to kill and destroy everything and everyone within their reach. 

Luckily no one had been severely injured before they had been tranquilised. 

The other two were different, they had… other urges. 

“Have you found any links as to why Doctor Guerrero and Doctor Vaughan didn’t react like the others?” Miguel asks. His voice was calm and controlled, like it always was. Politely interested, like he was listening to a presentation about your latest control data. 

“Well, I have an idea. Though I haven’t fully proven it yet.” 

He tilted his head to the side in a silent question. The action was endearing, it made your heart flutter and heat rise to your skin. And you hated it so, so much. 

You smiled quickly and looked down, trying to cover the fact you’d been staring at him for a second too long. 

“So,” you continued, drawing the word out a little to give you a pause of breathing room. “Both Guerrero and Vaughan are in relationships, both of them wanted to,” you pause for a moment, trying to find the most professional way to phrase it. “get to their partners. Unlike the others they also had a massively increased level of oxytocin.” 

“Your theory is that that cA1m causes a berserk level of rage unless the subject is in love?” There was the smallest smirk on his lips.

It sounded stupid when he put it like that. 

“Well… yes.” You fold your arms. “Look, Miguel,” he grinned when you said his name and you fought, and lost, the urge to smile back. “I’ve had fourteen hours and six people to base this off, plus three who are showing no symptoms. Give me a break, yeah?” 

He held up his hands playfully. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You gave me a look.”

“What look?” He teased. 

“I know you want to be trying to figure this out yourself, but you’re the one who insisted on not being allowed any breakable, or expensive, equipment while you’re in here.” 

He smiled. “It’s true.” His gaze was heavy, crushing almost. 

You shook your head and turned to the side table. “Anyway, are you gonna let me draw some blood or what?” 

He nodded and held his arm out to you. 

You know why you had been ‘nominated’ (begged) to be the one to see Miguel. He wasn’t the easiest CEO to work for in the sense that he was both physically and mentally intimidating, but what usually threw most people was that he was quiet, tended to watch and listen. 

And he had a bit of resting bitch face.  

But he was actually pretty pleasant to talk to when you got to know him. 

You brushed your arm against his as you moved to get your equipment. Miguel audibly gasped. 

A flash of worry pinched at your mind, you turned to look at him. “You okay?” 

Miguel nodded; he was staring straight ahead at the wall. Obviously in distress.

“Miguel?” This wasn’t the same as those who had suddenly developed into a full-blown rage, but still you couldn’t help the sense of apprehension that crawled along your skin. You glanced at the sedative on the side table and shook your head.

“Miguel?” You spoke again, a little softer and moved a step closer towards him. 

He shuddered at your voice, screwing his eyes up tightly. Sweat was beading on his forehead, heat rolling off him in waves.

“Miguel, I’m gonna-”

He moved faster than you could comprehend, one second he was sitting on the bed and the next he was looming over you, his hands clenched tightly around your biceps, and forcing you back.

You yelped as he pressed you into the wall, grabbing hold of his forearms. 

His eyes were dark and wild, brimming with a terrifying energy.

“Miguel, wh-”

He crashed his lips into yours, swallowing down your words and slipping his tongue into your mouth frantically. It took you a fragment of a second to react, surprise freezing your limbs solid. 

Miguel took your delay to his advantage, pushing his knee between your legs and pressing close. Not leaving a fraction of space between you as he devoured your mouth. Stealing your breath and igniting heat along your veins. 

“Miguel,” you managed to push him back, the heels of your hands in his chest. This was the cA1m affecting him, it was the only explanation. Maybe the filtration system had diluted the chemical and caused a delayed reaction. “You need to-”

He snarled, his eyes pinpoint focused on you as he leaned forward and kissed you, hard. All tongue and sharp teeth as he wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck and gripped your thigh bruisingly tight, hitching it high on his hip. 

You’d had dreams like this, fantasies, where he pinned you to the wall and kissed you until you couldn’t breathe. But you couldn’t do this, you couldn’t take advantage of him like this- 

There was a sharp pinch of pain as Miguel sank his teeth into your bottom lip. You let out a small squeak of surprise, pulling away from him. And raised your hand to your mouth, your fingers coming back red. 

Miguel, however, seemed unphased as he trailed kisses along your neck, smearing your blood along your skin. He ground his hips into yours, rocking back and forth and- oh god, he was big, just like the rest of him. 

“Miguel, you need to,” you swallowed down a whimper as he sucked at your pulse point, just managing to resist the urge to hold him closer, to run your hands through his hair. “It’s the cA1m, you’re not thinking straight.”

He murmured something into your neck, his mouth not leaving your skin far enough for the words to be intelligible. 

“Miguel-” You gasped as he nipped at your throat, not enough to break the skin this time. 

Heat was burning from his skin, scorching into your body like you were too close to a flame. 

You grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back a fraction too forcefully. You thought the brief pain might snap him out of it, give him a second of clarity. But as his chin tilted upwards, exposing his neck, he let out a long groan, his eyes squeezed shut. 

It went straight to your core, your thighs clenching at the sound. 

“Need you so bad, shit,” he rocked against you harder, pressing his length right up against your centre. “Always need you, you don’t understand,” he moaned and buried his head back into your neck, despite your grip on his hair, and sucked a love bite into your skin.

This time you couldn’t resist the urge. You sunk your fingers deeper, scratching your nails along his scalp and pulled him closer, pushing his face in your neck.

Miguel groaned appreciatively, digging his sharp nails into your shoulders. He nipped just below your ear, the keen, yet sweet little sting of pain blended with the slow and steady roll of his hips was simply tortuous. Almost enough to make you lose all common sense. 

Almost. 

You couldn’t do this, you couldn’t do this, you just couldn’t do this. 

“Miguel-”

He whined as you said his name. 

And you had to bite your lips together in order to hold onto your fading self respect. 

“On the table,” you swallowed, trying to get your words out quickly, “there’s a sedative. It’ll help, it’ll-”

“You’ll help, being near you helps.” He mumbles, the words barely audible. He snakes his fingers along your ribs, just teasing the hem of your shirt.

“We just need to-oh!”

Miguel grabs hold of your shirt and pulls, ripping it open, buttons pinging off and going flying. Honestly, there’s less resistance from the material than you expected.

And then he's everywhere, his face buried in your chest, kissing the tops of your breasts as his fingers pinch at your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. 

You can't stop the moan of surprise that escapes your lips as you arch into his touch. 

You had to stop this, now. Before he did something you'd very much enjoy and he'd very much regret. 

"Fuck," you hiss under your breath and act quickly, trying not to overthink and get yourself caught up. 

Maybe if he… had some relief you could grab the sedative in the afterglow. Hell, maybe he wouldn't even need the sedative if he came once. 

Before you can lose your nerve you quickly unbuckled his trousers and managed to squeeze your hand under the material despite Miguel's frenzied mind trying to keep the physical space separating you both to a minimum. 

He gasps as you touch him, letting out a choked sob that your brain was already committing to memory and filing under 'for use later'. 

The velvety soft skin was rock hard and burning hot against your hand. So big that you couldn't even get your fingers fully round his girth. 

"Please." He muttered, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands resting tightly on your waist. 

His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth slightly open and when you moved your hand, the smallest upwards movement. He let out the sweetest sigh. 

You bite your lip and wince as you catch the broken skin, but it doesn’t stop you from tracing your thumb over the tip of him, smearing precome along the head. You were trying to be quick, methodical, clinical, as you began to stroke him, setting an even pace. This was just a problem to solve. You should not be enjoying this. 

But every glide of your hand, every touch, made Miguel gasp and moan as if it was the first time he’d ever experienced such sensations, made him bite his lip with his sharp (had they always been that sharp?) teeth, and it was intoxicating. 

He pistoned his hips into your touch, thrusting faster and faster, and practically growling as he grew closer to his release. 

You couldn’t help but watch him, enraptured, as heat pooled in your lower stomach, your own need growing. But this wasn’t about you. 

Still, you couldn’t help yourself rocking back and forth against his leg ever so slightly to just take the edge off. 

Miguel grunted, his eyes rolling back in his head, and there was a sharp pinch of pain as he tightened his grip on your waist, his nails digging in much harder than they surely should have been able to.

He swore under his breath as he cums, twitching under your touch, and coating your hand and stomach with his release. 

There’s so much of it, far more than there should be as he cums and cums, gasping for air. Another side effect of the cA1m - perhaps you’d be annoyed as his release soaks into your ruined shirt if the sight of him reaching his peak wasn’t exhilarating. 

You let go of him quickly, managing to disentangle yourself from him, despite Miguel low, exhausted whine of protest. 

God, how were you going to get a new shirt without running into someone? And, you realised, probably a new pair of trousers too. Miguel’s spend had run down and soaked into the left side. 

You grabbed the sedative from the side table. Your mind already racing, it wasn’t Miguel’s fault but would he remember? Would he be awkward with you now? Would your little chats and jokes stop? You swallowed down a pang of fear and turned. Now wasn’t the time for what ifs you-

Miguel grabbed your arms and you squeaked in surprise. How could he move so silently? His eyes were dark, hooded with lust, his trousers just hanging from his hips and… well, obviously so much for the idea that him cumming once would be enough. 

“I need you.” He growled, his voice so low that you almost felt light headed. “I know you want me too, I can smell it.” He leaned forward scraping his teeth over your pulse point, and for a shameful moment you let yourself get caught up again, allowed yourself to revel in the sensation for the smallest second. 

While he was distracted you pushed the needle into his upper arm, through his shirt, and injected the sedative. 

It shouldn't take long. 

He growled, pulling his mouth away from your neck to stare dangerously into your eyes. 

You swallowed. A spike of fear dug into the base of your skull, some ancient urge telling you to run. 

“It’s okay,” you said soothingly, unsure if you were really talking to Miguel or yourself. “It’s just the sedative.” You pulled the needle out of his arm. “You’ll be fine, let’s lay you down so-”

He kissed you hungrily, harsh and demanding as he forced his tongue into your mouth. 

You allowed yourself to kiss him back the smallest amount as you waited for the sedative to work. 

And waited… And waited…

Oh, no, just no, this wasn’t right, this couldn’t be right. There was more than enough in the injection to knock him out and yet he didn’t show any signs of slowing down. 

Okay, so, this definitely wasn’t how it went with the others. 

You side step, trying to twist past him and break his hold all in one movement. Maybe you could get to the door, maybe you could do… something. Your mind raced, there had to be a way to fix this, to help him, to be useful. 

The side step didn’t work, Miguel’s grip was too tight, and you stumbled, skidding around and to your knees. The edge of the bed thumped into your back. 

You gasp, gulp and stare up at him. That spike of fear dragging itself down your spine. 

He growls and moves closer, his length bobbing and perfectly at your eye level. His gaze is dark and desperate, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth. You could see his pulse thundering in his neck, echoing along the length of his dick. 

Rapid heartbeat was one of the side effects all the others had experienced, the sedative being the only thing that had managed to return it to a normaler level. 

Maybe there was only one way you could be useful. 

Miguel shifts his weight, preparing to move, but you lean forward first and run your tongue along the length of him. 

A deep moan rumbles in his chest as you touch him, a gasp of breath. The sound floods heat to your core. 

You wrap your lips around the tip, grabbing hold of his hips to pull him closer as you swallow as much of him as you can. You bob your head, encouraging him to move with you and there is a moment where you can feel the tension in his muscles, the strain in his thighs as he tries to hold back, to keep himself in check. 

It doesn’t last long. 

He snarls and thrusts forward, snapping his hips and nearly choking you. You splutter, trying to breathe through your nose but Miguel doesn’t give you a second to recover. He pushes forward, the back of your head slamming against the edge of the bed as he plunges deeper and deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with ease and still not even half way in. 

Your grip on his hips tightens and you don’t know if you’re trying to pull him away or urging him on. 

It burns, the size of him makes your jaw ache, tears roll down the sides of your cheeks from the force of his relentless thrusts. 

His hands dig into the mattress by the side of you head, tearing into the fabric as he pounds into you, fucking your mouth with everything he’s got. 

He groans, “yes, baby, yes,” his voice low and barely distinguishable as words. 

You do your best to just hold on, to breathe and take as much as you can. The sounds of his moans filling your ears and mind, and god, how you wished you didn’t have a gag reflex and could take him deeper. 

He keeps ramming into your mouth, snapping his hips against you with a frenzied energy and you push against his lower back, silently begging him to keep going. 

Your neck throbs from discomfort, bruising forming where the skin is repeatedly hitting against the hard outline of the bed frame. Your knees burn from where they continuously rub against the floor with every buck and thrust. 

Miguel lets out a short, animalistic cry as he cums down your throat suddenly. You moan against him, trying to swallow all of it but there’s just so, so much. It spills out of the side of your mouth and down your chin despite your best efforts.

He leans forward, breathing hard, his cock still in your mouth. And for a second you think this is it, the sedative will take hold or maybe this mindless lust has come to an end. 

But he’s still hard when he pulls himself out of your mouth, his eyes still glazed over with the same madness when he looks down at you. He runs his hand over your chin, the pads of his fingers slightly sharp, and collects some of his spend that hasn’t trickled down your neck and onto your torn shirt and bra. Another item of clothing you’d need to change. 

He smears his cum along your cheek, the movement possessive, like he was marking his territory. 

There’s a pause, the lull in the eye of the storm before he pulls you up from the ground with a shocking display of strength, moving as if you were no heavier than a glass of water he was eager to drink down. 

You can’t help the little yelp of surprise that escapes you as he practically throws you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress and momentarily knocking the air out of your lungs.

But then he’s on top of you, pressing himself firmly between your legs as he growls and snaps his teeth close to your neck. He bites at your throat, hard enough to break the skin and you cry out as the pain quickly disappears into pleasure. 

Your mewls only make his actions more frenzied as he tears your clothes completely off you with a speed that makes your head spin, before removing his own. The material rips so easily, as if he used a blade. 

He runs his tongue along your chest, messily cleaning up the cum he’d spilt along you just moments before. 

“Miguel-” You try to start, but then his mouth is back on yours, tasting like salt and iron as he drinks down your words to leave you breathless. 

You gasp as he breaks away, trailing sloppy kisses down your body, his fingers running over your skin and leaving scratches. He bites your hip partially deeply and you keen, arching up into him as he moans. 

“Your so fucking sweet.” He mutters before kissing lower and lower and, oh god. You nearly scream as his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks hard. Pleasure coils tight in your belly as a new wave of wetness leaks out and soaks into the torn up sheets beneath you. 

His fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes his face into you, only breaking away so that he can lick through your folds hungrily, devouring you like a starving animal. 

“Miguel!” You whine, letting out a series of high pitch moans that sound alien even to your own ears. 

He sucks your clit once more, his teeth just grazing across it before he snarls and pulls away, pushing the back of your thighs and pressing them against your chest with a crushing strength. 

You struggle to take a breath, barely filling your lungs before he’s thrusting into you with a guttural groan and a sharp snap of his hips. 

The size of him hurts, it’s too much, too fast and you gasp in pain. You clench your jaw, your eyes screwing up as your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to push him back even though you know it’s no use against his strength. 

But he stops instantly, stilling his movements. 

You stare up at him in surprise. His eyes are still dark but there’s something else there, something pushing through that lust haze. 

“Pain?” He whispers, sounding the most like his old self that he has since this ordeal began.

You swallow and nod, tears building at the corners of your eyes. 

He slowly loosens his grip around your thighs, letting go shakily as if it is taking a lot of self control to do so. And while he doesn’t pull out, he doesn’t thrust in deeper either. 

Carefully, he manoeuvres your legs down onto the bed either side of him, watching your face for any sign of increased discomfort. It’s only then that he looks down to where you’re joined, completely split open with only a quarter of his length inside. 

He groans lows and you brace yourself for a brutal thrust that never comes. Instead he keeps his hips still as he slowly trails his sharp nails down your stomach, teasing the very edge of your clit before pressing his thumb against it fully. 

A small moan escapes you and you clench down instinctively. Miguel hums in approval and starts to slowly circle the bundle of nerves, the touch light and soft as he just borders on the edge of losing control. 

The pain starts to dissipate quickly, replaced with a steady continuous build of that deep need from before. You start to squirm. The pressure of his thumb isn’t enough and you rock your hips ever so slightly, your breathing hitching in your throat. 

"More?" He whispers.

You nod your head rapidly. 

“Thank god.” Miguel sighs, the words mumbled like a prayer almost too quietly for you to hear, and lets some of his weakening control slip. 

Slowly he pushes further in, the tension shaking in his thighs as he fights with every instinct to pound you into the mattress and turn you into a crying mess beneath him. 

He keeps circling your clit, groaning as feels a fresh wave of wetness leaking out of you. 

You moan, grabbing hold of his shoulders. But this time you pull him towards you, urging him deeper. God, he’s big. Already it’s like you can feel him in your throat. 

The stretch burns, but it’s good, it feels right. Like he is going to reach a whole new devastating part of you. Make you cum so hard that he’ll ruin any other sexual partner for good.

You hook your left leg on his hip and squeeze your calf over his lower back, encouraging him closer, deeper. While you plant your right foot firmly against the bed to rock up against him. 

Miguel groans, his eyes closed. His movements on your clit falter as he slides further in. 

There’s a sharp pain in your hip where his left hand holds you tight,  his nails (it had to be his nails) dug in so deep that they broke your skin. 

You let out a soft whine, clenching around his girth as he presses up against you perfectly and still pushes further in. The pleasure in your stomach tightening and starting to completely overwhelm all other thoughts, urging you to just chase your release. 

Tears prick again at the corners of your eyes, a soft emotion beating hard in your chest. And you can’t help yourself, you grab hold of the back of Miguel’s neck, pulling him down towards you and arching up at the same time to kiss him hungrily. 

He moans into your mouth, pushing back against you and forcing you into the mattress. His hips snap forward, finally sheathing himself completely in your tight, wet heat. 

For a moment it’s like you can’t breathe, so completely full that not even air can enter. 

Miguel stills, giving you a moment to adjust as he licks into your mouth and groans as your walls squeeze around his length. His pubis bone presses firmly against your clit, and you can feel the echo of his racing heart beat along his skin. 

He breaks the kiss to breathe hard, his eyes closed and forehead pressed against yours. “I can’t… I need to…”

“Please,” you answer desperately, kissing him softly as you start to rock your hips ever so slightly. 

Miguel lets out a whine, his eyebrows pinched together in bliss and the expression alone is nearly enough to make you cum on the spot. 

“Can’t stop,” he mutters and you're not even sure if he’s aware of what he’s saying anymore as he grabs your wrists in either of his hands and pins them to the bed. “Feels so…” He ruts into you, pulling out so that just the tip of his cock stays inside before slamming back into you. “Fuck. So. Fucking. Tight.”

You wail under him as pleasure runs up your spine and down your legs as he punctuates every thrust with an upwards rock of his hips, continuously rubbing against your clit and pressing the head of his length to that perfect spot inside. 

“So. Fucking. Wet.” He growls. His nails are slicing into your wrists, but you don’t care. Can’t care, you’ve lost all ability to feel anything but the glide of his cock and the heady build of your orgasm. 

“So. Mine.” He growls and bites down hard on your neck. You cry out, the brutal pace of his hips only increasing, bringing you closer and closer and-

You gasp, his name catching in your throat as you finally cum. Every muscle shaking as it crashes over you in waves. 

Miguel tears his mouth away from your neck, blood shining on his lips as he watches you come undone. He moans, his thrusts not faltering for a second. 

“That’s it, cum all over me,” he glances down for a moment watching himself disappearing into you, amazed at how well you’re taking him, how tightly your walls are griping him, trying to milk him for all he’s worth. “Squeezing me so tight, oh shit-” 

He cums loudly, still pistoning in and out of you as he fills you up with his release. There’s still so much of it, some leaks out, spilling out of your abused hole and sticking to your thighs. 

You breathe deeply, your mind foggy from how hard you came. Your legs ache from being stretched so wide, your pussy throbs from overstimulation. 

Miguel doesn’t stop, still rock hard and trusting. Pushing his cum deeper into you. 

“Miguel,” you whine, your throat raw. 

“I can’t-” he bites his lip, “I can’t stop, I need to, fuck, please, I need to-”

You kiss his neck, biting harder than you normally would at his jugular. He whines, the sound going straight to your core. Heat starts to build again.

“Keep going,” you mutter against his skin. “Keep going as long as you need to.” 

.

You wake up sore and sticky. Aching and in pain. Even the slightest movement brings out an array of discomfort. Every muscle throbs, like you had done a year's worth of exercise in one day, and all the bites and scratches sting as you shift, the scrapes making you feel like someone had tossed you naked into a bush of brambles and thorns. 

It takes you a moment to remember where you are, the tiredness in your bones trying to coax you back to sleep. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Miguel’s voice makes you jump. He’s still close to you, laying on his side with his chest pressed up against your back. One arm around your waist. There’s tension there, you know he wants to move away but is scared to move at the same time. 

His cock is pressed against your backside, soft and sated. 

You turn to look at him, too tired to worry about your nakedness. Besides, he had seen plenty of it anyway.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” 

He scoffs. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he looks down. 

It’s only then as you turn around completely to look at him that you see tears in his eyes. “Miguel?” 

You softly touch his cheek but he flinches away from you. The action spikes through your heart. He can’t even look at you now. 

“I’ve got everything to be sorry for, I, I took advantage of you, I rap-”

“No, no, no, no,” you can’t help but touch him again, putting your hand back on his cheek and rubbing your thumb soothingly across his skin. 

This time he leans into it, letting out the smallest, shaky breath. 

“You were infected, Miguel, you couldn’t control yourself. I don’t know how much you remember but the sedative didn’t work, and your heart rate was just, I mean, it was crazy high. And, if anything, I was the one that took advantage of you and-”

His eyes snap open. “You? You took advantage of me?” He says disbelievingly. “Look at you.” He touches the bite marks on your neck gently. 

You give him a little smile. “I don’t mind.”

He breathes out another shaky breath, but there’s a hint of a smile. “You don’t mind?” 

You shake your head. “Happy to help.” 

He chuckles a little at that and nods as he runs a hand through his hair. 

There’s a pause, a silence that you can’t stand. 

“I guess I was wrong.”

Miguel frowns a little, confused. 

“My theory, about people having that reaction if they’re in love, I mean.” 

There’s a pause, the only sound a little gulp as Miguel swallows. Something passes over his face for a second, a faint trace of heat rising to his skin.

Oh. Maybe you weren’t wrong. 

“Miguel?”

He breathes deeply, looking down. “I-”

You don’t give him a chance to finish, letting your adrenaline overwhelm you as you quickly lean forward and press your lips to his. Hoping against hope that you weren’t misreading the situation. 

He’s caught by surprise for a moment, but moans happily and softly kisses you back as his arm wraps around you and pulls you close. 

The kiss is slow and gentle, languid and sweet. It makes your stomach drop like you were falling from a great height. His embrace the only thing keeping you safe. 

He runs his tongue over your bottom lip lightly, careful of the cuts, but licks into your mouth hungrily the second you part your lips. It’s not the same lustful need from before, this is deeper, sharper and desperate in a different way. As if after devouring your body he now needed to devour your soul. 

He kisses you again, lightly before you both pull back for a second. He grins at you, a little shyly and you smile as you stroke his cheek.  

“You weren’t wrong.” He muttered. 

You frown and shake your head, confused. 

He chuckles and kisses you again. “Your theory about love.” 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @whatthefishh @mbakubabe @solobagginses @romanarose @saturn-rings-writes

[beatrixstonehill2]

"That's why I'm so excited for this stupid semester to be over! I'm trying to be a professional fashion model and the stupid guys at my university can't stop thinking with their cocks. It's kind of pathetic, really. But if in the meantime it placates these horny nerds and gives them something to play with and enjoy. On one hand..... I hate having these enormous cow-tits bouncing and jiggling every time I do literally anything. They're just so fat and swollen and sweaty..... God knows what boys see in silly stuff like this.

At any rate, like most universities these days our insurance is given out by the university and we're signed up for all kinds of programs and drug trials. You know, normal stuff. But I was oh so lucky enough to be selected for compulsory breast growth so my boobs can get big enough by the end of every semester that the surgery students can reduce my boobs back to a dignified girth. I shudder to think of all the money my family spent on tuition just for my body to be at the mercy of a bunch of horny med students.

Apparently the boys there had a crush on me, selected me and sent my info to the university insurance provider. So now for my whole time here at this school, earning my Bachelor's, my breasts will be subjected to this humiliating torment over and over. Imagine how mangled they'll be by the time I graduate? Might as well lop the things off by then...... I mean, just look at what I'm dealing with! Men play with them incessantly, whether through my clothes or they insist on pulling them out to have their fun. It is rather amusing, I'll admit. I like to stroke their faces and call them handsome as they handle my oversized breasts. I enjoy seeing them squirm, their cocks getting so big, a lot of boys cum in their pants simply from kneading and groping me. It's kind of empowering.....

And to think this is only after a couple months of these rapid-growth injections. Two months left. I could double in size. How will that even work? My poor back aches as it is. My boobs have huge stretch marks and look so swollen and red I tend to keep them covered. Boys don't seem to mind but other girls giggle and gossip. Then in another two months, when these hornball magnets are unbearably huge, I guess I'll be begging like a pathetic Hentai princess to not have to grow any bigger. For my captors to please stop forcing my body to expand! The med students will love hearing me beg. Then the whole university gets to watch my tits get dismantled, streamed live. I'll be flat chested again, given a couple weeks to recover, then I'll be given the injections yet again.

And this will be my life for over three more years! Forced to watch helplessly as my breasts grow to absurd, male-jerk-off-fantasy proportions, only to be chopped down to nothing, over and over. If these boys need so much practice why not line up all the busty girls and just chop off their breasts one by one like a regular community college? No.... instead these students see fit to get creative with me. So, I'll get the humiliating pleasure of growing massive blimp-tits every four months. I feel like my brain my start to crack..... Having to endure this for so long as I try to study and not look ridiculous in front of my peers. My growing breasts groped and pulled from my clothes, slapped around and fucked. I already feel like I'll never get the stink of cum out from between these sweaty, fat udders of mine. Even once the students chop them down to mincemeat in two months. I feel like a lab animal. Like all I am is this pair of breasts that exist solely for men to play with and torment and experiment on. Maybe instead of being a model I ought to donate my body for medical research, sign away my rights, and literally just become a pair of breasts for horny old doctors to run tests and trials on..... One thing at a time, I need to graduate first. Not for my diploma, but so I don't disappoint all these boys looking forward to four years of inflating and chopping off my boobs.... I simply can't abandon my purpose like that. ❤️"

[genderqueerdykes]

I saw your post about AMAB Enbies and how non-binary isn’t a monolith and wanted to say I appreciated seeing it. As a 25-year-old socially anxious, autistic, and ADHD AMAB enby person, it’s hard for me not to feel like a lot of trans and LGBT spaces treat me like a fox in the henhouse, especially when there are physical attributes I can’t change, like my height and build, and how “manly” things like my hands and face are. I can’t exactly change my facial structure, nor do I think it’d be authentic to myself if I did or could. (Apparently, it’s a problem to have a well-kempt and styled beard?)

Unfortunately, when I interact with the local trans community, most conversations circle around whether I’m planning on medically transitioning or “getting some work done.” I don’t feel like I have something to transition to; I just need to work on improving my physical and mental health. They also often ask if I’m happy with my style/aesthetics, which I’m not. But it often feels like a catty jab because, one, who has the money for a professional boy-mode-ish wardrobe, a boy-mode/family-safe wardrobe, AND a gender-affirming wardrobe? There is some overlap between those three concepts, I know, but still… I can’t wear a tank top, fun/crazy button-up, and a pair of khaki booty shorts in an office setting, or god forbid, around parents or certain friends. XwX

A lot of my autistic and ADHD tics were “corrected” in harmful ways that have made me more restrained and subdued to a point where my excitement might seem a bit disconcerting at times. I used to talk with my hands a lot and fidget a lot, but since it wasn’t something “good boys” did, the behavior was “corrected” by my parents and the community I grew up in. I’m always kinda anxious and paranoid now in groups of semi-strangers that I’ll make a major faux pas and everyone will hate me or dogpile in correcting me.

Anyway, thanks for letting me ramble in your asks. I just wanted to say thank you for speaking out because some of us are afraid to. ^^;

hey i just wanted to say thanks for sending this ask! i really appreciate it because it irks me that people just participate in this behavior and act like that's what's to be expected or right. it's not okay, and i'm sorry you have firsthand experience with this, but i absolutely do not blame you at all whatsoever. it's fucked up that a lot of spaces for people who fall outside of the gender binary are beginning to police AGAB which is just. absolutely outrageous behavior from a community that is supposed to embrace and celebrate diversity in identity and how we experience gender outside of the binary...

but instead toxic people become obsessed with the biological sex binary. i don't know how to put it any other way than it is transphobic as fuck to say you don't feel safe around an entire group of people with/born with one specific genitals. their genitals have nothing to do you with you! nothing! those are their genitals, leave them the fuck alone! this is LITERALLY the "we don't give a fuck about AGAB" community and bioessentialists and transphobic queers are loudly and proudly excommunicating anyone from the community who was born assigned male at birth or has a penis in general.

i'm sorry to hear that people are so uptight about your body and physical appearance. the thing is that we are supposed to be embracing diversity in our bodies and appearances and experiences but yet they see someone who is... tall? or has a defined chin? or an adam's apple? or dense muscle tissue? or facial hair, like you mentioned? and suddenly they're... a threat? what the hell is this? it's transphobia, that's what it is!

you shouldn't have to transition if you don't want to. the thing about being non binary is that you presenting that way, especially if it's how you want to present, is literally challenging and stepping outside of the gender binary as we know it today. you are not required to go over the top and be the most femme person to have ever walked the earth. you're not required to have surgeries done or take hormones or dress different or change your voice... you don't have to change anything about you that you don't want to. that's one of the core principles of the trans community and we are letting down such a massive part of our family by behaving this way.

you really hit the nail on the head by bringing up your tics. i am so sorry that you have to deal with that worry- a LOT of people who are hostile toward amab transfems, trans women, and transfemmes in general target them specifically because of their mental health and/or neurodivergence. i've noticed this in person, especially if the amab non binary person in question has a loud voice and doesn't notice or has hearing damage and has to speak loudly, if they have tics as you mentioned, if they talk a lot or enjoy long conversations, if they try to explain... anything, people will target them for being "hostile" or for "arguing" when they're doing nothing wrong

people have gotten too comfortable in calling people with these features, especially people with deep voices, facial/body hair and penises, make someone "scary" or "dangerous". people are literally gladly applying radfem logic to the nonbinary community and not questioning it. radfems are attempting to rope in nonbinary afab people as they view them as "confused women," so the more we support this behavior, the more we lose grasp on our own family and community. we can't allow people to think this is okay behavior

i don't understand why people are okay with cis butch women but not okay with butch or gender non conforming transfems, trans women and amab trans people. i despise the notion that amab and intersex people can't be gender non conforming. why is gender non conformity reserved for afab people? has everyone forgotten (or patently ignored) the rich history of amab non binary and gender non conforming people we've had over the many decades of recorded history throughout our community in this modern era?

amab people should be allowed in these spaces, because there are just as many ways for amab people to step outside of the gender binary as there are afab and intersex people. everyone is capable of stepping outside of the binary for their identity and nobody has the right to police what that looks like. nobody. if one genuinely has trauma being around people of certain body types, seeking some type of therapy is crucial, because this is projecting one person's specific trauma on to an entire group of people, and it's spreading like wildfire and becoming the default in these spaces

this is not an attempt to derail, but rather to point out that this affects ALL trans people: fearing these traits in any person of any agab affects trans men, transmascs, intersex people, and other trans people in general. someone can have these features for a variety of reasons. also, if we're leaving out trans men & mascs, and we're leaving out trans women & femmes, AND we're leaving out AMAB people in general... how the HELL is that a trans community? there's no community to be had there whatsoever! that's an echo chamber! that's a radfeminist belief breeding ground!

we cannot let radfems and transmisogynist let nonbinary spaces become "gender non conforming women, afab trans people and people with a vagina only" spaces, because at what point, why are you calling it the nonbinary community? people need to be brutally honest and call those spaces women's spaces, or EXPLICITLY tell people that they are made only for people assigned female at birth. that wouldn't be ideal but it would at least make this transparent so people would know to avoid that and possibly start up their own safer spaces for ALL trans people

leaving out amab trans people no matter how they identify means your space is not safe for ALL trans people. it needs to be safe for every trans person no matter what they were assigned at birth. we are failing a huge portion of our community for no reason other than for people to project their trauma onto a group of people that haven't hurt them. we can't let down our family like that. it affects us all. we are stronger together and the nonbinary communities become more nuanced and develop better resources and enable all trans voices as opposed to 1 very specific type of trans person

thank you for this ask, sorry for such a long winded reply but i am so sick of people being awful to amab trans people in general. you deserve to be able to be non binary openly and talk about it with other queer people. i hope you're able to find safer spaces to be who you are, you deserve that just like any other queer person. you don't deserve to feel like you're walking on eggshells the entire time you're around other nonbinary people because you were assigned a different sex at birth, and you have different genitals than they do... that's literally antithetical to transness as a concept and queer community on the whole

you don't have to adhere to a strict binary just because you are amab and trans, i hate how people tell you and other folks in your shoes those exact things. you know who you are, you are a non binary person, and i hope more people begin to challenge this behavior and speak up for others, because this is literally not queer community. this is petty infighting being influenced by transmisogynist politics that does not belong. that has nothing to do with queer community, that is an attempt by radfems to disassemble our community at every possible level.

please for the love of god stop giving them that. it's hurting us all

[mypoisonedvine]

medical play with Jonathan please 🥺🙏🥺 I want him to strap me to a table and experiment to see how many times I can cum

oh FUCK yes. i love medical kink aaaaa

warnings: SMUT 18+ only!!!, implied dark/dubcon, fingering, orgasm control

"This is all routine," he insisted as he finished putting on the latex glove," there's nothing to be nervous about."

You tried to believe him, but it's hard to feel secure when your ankles are up in stirrups. "I-I know, Dr. Crane," you sighed, "but I still am."

He offered a little smile, one obviously intended to lower your defenses. "I can't blame you," he admitted. "Just let me know if anything causes you discomfort, alright?"

You nodded, deciding it would be easier to look away than to watch him reach under the paper 'blanket' draped over your legs.

Fighting the urge to react, you forced yourself to stay still and simply scrunch up your face slightly as you felt his fingers press to your entrance. They spent longer than you expected on the outside, and you could see him looking down at you; you shuddered when you noticed in your peripheral the way he was looking down at you... it made you feel horrible exposed, even if you understood that a visual inspection was a necessary part of this. After all, you'd want your doctor to tell you if something looked wrong down there, right?

But he didn't say anything was wrong-- actually, he hummed a little, in a sort of approving way, as the gloved fingers spread your lips. "Is this okay?" he asked softly, and you nodded slightly.

Only when he raised an eyebrow and looked at your face again did you realize he couldn't see a nod while he was giving you an exam. "Y-yes," you stuttered out, "this is okay."

"Relax," he encouraged you.

"Thanks," you breathed, "it's not that I'm uncomfortable with you, or anything--"

"No, I mean, you need to physically relax," he explained, "for your internal exam."

You shivered slightly. "O-oh... right."

"Just take a deep breath," he suggested, and you nodded before trying it-- but the exhale came out a little sharply as he slid two fingers inside you. "You're clenching on me," he noticed, and something about the way he said it sounded a little wrong... not quite professional enough.

"S-sorry," you mumbled, feeling your face warm up.

He curled the fingers inside you, and you had to bite down on your lip as it made your legs shake. "How does that feel?" he asked, and you hated how close you were to blurting out that it felt good.

"Uhm... it's fine..." you answered quietly instead.

"I'm going to apply a little pressure," he warned you, let me know if you feel anything out of the ordinary.

His other hand laid over you, just above where his fingers reached inside you, and gently pressed down-- well, gently at first. He kept pushing and curling his fingers until you choked out a yelp, unable to stop it, and he looked up at you.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Does that hurt?"

"N-no," you sighed. He did it again, his icy gaze darting instantly to the way your legs quivered.

He moved his fingers, teasing the spot inside you again, and your hips jerked in search of more pleasure as you shut your eyes and realized you couldn't deny anymore what he was doing to you.

"I-I'm sorry," you whined, "I'm so sorry, Doctor Crane, I--"

"It's okay," he breathed, "just relax. Let it happen."

Before you could try to process any of that, he did it again-- and again, and again, stimulating you with exact, clinical precision.

You'd never come so fast-- but then again, you'd never had a professional give you one. Apparently, the right combination of movements can bring it on quickly; so quickly, that before you knew it, you were shaking uncontrollably on the exam table, moaning desperately, a wave of slick heat running down from your entrance and coating both his glove and the sanitary paper beneath you.

"Good, good," he praised coldly, watching the effect his work had on you. He stopped moving his fingers when you passed the peak of it, but didn't take them out, instead just watching you blink your eyes open and catch your breath.

"Doctor, I--" you began nervously, even though you still hadn't decided what to say.

"That was impressive," he offered you with a smile, "and even faster than I expected. You must be quite sensitive."

You blinked at him in shock, confident that none of that was appropriate for an allegedly 'routine' exam. "I don't understand," you breathed.

"You don't need to," he assured, making you gasp as he slowly began to thrust his fingers in and out of you, slowly gaining speed. "You just need to lay back and stay relaxed alright? I'll do the rest."

[callsign-muffin]

Heal Together: Chapter 1

(Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw fic)

I've been lurking on here for a while, reading Top Gun fics and I recently got inspired to write one of my own. Hopefully someone reads it and likes it!

Note about the format: Between every header is a change in the point of view :)

Summery: When Rooster was med-evaced back to San Diego from the mission field, the last thing he expected was to wake up with a tube down his throat and the most beautiful woman he's ever seen at his bedside.

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.1k

“Hey Carly, I’m taking over for room 4 today. Are you ready to give report?” You ask the cute blonde night shift nurse, she looked about 12 years old. What in the hell was she doing in the ICU of a military hospital? Hell, you should be asking yourself the same question. You hated it here at this boys club where nurses were ignored as a female dominated profession, despite being the people who spend the most amount of time at the patient’s bedside in a 12 hour stretch. But you were only one week into this eight week travel assignment and the money was great, so you just had to grin and bear it and make as few enemies as possible.

“The census is low, is this gonna be your only patient?” She asked.

“Yeah.” You pulled out your report sheet and pen, “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

You could tell Carly was fresh off of orientation by how nervous she looked before beginning to speak.

“Hey,” You placed a comforting hand on her knee, “take your time, tell me what you know, and if I have any questions I’ll ask them when you’re done. You just finished a long shift, it’s okay to be a little out of it. We’ll get all the info we need together. No pressure, okay?”

“Okay,” Carly nodded and took a deep breath, “This is Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, 35 year old male, full code, no known allergies…”

You quietly took down the pertinent information about Lt. Bradshaw as Carly spoke. He was a pilot, recovered after a crash, and was stitched back together pretty well on the aircraft carrier, he went septic and was transported back to the states to your hospital. Pretty standard stuff. He was currently on a ventilator for breathing support but all seemed to be going in a positive direction despite the shitty circumstances.

Carly finished her report with a sigh of relief, you had a feeling the staff nurses weren’t as respectful when receiving report from a new graduate. “Any questions?”

“Any family  at the bedside?” You asked.

“No, no family. Apparently a guy named Pete Mitchell calls daily for updates, they’re not related but he’s included on the patient’s medical information release forms, so we can talk to him. Chart says he’s single, no siblings, and both parents have passed away.” Carly yawned, she was beginning to fade after a long night. You didn’t want to hold her up anymore than necessary, she needed to get home and go to bed.

“Okay,” You clicked your pen, “Sounds good. Let’s go check lines and meds so you can get out of here.”

She paused for a second as you got up from your chair at the nurses station, “Y/N… thank you for being so nice… I’m only a week off of orientation and things are still so new…”

You smiled at the compliment, “We’ve all been there. Every nurse on this unit was new at one point and I think sometimes they forget that. Hell, I’m a traveler and this is only my second week and there’s so much that’s new to me too. You’re doing great.”

You spent the first part of your morning before rounds with the care team just cleaning up the patient, organizing the room, all that good stuff. Though it wasn’t necessarily considered “professional”, you played some music softly from your phone as you worked. You found that music or just talking to patients on vents helped with agitation. You couldn’t imagine anything more tortuous than listening to repetitive beeping and alarms all day long and nothing else. Though most managers didn’t like it, that didn’t stop you. What were they gonna do? Fire you? Hospitals hire travelers at such a high price point when they’re understaffed and desperate. They needed you more than you needed them.

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

“When the sun goes down, we’ll be groovin’

When the sun goes down, we’ll feel alright

When the sun sinks down over the water

Everything is hotter when the sun goes down…”

Who the fuck listens to Kenny Chesney anymore? Rooster thought to himself.

He knew he was sick, the docs on the ship told him that before they knocked him out to shove the tube down his throat. They told him he’d be med-evaced back to San Diego because the hospital where he was overseas didn’t have the capabilities to take care of someone as sick as him. He didn’t know how long he had been there, all the days run together when you’re too weak to open your eyes. He was used to having things done to him, he was past the point of getting agitated about it, because he knew they’d just sedate him more.

“Alright, Bradshaw.” A confident voice said, “All of your lines are untangled, your room is clean, and your initial assessment is done… How about we have a little spa day? You’re smellin’ a little… ripe.”

RUDE! 

“HA! You can hear me! You raised your eyebrows!” She giggled, damn it was a cute giggle. Rooster honestly hadn’t realized he was moving his face. But he believed her because that’s what his face usually does when he’s surprised. “You’ve been caught. No more playing dumb.”

Water started running, splashing, and the suction was turned on… that sound usually meant his mouth was gonna get cleaned and he was gonna feel something funny down his throat. He hated it.

“Carly told me you were getting agitated during mouth care last night. Since you can hear me, I’m going to tell you everything I’m doing, so don’t get sassy with me.” She said, “Deal?”

Anything for the first person not to treat me like a damn vegetable. This was the first time someone actually talked to him and told him what the fuck was happening since he got here. It was a welcome change.

The kind yet sassy voice interrupted his thoughts, “Okay, mouth care. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

She didn’t lie to him, she was quick and the stupid suction caused him minimal discomfort. Maybe it was because he could brace himself, or maybe it was because she was just really good at her job.

“I’m about to give you a full body bath, so how about we get to know each other a little bit.” She said as she adjusted his sheets and pillows to reposition him, placing a towel under his head, and rinsing his hair with warm water.

Rooster’s whole body relaxed.

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N and I’m obviously your nurse today and will probably be for the next few days…” Nurse Y/N went on about where she’s from, her hobbies, how she’s not making many friends in this new hospital she’s been contracted out to.

Welcome to the military, it’s a boy’s club. He wished he could say that to her. He imagined medicine was similar to aviation, full of egos.

Before Rooster knew it, his whole body had been washed from head to toe. He hadn’t felt this clean in what felt like years.

“So Lieutenant… not to be crude but… I gotta clean your bits. But at least we’ve really gotten to know each other.” Nurse Y/N said, “Your girlfriend will thank me later.”

Ha! Rooster laughed to himself, What girlfriend?! My dick hasn’t been played with in months!

Like with the mouth care, her cleaning was quick and respectful. And damn, being clean felt so good. She went on to change his gown, sheets, and blankets. Rooster truly felt like a new man.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw, you’ve never looked better.” She said with a satisfied sigh.

That’s a damn lie, but I’ll take the compliments wherever I can get them at this point.

“Hey Y/N,” Another female voice said, “They’re starting with you for rounds. Are you ready to present your patient or should I stall?”

“Nah, I’m ready. Tell them to come in whenever.” Nurse Y/N said, then her voice got low and she whispered to Bradley, “I’m gonna try to get them to lighten your sedation and move towards trials of turning the ventilator off. It’s not gonna be comfortable but the sooner we start working towards getting that tube out of your throat, the sooner you can get the hell out of here.”

Rooster wanted to make sure she knew he heard her and that he was on board, it took every ounce of strength in his body, but he nodded.

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

“No way.” The resident physician said simply after you gave your recommendation with your presentation of Lt. Bradshaw

You were dumbfounded. What the hell did he mean no?!, “This patient was more than ready to move towards extubation.” 

“And what makes you the expert?” the resident asked.

Oh lord, this fresh out of med school asshole was turning rounds into a dick measuring contest.

“The fact that I’ve been at his bedside for the past three and a half hours, I assessed him, bathed him, turned him, and he is showing signs of progress. The next step is spontaneous breathing trials and extubation. The longer he stays on the vent, the more likely he is to get pneumonia, as we all should know, Doctor.” You explained coolly but made sure to add his (probably newly earned) title. 

“I agree with…” The attending looked at you and scanned your badge, “... Y/N… What do you think from a Respiratory Therapy standpoint, Brent?” He looked over at Brent, the RT.

Brent smirked and narrowed his eyes at the resident, “I also think moving towards extubation is a good thing. If he has two successful trials, he could be off the vent by the end of the day.”

The attending physician nodded, “Then it’s a plan. And I think this is a really good lesson for the residents and medical students with us on rounds, the nurses know more about the patient than we do. We should always consider their recommendations because they have the most valuable view on the patient, simply because they spend time with them.”

You tried to dim the glow that was on your face.

 “Thanks, Dr…” You scanned the attending’s badge the same way he did yours.

“Carter, Brendan Carter.” He extended his hand and you shook it, “Glad to have you here.”

That was the most welcome anyone had made you feel in the last week here. Who would’ve thought a wrinkly old attending doctor with dancing eyes would be the person to stand up for you and make you feel secure in your clinical decision making.

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

Rooster wasn’t sure how much time had gone by since Nurse Y/N told him she was turning down his sedatives but it felt like he could open his eyes almost instantly. It was so… bright. Once his eyes adjusted, he scanned his surroundings, the lights weren’t even on but the sun shining through the large window felt blinding. He looked to his left and saw the machine that the tube in his throat was attached to, the machine that had kept him alive for God knows how long. He looked to his right and saw multiple IV poles that attached him to lines and lines of medicine and fluid. Further to his right, he saw a woman standing at a computer, typing away furiously, her face was serious yet beautiful, was that Nurse Y/N?

“Good morning, Lt. Bradshaw.” She said quietly, “You’re still attached to your breathing tube, so you can’t talk. Now that you’re awake we’re one step closer to getting you off that thing. Sound good?”

Rooster nodded slowly, wishing he could thank her for everything. For talking to him, bathing him, treating him like a human-being.

“Do you feel strong enough to write?” She asked, “Can I get you a whiteboard?”

He nodded again.

“I’ll be right back.” She swiftly left the room. 

Rooster couldn’t help but love watching her walk away. Along with a beautiful face, he could tell she had a great body hiding underneath those scrubs. It had been so long since he’d seen a pretty girl.

She returned quickly with a whiteboard and a marker, handing it to him, “What’s on your mind Lieutenant?”

Call me Bradley. He scribbled, 

“Nice to meet you Bradley.” She smiled down at him, “How are ya feelin’?”

Better now that I’m clean and awake. He wrote.

“There’s something healing about a bath and being taken out of your drug induced sleep, huh?” She giggled.

Rooster nodded and started writing again, Thank you for everything.

“No biggie. I’m glad to see you doing so well. Is it okay if I do a full assessment on you, just since you’re awake now?” She asked.

He nodded, this girl could do anything she wanted to him. She was basically his angel.

[infiniteeight8]

Ironstrange identity reveal? I was reading Spy x Family when I thought of this, so that's the background/setting I was thinking of initially, but it can definitely be a superhero thing too. Or whatever other idea pops into your head. I'm always excited to see what you come up with!

I read the top of the wikipedia entry for Spy x Family, but that setup is not working for me here, so instead we’re going with some classic “Iron Man is Tony Stark’s bodyguard” shenanigans. 😀

Uh, this got… more than a little out of hand. This has many themes in common with other drabbles, but now it’s 1360 words long. Enjoy?

Under the read more for length.

-

Tony stares stubbornly at Steve, who is rubbing his eyes with the kind of exhausted exasperation that has become his hallmark around Iron Man.

“Iron Man, you were unconscious,” Steve says. “After being electrocuted. You need a real medical check.”

“The armor has medical sensors,” Tony insists. “It says I’m fine. I can answer questions for a neurological exam. That’ll have to be good enough.”

Steve gets that stubborn look on his face. The one that no one wins against. Fuck. “You’re benched until you get a real medical check.”

“How about if I get checked out in my civilian identity?” Tony suggests.

“We have no way of verifying that you’ve done that,” Steve says. “And while I hate to say you’d lie, I can’t dismiss the possibility after this conversation. I understand your hesitation about revealing your identity, but your life is at stake.”

“It’s really not,” Tony mutters. He’s fine. But he can tell that Steve isn’t going to budge on this, and he wants to be off the bench sooner rather than later. “Fine. Call Strange, then.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up. “Doctor Strange? He’s not a practicing physician.”

“He’s kept his certifications, though.”

“And he hates you.”

Stephen hates Iron Man. He’s quite fond of Tony Stark, though. They’re… friends. He’s asked Tony on half a dozen dates, which Tony has been forced to turn down because he refuses to lie about something as important as Iron Man to someone he’s dating. It’s made for a lonely couple of years. At least if he has to reveal his identity to someone, he might get a date out of it. If Stephen forgives him for lying. If he can get past Tony Stark being an Avenger in general (apparently they make a lot of work for the sorcerers; something about the barriers between dimensions) and Iron Man in specific, who he’s always hated the most. 

“Then you’ll know he’s being honest when he clears me,” is all Tony says aloud.

Steve still looks baffled, but he makes the call.

Tony’s expecting Stephen to be angry when he arrives. He may keep his medical certifications up to date, but he doesn’t work as a doctor and he’s sure as hell not on call for the Avengers. But when he arrives he’s crisply professional, if frosty. He’s even wearing a lab coat over street clothes. He locks the exam room door behind him, which would be odd except that he follows it up with, “Armor off.” Tony hesitates. Stephen’s expression tightens. “Captain Rogers indicated you were willing to be examined,” he says sharply.

“This is kind of a big deal,” Tony snaps. “There is literally no one living that knows who I am.”

Stephen blinks. “Surely Tony knows.”

Tony sighs. “Yeah. About that.” He issues the command, and the helmet retracts. 

Stephen stares. And stares. And there it is. There’s the anger. “You utter fucking idiot!” He shouts. “What the hell are you doing risking your life in that goddamned tin can?! Don’t you know what a catastrophic loss it would be if you died out there?”

Okay, Stephen is yelling, but it seems like… good yelling? “I’m saving people,” Tony argues.

“You save plenty of people as Tony Stark!” Thank God the soundproofing in this place is spectacular; Stephen doesn’t lower his voice one bit. “So why do you insist on ruining your own life with this, this,” he waves his hand inarticulately at the armor still covering Tony to the neck, “bullshit.”

Okay, that’s enough. “Iron Man is not ruining my life! It’s the best thing I’ve ever done!”

Stephen's expression shifts from furious to incredulous. “The best thing?” he demands. “The best thing? What about the 100 million dollar donation to spinal cord research? The Foundation that helps people rebuild after things like alien invasions when their insurance won’t? What about the shield you invented that makes it possible for people with sensitive implants to get an MRI safely, or the modular smartphone that doesn’t need to be replaced every two years? What about the scholarships you’ve endowed?”

“Stephen—”

“Are those not big enough in scale?” Stephen demands. “How about the clean energy technology that looks like it might stop global warming in its tracks? Is that enough? Is one planet not enough? Do we need to talk about the international collaboration that you started to combine Earth’s resources with alien technology to turn us into an interstellar civilization before another interstellar civilization can dismiss us as barbarians—”

“I’m not the one who decided none of that counted!” Tony shouted over Stephen. It stops the tirade, at least. Tony blows out a hard breath. “The guy who donates the 100 million dollars isn’t the hero,” he goes on. “That’s the guy who makes the discovery. The Foundation isn’t celebrated for the people it helps, it’s critiqued for the ones it doesn’t. The MRI shield, the smartphone… people like them, but they’re advances that ‘were always coming’. Or maybe ‘were overdue’. That doesn’t mean they aren’t worth doing. Of course they’re worth doing.” Tony retracts a gauntlet and rubs a hand over his face. God, he’s tired. “I just… I wanted to be the hero for once,” he admits. It sounds so fucking selfish. “Tony Stark could never do enough. It always had to be about the money for them, even when it really wasn’t about the money for me. But Iron Man… No one wonders what his ulterior motive is when he does something good. They just cheer.”

Stephen sighs and hitches himself up onto the medical bed next to Tony. “Do you know why I hated Iron Man so much?”

Tony grimaces. “I always figured he was just too… blunt instrument for you.”

Stephen snorts. “Hulk and Cap are far more blunt,” he says. “Iron Man at least has precision weapons to go with the punches. No. I hated Iron Man because when the suit failed somehow Tony got the blame, but when it worked, Iron Man got the credit. Iron Man made everything you just explained worse, not better.”

There’s not really a counter argument for that. It’s true. Except, “Nothing was going to make that better,” Tony says. “Nothing could. Not until I’m dead, anyway.” He half expects Stephen to go right back to haranguing him for risking his life. 

“Speaking of which, I’m meant to be making sure you’re not dying now,” Stephen says. He stands and moves to face Tony. “Come on. Get the rest of the armor off.”

Tony obliges, and they proceed with the rest of the exam in silence. 

Near the end, Tony looks over Stephen’s shoulder rather than meet his eyes and says, quietly, “I’m not going to stop.”

“My initial reaction aside,” Stephen answers, just as soft, “I never thought you would. I know as well as anyone how this life becomes a part of you.” When he finishes the exam, he steps back. “You’re fine.” 

Tony nods and puts the armor back on. It’s never been so quiet between them before. His chest aches.

When he’s got everything but the helmet back on, Stephen stops him. “Is this why you always said no when I asked you out?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Didn’t seem right to lie like that to my partner.”

“Right.” Stephen nods firmly. “So will you go out with me now?”

Tony perks up. “You still want to?”

Stephen gives him a look. “You have not had a personality transplant,” he says dryly. “So yes, I still want to.”

Do not push your luck, Tony tells himself. He says it anyway, “Thought the lying might be a bigger deal.”

“Everyone keeps secrets,” Stephen says. “But the secrets that a friend will accept are different from the secrets that a partner will accept. You’ve already demonstrated that you understand that.” Tony grins and Stephen shoots him a look. “We will, however, be having words about you assuming I’d react like anyone else in your life.”

Tony swallows a laugh. “Of course,” he says. “I should have known you’d be exceptional.” 

“And don’t forget it,” Stephen says, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

[sophieinwonderland]

Well, I went through all the trouble of typing a response and then they just block me before I can post... if only there was a tag I could post my response in... 🤔

You’re the ones who invaded our tags first,

That's pretty clearly not true if you've been paying attention to anything happening over the past several months on this site and anti-endos constantly posting hate in inclusive tags.

Not only do you take away system resources,

What resources? Be specific?

Terms? Because again, besides Plural as a term, fictives and factives were taken from the endogenic soulbonders. In reality, vast majority of system terms in circulation came from endogenic and pro-endo systems.

Maybe you mean resources like Pluralkit and Simply Plural. You know, that are made by the pro-endos. And get many of their donations from endogenic systems.

Or, I don't know... do you think the non-trauamgenic systems and non-disordered systems are seeking mental help from your trauma therapists? 🤣

Come on! Tell me the resources! Don't just use this as a buzzword!

Tell me, you have no actual medical professions claiming endogenics are real and we have many claiming they aren’t.

Oh? You do, do you? Can you name them? I can name mine!

Here's Dr. Eric Yarbrough...

That book, Transgender Mental Health, was actually reviewed and published by the American Psychiatric Association, by the way!

Of course, if you want the opinions of an expert in DID, there are these emails from Colin Ross!

Oh, but what does he know? He's just one of the foremost experts on DID with 40 years of experience.

How about brain scans? Here's Dr. Michael Lifshitz, psychiatry professor of McGill University discussing some of the findings from his $50,000 study into tulpa systems, sponsored by Stanford University, which showed neurological changes in tulpa systems while a tulpa was controlling their limbs.

To be fair, the results haven't been published yet, so maybe you can hold onto the hope that this professor with many published papers on his belt is lying about the results. That will be a fun hope to see crushed!

And I could go on... and on... I have a long list and this is just a taste of it.

But anyway, you were telling me how these "many" medical professionals are claiming endogenic systems aren't real. Can you name them for me? Even just one? Come on. If there are so many, it shouldn't be hard!

People like you groom actual systems into believing their trauma “wasn’t bad enough” so they think they’re endogenic

"Punk" to you is apparently using authoritarian right-wing queerphobic tactics of misusing the word "grooming" to make people associate the out group with child abusers. (See every right-winger accusing LGBT people of grooming kids to be gay or grooming them to be transgender.)

Not to mention you stole the term syshopping from RAMCOA survivors.

Nope. That's a lie.

System hopping, as a term for traveling between different bodied-systems, existed since at least as far back as 2005.

The RAMCOA association came from one RAMCOA system in 2021. The system who originally said that later said their words were taken out of context, deleted the original tweet, and condemned anti-endos for using their tweet to spread hate.

I've gone over this before with sources in the post below, thoroughly debunking this lie.

There is zero basis to this whatsoever.

Although you bringing this up and reminding me how anti-endos are trying to rewrite history to take this term too is only increasing my motivation for taking the systempunk and syspunk tags.

Not to fucking mention, you steal actual therapists from us by trying to make them believe in endogenic bullshit.

Wait!

I thought you said no medical professionals believed us!

Now we're stealing therapists by making them believe in endogenic systems?

Which is it??????

never touch the systempunk tag again

Nope! Sorry! Too late for that now!

Anti-science hate groups don't get safe spaces. And the fact that you've created an echo chamber where you can safely spread lies like the systemhopping libel above is only evidence that I need to make more of an effort to correct the lies of anti-endos at their source.

No Safe Space For Hate!

[incompleteth0ts]

(S)he likes your butt and fancy hair

Day 6 of Hadercy week: Hades and/or Persephone read TLT written by adult Percy and find out that Percy thinks Hades is attractive

@hadesxpercy-events

Percy hated therapy.

Okay, maybe that was a lie, but he did hate his therapist.

…Okay maybe that was a lie too, but what he did hate was not being allowed to hide from his problems.

Percy’s mom had managed to convince Percy to take the next big step months ago. She had practically begged him. Curled up on the floor of the emergency room, holding the limp hand of her only son.

“Please don’t die, baby. Mommy can’t live without you.”

That had been one hell of a sign, if any.

It was harder than Percy expected it to be. New York wasn’t known for its abundance of therapists, and demigods rarely lived long enough to make it to college. When Percy found his first therapist, a legacy of Athena, Percy was grateful enough to offer Athena an offering at dinner.

Every day, Percy regrets offering her that piece of steak.

The legacy was self-licensed with a diploma that might as well have been painted onto the drywall.

Percy had been approached by the legacy after leaving his last class at NRU. The man had been as old as dirt, with dirty blonde hair and a face as friendly as the average son of Ares.

Percy had been incredibly skeptical of the man when he first approached him, but his mom had been so ecstatic when Percy told her about scheduling his first appointment. He’d already broken her heart once; he couldn’t do it a second time.

So, off to therapy, he went.

The first appointment was…rough.

The man knew a lot about him. Percy figured it came with the title of hero, but it was unnerving having someone who was supposed to be his last chance at a fresh start know so much about him before he even sat down.

It became very apparent that his ‘therapist’ was more of an overgrown fanboy than a medical professional. Percy did not schedule another appointment with him after that.

The next few therapists were the same. Nobody legacies who wanted the bragging rights of ‘saving the hero from himself’ and a free autograph.

If it wasn’t for the fact his mom had such high hopes for him finding ‘the one’ he would have given up before he even started.

Luckily, the fates had taken pity on him. A once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity is in the form of a pop-up ad.

The computers at New Rome University were nearly as ancient as the school itself. Big blocky computer screens that ran at a snail's pace. The ad had taken up the entire screen and nearly crashed the whole appliance, but there it sat, as clear as day.

‘For the people who can no longer care. I care for you. Dr. Laura Hill, registered psychiatrist.’

At the bottom of the screen was an address and phone number. Grabbing the nearest pen and tearing off a corner of his anatomy homework, Percy wrote the number down in a messy scrawl. Something told Percy she was his last stroke of hope; if she couldn’t help him, no one could.

Percy shoved the piece of paper in the back pocket of his jeans and prayed his gut feeling was right.

Percy didn’t call the number until three days later.

He was nervous, ok?

Percy gripped the landline as though he was scared of it running out of the booth instead of him.

Percy cursed every time he messed up the number and had to redial it. By the time the phone rang, Percy was ready to give up. He only had so much hope in his body.

“Hello?”

Percy dropped the phone. He cringed at the loud bang that echoed in the booth as the telephone swung on its cord, bouncing off the window pane.

“Hello? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! I’m sorry I just dropped the phone.” Percy held the landline between his cheek and shoulder to wipe the seat off his palms.

“That’s ok, hun. Are you calling for an appointment?”

“Yes. I saw an ad for a Dr. Hill. Is this the right number?”

“It sure is. Is this your first time making an appointment with her?”

Yep. Can’t you tell from the clumsy fingers and the chattering teeth? If my bone shook any harder, I’d start an earthquake.

“Yes.”

“Alright, just give me a moment to take a look at her schedule…how are you today?”

Percy wiped his hands on his shorts a second time. The glass was beginning to fog up a ridiculous amount.

“I’m fine. I’m just really nervous. This is the sixth therapist I've been with, and I’m starting to feel hopeless.”

“I’m sorry to hear that hun. Dr. Hill is one of the kindest women I know, you’ll love her. I can just feel it.”

Over the line, Percy could hear the robotic typing of a keyboard. He hoped, Dr. Hill wasn’t flooded with traumatized teenagers to the point that she couldn’t fit in one more.

“Well, would you look at that! It seems like one of her other clients canceled their 1 o’clock appointment for tomorrow. If you’re available, can I schedule you for then?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m available. Thank you so much!”

“Alright! Can I have a name for this appointment?”

“Perseus Jackson.”

___

Percy sat as patiently as he could in the colorful waiting room of Dr. Hill’s office. Maggie, a bubbly-spirited daughter of Iris and the receptionist Percy had spoken with yesterday, had handed Percy a lollipop when he entered the room.

Percy hoped that this therapist was truly the one he thought she was if that meant he got to keep collecting candy.

“Perseus Jackson?”

From around the corner appeared a blonde lady in a beige cardigan. Standing up, Percy waved his hand like he was waiting for him to call on him again.

“Hi. I’m Perseus. You can call me Percy, though.”

“Right. Let’s head back, shall we, Percy?”

Opening the tiny gate that separated the waiting room from the private offices Percy waved to Maggie and followed Dr. Hill down the hall and into a room with lilac walls.

“It is nice to meet you, Percy. I hope you didn’t have any problems with getting here.”

Percy reached out to Dr. Hill shook her outstretched hand. She had a soft grip and cold hands. It was kind of like shaking hands with a zombie.

“None at all, I live around this area, it’s a surprise I haven’t heard of you before.”

Dr. Hill uncovered a dark purple armchair that was hidden under a baby blue sheet and sat across from it in a matching red chair. Accepting the seat, Percy sank into the velvet chair.

“I recently relocated offices so I could be closer to the city square. Enough about me, Percy. We are here to talk about you. Where do you want to begin Percy?”

For the first time since seeking out therapy, Percy felt like he was finally on the path to a fresh start.

__

Percy hated therapy.

Okay, maybe that was a lie, but he did hate his therapist.

…Okay maybe that was a lie too, but what he did hate was not being allowed to hide from his problems.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Laura.”

Percy slid the journal his therapist had placed in front of him back to her side of the table. Laura grabbed the journal and slapped it down into Percy’s lap.

“Just think about it, Percy. Doing this won't hurt you.”

“What would I want to write down all my trauma for? This is why I come to you once a week!”

Laura, for all her patience, looked ready to smack Percy upside his head. For the past three weeks, she’s been trying to get Percy to ‘write down his life’. She claimed that it would help him come to terms with his past, but it just felt like one big trauma scam.

“You come to me for solutions to a problem. I provide you with answers and potential solutions. It is up to you to figure out the rest.”

Percy sunk in his seat and picked up the journal. It was a simple leather-bound notebook. On the cover, Laura had printed out a stick with his name on it and a second one of a dolphin. It looked like the kind of notebook his mom would write her rough drafts in.

Percy’s never been much of a reader, preferring it when someone verbalized a story for him, he had a flask drive at home loaded with audiobooks and old podcast episodes, not to mention the most writing Percy has ever done was argumentative essays that were worth a fourth of his grade.

“Your mom writes stories, right? Instead of seeing this as a chore, you need to do to make yourself feel better, think of it as a bonding activity that the two of you could do together,” Laura reached over and put her hand on his knee. Laura was touchy for a therapist, not that Percy’s ever had an issue with it, but right now, the last thing he wanted was to be coddled like a toddler. "Write it down. Turn it into a story."

"My trauma isn't entertainment."

"You're right. It's not. What it is is tragic. Show me what happens to those who survive the unsurvivable.”

Percy left Laura’s office with a blueberry lollipop in his mouth, and the leatherbound journal tucked under his arm. Spring break was around the corner. Before he walked back to his dorm, Percy stopped at one of New Rome’s phone booths and called his mom. If he was going to do this, Percy refused to do it alone.

__

Percy sat at his mom's dining table, bouncing the tip of his pencil against the blank sheet of paper.

Behind him, Estelle was singing along to an episode of Bubble Guppies. She unfortunately got her singing skills from him.

“Are you okay, honey?”

Percy clutched his mother's hand in his empty one. She had gotten more grey hairs over the last year. Percy felt awful knowing that most of them had come from him.

Sally held on to Percy’s shoulders like she was scared he’d disappear from the kitchen table if she let go of him.

“I’ve been trying to journal, but I don’t think it’s for me. I’ve been making so much progress, Mom. Why can’t I do this?”

If Percy wasn’t such an emotionally stunted man, he would have teared up, sank into his mother's arms, and wept about how unfair his life was.

In the living room, Percy could hear Estelle rush to the bathroom. She was getting so big, and Percy was missing all of it. Just yesterday, she was learning how to crawl, and now she was running around the house.

“Maybe you should take a break for today. It’s perfectly fine if nothing comes to mind right now, all that matters is that when you do think of something to write, it’s something from the heart,” Sally pressed a firm kiss to Percy’s temple like she wanted to do nothing more than fix whatever mental barriers were attacking her son. “How about joining me in the kitchen? I want to have spaghetti for dinner.”

Percy closed the journal and forgot about it for the rest of the night.

The next day, during breakfast, Percy bounced the corner of the book against his knee. In the living room, his mom was trying to wrestle a shirt of his little sister.

“Estelle if you want to go to the park, you need to put a shirt on.”

“But old man Dan doesn’t wear shirts to the park!”

“That is because Mr. Dan is an adult. You, however, are not, so put the shirt on missy.”

Besides Percy, Paul watched his wife and toddler arguing about what made a person an adult until Sally finally managed to pull a shirt over the five-year-old.

“Be kind to your mom, Estelle. You wouldn’t want her to cry, would you?”

At Percy’s comment, Estelle let out a scandalized gasp and grabbed onto her mothers leg.

“Don’t cry, Momma! I’ll wear a shirt,” Rushing out of the living room and over to the laundry hamper, Estelle pulled out one of Paul’s button-ups. “I’ll even get old man Dan to wear one. Hurry!”

Rushing to the front door, Estelle grabbed her Ariel shoes and shook them at Sally.

“Oh boy, I can’t wait to see Estelle try and put a shirt on Dan. I’ll see you boys later.”

Sally pressed a kiss to Percy’s cheek and a matching one to Paul’s.

“Have fun at the park, Sally.”

“Later, Mom.”

Percy watched as Estelle dragged their moma and one of Paul’s shirts out the door and down the hall, standing up Percy closed and locked the door, hoping Estelle hadn’t taken one of Paul’s nicer shirts.

“She’s gotten so big, it’s crazy to think that she’s already five and hates clothing.”

Paul laughed at Percy’s attempt at a joke. Paul’s hair was starting to grey, too. He hoped it was from his students and not from him as well.

“She’s already hopping off of furniture as well and giving me and your mother chronic heart attacks.”

Percy picked up his still-empty notebook and flipped to the front page. Percy felt like Spongebob trying to write an essay. Percy had wanted to write down at least one page before his next appointment. Laura truly was a huge help, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

“Are you still having trouble with your writing?”

Paul had migrated to the kitchen and began to boil a kettle of hot water.

“Yeah. Mom told me to try and write something from the heart, but I have no clue what that means.”

“Hmm.”

Paul began to gather two empty mugs from the cabinets and four bags of tea. This was one of the many things Percy liked about Paul, he wasn’t like his past teachers who pushed Percy to think of solutions to problems on the spot, Paul was more than willing to sit in silence and wait for an answer to come naturally to him.

Once the kettle began to whistle, Paul began preparing their tea. He worked in silence, so Percy took it as a cue that the conversation was over.

When Percy was given his mug of tea, he didn’t fight back the smile that twitched on his face. The tea, just like his journal and mug, was a deep shade of blue.

Butterfly pea tea. Paul had bought it for Percy after he was released from the hospital. It had seemed like such a silly gift at the time, but it had quickly become one of his favorite drinks. Paul only brewed it when Percy came home from college.

Maybe Percy could write a paragraph on tea.

“I hate olives.”

Percy looked at Paul from over his mug. Paul was circling his spoon around the lip of his cup.

“Not because I’m allergic or because they taste bad, but my sister ate a jar of them when I was six and developed a rash. We had to take her to the clinic and get her cream. Ever since I’ve hated olives, I even wrote my college essay about it.”

Paul placed a firm hand on Percy’s shoulder, looking at the demigod as though he couldn’t be any more supportive of him.

“Just because it comes from the heart doesn’t mean it also comes from a place of love. I hate olives because I love my sister. I also hate them because I hate rashes. If it’s easier, try naming something you hate and then go from there.”

Paul patted Percy on the back and went back to grading papers like nothing had happened.

Percy picked up his ballpoint pen and began to write down all the things he hated.

I hate the taste of olives.

I hate seeing Mom cry.

I hate waking up before 8 AM.

I hate quests.

I hate being a demigod.

‘Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.’

Percy spent the rest of the afternoon writing.

When it was time for him to drive back to New Rome, he was buzzing in his seat, counting down the hours until he could show Laura all he had written down.

When he had presented the journal to Laura, he distracted himself with the bin of Legos she had stored on a shelf in her office.

When she had read through it, she snapped the book shut and dropped it on the table.

“Percy. Look at me.”

When Percy looked up at the older woman, he hadn't expected her to be teary-eyed.

“Have you ever considered becoming an author?”

By the time summer started and school was out for the season, Percy was on his way to publishing his first YA novel.

‘Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief.’

When Percy had brought home the first copy under the alias, Rick Riordan, and had gifted it to his mother, there was no stopping the tears from either of them.

Once Percy had published the first book he had begun writing the second. Then the third. Then the fourth and fifth. Based on the feedback he was receiving from his editor and publisher, two twin sons of Calliope, students across America were loving it.

Percy hadn’t told any of his friends about his new side career, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t found out about it.

Grover was the first one to come up to him about it, clutching, The lightning thief, in his hands like it was precious treasure.

Percy had told Grover about everything he had missed when he was traveling. Laura, the journal, the next four books he had lined up, and even Paul’s story with the olives. Grover had stayed over that night, both men curled up on his mother's living room floor whispering about all the crazy things they had gotten up to following the story of Percy’s first quest. Before Grover left the next morning Percy had signed his best friend's book and promised to send him a signed copy of the second one.

The next to confront him was Annabeth. She had wanted to talk to him about so much. Gabe, her actions towards him, his time at Yancy, Luke. Everything that Percy didn’t want to talk about.

Percy did not tell her about the rest of the series.

The next person to approach him was Nico.

The son of Hades had snuck into his Mom’s house just before lunch.

“Hey Percy, or should I say Rick?”

Percy pulled Nico into a rough side hug. “That’s Mr. Riordan to you young man.”

Nico swiped half of Percy’s Italian sub off his plate. “What kind of name even is that?”

“It was my great uncle’s name. The one my mom took care of.”

“Hmm.”

Nico did not ask Percy anything else concerning the book after that. Instead, he stuck around to play pretend with Estelle and eat dinner with the Jackson-Blofis family.

“Do you want to stay the night Nico?”

Nico was in the kitchen helping Sally clean the dishes despite her protests.

“I’m sorry Sally, but I promised Father that I would be home tonight. Thank you for the dinner though.”

Once the dishes were washed and dried Sally put together a to-go plate for Nico and waved him out the door.

When Percy went to bed he picked up the copy of his book that Nico had brought with him. In between the pages was a purple bookmark. Opening the book to the page Nic had left off on Percy blushed when he saw the note Nico had left behind on it.

‘Tempted to take a nap at my dad's feet? As lithe and graceful as a panther? You are a mess, Percy.’

Percy wanted to take a very long nap in a very dark room.

The rest of Percy’s summer went by in a breeze. It was rejuvenating to spend so much time with his family again. When the summer was nearly over and fall was on its path to begin Percy wasn’t ready to say his goodbyes but his marine engineering degree wasn’t going to earn itself.

Percy was also excited to see Laura and Maggie again. He hadn’t been to the office since school ended, but they’d been skyping once every two weeks over his Mom’s laptop.

While Percy sat in the waiting room of Laura’s office making small talk with Maggie, he tried not to make it obvious that he was ecstatic to see one of the other patients reading his book in the corner of the room.

“Percy?”

“Laura!”

Rushing to greet the woman Percy couldn’t hold back the bounce in his step. For the first time in a long time, Percy was happy with what his life had become.

When Percy opened the door to his condo after his appointment with Laura, he was overwhelmed by the smell of sun-bleached bones and pomegranate.

“Nico, are you here?”

Rounding the corner, Percy gasped when he saw that it was not Nico waiting for him. In the middle of his living room, flipping through his first journal was Hades.

“Hades! What are you doing here?”

Percy watched as Hade opened the notebook and read one of the lines from it.

“I was tempted to take a nap at Hades' feet. Curl up here and sleep forever,” Percy was starting to regret including that line. “For the past three months your brother has been promoting this book of yours, it’s been driving the rest of us crazy. Especially Zeus and Ares. I wonder if your father has made it this far into the book though.”

Percy really regretted adding that sentence.

“Tell me Perseus, do you still wish to take a nap at my feet or would you prefer I ordered you to do something else?”

Percy cursed Laura for handing him that notebook.

“I…I’m…sorry?”

Hades, honest to god laughed.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about Percy. Show me your bedroom, allow me to repent for all that I’ve done to you.”

Percy couldn’t be more grateful to Laura for handing him that notebook.

[violetsandshrikes]

Debunking Wellness Trends: Seed Oils

One aspect of the growing wellness trends on social media is the idea that seed oils are poisoning the population and need to be avoided to reach better health/heal health conditions/conserve fertility/etc. They’re being called “the hateful eight”, and there’s a lot of people doing the #seedoilfree lifestyle. Seed oils are being blamed for headaches, low immunity, disrupted attention and thinking, diabetes, and more.

(Seed oils include canola, corn, cottonseed, grapeseed, rice bran, safflower, soy and sunflower oil)

Toxicity Claims

Current scientific evidence does NOT support claims that seed oils are “toxic”.

Now, if you begin to cut out foods such as fried foods (like fries) or packaged snacks, you may feel better. A lot of people are attributing this feeling to removing seed oils, but these foods are usually high in refined carbohydrates, sodium and sugar which is why they’re associated with more negative health outcomes.

Another fear is that the “toxicity” comes from production byproducts. Heat and solvents like hexane are used to extract oil from seeds, which apparently introduces chemical additives and unstable molecules, which then can turn polyunsaturated fats into harmful trans fats. Realistically, hexane is a bigger threat to the environment and workers in case of inhalation – trace amounts in the oil are still being studied, but so far there’s no concerning data. They’re also heated for short periods, and actually have fewer trans fats than products like milk or butter.

Omega-6

Additionally, omega-6 (found in nuts and seeds, and a dominant polyunsaturated fat in seed oils) is also not “toxic”. In fact, it’s been scientifically linked to lower cholesterol, lower blood sugar and reduced heart disease risk. The argument against omega-6 is that it’s responsible for chronic inflammation – omega-6 linoleic acid is converted into arachidonic acid in the body, which is a component of inflammatory compounds. Only 0.2% of linoleic acid we eat turns into arachidonic acid, and not all the compounds cause inflammation – arachidonic acid is a complex molecule, and it also has some anti-inflammatory effects. Linoleic acid is also an essential fatty acid that our body can’t make itself, and we use it to produce cell membranes and for skin health.

Another claim is that our omega-3: omega-6 ratio is out of balance, and that this is because our ancestors ate a much more balanced ratio than we do today. We DO eat more omega-6 fats than omega-3, but the claim that we eat 20 to 50x more is misinformation – it’s closer to 10:1. Instead of cutting omega-6, the better solution is to try and introduce more omega-3 fats into your diet.

Realistically, a lot of the online discourse about seed oils is misunderstanding scientific reports + deliberate fear-mongering. If you do have concerns about something in your diet causing health issues, seek advice from a trained medical professional who can give you evidence-based ideas and solutions to help you!

(Some articles to start if you want to know more on this topic 1 2 3)

[thenightfolknetwork]

There are… strange things happening to my body. I heard from some of my friends that I should come to you for things like this. Sorry if it’s a bit oddly worded, I’ve had to rewrite this quite a bit.

You see, I’m used to having the ocasional astral spell, leaving my body from time to time while I nap and waking up an hour or so later to find my body right where I’ve left it. But recently, these spells have been getting quite a bit longer. And someone has seen fit to move into my body while I’m out.

I’ve heard of this sort of thing before, shared vessels and all that. But I never asked for a bodymate, let alone gave them permission! You see, my new bodymate is a refugee from their dimension. They jumped into my body since it was the first they could find unoccupied at the time, and apparently it’s rather similar to the one they used to have at home. I’ve left notes around, and they’ve written back, and for a while we had a somewhat tedious agreement over who could control the body when. I control it during the daytime, and them at night, simple as that. We both take frequent naps as our schedule allows, so our body doesn’t get too exhausted.

However recently, they’ve been a bit of a “controller-hog”, so to speak. I’ll settle down for a nap in my bed, only to wake up on the couch watching some bad medical drama. I hate medical dramas. But the worst thing by far was when I woke up three days ago with blue hair. Blue HAIR. My hair has never been blue, nor have I ever dyed it, or even had hair dye in my home!

I immediately wrote several very stern letters to my bodymate. I had hoped that maybe over the next few nights, we could have hashed something out together. But today I woke up with a NOSE RING. What’s next? Some cheap tattoo?!

I’ve tried writing this letter SO MANY TIMES, but each time I’ve been “dozing off” and waking up with my finger pressed conveniently to the backspace button. I’ve tried so hard to get them to leave, but they simply refuse. What do I do?!

Reader, this is absolutely appalling behaviour. It is never acceptable for a bodymate to make changes to the shared vessel without the permission of all inhabitants, and their blatant disregard for your wishes proves them to be as unscrupulous as they are rude.

The fact this person is a refugee from another dimension does not give them the right to treat your shared body with impunity. Quite apart from the violations of changing the body's appearance without your agreement, there are the very real health risks involved.

After all, if your body doesn't get enough rest because one of its occupants sees fit to sit up watching medical dramas, you will both suffer the physical consequences.

Usually I am the first to advocate for communication and compromise. But in this situation, I think your bodymate has shown they are not interested in negotiation. The time for rationality and reason has passed. You must take direct action.

There are two options available. If you are not particularly attached to the body itself, you could always cede possession and take up residence in another vessel.

Many people consider such a change to be a refreshing change of perspective. You might choose a vessel at random, find a volunteer online, or indulge in having a custom body created for you by a professional matter consultant.

Just be sure to update your identity documents and paperwork before making the jump. There are ways to prove your identity in the case of corporeal eviction and so on, but it can be a lengthy and uncomfortable process and is far best avoided.

Alternatively, if you have a particular affection for this vessel, I'm afraid you're going to have to put your foot down. At a time when you are in full control of the body, speak to a trusted friend and establish a way of communicating to them whether or not the person in control of the body really is you. A code word will do, or a reference to a shared memory. Anything your new bodymate will be unable to guess.

Then, you need to call in the professionals. Exorcism has an understandably poor reputation in the community, but it remains the most effective way to handle unwanted guests.

Find a licensed practitioner to perform the ritual, and book them for a time and place of your choosing. You'll also need to give them the contact details of your trusted contact, to check whether the ritual was successful or not.

Finally, at the allotted time, tell your bodymate that you are ready and willing to take drastic measures to protect your boundaries. There is a chance they will take your threat seriously, and agree to either vacate your body of their own volition or to treat your shared space with more respect.

Given their behaviour during the writing of this letter, however, I think it far more likely they will respond with aggression. Brace yourself. They will very probably try to wrest control of the body and suppress your influence entirely. Let them – your exorcist will be on hand to manage the situation.

Once your bodymate has been safely transferred into temporary storage, the rest is up to you. The most ethical choice is to find a willing alternative vessel and having your bodymate transferred to them as soon as possible. Alternatively, safe release into a crowded public area is often included in the price of an exorcism, with a small surcharge if you want to choose the target area yourself.

Banishment to another realm entirely will cost significantly more. Besides, even without the concerns about keeping them from accidentally going back to the realm they just left, crossplanar banishment is considered rather gauche.

You don't need to decide right away. Once your headmate is removed, they will be able to remain in the storage container for up to a week with no harmful effects. It will be rather boring for them, but frankly I'm inclined to think they deserve a little time to sit on the mantelpiece and think about what they've done.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

[fthistumblershit]

Sorry you’re so easily upset, but saying you’re an adult responsible for managing your own triggers and symptoms isn’t pseudo-psychology, it’s just a fact. I know personal responsibility is uncomfortable especially for ED sufferers but there will always be triggers. The philosophical and political affiliations of the community you immerse yourself in doesn’t preclude those individuals from saying things that you might personally find upsetting or triggering. You clearly have a lot of negative emotions to sort through and I’d advise you to step away from social media if you’re having difficulty managing them and are so upset and unbalanced by what strangers say to each other on tumblr. If you choose to relapse it’s on you, not someone who said something you found fatphobic.

I see you're taking the "you're hysterical" route right now.

1. I'm easily upset by unknown people not showing their face and telling me who I am, what I feel, and what I should do. Especially when they're condescending about it. It happens when you're a human being.

2. When I say it's "pseudo-psychology", I mean that there are many currents in nowadays psychology that have many different perspectives on how to deal with trauma, trauma-response, boundaries, and triggers. So, I'm not saying that being an adult who should be responsible for their triggers is not a fact (I said it myself); I'm saying your approach to psychological problems isn't a proven one nor the only one.

3. Honestly, the fact that you think that I, again a person you don't know, struggle with personal responsibility is absolutely beyond me. My sense of personal responsibility is none of your concern. I assure you I'm a functional adult which has achieved many important things in my life (at least I consider them so) that in other times I would have thought impossible. Really, you don't have to be this concerned about my mental health or my sense of adulthood. I'm doing fine. And that's according to professionals. Ofc, now you'll say I don't seem to be or that you don't believe me or whatever trick you might have up your sleeve. Idc.

3 and 4. I know they'll always be triggers because you never fully recover from an eating disorder, partly because we live in a very sick society that hates women and fatness. You really, really don't have to tell me that, thank you. I was in therapy for many years and not with an anon, but with actual professionals who knew me personally. I have never implied (but after all, this is my third language) that I expected the community I "immerse myself in" to be nice no matter what, or walk on eggshells with me, because that's absurd and frankly inconsiderate. If not right down abusive. What I meant was two things that maybe were easily confused with one another: that I was potentially triggered by the rudeness, as in name-calling, mocking, etc. used by some people on this website; and, separate from that, that I was shocked (not triggered) by the apparent ignorance and prejudice on radblr related to the intersection between female fatness (not EDs) and medical misogyny. So, to correct your point, No, I wasn't expecting radblr to be nice to poor me with their opinions on that subject. They can have all the opinions they want, but one can always express themselves in a civil manner when exposing them, especially when talking about very sensitive subjects.

5. This is just insulting, to be honest. Don't worry! I'm not triggered. I'm just stating my opinion. Again, you stranger on the Internet who don't know me and seems to be adamant on worrying about my health, I wouldn't know what to tell you about my negative emotions. I don't usually measure them. When someone makes me angry, I express my anger as healthily as I can, trying to be assertive but not aggressive. When I'm sad, I try to cope by being functional and dealing with my responsiblities (job, house chores, master's, family and friends) as best as I can and try not to dampen anyone's mood in the process. When I'm horny, I masturbate and feel much better afterwards. I'm unable to tell you how many negative or positive emotions I have on a daily basis; I can assure I also have very positive ones, like feeling loved or achieving new things in my professional and academic life. I'm not upset nor "unbalanced" (you meant to say "hysterical" but stopped at the last moment?) by what strangers say to each other on the Internet. I am upset (because I'm a human being) by insults, mockery, prejudice, etc. regarding someone's physical appearance or diet because it was worded aggresively and maliciously. If someone insults you and you're affected by it, it's your responsibility to manage it, but you have a right to feel it and defend yourself. On the other hand, if someone talks about weight, physical appearance, and dieting in a neutral or respectful manner, I don't feel triggered at all.

7. May I say, that your rhetoric is somewhat reminding me of DARVO tactics with all the gaslighting and guilt-tripping. "If you CHOOSE to relapse," something "YOU FOUND fatphobic." If I relapsed, it'd mostly be my responsibility, sure, but you don't choose to. In that moment, it's already out of your control. And, ONCE AGAIN, I haven't relapsed. I was talking about a potential trigger. I've fought with this for many years without a single relapse, but I know this illness well enough to recognise potential triggers. And again, these posts are appearing on my dash. I don't follow these people.

8. Last of all, why are you so invested in my mental health all of a sudden? Do you send anons to every recovered bulimic/anorexic on Tumblr? I understand my initial post might have striked controversy but a psychological profile seems a bit exaggerated. And, look, I'm sorry if my sarcasm strikes you as me being "unbalanced" or being "easily upset." But I think, unfortunately, we agree to disagree.

Now, I have work tomorrow and it's quite late here, so if you could leave me alone, I'd thank you immensely. Btw, I'll leave Tumblr whenever I see fit. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last. But that's my choice and my reasons to stay in it.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Mira Lazine for Erin In The Morning:

[Note: This edition of Erin In The Morning is brought to you by Mira Lazine, who is guest writing for Erin In The Morning after the passing of Erin’s mother. Mira Lazine is a freelance journalist covering LGBTQ+ issues, politics, and science.] On Thursday, Jo Maugham - director of the United Kingdom legal advocacy organization The Good Law Project - wrote a detailed thread on X/Twitter in which he alleges that there has been a substantial increase in the number of suicides for young trans people on the National Health Service (NHS) waitlist, and that the NHS has been suppressing the evidence. Maugham says that this occurred after the infamous 2020 Bell v. Tavistock ruling that restricted care for those under 16. While this ruling has since been overturned, the damage from it is still being felt today.

Maugham, who first announced some of these claims in a Good Law Project fundraiser opposing the British puberty blocker ban, says that he spoke with two whistleblowers. “I have seen their staff IDs and each has provided me with some internal Tavistock documents. There is no doubt they are who they say they are.”  The first whistleblower reportedly said that prior to the 2020 Bell ruling, only one young trans person died from suicide in seven years and that since the ruling, there have been sixteen deaths. This data is reported to come from an anonymous doctor referred to as “Named Doctor for Safeguarding Children.”

He then goes on to say that the whistleblower tried to alert higher ups about this, including a director at the Tavistock gender clinic and Dr. Hillary Cass. Cass is the primary person behind the infamous Cass Review, a systematic review that has led to the temporary prohibition of puberty blockers for transgender youth in Great Britain. Details related to the whistleblower’s concerns aren’t apparent within the Review, suggesting that Cass ignored concerns as the Review was being drafted. Cass, who has no professional history working with transgender young people, collaborated with people who had ties to SPLC-designated hate groups like Society for Evidence-Based Gender Medicine. During the writing of the Review, she met with Ron DeSantis-appointed members of the Florida medical board.

Maugham reached out to Tavistock and Cass for comment. Tavistock did not respond, while Cass referred Maugham to paragraph 5.65 in the Review, where she offhandedly discusses these suicides while underplaying the link between the NHS, Gender Identity Service (GIDS), and these deaths. Additionally, Cass fails to mention the total number of suicides in the Review from either before Bell or after. The second whistleblower claims to be able to substantiate the claims made by both the first whistleblower and the “Named Doctor for Safeguarding Children.” They claim that staff planned an open letter in response to these allegations, and that Tavistock retaliated and threatened them with disciplinary action before suppressing the material. Maugham then substantiates the allegations made by both whistleblowers by revealing meeting minutes that show Tavistock staff members were well aware of these deaths. He points out that this ignores attempted suicides and does not necessarily capture all deaths. Additionally, he shows additional notes that suggest that some data was deliberately left out of Freedom of Information Act requests.

[...] An investigation from The Guardian two years ago reveals that there are systemic failures in the United Kingdom’s mental health service which is attributable to many suicides, including some for transgender youth. Considering that several adults also died due to suicide while on waitlists, and that the majority of people on waitlists for gender affirming care have been there for more than 18 weeks, it’s possible that there are additional suicides unaccounted for This investigation, alongside the allegations made by Maugham, opens up substantial questions about how seriously medical professionals treat suicides of transgender youth. If Maugham’s allegations prove true, one of the country’s biggest medical scandals in history may unfold.

Mira Lazine writes in Erin Reed’s Erin In The Morning Substack about how the NHS in the UK covered up suicides of trans youths, especially after the Bell v. Tavistock ruling. The Cass Review ignored the impacts of suicide of trans youths as result of the post-Bell climate.

[syrenki]

Do you think we overpathologize everything now? Things like love for example i think were always pretty intense but now most of the components of it are called toxic, codependent, unhealthy. So maybe they were always we just didnt know better? Still…The way we are ”supposed” to love now seems so…sterile? No matter where i look i see intellectualisation of feelings/categorization of them. Isn’t it normal if you feel like you’d die if your partner would be gone given you really love them or are you a sick to the head individual and need to change it in order to create a healthy bond? What is healthy now…being completely self sufficient and basing your interactions with people as transactions and cutting them off to replace them the moment you feel like your boundaries are crossed and they do something you don’t appreciate much? All that dry therapy based talk of nowadays…what’s going oooooooon

yeah, i agree. and not only romance, romance at least has some privileges on the basis of that, yk, most-intimate-till-death factor. but friendship too is suffering from this gradual change, friendship, community, hell, even family sometimes. it feels to me like people started assuming that since you're apparently meant to talk about your problems in therapy, with licensed professionals etc, that means that any and all vulnerability should be strictly limited to a medical setting, and if something's limited to a medical setting, it logically follows that there's something wrong with it. truly, i see people exchange nervous glances as soon as i don't keep things casual for even a second, and i don't mean to be one of those "i hate small talk, let's talk about aliens and pyramids" people, that's not what i mean at all, because it's not about how deep conversations are, it's about trying to appear cool and unbothered all the time, even in "deep" conversations (i don't like the term anyway) or even in LOVE. i think the problem is the constant widening of the settings in which you're required to keep your cool, to imagine a competition of normality and of being the one who cares the least and then act accordingly. it's tiring, it's hopeless, it grinds you down to the bone. i agree. sigh, girl.

[redgoldblue]

hello hello, for the ask game: 🌤️☔ and because that's sun + rain and i can never resist a rainbow emoji anyway: 🌈

thanku! 🌈🌈 we all know what wip i'm using for this

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

I was shocked, going through the doc by how little pure dialogue there is. apparently when i'm essentially writing ~30k of Emotions from the POV of a guy who hates acknowledging his emotions, a lot of it is internal/physical description. or at least mixed in with it.

actually. wait. i think maybe my favourite dialogue isn't even between Steve and Danny, it's Danny and Harry:

“Should I be offering congratulations or slapping the both of you upside the head?” “What?” “Yes, I rather thought that might be the case.” Danny spreads his hands in what he thinks is an appropriately ‘what the fuck are you talking about’ gesture, and follows it up by saying, “Harry, what the fuck are you talking about?” “Were you two ever going to discuss the fact that you’re in love with each other, or are you just planning to keep muddling along in the hopes that one day you’ll trip and fall into bed together?” Before Danny can come up with any kind of response to that, Harry raises a hand and amends, “No, sorry, you’re already in bed together. In the hopes that you’ll trip and fall onto each other’s cocks.”

🌧️Share something angsty from your WIP.

Danny brushes his teeth, combs wet fingers through his hair, washes his hands on autopilot. Then he sits down on the closed toilet lid and lets himself shake out of his skin. It’s almost habit now, this moment after Steve is discharged where the relief that he’s not actively dying clashes into the terror that medical professionals are no longer watching him, and the resulting noise reverberates through Danny’s body and sets him falling. He has no idea how long it ever takes, just that he sits with elbows braced on his knees staring at nothing until the flood of emotions recedes and leaves him with nothing but the dirty sand of exhaustion. That’s the usual path. Except that today, there’s a knock on the bathroom door and Steve’s voice calling, “Danny? You okay?” He can’t get out more than a grunt in response, still falling, drowning. The door cracks open, and Steve repeats, “Danny?” through the gap. Danny manages something that sounds more like human language this time, but it’s still not any form of comprehensible words. Or enough to stop Steve pushing the door fully open and crossing the few steps to stand in front of him. Then he drops to a crouch, resting his palms on Danny’s thighs for a moment before he reaches for Danny’s hands where they press hard against his own jaw and temple. Danny lets him take them, lower them, then slips his fingers down until he can find Steve’s pulse on both sides. It’s there, strong and steady, and Danny shuts his eyes and curls further towards Steve. There’s a reason he does this alone. He’s just having trouble remembering what it is right now.

🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP.

I can do one better - I can do soft and fluffy. mwahaha

Danny tucks the flower through one of Steve’s buttonholes to free his hands up. Steve, of course, looks down at it first like he’s baffled, and then rapidly like his pupils are on the verge of turning into hearts and popping out of his skull like a deranged cartoon character. Danny snorts. “You’re such a fucking romantic.” “Wh- hey,” Steve says, abruptly defensive, and Danny waves a hand at him before he can get any further up in arms. “Calm down, buddy. It wasn’t an insult.” Steve raises his eyebrows doubtfully. “Much of one,” Danny allows. “Not really. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

wip asks