#pain treatment with heat therapy

[yoikami]

Wouldn't it be nice if people stopped giving unsolicited advices like you're an ignorant child who has no idea what they're going through? I think if I hear one more yoga or diet recommendation I will knock them down with my cane.

fibro is so awesome like, yeah ok so you have a chronic illness but it's probably actually in your brain or your nerves or something idk man but honestly we don't really know or give a shit also no we can't cure it, good luck half of doctors think it's fake and the other half will just blame all your problems on it 👍

[heacupuncture]

Moxa Treatment Service | Traditional Chinese Therapy

Discover the benefits of Moxa Treatment Service at HE Acupuncture. Our traditional Chinese therapy uses moxibustion to stimulate healing, improve circulation, and relieve pain. Whether you're seeking relief from chronic conditions or looking to boost your overall well-being, our expert practitioners provide safe and effective treatments tailored to your needs. Visit our Matlock center for a consultation and experience the power of moxa therapy.

Contact Details:

Phone: 07703 030 613

Email: xuqiangwu99@gmail.com

Address: 100 Mettesford, Matlock DE4 3EA

Website: https://heacupuncture.co.uk/

[rafey-baby]

sweet treat 3

construction worker!rafe is very grateful when shy!reader offers to help with his tense shoulders...

c/w: rafe in a desperate need of a massage, fluff, some heavy making out, slight dry humping, suggestive, 18+ mdni!

wc: 1.4k

series masterlist

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rafe has had a tedious workday on the construction site; the ardent sun made him melt like ice under the searing yellow rays and the clock ticked away as if it was an ancient turtle, not helping one bit.

Even after he’s washed away the sweat and dirt and changed into a clean pair of clothes, his shoulders continue to feel strained; muscles aching and legs hurting.   

Every time he tries to move his limbs into a more comfortable position on his couch, his face scrunches up into a pained expression, making her furrow her brows and ask ‘what’s wrong’ with worry painting over her features.  

“Uh, nothin’ just a bit tense,” he dismisses her, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to alleviate the soreness tormenting him, disturbing him from the movie that’s playing while they wait for the casserole he’s made to bake in the oven. 

“Oh, m’sorry. Do you— do you want me to give you a massage or something?” she suggests, wanting to make him feel better.  

“S’fine, don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, turning his attention back to the TV.  

“But Rafe you’re hurting…wanna help,” a slight pout is already forming on her mouth as she takes the remote, pausing the film.  

The sapphires of his eyes flicker over to her— the look she’s giving him tugging at his heartstrings and for a moment, he wonders what he did to deserve such an angel wanting to take care of him.  

“Yeah? Wanna help me?”  

She nods. 

Then, he’s turning around and bending his legs to sit cross-legged on the sofa, presenting his solid back and broad shoulders to her.  

“Also I’ve had some practice but I’m no masseuse, so don’t get your hopes up too much,” she says while scooting closer, raising to her knees behind him in order to reach his tall frame. 

“You give massages to a lot of people?” he asks, teasing, seemingly nonchalant but there’s a part of him that’s eager to find out whether he’s getting special treatment from her or not. 

“No, I jus’ meant when I was little, me and my friends used to do these massage therapy circles and we’d take turns, but now I’m a little rusty since it’s obviously been a while,” she explains.  

‘Good’ is all he offers in response, making something abstruse in her tummy flutter.  

Then, she settles her hands on his wide shoulder blades that lie underneath the white fabric of his t-shirt before digging into his skin, feeling the sturdy muscles under her fingertips.  

“You want me to take m’shirt off? So it’s easier?” he casually suggests and her cheeks heat up. 

“Oh— um…yeah, if you want,” her voice does not sound as indifferent as his, which makes the corners of his strawberry mouth curl as he plucks at the collar of his shirt; exposing solid back muscles and soft skin.

She blinks, hesitantly resting her hands on top of his shoulders once again before kneading her fingers into his brawny structure. When a heartfelt groan rumbles from his chest, she swallows before continuing to press into the parts that feel the most strained— trying to not pay too much attention to the lewd sounds he’s making.  

“Jus’ tell me if something feels bad or if you want me to focus on a specific spot and stuff,” she murmurs as her thumbs sink into his tense flesh, feeling him begin to unspool under her ministrations.  

He hums out a soft agreement, contentment coating his tone.  

However, when she presses into a particularly taut part of muscle tissue, he suddenly lets out a noise from the back of his throat that sounds almost obscene to her ears— reminding her of the night they shared a few days ago.  

It makes her squeeze her thighs together, trying to drag her head out of the gutter.  

“Fuck, that feels nice,” he grunts, closing his eyes in ecstasy.

He thinks she lied when she said that she wasn’t too good because he’s not sure if his shoulders have ever felt this mellow— he’s practically muddy clay under her tender fingertips and he feels so relaxed he could fall asleep. 

She continues digging her thumbs into his achy flesh until her fingers feels so sore she thinks they’ll fall off if she doesn’t stop.  

“Sorry, my fingers hurt, can’t anymore,” she softly apologizes before he turns around to face her again; a lazy grin coating his countenance.

“S’all good, thanks, sweetheart,” his words are grateful while he rolls his shoulders back for emphasis, no hint of any sort of agony in sight.  

“Of course, if um— if you need me to do that again, just ask, okay?”  

“You’re so good to me, you know that?” Carolina blue peers down at her with a certain tenderness that makes her feel all fuzzy and tingly inside.  

“That was nothing. It was the least I could do after all the times you’ve driven me home and stuff.” 

“Nah, m’serious, you jus’ spent almost an hour turnin’ my muscles into jelly. Let me thank you properly,” he murmurs.  

“What— what do you mean?” her breath hitches.  

“Haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ about you grindin’ yourself on top of me, you know?” he says while lifting his left hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering on her jawline. 

She freezes, not sure how to respond when his thumb strokes along her cheekbone before he tips her face up.

“Was so caught up forgot to kiss you…” he drifts off, clouded gaze flitting over her features. “You want me to?” 

“You mean…right now?” her eyes round out.

“Unless you have somewhere else to be?” the edges of his mouth tilt up and when she shakes her head, he leans closer; pressing his lips on hers.

However, when a surprised sound escapes her, he deepens the kiss— warm tongue prodding at the seam of her mouth, coaxing her to open up for him. And when she eventually does, he slips his tongue inside, groaning when he can taste the muted sweetness of the vanilla chapstick she’s wearing.  

Something that was meant to be soft and sweet turns into something heated and primal as he cradles her face in his palms before pawing at her waist— bringing her closer and lifting her to sit on his lap while his hands travel down to squeeze at the flesh of her ass, forcing her to let out fragile whimpers into his mouth.  

“There we go, sweetheart. Tha’s a lot better, yeah?” he murmurs between soft pecks and sloppy kisses.  

Their spit-slick lips lock together again and again; her inner thighs turning sticky and mind wandering in hazy vapor.  

“Rafe…” she nearly whispers and she doesn’t even realize she’s rutting against the bulge in his pants until he’s grunting, blunt nails denting her skin— the slight pain making her whine before he’s pushing her against his hardening cock firmer. His pillowy lips smear on hers all wet and messy, turning her into a moaning jumble that’s trying her best to keep up with his hungry mouth.  

Then, completely out of the blue, the timer of the oven begins to ring, making her jump in surprise and nearly fall off his lap, if not for his beefy arms holding her upright.

He merely lets out an airy chuckle against her swollen lips, pressing a few sweetened pecks on them before reluctantly pulling away— his heavy panting filling her ears while she tries to even out her own rickety respiration.  

Then, he’s gently setting her on top of the couch cushions and standing on his feet. Her disconcerted pout follows his movements.  

“Shit, better go check on the food so it doesn’t burn, yeah?” he’s sporting a lazy, taunting smile when he offers his palm to her— lifting her up on unsteady legs that try their best to follow him as he disappears into the kitchen that bathes under the burnt orange of the setting sun.

[mclacedes]

The Idea of You (LN4)

2. The Idea of Worthiness

summary: in which lando decides to make it up for ghostin you

previous ••• next

WARNINGS: it's pretty much all angst. in-depth described anxiety attack, anxious behaviour/mannerisms, description of depression and suicidal ideation, loneliness

wc: 3k

“but what if i can't do it?”

A/N: before anything else, i want to make it clear that my intention is NOT to trigger any kind of trauma in anyone with this. the reader has been warned of potential triggers. if you are going through some kind of psychological hardship, know that there are people who care and who worry <3 you are never 100% alone!

january 1st, 2024 — 3:30pm

you came home with a knot in your chest that seemed to tighten with every breath. the morning had been a blur, an awkward dance around lando’s mother as you searched for a polite excuse to leave.

of course you'd chosen the most simple and non-negotiable of lies: i need to spend some time with my relatives.

despite it being faintly true, you knew you'd spend the whole day with lando's family if the circumstances were different.

the night's words lingered in your mind as you walked out, wishing it could cover the truth: you couldn’t bear the thought of facing lando after what had happened—or rather, after what didn’t happen.

now, the silence in your own home was suffocating. you slumped onto the couch, your mind replaying the scene on a loop: lando's words, lando's reassurance, the way his lips had bruised yours, the heat of his breath so close, his hands on you, his hands in you, his fingers’ magic, and then... you wake up alone.

now, you knew lando felt the same, you knew that things could work out, you knew just the intensity of your feelings for him. but you also knew he hadn't texted you back all day and, seemingly, nobody knew where he was.

as his closest friend, you knew that he'd only have left that way if something really bad had happened.

what you didn't know though, was how bad it felt for him.

it had been a long time since lando had received the diagnosis. after years of wondering what was wrong with him and why he felt such a void within himself, he'd been told he had depression.

what they say is that treatment is easier when you have the right diagnosis, but that doesn't erase the fact that some days were infinitely more difficult than others—harder to get out of bed, harder to leave the house, to work, and singularly hard to live, specially because the latter is the last thing you want during a depressive episode.

he started going to therapy regularly when he was a minor, forced by his parents, but when he became an adult he left—said that talking about how horrible he felt wouldn't help, it would only make him feel worse.

and then the episodes gradually became worse as his life improve. for example, before arriving in F1, he oftentimes found himself fighting against the urge to simply end it all: the pain, the suffering, the disruption, the constant failed attempt at a better day, his very life.

even though he never attempted it, lando was caught contemplating the possibility of the end; he used to wonder how people would react when they heard "lando norris died, suicide", what it would be like if he wasn't here anymore.

“such a kind soul”

“such a beautiful boy”

“smart, funny”

“talented guy”

that's what people would say, in the best of cases.

in the worse of cases people wouldn't even notice he was gone.

well, following next to depression was anxiety.

lando’s anxiety was a constant undercurrent to his depression, feeding off it, amplifying it, tangling him further in a web of self-doubt. it was always there, an invisible weight pressing down, but some days it grew loud enough to silence every other part of him, like a swarm of thoughts buzzing incessantly, trapping him in a looping worry about everything and nothing all at once.

it started with racing—the very thing he loved was also the source of his most unrelenting fears. despite his undeniable talent and the acclaim he’d earned, the worry always crept in: what if i mess up? what if i’m not good enough? what if it’s all just a fluke, and one day everyone realizes i’m a fraud?

he dreaded that moment when the lights turned green, not because of the physical danger but because of the psychological toll—that split-second when any mistake, any misstep, could spiral out into a visible, unforgivable failure.

even beyond racing, the anxiety spilled into every facet of his life. he overthought every message he sent, every interaction, analyzing them for any hint of rejection, any confirmation of his worst fears. if he didn’t receive a response right away, his mind spun stories, convincing him he’d somehow upset the person or made a fool of himself.

and now, with you, it was worse. his feelings were tangled with worry and doubt; he feared you’d eventually see through his flaws, his bad days, his cracks, and walk away. the closeness you’d shared the night before terrified him. he wanted you desperately, yet that desire to let you in also exposed him to his greatest fear: that he would scare you away merely by the fact that he existed.

this anxiety could sometimes send him into a state of paralysis, leaving him unable to reach out, unable to bridge the gap even when he wanted nothing more than to feel your presence, to hear your voice. today was one of those days—the aftermath of a moment so perfect, so vulnerable, that his mind filled with a thousand worries. he couldn’t bring himself to message you, to even show you the rawness of his internal struggle. instead, he withdrew, waiting for the fog to clear enough for him to reach for you again.

but you had tried.

you: lando hey

you: i'm worried abt u

you: text me whenever u get the chance pls

you: i'm right here if you wanna talk”

there were another 20 texts of kindred nature from you in his phone—you spent the afternoon rewinding what had happened, wondering if there were any signs that he would do something to himself or… the devil god knows what.

you had barely moved or done anything at all since you had gotten home because lando still hadn’t texted back, and the worry in your chest was growing impossible to ignore.

you’d known him for years—long enough to see the shadows he kept hidden behind his easy smile. he had always brushed off the subject, deflecting it with humor or quick changes in conversation. but today, his silence was colder, sharper, more unsettling than usual.

hours had passed since you last saw him, and finally, you gave in and sent him a message, trying not to let the desperation seep through.

you: lando, i hope you’re alright. let me know when you’re home safe, ok?

the message delivered, but no ‘read’ receipt appeared. your heart sank, and as you stared at the screen, scenarios spun wildly in your mind.

lando was good at hiding. he knew how to pour himself into everything and everyone else, keeping busy, laughing, entertaining—until he couldn’t. when the episodes came, he retreated so far into himself that it was like trying to find someone in a pitch-black room.

you tried calling him. the line rang and rang, finally going to voicemail. your voice was barely a whisper as you left a message.

“lando… if you see this, please just… come home. or let me know you’re okay. i’m here, alright? no matter what, i’m here.”

when the call ended, the silence in your apartment felt just as cold as his void.

—

unbeknownst to you, he was okay.

at least that's what he said to max when he called saying cisca was worried about him. and thats what he said when he called his mom.

“i’m okay.”

but he knew there was nothing okay with him right now.

far away, in his silent retreat, a wave of coldness washed over him, and his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. that feeling in his chest was known: he was panicking.

it felt like the walls were closing in, a vice squeezing his chest tighter with every passing second. his hands trembled, fingers twitching as if searching for something to anchor him, to ground him in reality. he fought to keep his breathing steady, but the more he tried, the more elusive calm became. memories of your kiss haunted him—both a balm and a wound. how could something so beautiful leave him feeling so lost?

what if i’m not enough for her? he thought

a tight knot of fear formed in his stomach, mingling with the ache of longing. was he really ready for this? for you? for love? the questions spiraled, colliding with the weight of his own expectations and the pressure of his career. he couldn’t shake the sense that he was on the brink of something monumental, yet all he felt was the crushing weight of uncertainty.

the doubt crept in, fueled by echoes of his past, whispers of inadequacy that had followed him through the years. he recalled the stinging memories of being told he wasn’t good enough, of moments when his efforts felt like they never quite measured up. every trophy he’d won and every incredible milestone he had achieved done little to silence those voices. instead, they morphed into an insidious belief that no matter how hard he tried, he would always be a step behind, always falling short.

what if she hates me?

with you, the stakes felt impossibly high. what if he couldn’t be the partner you deserved? what if the pressure of the spotlight overwhelmed him and drove you away? those thoughts twisted in his gut, feeding the anxiety that swelled within him. he imagined you in a world where he wasn’t there, finding someone who could offer you the stability and unwavering support he feared he lacked. the very thought crushed him, deepening the ache in his chest, as it reminded him of all the times he had to fight for validation, only to come up empty-handed.

he was scared of what loving you meant, terrified of failing you, terrified of failing himself. the weight of it all felt unbearable, a heavy blanket of dread that threatened to suffocate him.

what if i fail her?

lando was too scared, too anxious. with every breath, his lungs ached, and with every tear that gathered in his eyes, he felt weaker. it was as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, the ground crumbling beneath him, and the vast unknown loomed below—a place filled with possibilities but also with the risk of falling into darkness. he clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, trying to ground himself as the rising tide of emotions threatened to pull him under.

every heartbeat felt like a reminder of his vulnerability, a painful pulse that echoed the uncertainty gnawing at his core. he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was teetering on the edge of something profound, yet all he could focus on was the suffocating fear of not being enough. the love he felt for you, so pure and intoxicating, was also a heavy burden, weighed down by his past failures and fears. the thought of letting you down, of not living up to the promise of what could be, sent chills racing down his spine.

she's too perfect, i'm a mess

as tears spilled over and streamed down his cheeks, he felt a mix of shame and desperation. lando had always prided himself on being strong, on facing challenges head-on, yet here he was—vulnerable and exposed, battling an internal storm that felt relentless. the very act of loving you felt like a gamble, one that he wasn't sure he was ready to take. would he be brave enough to step forward, to embrace the chaos of his heart, or would he retreat back into the safety of his own fears?

with every sob that escaped him, the overwhelming tide of emotion pulled him deeper, and he struggled to keep his head above water. the thought of calling you, of reaching out for the connection he craved, felt both necessary and terrifying. what if you saw him like this—raw, broken, and afraid? what if he could never find the words to explain what he felt, or worse, what if you saw him as nothing more than a disappointment?

what if she saw me for who i truly am?

taking a shaky breath, he reached for his phone thrown on the couch, sitting on it. his hands were still trembling as he dialed the only person, besides you, who he knew wouldn't judge, but understand him.

“hey, mate, how you doing?” max fewtrell greeted him with his usual easy grin, only for the smile to falter the second he took in lando’s state: tears streaked his face, his eyes swollen and red, his nose and cheeks raw from wiping at them. his lips, split and bloodied, told the story of how he’d been biting them all day. lando’s breath hitched in his throat, his words barely making it out.

“hey… mate, i—” he tried, but the lump in his throat choked him. lando couldn’t even speak.

“lando, what happened?” max said, his voice low and steady, concern etched across his face.

“i think i… i fucked things up with Y/N,” lando's voice cracked, desperation pouring from him as if his world was unraveling right there in front of max.

the sight in front of max sent a chill through his spine. lando's looks, disheveled, like he’d been pulling at it in frustration all day. his bright green eyes were dulled, sunken and rimmed with red. the bags beneath them were dark, a stark contrast against his pale skin. his hands trembled on his knees, unable to steady themselves. his chest heaved, like the panic was consuming him from the inside, leaving only a fragile shell of the person max had known for years.

lando wiped at his face, the back of his hand coming away wet. he shook his head, sinking deeper into the couch.

“we kissed, we slept together and i pushed her away, max. i—i could’ve stayed. i could’ve—” his breath caught again, ragged and uneven. “but i left with no explanation. i went up and left her there, max… i’m so stupid.” he cried out.

lando’s breath hitched, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to stop the tears, but it was no use. his shoulders shook, and a sob escaped him, raw and unfiltered. he hadn’t felt this way in a long time—like he was too broken to be loved.

"max, i’m a mess," he whispered, his voice cracking. "i couldn’t stay, i couldn’t even look at her this morning because… because she deserves better. i mean, look at me," he gestured to himself, his hands trembling. “i’m fucked up, max. i couldn’t even say the words, couldn’t even be honest. how can i be with her when i don’t even know what’s going on in my own head?”

max’s brows furrowed, his face softening as he listened. lando looked like he was spiraling, and it hurt max to see his best friend like this—feeling like he didn’t deserve something good because he was caught in his own storm.

“lando, mate,” max started, carefully choosing his words, “you’re not as messed up as you think you are. yeah, you’ve got stuff going on, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve her, or that you don’t deserve to be happy. and running away from her because you think you’re too broken for her… that’s not the answer.”

lando shook his head, wiping at his eyes, his voice trembling as he spoke. “but i am broken, max. i don’t even know how to deal with my own shit, let alone someone else’s. she’s this… this amazing person, and i’m just… i’m just me. she deserves someone who has it all figured out, not someone who’s going to bolt the second things get real.”

max let out a breath, leaning forward a bit. “no one has it all figured out, lando. not me, not her, not anyone. she’s not expecting you to be perfect, she’s expecting you to be real with her. that’s all. and yeah, maybe you’re not in the best place right now, but you can’t let that be the reason you push her away.”

lando let the words sink in, but it didn’t ease the heaviness inside him. “i left because i thought… i thought i’d hurt her more by staying. i didn’t want her to see me like this. i didn’t want her to see how much of a mess i am.”

“but by leaving, you hurt her anyway,” max said gently. “because she cares about you. and if you care about her too, you’ve got to let her in, even if it’s messy, even if you don’t have all the answers. it’s okay to not have everything together, lando. it’s okay to be scared. but you can’t run from this.”

lando swallowed hard, staring at the floor, his fingers gripping the edge of the couch until his knuckles turned white. max was right. he had run—run because he didn’t think he was good enough, run because the idea of her seeing all his cracks terrified him.

“but what if i can’t do it? what if i let her down again?” lando’s voice was barely audible now, thick with doubt.

max’s expression softened even more. “then you figure it out, together. but you’ve got to give her the chance to make that choice. don’t decide for her that you’re not good enough. let her in. let her see you, even the parts you’re scared to show. that’s how you build something real.”

lando’s breath came in short, shallow bursts, his heart pounding in his chest. the thought of opening up like that—to be fully seen, in all his messiness, all his vulnerability—scared him more than any race ever had. but the thought of losing Y/N, of pushing her away because of his own fear… that scared him even more.

“yeah, sure,” lando whispered, his voice hoarse. “i need to talk to her. i need to fix this.”

max smiled softly, relief flickering in his eyes. “yeah, mate. you do.”

after bidding his best friend farewell, lando sat and tried to calm himself down by pressing his fingers with exposed raw flesh due to the fact he had gnawed at his own hands out of anxiety. he had to come up with something to make it up to you. he needed to.

TAGGINGS: @meglouise00 @rawr-123s-stuff

[sugurizz]

(SMUT/NSFW +18 - minors DNI !)

𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭.: Joo Jaekyung x f! reader - 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏 , 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: world champion Team Black's Joo Jaekyung is the hottest sensation in the MMA universe. His name is not only feared and respected on the streets, but desired in the sheets. Little did physiotherapist Y/n know, she was about to learn it the hard way.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 / 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dark content ahead! explicit content, dubcon, graphic content, dom/sub dynamics, power dynamics, degradation, nicknames (Doc, slut, whore, etc...)

𝐰.𝐜: 1,1k.

𝐉𝐎𝐎 𝐉𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐆 − 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

And who's this now? What is she doing here?'

'Please welcome y/n. She'd be our substitute physical therapist for now. hope you guys would get along.' Responded team coach Park Namwook as he gently gave your shoulder a pat.

'You keep bringing these goons around! And none of them seems to get the job done right!' He harshly dismissed your presence, looking at the coach, then scoffed as he walked back into the sparring room.

'You'll have to deal with him after the sparring matches. He's quite the hardass at times, but I know I can rely on you.'

The coach gave you a rather awkward smile, brushing off the rude welcoming you suddenly received.

-----

You stepped into the therapy room and hanged your backpack, just as he came in, skin gleaming with sweat and pitch black strands messy. His eyes accidentally met yours as he layed down on the chair.

'I'm taking the shirt off. It's drenched in sweat.'

Your heart sunk. You turned around to see his large torso on full display. He clearly did it for an understandable reason, but your brain went blank and your fingertips froze for a split second, until a deep voice shook you out of it..

'Last week's treatment sucked. The last substitute coach brought here was so incompetent. My muscles remained tense anyway. And the cramps in my left shoulder got even worse.'

'I understand, sir. I'll work on a different treatment routine. I'm sorry for your last week's inconvenience.'

You somehow fancied remaining professional at that moment. Despite his clear attitude, you knew your job as physiotherapist was to provide the team members with effective remedies in the first place.

He shrugs and looks away, closing his eyes in annoyance as he muttered,

'And better make it quick. I don't have all night ahead.'

You nodded as you approached his frame. Took a deep breath as your palms landed on his skin. It was a mix of heat and cold, a marble-like texture that you didn't expect a UFC fighter -notably the best of the best- to have.

the session went rather smoothly, no words were spoken. but at least you could tell the silence was a rather relieving sign.

'S-Sir...c-could you point to me the spot where your shoulder feels most painful, please?'

He placed his hand on the back of his shoulder, eyes still closed. And you complied as you started massaging it. His features flinched for a while, and your heart skipped a beat as you slowly neared the end of the session.

'I'll have to say that your shoulder might need a few more sessions, sir. It seems that the tendons on your upper left arm are the reason you're struggling with pain in your shoulder.'

'I'm not spending any extra time on nonsense! You figure out how to heal it. And you'll do it during the normal sessions.'

He glanced at you sternly as he stood up and straightened himself. Not acknowleging you a second further...

-----

The next day's session was just about to start, an unspoken tension grew inside your chest. The uncertainty of what could happen every time your hands stroked against his rock hard abs, toned arms, and god-like v lined pelvis had your face heating up.

He walked in as usual. you greeted him with a pale smile and performed your service as good as you could...

...'Hey, do you work extra hours? I'll pay you.'

He opened a half-lidded eye, voice deeper than you recognized.

you turned around, puzzled ..

'I...can do that. It would buy me some extra time to focus on your upper arm's tendons.'

'Good. I'm only open for extra sessions in my apartment, though.'

'B-but sir! I'm not sure if I can commute to your place at such a late hour...' You jolted immediately, almost panicking at the sudden request.

'I can tell you're not good with directions. Meet me at the entrance in 15 minutes. I'm driving there anyway.'

He muttered nonchalently as he got up and left the room, leaving you standing up there, mind foggy and racing trying to process what just happened...

...the ride home was silent. The flashing lights of the city were the only way you could ignore the heavy weight upon your heart. You got off as you arrived and made your way behind him to the apartment.

'There. You can place your stuff anywhere. And follow me quick.'

He laid down on a king-sized bed, eyeing you up and down as you set foot into the room.

'I'll make it short and quick.

I fuck before matches. For a reasonable price. Choice is yours.'

You somehow managed to stay cool and collected, but the silence that followed crushed your soul. He was still waiting for your response. Not that you were aware of his fiery eyes almost piercing a burning hole through your chest.

'W-why?...sir..' a broken protest left your throat. But he seemed so unfazed by it all.

'If it's a no you can leave now. No more words needed.'

He looked away, turning around to face the huge bay window, shining through the city lights. you felt unjustifiably intoxicated. was it his huge frame? the unforgettable scent of his room? or just the nasty desire that you kept suppressing since your eyes met his dark ones? You didn't know for sure. But the way he felt like he could crush you evertime he randomly stood next to you had you picturing all kinds of the filthiest things he could do to you...

...

'W-what would it be.... if I...agreed, s-sir?...'

'Oh. playing sly are we?'

He walked up to you with a mishievious grin on his face, then leaned down enough for his lips to meet your ears.

'If you agree, you get fucked to my heart's content. No playing around. No lovey-dovey shit.'

The brutal tone was supposed to distaste you, but for whatever messed up reason made you feel the throb straight down your womb, and between your legs.

'So?'

You snapped out. His warm breath was still ghosting over your neck, just enough to tease your senses, without ever touching you.

You looked into his eyes like a frightened deer, tho your fear merged with the heat in your belly.

'N-No one...can hear about this! sir'

'Not that anyone else can see me balls deep in you, can they?'

He raised an eyebrow, shit-eating grin still over his lips as his monster-like frame invaded your space. Your brain shut down, heart hammering as you looked back into his eyes...

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑?...

𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Frostbite

Frostbite - damage to the skin and other tissues caused by freezing.

Frostnip - a milder form of cold injury; it is sometimes described as the first stage of frostbite.

Some doctors use a 4-degree classification of injuries:

First-degree: The epidermis (outermost layer of the skin) is reddened, swollen, and may look waxy. There is also a loss of sensation in the affected skin.

Second-degree: The skin is reddened, swollen, and has formed blisters filled with a clear or milky fluid.

Third-degree: Blisters are filled with blood and the skin begins to turn black.

Fourth-degree: The epidermis, dermis, and underlying muscles, tendons, and bones are damaged.

The early stage of frostbite is sometimes called frostnip.

Short-term symptoms include:

loss of feeling or aching pain in the affected part,

followed by redness of the skin and

tissue swelling.

Unfortunately, a victim is often unaware of frostbite until someone else points it out because the frozen tissues are numb.

Long-term symptoms include:

intense pain in the affected part,

tingling sensations,

cracks in the skin,

dry skin,

loss of fingernails,

joint stiffness,

loss of bone or muscle tissue, and

increased sensitivity to cold.

If left untreated, frostbitten skin gradually darkens and blisters after a few hours.

Skin destroyed by frostbite is completely black, looks burnt, and may hang loosely from the underlying tissues.

Freezing of exposed tissues results in the formation of ice crystals inside the cell wall.

A variation of frostbite - mountain frostbite, which affects mountain climbers and others exposed to extremely cold temperatures at high altitude.

Combines tissue freezing with oxygen deprivation and general body dehydration.

TREATMENT

Frostnipped fingers are helped by:

blowing warm air on them or

holding them under one’s armpits.

Other frostnipped areas can be covered with warm hands.

The injured areas should never be rubbed.

While waiting for medical help to arrive, one should, if possible:

remove wet or tight clothing and

put on dry, loose clothing or wraps.

A splint and padding are used to protect the injured area.

The patient should not be allowed to walk on frostbitten toes or feet, as the weight of the body will cause further damage to tissue—unless walking is the only way the patient can get to shelter.

Rubbing the area with snow or anything else is dangerous.

The key to prehospital treatment is to avoid partial thawing and refreezing.

This releases more inflammatory mediators and makes the injury substantially worse.

For this reason, the affected part must be kept away from such heat sources as campfires and car heaters.

The injured person should not be given alcohol or tranquilizers, as these will increase loss of body heat.

Experts advise rewarming in the field only when emergency help will take more than 2 hours to arrive and refreezing can be prevented.

Because the outcome of a frostbite injury cannot be predicted at first, all hospital treatment follows the same route.

Treatment begins by rewarming the affected part for 15–30 minutes in water at a temperature of 104–108°F (40–42.2°C). This rapid rewarming halts ice crystal formation and dilates narrowed blood vessels.

Aloe vera (which acts against inflammatory mediators) is applied to the affected part, which is then splinted, elevated, and wrapped in a dressing.

Depending on the extent of injury, blisters may be debrided (cleaned by removing foreign material) or simply covered with aloe vera.

Except when injury is minimal, treatment generally requires a hospital stay of several days, during which hydrotherapy and physical therapy are used to restore the affected part to health.

Experts recommend a cautious approach to tissue removal, and advise that 22–45 days must pass before a decision on amputation can safely be made.

If frostbitten skin is not treated and its blood vessels are affected, gangrene may set in.

Gangrene is the death of soft tissue due to loss of blood supply.

It may be treated by surgical removal of the affected tissue if caught early; otherwise, the surgeon may have to amputate the affected digit or limb to prevent bacterial infections from spreading from the dead tissue to the rest of the body.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Realistic Injuries

[zjasperwrites]

A Non-Exhaustive List of Tips For Managing Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

If you type, write, draw, craft, or do anything with your hands, you are at risk for carpal tunnel! If you're developing any pain, or have none but want to take preventive measures, feel free to try these. I'm not a doctor, but these help my case of severe CTS!

This advice may not apply to everyone, but these are all things you can do without receiving medical care. Yet know that options like pain prescriptions, steroids, and surgery are possible for relief.

Give your hands a break when necessary and feasible. Even just implementing one rest day a week can be extremely beneficial.

Stretch your hands, fingers, arms, and neck regularly. This video can get you started.

Look into a hand massager. I use this one. If your pain is severe, I find massaging before stretching is most effective.

Vary your positions. You can reduce strain by trying differing neutral angles of arm/wrist position while working. Elevation helps.

Use ergonomics. Ones I use include an ergonomic mouse and mousepad, and this support pen from PenAgain.

Explore temperature therapy. Both heat pads or ice packs can be helpful depending on your needs and preferences.

Work on grip strengthening. If you already have CTS pain, be careful, but some wrist/finger exercise can help. I use this tool.

Train yourself to work more gently. Lighten your grip on writing tools, slow down and don't press so hard while typing.

If you already have pain, GET WRIST BRACES. Sleep in them to start, then wear them during the day if needed. You can also...

Try out k-tape. I personally get more pain if I use a brace 24/7, so this k-tape wrap is nice for day-time support.

Look into finger splints too. Finger hypermobility or exertion can strain wrists much more quickly, especially when typing.

Compression gloves also help. These are my "lowest tier" for support when my pain is mildest.

Get comfortable with voice-typing. Adjusting to this can be hard, but its an excellent way to keep writing without hurting yourself.

Especially if you have severe pain, consider tools marketed at amputees. Obviously be mindful of the resources you take up, but accessibility tools are for anyone who needs them. When my pain is at my worst, I am unable to use my arm/hand and can't even raise it, so tools to facilitate one-handed use are helpful.

And finally, not so much a tip, but a warning. Most likely, you'll get CTS pain in your dominant hand first. When that happens, do not switch to your non-dom hand and continue on. That hand is not in the clear, its next. Implement treatment and management in both hands, and use your non-dom hand when necessary while not overworking it either. Don't let yourself fall into denial because you can "get by" without adjustments. I promise the initial ability to keep working without inconvenience is not worth developing CTS in both hands lol.

If anyone else has advice please add on! I live as a walking warning to my husband who crochets to take care of his hands, so here's to hoping I can help others too!

[omegaversetheory]

I've got a very interesting concept: Pseudo-Mate Syndrome. Basically a person gets so attached to someone else that their bodies and minds start reacting as though they are truly mates. Heat/rut syncing up, being repulsed by the scent of other people (especially their aroused scent), being highly sensitive to that person's moods (mating in my verse allows for an empathic bond, and while it can't fully work because it's one-sided and not technically 'real' Pseudo-Mate Syndrome mimics it somewhat) but it's not all wonderful, there is also the issue of Rejection Syndrome.

Rejection Syndrome is just a fancy name for what happens when someone is rejected by their mate. It can cause extreme distress, and heartbreak, grief and even physical illness and pain, depending on how severe the rejection is. People with Pseudo-Mate Syndrome are at much higher risk of Rejection Syndrome because of the fact that the other person hasn't consented to this sort of relationship. Rejection Syndrome is typically not long lasting, only lasting between hours or days. The longest lasting one lasts years and is most accurately called "Grief Syndrome" but it's basically the same thing just longer. The cures for Rejection Syndrome are: being comforted by your Mate, waiting it out, taking your mind off of it (this sounds like an easy fix but it's much harder than it sounds because they become fixated on what happened) or in more drastic situations, medication and/or therapy.

I currently have three people with Pseudo-Mate Syndrome in my story (all of them alphas by pure coincidence. Anyone could develop this condition, Alpha Beta or Omega. But this isn't just a casual crush situation. It's a very serious condition that develops over YEARS of desiring to be this person's mate, and it's pretty rare.) and all of them experience Rejection Syndrome somehow. (One is very susceptible to it because he's got RSD and low self esteem. One experiences Grief Syndrome when he is told his beloved is dead, she's not actually but he believes it for YEARS, and a third has a VERY volatile relationship with his beloved and they fight often)

The treatments are as follows: become actual mates, fall out of love with that person, or take certain medications (worth noting that the medications are just to manage stressful symptoms. There is no medication to make you fall out of love or make the bond go away)

Love hearing about your AU! Please share more sometime!

[fireolin]

Physiotherapists and similar

I've had a LOT of experience with physical therapists of various types treating me for a variety of injuries over my adult life, all of which I now realise are related to my hyper-mobility (and I don't even have an extreme version). I'm putting down some of what I've learned from a patient perspective for anyone less experienced in case it helps.

Every therapist is different. Individually, they have different treatment styles and preferences for how to treat your injury. Often they'll call themselves the same thing ('physiotherapist') but the treatment you can receive is wildly different. Usually they use a combination of methods. They may emphasise physical manipulation, types of massage, dry needling, shock wave or light therapy, exercise, assisted exercise, be hands-on, or reluctant to touch a patient.

Because treatment style can vary, it helps to shop around if you sense something just isn't working for you after one or two visits. That's a difficult call when you're new to treatment, but don't keep going to someone if they're not helping you improve. The best therapists I've had have been skilled in a variety of techniques so they can adapt to try something new.

Improving depends greatly on following their advice regarding exercise or other therapeutic actions, NOT just what they do for you in the treatment room. It's unfair to say a therapist is ineffective if you've neglected to do what they say.

If they give you too many exercises, tell them. They can give you less or tell you which ones to prioritise. Better to modify what they give you than do nothing, UNLESS point 5.

If the exercises cause a flare up of your issue, then back off or stop. Check with them about it. If the issue is the therapist not investigating your issue properly in the first place or giving you poor advice, then look around for someone who will take more care with your individual issue, rather than just give you the list they always give for 'a sprained ankle' or whatever

Don't instantly disregard a form of treatment you've never heard of before. Some of the most effective physios I've had used methods that have a rational basis but take a while to fully explain, and at first sound esoteric

Pain isn't always where the problem is, so don't dismiss therapists who want to work somewhere you don't expect. The effective physio fixed my hands by treating my upper body. The ineffective one just put heat packs on my hands which felt nice, but didn't help resolve the problem.

You can say No to any treatment style you don't like.

TL/DR: Treatment styles vary so don't stay with a method that doesn't work. Assertively communicate your needs and results and shop around if necessary. But be open to something you may not have heard about so long as the therapist is reputable.

Finally, recommendations from other patients who've had good results from a therapist can be extremely helpful in any search.

[cripplecharacters]

Hi! Just made a new account here. I'm running a TTRPG where I have an NPC who recently got un-petrified with an experimental treatment. The dice and players decided that they would keep sequels from that, and I think that's a good idea anyway. The disabilities that makes the most sense to me is some flavor of chronic pain, and/or needing aids to walk, since all her joints were turned to stone. Maybe her bones are heavier or rougher or something. BUT. I myself have chronic pain and use aid to walk. While I have no problems with representing this in fiction, I have enough self insert NPCs in this campaign already. I'm looking for alternatives if you have ideas. Thanks!

Thank you for your ask! My first through was muscle atrophy, since she wasn’t moving for a while her muscles might have started weakening. Symptoms for whole body disuse atrophy can include difficulty moving (including facial muscles), numbness/tingling sensations, difficulty swallowing and breathing and even memory loss. Atrophy not caused by an underlying medical issue can be reversed with physical & occupational therapy, though it’s going to take some time and your character might need to use aids until then, and what aids used depends on how long she was frozen & the severity of her condition.

Muscle atrophy can happen alongside muscle and joint stiffness, which would limit her range of motion as well as causing pain. Other symptoms can include joint swelling, cracking or popping noises when moving, and cramping. Things such as massages, heat/cold therapy and plain relief medication can help, along with the treatments listed for atrophy.

Also taking a page from Dungeon Meshi’s book, someone turned to stone is at risk of cracking. This could range from hairline fractures (like getting a long paper cut) to chucks falling off (would need immediate medical attention once unfrozen). Body parts with less mass that protrude from the body are at higher risk of chipping, and while everyone’s body is different these can include fingers/toes, ears and nose. Things like hair and eyelashes are also a break risk, though that’s more of an aesthetic concern.

These are all I can think of, but definitely look into paralysis recovery and rehabilitation after being unable to move (there are probably more google-friendly ways to phrase that though lol)

Have a lovely day!

Mod Rot

[sarahowritesostucky]

Art in banner is by @hopelessartgeek, who makes a ton of amazing Stucky art!

📖 "Medically Necessitated" Ch 1

Rated: Explicit Pairing: Bucky x Steve Tags: a/b/o, age gap, past rape, rape recovery, trauma recovery, pregnancy, medical trauma, hurt/comfort, mentions of CSA, religious fundamentalism, first time, gender dysphoria, male omegas are intersex (peen & vagine) Summary: After a medical emergency brings him into the ER, Bucky escapes the religious cult he's been raised in. It's up to Steve, nurse practitioner and omega sex & repro specialist, to see him through a medically supervised heat.

1. Jori

Steve meets Bucky under less than ideal circumstances.

T.W. This fic contains occasional mentions of Steve's patients, who deal with issues of csa, sa, abortion, ptsd, and other traumas. Bucky is in the immediate aftermath of a rape at the story's start.

Steve hates sedating patients for procedures, but unfortunately in his line of work it’s often necessary. The only thing worse than when he has to sedate patients, is when he wishes he could sedate a patient, but for some medical reason he can’t. Like now.

“Shhh,” he soothes, petting over his patient’s leg when he feels her starting to tremble again. She’s laying back on the table, legs spread under the privacy blanket he’s given her. Steve settles his gloved hand in the crease where her thigh meets her hip, digs his thumb purposefully into the flesh of her lower belly from over the fabric of her pink hospital gown. There’s a tertiary gland in the low belly/upper mons that is the first of the omega sex glands to develop. And when stimulated properly, it can help to calm them down.

Unfortunately for Steve’s patient, hers won’t be fully developed for a few more years yet. He tries to get at it with his thumb anyway, hoping that if he can just graze it, it might help keep the girl calm until the procedure they’re doing is finished. He’s got her on the highest dosage of lorazepam allowed for a patient her age, but she’s still conscious and there’s nothing he can do for that other than comfort her verbally, using his alpha Voice that, in any other context, would be utterly inappropriate. “You’re doing so good,” he whispers.

Jori blinks her sleepy eyes up at him, another sluggish tear falling down her face. “Is it almost over, Mr. Steve?”

Steve takes a quick look at the machine’s readings, then forces a pained smile for her. “Yeah, Honey. Only a few minutes left. I’m so proud of you, you know that? You’re my best patient ever. Being so brave. Just a little longer here and then we’ll be finished."

They’re in the pediatric exam room, where the walls are painted in cheerful colors and the gynecological equipment is disguised to try and make it less intimidating. Steve likes his job as an omega sexual and reproductive healthcare practitioner, but there are some cases, and some elements, that he really, really wishes didn’t exist. Marjorie Goldberg and this exam room are two of them.

Seeding machines should not come with pediatric-sized attachments.

“Is she okay?” Mrs. Goldberg asks urgently, shooting up from her seat as soon as Steve steps out into the waiting area. Clint is sitting next to her, his OmCare badge clipped onto his jacket, and he stands when she does. Steve takes a deep breath and walks over.

“Marjorie is okay,” he tells her. “She shouldn’t need any more treatments after this one. She’ll need to be on medication for the foreseeable future, though. She needs to get into an intensive therapy program as soon as possible. We’re sending that information to her DCFS caseworker. I’m also recommending monthly checkups back here or at a licensed clinic for at least the next six months.”

“For more of this?!” Mrs. Goldberg takes an angry step forward.

“No. Just to check her levels and monitor her progress,” Steve says, tone clipped. “Nothing invasive, just blood tests and external ultrasounds to make sure everything’s okay.” His eyes flick to Clint, who is watching the woman like a hawk.

Clint is one of the OmegaCare social workers employed by the hospital. He’s there because the Goldbergs don’t currently have custody of their daughter, and it’s been a very … testy situation, with all parties involved.

Mrs. Goldberg is insisting on being as present as she’s legally allowed to be, not missing any appointments, lingering in the waiting room each time poor little Jori has to endure a treatment. She’s not allowed to see Marjory without supervision, and she isn't currently the one in charge of her daughter's medical care, but she's asserted her right to stay informed about it all, and since Steve is temporarily the senior N.P. on the pediatric omega GYN ward, that means it's his side she's a thorn in.

Mr. Goldberg is the reason the treatments have been necessary. He’s in prison now.

“You couldn’t even let me in there to hold her hand!” Mrs. Goldberg is saying, voice raised in anger.

Steve looks her dead in the face. He’s got little to no sympathy for this woman. “That’s not up to me, Mrs. Goldberg. You know that. DCFS is evaluating the nature of your relationship with your daug—”

“She needs me!” Mrs. Goldberg yells, outraged, though obviously on the verge of tears, too. “I’m her mother, for Christ’s sake!”

“And he was her father,” Steve bursts out, unable to contain himself anymore. “And we all know why I just had to be in there, therapeutically inseminating his seven year old daughter!”

Mrs. Goldberg stands there, red-faced and quietly crying. Steve feels near-instant regret hit him when Clint shoots him a what the fuck, man?! look from over the lady's shoulder. Steve swallows guiltily. That’s the kind of reaction that gets you administrative leave, if the client makes a big enough stink about it. By the sound of her pitiful crying though, Mrs. Goldberg is just feeling guilt and misery, hopefully not thinking about taking action against an NP who has just—very loudly and unprofessionally—yelled at her. Steve is supposed to be able to keep his shit together better than this. But then again, this isn’t really his wheelhouse.

He specializes in trauma cases, but the kids usually fall to his colleague, Dr. Connors. Steve is one of only a few staff who are qualified enough to cover most of Connors’ caseload while the man is out on maternity leave. Steve’s happy for the guy, sure—he’s just given birth to two healthy pups after a difficult pregnancy. But Steve’s starting to lose sleep (what little he gets to begin with, these days) to the nature of the work. He’s not cut out for the kids.

He clears his throat and mutters an apology to Mrs. Goldberg, looking at his clipboard rather than her wet face. “Marjorie’s still recovering from the sedation we gave her.” They’d tried for stronger drugs at first, aiming for full or at least twilight sedation, but the little girl had had such violent seizures that it was rendered impossible. “It’ll be another half hour or so until she’s ready to go back to her foster home.”

Mrs. Goldberg sniffles. “She’s alone now?”

“She’s with a nurse,” Steve says. He looks at Clint, nods, then turns to get away from the situation.

“Doctor Rogers!” the woman calls out, her voice all water-logged and choked.

Steve stops walking with a sigh. He doesn’t much bother with correcting people on the 'Doctor' thing anymore, finding it to be a waste of breath. “What?” he says curtly, not turning back around to face her.

“I didn’t know.” Her voice is pleading, tearful and urgent. Maybe she wants him to believe her or feel sorry for her or something. Maybe she just needs somebody to tell her that it’s not her fault. “I swear I never knew what he was doing to her. Not for sure. I swear.”

Steve’s hands tighten on his clipboard so hard that he feels it creak. “Right,” he grits out, forcing himself to continue walking away. “‘Not for sure’.”

Steve leans over the countertop of the nurse’s station and hands Sam a stack of charts. “Four and seven discharged. Five and six were admitted. Still waiting on the attending for eight.”

Sam nods, more bug-eyed than usual. He’s on his fifth coffee now. He takes the charts and starts putting them away. “Kay kay kay.”

“No more coffee,” Steve warns him, and Sam scowls.

“I’m fine.”

“Mmhm.” This is the tail end of the second shift for both of them. Sam’s a nurse on the om-psych ward, and given that Steve handles almost exclusively trauma cases for om-obgyn, he and Sam’s cases tend to intersect a lot. They both also draw the ire of their department managers pretty frequently, so they’re often sentenced to either clinic duty or shifts in the ER together. That’s how they became such good friends, and it’s where they are now.

“How was the shift on pediatrics?” Sam asks, though he sounds like he can already guess the answer. Steve’s been in a foul mood ever since he switched to his ER scrubs and clocked in.

“Awful,” he grunts. “I can’t keep doing the kids. It’s killing my soul. I’m going to my unit head tomorrow and telling her,” he decides. “She can’t force me to do it. I’ll tell HR it’s a mental health issue.”

Sam laughs. “Then they’ll send you my way. I’ll recommend shock therapy.”

“I’d take it over what I had to deal with today.” Steve gives him a brief recap of the Goldberg situation, and Sam loses all his humor.

“Shit, man.”

“Yeah.” Steve can’t say he isn’t really, really grateful to be alpha sometimes. Or at least grateful that he’s not omega. If anybody drew the short straw in life, it certainly seemed to be them. The fact that a grown man could rape his own daughter was bad enough, but then add to that the fact that because the girl was omega and her father alpha, she’d been forced into pre-pubertal heat too, her little body confused and trying to do what it thought it was supposed to do—to the detriment of her health in every way possible.

Steve sighs as he thinks about the abortion he’d had to perform on her. That kid was going to be on meds and in treatment centers for months, maybe years. Probably in therapy for the rest of her goddamn life. “I told them I’d be happy to testify at the guy’s trial,” he tells Sam. “In a medical capacity, if they needed it.”

Sam scoffs. “You are well spoken.”

“Very fucking eloquent.” Steve knows he needs to stop talking about this. It’s keeping him in a foul mood. He runs his hands through his hair. “Ugh, Sam. Distract me. Give me something to do.”

“Like what? Oh, hang on.” He leans over to the computer, clicking the mouse a few times as he navigates the screen. “Dispatch called in a code blue. Adolescent male, nonresponsive. They were doing chest compressions when the call came in.”

“When?”

“About ten minutes ago. So they should be here soon.”

Just as he says it, the doors to the ambulance bay bust open and several paramedics come wheeling in a gurney. Steve goes over to assess. The lead paramedic begins rattling off info to Steve as they move the gurney over to a bed: Adolescent male omega, presented with fever and respiratory distress. Pulse is thready, BP eighty over sixty.

The smell gets Steve right away, and an even stronger waft hits the air when they transfer over to the bed. The omega reeks of heat, but it’s sour and unhealthy smelling—unfulfilled, infected. Besides being inherently unpleasant, Steve’s body is responding to it, his dumb dick perking up like it thinks it can be a hero and help the situation. He tells the nurses to grab him blockers, and the new beta intern gets shoved in the direction of the supply cage.

Steve begins barking out orders. "Okay let’s get a line in him. I want a blood draw, full tox screen. Why isn’t he on oxygen yet? —Paxton! get the fuck off your phone. What the hell, man?”

“Sorry!" the intern says as she returns from her run to the supply cage, wringing her hands and just generally looking terrified of Steve’s ire. “We’re out of dermals.”

Steve ignores her, too busy rattling off IV meds and doses to the nurses. He'll have to wait until he can raid another cage for a transdermal patch to shut his dumb dick it up. He tells the intern to prep the crash cart, just to give her something to do. The boy on the stretcher looks to be in his late teens. He’s wearing jeans and a tee shirt that’s already been cut open. The nurses pull the scraps of it off him while Steve re-checks his vitals. When he shines his penlight in the kid’s eyes, he regains consciousness. He starts to struggle, afraid.

“Hey there,” Steve says, talking in his 'Nothing’s Wrong Here, Folks™️ voice to try and keep the kid from panicking. “I’m Steve, I’m an NP at Mercy General. You’re in the hospital. Can you tell me what you remember?”

“No family came with us,” the medic murmurs in Steve’s other ear. “Call came from a private residence. It was crowded but nobody wanted anything to do with us. They shoved him at us and told us to leave.”

Steve nods. That means it’s likely a drug situation. “What’s your name, Honey?” he asks the kid.

The kid blinks, still confused. “Bucky,” he says, “What happn’d?” He sounds bleary, like he might fade out of consciousness again.

Steve barks at one of the nurses to get him hooked up to the monitoring equipment. “That’s what we’re going to figure out,” he tells the kid kindly. “Bucky, can you remember if you took anything today? Any medicines or other substances?” He watches as the kid’s blown pupils flick around. The scent of frightened omega gets worse and Steve fights not to wrinkle his nose. One of the nurses relays the kid’s high temperature and pulse, his low blood pressure.

Two seconds later, he starts seizing. Steve holds his head steady while one of the nurses shoves a plastic guard between his teeth. They turn him on his side and the smell of urine hits Steve’s nose. As he’s holding the boy still, he puts his face near his neck and gets a better sense of his scent. What he smells makes his own heart rate tick up in alarm. The seizure passes and Steve tells the nurse to cut his remaining clothes off. Bucky’s barely conscious, emitting a low keening sound when Steve looks between his legs. “Fuck,” he curses.

There’s rampant infection, the fact that Steve can tell without even doing an exam is worse than alarming. He tells them to prep heavy duty antibiotics. “I need to do an internal,” he says. With the infection as horrible as it looks, there’s no way he’ll be able to touch the kid while he’s conscious. “Knock him out. And get a rape kit.”

They get him stabilized, on antibiotics and anti-seizure medication. Steve locates a blocker patch in one of the other supply cages to slap on himself before he heads in to do an internal exam on the unconscious omega. He finds impacted slick glands and prostate gland that are so enlarged and inflamed that Steve’s kind of amazed they haven’t ruptured. An ultrasound reveals an illegal IUD. Steve removes it. The boy’s hymen is obviously newly torn, and there are signs of recent tying. He's been raped by at least one alpha—violently, if the bruising is anything to go by. They swab what Steve would bet are foreign fluids from both his stomach and genitals. Steve meets with two cops and a social worker from OmCare, hands the rape kit over and tells them his findings. “Let me know if you contact any family,” he says.

So far, it seems like this boy has no one.

They admit him under “Bucky”, using his designation and admittance number (ꭥ-47202) in lieu of his unknown last name. Since he’s stabilized and since his medical problems seem to mostly be between his legs, he’s moved up to Om-obgyn Inpatient and officially put under Steve’s care. Steve is able to snag his department head and beg her to pull him from all pediatrics cases. She agrees, but makes the call that Bucky should remain on the adult wing. So he’s still Steve’s patient.

In his current state, Steve can’t do anybody much good for much longer. He’s nearing nineteen hours on shift, and even with the aid of several espressos, he doesn’t have much steam left in his body. He knows he could go home, but his next shift is scheduled for eight hours from then, and he really wants to be there when the kid wakes up. So rather than go home, he grabs an empty bed and crashes.

When he wakes, he checks the time on his phone and inhales deeply. At least he got a good six hours. He heads to the nurse’s station and gives the charts for their hall a lookover, then goes to the room where they’ve put the male omega from the night before: Bucky.

His eyes are closed when Steve walks in. Steve tilts his head, taking in the boy's features. He looks better now, more stable, less pale. And he smells better, which gives Steve a hint that the antibiotics are already helping. The notes on Bucky’s chart from the overnight nurse have him nodding in vague approval as he reads. “Okay,” he says quietly to himself. “Good.” Not good good, but much better compared to the state he’d been in last night.

When Steve looks up again, the boy is watching him.

Steve smiles gently. “Hey there. You’re awake.” He walks over to the bedside. The boy struggles to push himself up and Steve halts him, showing him how to instead use the controls on the bed rail to come up to sitting. “Don’t want to overexert yourself,” he says kindly. He pulls up a chair to the bedside and sits on it. “I’m Steve,” he says. He’s long avoided using his last name with patients because they always wind up calling him “Doctor Rogers,” and Steve isn’t an MD and it just gets awkward after awhile. “You’re in the hospital. You were brought into the ER late last night. This is the omega ob-gyn ward you’re in now, and I’m going to be your attending.”

“Attending?” the boy says, voice craggy and dry. He winces and puts a hand to his throat.

“It means I’ll be looking after you,” Steve clarifies. He gets up and goes to fill a cup of water.

“I’m Bucky,” the boy says. “You’re a doctor?”

Steve returns to his bedside and hands the cup over. Bucky takes it. “Small sips,” Steve warns. “I’m a nurse practitioner. In New York we can do just about everything the docs do. But like I said, you can feel free to call me Steve.”

Bucky nods, no affect to him. He seems almost resigned, Steve thinks. He hasn’t asked about any loved ones and Steve hasn’t missed that either. “What happened?” he asks.

“Well I was hoping you could tell me that,” Steve says, purposefully keeping his demeanor non-confrontational. “You’re sick. You have some infections going on. And you were in very bad shape when they brought you into the ER. You had a seizure.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “I did?”

“Mmhm.” Steve leans forward a little and asks, “What do you remember happening yesterday, Bucky?”

This is where the omega goes still and clams up. He refuses to give an account of anything, saying that he has no memory of the previous day. Steve is trained in how to interact with assault and trauma survivors, but he doesn’t make any headway with the boy. Bucky clearly believes that being open and honest with strangers will put either him, someone he loves, or someone with authority over him, in trouble.

Steve backs off, hands him a room service menu so he can order something cool for his throat, then goes to page Sam.

When Sam comes out after spending almost an hour with the kid, Steve straightens up from where he’s been loitering at the nurse’s station. “What’d he say?”

Sam blows air through his lips. “It’s a doozy.” He tips his head down the hallway. “Walk with me. I’ll tell you over my next espresso.”

Turns out, Bucky has been living in an isolated religious sect that doesn’t believe in, among other things, male omegas’ reproductive rights. More precisely, they pretty much just don’t believe that male omegas should exist, think that they’re an ‘abomination unto the Lord’, or something like that. Steve looks up the Wikipedia page on their group, and is neither pleased nor particularly shocked at what he learns.

Short of murder, they espouse beliefs and practices that do everything possible to stop male O's from existing. They try to prevent nature from taking its course on the limited number of male O's born in their group, forcing them to live instead as regular beta males via a combination of drugs, surgeries, and social pressure. They call themselves the Children-of-God’s-Kingdom.

Steve’s heard of them before, but he’s never had anyone like that come through his ward. “Oh man,” he says, when Sam rattles off the things Bucky's told him. “So, a cult. You’re telling me he’s in a cult.”

“He doesn’t even know who his real parents are,” Sam says gravely. “They live communally. All the wacko parents sign custody of their kids over to their grand poobah.”

Steve scowls, feeling outrage for what’s been done to this poor kid in the name of religion. “Well they managed to almost kill him,” he snaps quietly, mindful of where they’re standing. “And it's almost a guarantee that he’s been sexually assaulted. We ran a rape kit last night.”

Sam doesn’t look surprised, just mad and caffeinated. Steve asks him if he got an age out of the boy, and Sam tells him regretfully, “Eighteen.”

“Fuck.” Steve shakes his head. Omegas don't reach their majority until nineteen. “We’ve gotta report it to social services before somebody from the cult shows up trying to claim him. Trust me: one look at his charts and OmCare will take custody.”

Sam nods. “He also said there’s an IUD inside him and hormonal suppressants implanted.”

“Yeah we got the IUD out. I’ll get the implant out today. Which arm?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

Steve nods tersely, wondering if the poor kid got to have any say over the things his so called ‘family’ did to his body over the years. Likely not. As a physician who is very well educated on the considerable risks, Steve has always heavily discouraged his omega patients from trying to use drugs and devices to suppress their natural cycles. But, much like many other unhealthy choices, birth control and suppressants aren’t technically illegal for omegas over the age of twenty one.

But Bucky is only eighteen, just now entering the ripest years of an omega’s reproductive life. Steve grits his teeth when he thinks of what further damage might’ve been done to this poor kid, had he remained in that cult for any longer. “I’m gonna go check in with him,” he says, taking a step in the direction of Bucky’s room.

Sam stops him with a touch to his arm to let him know, “He seems honest enough, but he’s anxious not to get anybody from his group in trouble. He wouldn’t name names. And you can bet he’s gonna be all kinds of warped about his designation, being raised like that. Tread carefully.”

Steve nods, angry. No doubt the kid’s been told his whole life how he’s an affront to God, has ‘unholy urges’, or some horrible shit like that. “Guess he’ll be up your way before long, then,” he tells Sam, before walking off.

Steve knocks lightly on the doorjamb to make his presence known. “Hey there.”

“Hi.” The omega is sitting propped up in the bed with an extra blanket and pillow now. He’s got water and a half-finished Italian ice cup on the bedside table. Steve notes the almost completely untouched breakfast platter and nods. Kid must be nauseous. He’s looking sheepishly up at Steve as he approaches. “You sent a shrink in.”

Steve pulls the chair back in to sit close to the bed like he had before. “That’s nurse Wilson,” he says. “And yeah, he came to try and get you to feel safer about talking.” The kid—Bucky—nods while looking down at his lap, and Steve asks, “Did it help?”

Bucky shrugs. “He said I don’t have to talk about anything if I don’t want to.”

Steve’s heart clenches as he remembers the rape kit they’d done on him, the torn hymen and the swollen — “That’s right, Honey,” he says. “You don’t.” He puts his hand on the bed, not touching him, just the thin hospital blanket next to his legs. “But I’m hoping you’ll tell me certain things, so that we can get you healthy again.”

Bucky looks very uncomfortable, but to his credit he seems to push through it. “Look, um, Steve?”

Steve nods.

“I heard the nurses talking. About my family.”

Steve straightens up. “Your family?” He’s hopeful he’ll be able to get information about the kid’s abusers, but Bucky disappoints him by saying,

“The ‘Children’ I mean. They’re my family.” He chews his lip and looks down at his knees. “Look, I know … I know it’s not normal, the way we live. I know other people are different, live differently.” Quietly, almost so quiet that Steve doesn’t hear it, he says, “People in the outside world don’t say bad things about us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” Steve prods gently.

“Omegas,” Bucky whispers. “Boy omegas, anyway.”

Steve hates to see the self-loathing on the kid’s face, hating himself just for how nature made him. “Bucky,” he says carefully. “I want you to know that most people believe that male omegas are perfectly natural and normal. Both female and male omegas are beautiful and important.”

Bucky’s cheeks darken. He’s clearly uncomfortable talking about it. “I know. I’ve run away a couple times, spent time around … around normal people. I've watched tv shows.”

“That’s good, Honey.”

"Yeah. I —" Abruptly, Bucky’s face pales and his eyes get wide. Steve tenses. Bucky leans over and snatches the breakfast tray off the bedside table and gets it in front of his face just in time to barf all over the room service order of scrambled eggs and toast. Steve winces and gets up to help him. When it seems like he’s done retching, Steve takes care of the mess and returns with a couple of the hospital’s barf bags. “Here. Just in case.”

“Thanks. Ugh.” Bucky grimaces. “God. I feel so awful.”

“I know, Sweetheart.” Steve sits forward in his chair. “That’s because you’re sick. I need to ask you some questions to figure out what we’re gonna do to treat you and get you all better, okay?”

“... Okay.”

He tries to smile encouragingly. “Alright. I know it’s hard to talk about, but it’s important you answer honestly so I can help you, okay?” Again, Bucky nods, and Steve asks, “When did you have your first heat?”

Bucky looks mortified—beyond the usual discomfort of a teenager not wanting to talk about their body, or sex. He’s ashamed of himself, Steve realizes. But he manages to answer with a quiet, “Eleven.”

Male omegas tend to go into heat earlier than their female counterparts, their bodies needing more time in estrus to fully mature. Steve nods encouragingly, trying to show Bucky through his open expression that nothing about this should be shameful. “Okay, and how many heats would you say you’ve been able to cycle through naturally without birth control or suppressants?” Steve does some quick mental math: 7 years x 12 months … That’d be close to 84 heats, assuming he's always been regular with his —

“Oh never! Or, I mean ...” Bucky makes a face and corrects himself. “Not since the first one, anyway.” He looks miserably down at the blanket covering his legs, like he’s remembering something awful. “Just that first time,” he repeats quietly.

It’s a terrible answer, and Steve forces himself not to visibly react. He doesn’t want to scare the kid. He notes the information on the chart. “Okay. I removed your IUD last night. Do you know which arm they put your suppressant implant in?”

Bucky nods, pointing to his left bicep.

“We’re gonna take that out today. I’ll give you a local injection to numb everything. It won’t hurt.”

He nods, looking wary of the prospect. “So then I’ll … I’ll get my heats and stuff?”

Steve hums sympathetically and tries to reassure him. “It’ll be fine. You’ll feel a lot better, I promise.” Bucky doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking resigned and dejected. Steve hates it. He imagines the years the poor kid has spent hearing The Children’s vitriol, hearing despicable horror stories about pathetic, desperate, disgusting male omegas in heat, how it’s something to be avoided at all costs. Steve frowns and moves on to the unpleasant part. “So, one thing we did last night that you probably don’t remember, is we collected swabs of fluids and tissue. For evidence, in case somebody had hurt you.” He waits until he can see that Bucky gets what he’s saying. The poor boy’s eyes widen and his lips part and he gets very tense. Steve reaches out to grasp his hand, then adds, “I think somebody did hurt you, and I’d like it if you could tell me so that I can make them pay for what they did.”

Bucky shakes his head, tears breaking from the corners of his eyes. “No. No, I don't want to talk about this.”

Steve’s heart breaks, but he has to press the issue at least a little bit. “Honey, the thing is, this is important for me to know. Medically, it’s important for me to know, because you know what happens when an omega is suppressed for years and years and years, and then alpha semen gets inside their body?”

Bucky flinches hard at those words, but Steve holds fast. He gives Bucky’s hand a reassuring squeeze, leaning further forward and holding it in both of his large hands, enveloping it. “What happens,” he explains, trying to be gentle in how he says it, “is that it can trigger your body to try really, really hard to go into heat. And when your body can’t do that, that’s when you can start to get into really dangerous complications. Like having seizures and going into shock. Your organs can even start shutting down.” He instantly sees the terror in Bucky’s features and he hates it, wishes so badly that he didn’t have to be so honest with him. But federal legislation requires it. "That's why you had a seizure last night. It's why you're so sick."

Bucky’s lips are parted, not knowing what to say. “But I … I never … I didn’t know that?” He looks scared as his eyes flick around the room, always returning to Steve like a beacon. Vulnerably, he stutters, “Is ... is that happening to me? Organ failure?”

Steve knows he can’t lie to him, so he takes a deep breath and says, “I did conduct an internal exam and an ultrasound on you, when you were sedated last night.” He can see the humiliation in Bucky’s features as he realizes what this means. Steve presses on, “Many of your reproductive organs are inflamed or infected, from trying to make your body do what it’s supposed to do, but can’t.”

“Because of the suppressants,” Bucky murmurs.

“Yeah, Honey. Because of the suppressants.” Steve wishes so badly that he didn’t have to inform him, “There’s ... a chance that you could be unable to have children. In the future.”

The omega keens high in his throat, a noise that he has no control over and which Steve’s nature also has no control over how it instinctively responds to it.

One of Steve’s hands leaves Bucky and flies up to his own neck, where the expired sup patch is still adhesed to his skin. He grits his teeth, thinking that he most definitely needs a new one.

Steve is salaried higher for his usefulness as an alpha on this ward, but then again, he’s not usually dealing with eighteen year old boys who have no clue what independent sexual decision making is. “It’s okay,” he soothes him, voice swooping low and smooth. He starts up a deep, dominant rumble in his chest to help calm the boy. “We don’t know anything for sure yet, okay? You were very swollen when I looked at you. Your body needs a chance to rest and heal before we can know what we’re looking at, long term.” Steve can smell the intense distress of the omega at the possibility of no longer being fertile. Even if it’s something Bucky’s never considered before, it’s the boy’s innate nature to become defensive if such a thing is threatened.

“Is this all because of —” Bucky cuts himself off, clearly struggling. He won’t even meet Steve’s eyes as he forces himself to ask, “Is this happening because I had sex?”

Steve goes very still, his advocate training kicking into gear. “Did you have sex?” he asks gently. "Or did someone hurt you? Because it's not sex if you're not a willing participant. Then it's assault." Given what he knows about the cult Bucky’s been in, he finds it extremely unlikely that the boy would have had willing intercourse with a penetrative partner. Male omegas in that situation would be groomed to believe that that part of themselves was shameful and to be repressed at all costs.

In the bed, Bucky is looking tinier by the second, drawing into himself. He shakes his head frantically. “N-no. No. I said no.”

Steve watches him sadly. “Okay, Honey. Okay. Did somebody force themself on you?” Bucky starts to make that high keening sound again, the sound of an omega in intense distress, and Steve hurriedly adds, “You don’t have to tell me who it was. You don’t, I promise. Okay? But if somebody hurt you, you should blame them, not have to call it sex or feel bad that —”

“Mmn, mmmm mnn.” Bucky is shaking his head fast, face red and pained and looking like he wants to disappear into the cracks of the earth. “No,” he breathes, “Nno. I said no. They did it. The ... those guys. They did it.”

Steve's heart sinks all over again. More than one. He's dealt with cases of gang rape, but never with a patient so young. And never with a virgin. Fuck.

Bucky's scared eyes flick back to Steve’s face. “Oh god. Is that why I’m sick?” He cringes as if it’s the worst, most humiliating thing in the world. “Because they got their … their stuff inside me?”

Steve nods reluctantly, so sorry to have to tell him so. “It’s not your fault, Baby. It’s got nothing to do with you or how you feel about them. It’s just biology. Your body responds to it. It wouldn’t even be that strong normally, but after being suppressed for so many years, it’s almost like an allergic reaction.” Steve winces. “Your body’s overcompensating.” He can see how the poor boy’s about to burst into tears, so he gets up from the chair and sits on the side of the hospital bed, pulling Bucky’s hand and his whole lower arm against himself. His chest is emitting a low grade alpha rumble, but it’s only on the periphery of his notice. “Bucky,” he tells him tenderly, waiting until the boy looks up at him. “Hey, I’m sure there are so many things you’ve not been allowed to know about your body and how it works.” Bucky blushes hard but Steve presses on imploringly, “Most importantly that there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of with your designation. It’s normal, it’s natural, it’s beautiful, and it’s yours.”

Bucky’s eyes spill over with more tears. “I wish I didn’t grow up there,” he whispers, and then he pitches himself forward at Steve’s body, crying, hanging onto the front of him and stuffing his face in his chest, against his lab coat and scrubs. “I hate them!” he gasps, voice choked with sadness. “I h-hate them!”

It takes everything in Steve to not say 'Me too'. Instead he just rubs the omega’s back and lets him cry against his body, telling him that everything is going to be alright now, everything is okay, he’s safe.

Because if Steve knows anything, it’s that he’ll kill to keep this kid away from the people who did this to him.

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[joes-sha-la-la-la-girl]

As most of you know I have been struggling with my health recently. This is my experience of HSD. Each person with the condition is affected differently and no two people are exactly the same with it. Just as a pre-warning I will be attaching photos at the end of injuries I have had but there is no blood. They are just dislocations and subluxations I’ve had. I also talk about some of the injuries as well. I am not writing this for sympathy but more as an explanation as to why I sort of disappear every so often. 

Hypermobility Spectrum Disorders or HSD is a range of conditions that affect joint hypermobility. Often people are referred to as ‘bendy’, ‘flexible’ or ‘double jointed’. It is fairly common in children and young people but only 20% of people never lose the flexibility in their joints. More information about this condition is on The Ehlers-Danlos Society website.

This is my personal experience with the condition. Some people with HSD will experience these problems and others won’t.

When I was nine I had my first dislocation when my brother accidentally stood on my hand. I was taken to hospital by my parents and they sorted it pretty quickly with no alarms raised. However, when I was fourteen it got progressively worse. I kept having subluxations in my pinky finger on my right hand. A subluxation is an incomplete or partial dislocation of a joint. When I kept going to hospital they told me that it was a result of the injury when I was nine and they taught me how to manipulate it back into place. This happened almost everyday for two years at least.

The next year I dislocated my right thumb. Due to a medical error they missed the dislocation and the fracture on the x-ray and left it a week before noticing their mistake. I went back in to have it relocated a week after the injury. This is when I found out that I am immune to local anaesthetics so I had no pain relief when they did this. Due to a very observant doctor after my thumb dislocated inside of a plaster cast I was diagnosed with Joint Hypermobility Syndrome (the previous name for HSD). 

After this I started having more subluxations and dislocations including in my ankle, both knees, my hip, my shoulder and my first and middle finger on my right hand. 

Earlier this year I went to A&E with a swollen finger and they suspected rheumatoid arthritis. However, when I went to rheumatology I found that I was dislocating my finger in my sleep. That’s when my diagnosis name was changed to HSD. I scored a 6/9 on the Beighton Score. It is a system to measure joint flexibility. 0-3 is normal and 4-9 is when there is potentially a problem. I can hyperextend most of my joints and often I don’t notice when I am doing so.

I have now been receiving occupational therapy and I am on the waiting list for hypermobile physiotherapy. 

My main symptoms include:

Fatigue but unable to sleep

Pain and stiffness in joints

Frequent strains and sprains

Frequent dislocations and subluxations

Poor balance

Bladder and bowel problems

I also suffer from scoliosis which I have had no treatment for and cluster headaches.

HSD is incurable and the only things I can do to help is have pain relief, hot baths, hot water bottles and hand warmers and use heat rub creams. 

This condition affects my life quite severely. I haven’t got the worst symptoms someone can have but I am struggling to do daily tasks and even get out of bed some mornings. I use multiple types of joint supports as well as pen grips and back supports in my chair.

I am open to talking about this and will answer any questions about it.

[writingtips-resources]

Well- If you're writing about a character with burn scars, the details right matters alot.

Burn scars aren't just a visual trait; they come with physical, emotional, and social challenges that shape a person’s daily life.

If you want your portrayal to feel authentic, here are some things to consider.

First, burns vary in severity.

A first-degree burn, like a mild sunburn, won’t leave lasting scars.

Second-degree burns can, depending on depth and healing.

Third-degree burns, which destroy deeper layers of skin, almost always leave significant scars.

Fourth-degree burns extend to muscle and bone, often requiring surgeries like skin grafts.

If your character has major burn scars, they likely underwent medical treatments, faced mobility challenges, and had to manage long-term skin care.

Burn scars don’t just “heal and go away.” They can be tight, raised, discolored, and sometimes painful for years.

Hypertrophic scars stay within the original burn area and can feel thick and rigid.

Keloid scars go beyond the burn site and grow over time.

Contracture scars, common with deeper burns, can limit movement, especially if they form over joints.

If your character has scars on their hands, face, or neck, they might struggle with flexibility, facial expressions, or even simple tasks like gripping objects.

Healing Process

The healing process isn’t just about scars fading. Burn survivors often deal with chronic itching, sensitivity to heat and cold, and the need for moisturizers, compression garments, or silicone treatments.

Some undergo laser therapy or surgery to improve mobility or appearance, but complete "removal" is unrealistic.

Skin grafts can help, but they leave their own scars and don’t fully restore normal skin texture.

Socially, people with burn scars face reactions ranging from curiosity to outright rudeness. Strangers might stare or ask intrusive questions. Some assume scars are from accidents, self-harm, or abuse, making conversations awkward or painful. Others might offer unwanted advice—suggesting miracle creams or home remedies that don’t actually help.

If your character is self-conscious about their scars, they might cover up, avoid certain situations, or struggle with confidence. If they’re comfortable with them, they might develop a tough exterior, educate others, or challenge beauty standards.

Psychologically, burn survivors often deal with more than just physical recovery. Trauma, PTSD, body image struggles, or a changed sense of identity are common. Some people accept their scars as part of their journey, while others struggle with them for years.

Your character’s reaction depends on their, support system, and experiences.

If you want your portrayal to feel real, avoid clichés. Scars don’t have to define a character, but they do affect their life. They aren’t just a “tragic backstory” feature or something that instantly gives someone a hardened personality.

NOW, it's time to talk about sea salt water thing......

I resesrched alot but couldn't find a better answer other than this...

This is a big misconception

People say the minerals in seawater speed up recovery, smooth out scars, or even “fade” them over time.

No doubt, medical-grade saline solutions are used in hospitals for wound care but raw sea salt and ocean water aren’t the same.

The reality is "exposing burn scars to seawater can be risky".

The ocean isn’t sterile; it’s full of bacteria, pollutants, and irritants that can cause infections, especially if the skin is still healing.

Salt itself is also drying, which can make scar tissue feel tighter and more uncomfortable. Instead of soothing the skin, it often leads to irritation, redness, and even more itchiness.

A study conducted in Western Australia's Gascoyne region examined 28 patients with marine-associated wound infections. The findings revealed that 64.3% of these wounds were infected with Staphylococcus aureus, and 32.1% with Vibrio species. Notably, 39.3% of the infections were polymicrobial, involving multiple bacterial species. ( resource)

Some other myths

Some people believe scrubbing scars aggressively will “remove” them, but that just damages the skin further.

Others swear by home remedies like lemon juice, claiming it lightens scars, but all it does is cause stinging and potential burns from sun exposure.

Oils and herbal creams are often promoted as miracle cures, but most don’t penetrate deep enough to change scar tissue.

Remember that hydration and proper care can improve a scar’s appearance, no natural ingredient can erase one completely. The best approach isn’t following every home remedy suggestion—it’s understanding what actually works and what might make things worse.

So do your research too before using aby home remedy.

About me | Free resources | blog

[pucksandpower]

I think I have lordosis when I lay down on my back there is a gap between my back and the floor and I have severe lower back pain that feels like a cramp and also like a pinched nerve sometimes. I don’t know what to do about it heat does help but not for long.

I also have been broken out on a rash on my face and hair line for a few months now sometimes it’s so back on my checks that it’s hot purple my nana was like that’s common with lupus (which my mom has) but she doesn’t have the rash that I have. I was my face with Dr.natural plant based face wash while that helps with the acne I do have (hormonal kind under the chin) it doesn’t help with the rest of my face.

I also wash my pillows regularly because I thought that was the cause and it’s not. I know it’s not my laundry detergent because I don’t have a rash anywhere else.

I also have eczema which decided to randomly flare up a few months back which I think is the same time the rash showed up so maybe the two are connected.

You’ve got a lot going on and I’m really sorry you’re dealing with all of this at once!

When it comes to lower back pain and possible lordosis, a small gap between your lower back and the floor when lying down is normal for many people. But if you're experiencing severe pain, cramping, or nerve-like symptoms, it could be related to muscle imbalances, core weakness, or nerve compression.

Some things that might help:

- Core and glute strengthening (exercises like dead bugs, glute bridges, and planks can improve stability)

- Hip flexor and lower back stretches (tight hip flexors can contribute to excessive curvature)

- Physical therapy (if it’s severe, seeing a PT could help target the root cause)

Since heat helps, it may be muscular, but if you’re getting nerve-like symptoms (sharp, radiating pain, tingling, or numbness), you might want to see a doctor to rule out things like a herniated disc or nerve compression.

Now about your facial rash and a possible lupus connection, since your mom has lupus and your rash has been persistent, it’s definitely worth getting checked. The classic lupus rash is a butterfly-shaped rash across the cheeks and nose, often worsened by sun exposure. But lupus can also cause a variety of skin issues, and autoimmune conditions can be tricky. Given that your eczema also flared up around the same time, an immune-related trigger (like stress, environment, or another underlying factor) could be involved. Things to consider:

- A dermatologist or rheumatologist visit to check for lupus-related skin issues or other autoimmune conditions

- Tracking flare-ups (Do they worsen with sun? Certain foods? Stress?)

- If it’s eczema-related, a gentle moisturizer and barrier repair cream (like CeraVe or Vanicream) could help

- If it’s an inflammatory rash, a mild topical steroid or non-steroidal anti-inflammatory cream might be needed (a derm can guide you on this)

It sounds like you’ve ruled out common irritants (laundry detergent and dirty pillows) which is great. Since you mentioned hormonal acne under the chin, things that might help:

- Salicylic acid or benzoyl peroxide spot treatment for breakouts

- Spironolactone (if hormonal acne is severe) on prescription

- Gentle hydrating products to avoid over-drying your skin, which can worsen irritation

Since you’re dealing with multiple skin concerns and possible autoimmune involvement, I would really recommend seeing a doctor (a dermatologist or rheumatologist) to get a better picture of what’s going on. In the meantime, tracking your symptoms, being gentle with your skin, and avoiding harsh products should help while you figure things out.

[drharikantkumar]

Struggling with Sports Injuries or Poor Posture? Premier Physiotherapy Care Awaits, Dr. Harikant Kumar – Internationally Certified 🏋️ Sports Physiotherapist in Gurugram.

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[stormxpadme]

Whumptober 2024 No. 8 - "Leave the lights on."

06/04/2018

By the time Hank finally made it to his newest case after some once-again spectacularly useless stop in the Principal's office and unplanned interruptions the low electric hum of a treadmill motor and comparatively leisurely walking on it could be heard from the general examination hall already. So it was that kind of patient to whom Hank had hectically administered the most important ones of the necessary treatments right after their arrival ... And the next steps towards recovery had now apparently been initiated without him.

“Hello, you two.” He greeted the young man, who to his relief was finally no longer unconscious, on what was fortunately the only occupied med stretcher right now, with an implied bow because the young man made no move to take his hand, and grabbed a data pad and pen from his belt. “I'm sorry I didn’t come back earlier. One of the active warriors was scheduled for pain therapy this morning, and one of the younger students needed stitches. Brief check-up and then we'll cross off the basic data real quick so that there are no unpleasant surprises in terms of supplies and treatment in the first few days, alright? It won't take long.” Hank followed the teenager's alienated gaze to the other side of the room, where another sick bay visitor was absorbed in their running training, giving neither of them as much as a glance. He waved the young man off. “Ignore her. Monthly stress ECG. It's part of the mandatory fitness check for all team members.” He ignored the boy's snide snort at the mention of the not-so-harmless side job that some of the teachers and staff members of this mansion occasionally pursued, and opened the hastily created database entry in the Mutant High network for his current problem child with practiced clicks. “Little Pit Bull isn't even listening. Unfortunately, we had painters over in the other rooms this morning, so the air in there is hardly tolerable right now. Thanks, Andréo, I'll be fine now.” Hank got a new pair of giant gloves from the largest storage cabinet on the wall, containing the most important utensils for his daily duties, and gave a nod of appreciation to the teenager who had taken care of the new arrival, reliable as always when Hank occasionally prepared him for his dream job as a doctor during his last year of high school. But the following conversation, Hank needed to have in private, or rather, in semi-privacy. “Please leave us alone.”

“If you insist.” Visibly reluctantly, Andréo rose from the stool that had been made especially for him, a somewhat arduous movement accompanied by a flinch and the corners of his mouth pulled downwards. The heat of the beginning of some summer of the century was an additional burden for already chronically overstrained muscles. “Let them fix you real quick, alright? Can't fight the mother hens in this room anyway. The less you argue, the faster you'll be out of here.” He winked at the newcomer amicably, gallantly ignoring the boy's tight lips, and closed the door behind him.

“You know, you could have just knocked. The body scanner would probably still have let you through without an issue.” Hank tried casualty too, without much success. It wasn't often that children or teenagers came to Mutant High who were not only familiar from certain sad files already, but also from a first spectacularly failed attempt years ago to give the person in question a new start in this mansion.

In this case, the file was called Bastian Murray, and its contents had appeared at dawn at the X-Men's garden gate out of nowhere with his horse, completely exhausted. Bastian had collapsed before a group of teenagers just busy with their running lap could have reached him.

Andréo had barely been able to save the boy from a crucial fall on the asphalt with the help of a breakneck dive.

Often enough, Hank had nothing to do down here for days at a stretch, but today, the fleas had apparently scored a group discount from the school's accident insurance. One of the external first-graders had run face-first into the vaulting horse upon their landing before Hank had even had made it to Scott's office, and a twelve-year-old had accidentally cut her arm deep on the chitin skin of one of her classmates, romping around.

Hank hadn't even had a chance yet to change his red-stained lab coat. Upon taking another closer look at Bastian, immediately discovering even more damage than with a provisory scan by hand and Shi'ar tech earlier, he decided not to waste time on that now either. The boy had apparently refused to let Andréo help, and the removal of a forcibly implanted inhibitor device from between his guts earlier had obviously not had any effect yet. Restlessly rubbing one of his fangs with the tip of his tongue, Hank repeatedly held his mobile scanner over the boy's chest, relieved to see that the radiation level in his cells had at least dropped significantly. “Give it a moment. After so many months with artificial suppressants in your blood, the body needs a moment to flush out this filth. But I think your healing factor will be fully restored by tonight. Until then, I'll have to handle those scratches in the paintwork conservatively, I'm afraid.”

“No need. I'm alive. I'll wait for this crap to vanish by itself.” The boy's posture noticeably tensed when Hank leaned in; his dark eyes closed for a moment too long. He tried to hide it, but Hank immediately felt the teenager startle when he took him by the upper arm to talk some sense into him. “Cheekbone's just sprained anyway, I think.”

“No, that's a fracture, definitely,” Hank objected after cautiously tracing the deeply blue discolored spot with a fingertip. ”But fractures heal. Nothing a cooling mask won't take care of within a few days, even if your mutation powers will take some time more to recover. Anything else that hurts?”

“Nothing that can't wait.” Bastian let out a sigh of relief when Hank let go of him, instinctively pulling a light sheet over his body as if he'd noticed Hank's shocked staring from the corner of his eye. ”Just dizzy, that's why I couldn't stay on Samba's back earlier. Never happened before.”

“At least you parked more elegantly than I did when I came here,” their listener over on the treadmill suddenly piped up. ”Three and a half parking spaces and almost two torn-off side mirrors. Our vehicle freak here has been holding that against me for 20 years now.”

“I wasn't planning on staying here that long.” Bastian barely looked at the woman; it was obvious that, just like during his first extremely brief stay here a few years ago, he was trying not to get any closer to any Mutant High resident than necessary. “But right now, I need some time off, whether I like it or not. I'm afraid I threw up on your assistant's shirt earlier, Doctor McCoy. Maybe a ...”

“... concussion,” Hank added. ”Probably. For someone with a healing factor, your self-diagnosis is at least not entirely off.” He held the mobile scanning pen over Bastian's cheek again, this time without touching him, so as not to cause him any more pain. “This, in any case, isn't anything complicated indeed. I'll give you something to make you feel better in a moment. Any allergies or intolerances of yours that the inhibitor revealed?”

“Except against X-Men?” Bastian grinned wryly. “None that I know of.”

“Good.” Provoking Hank took more than tired sarcasm. Being able to slip a line into Bastian's elbow at the first attempt already was a relief after the verbal wrestling match in Scott's office. “At least as a patient, you are always welcome here. Your veins make a great example for some in this house.” The dig was not least directed at a certain third party in the room.

The woman didn't even bat a lid, hardened when it came to certain attacks after all this time as well. “If we have to postpone our vacation in the Maldives for another few more years because you guys can't handle things here alone for two weeks, I'm sure I'll earn that Snow White complexion in no time.”

“What's in that?” Continuing to ignore the banter demonstratively, Bastian narrowed his eyes at the infusion bag in Hank's hand.

“Light painkillers, dimenhydrinate to counter the reverse eating, and saline for the system. Twice a day for five days, then you'll be back on your feet even without your healing factor if necessary. I hope. As a rule, I don't make promises before the first general examination is complete.” Hank grabbed his datapad again.

“So I can stay until I can see straight again?” Bastian asked, suddenly with his heart beating so hard and fast that Hank's enhanced senses could catch the sound like drumbeats. ”Actually, I've been meaning to get off my ass and finally take care of myself alone for months, but the world's spinning around me a little too fast right now for that.”

“Take all the time you need.” Hank sat down on the edge of the boy's bed, still keeping a discreet distance, to tend to minor abrasions on his face. "In this house, we offer mutants all the help we're able to give, whether they're looking for a home or just support.”

“Well, until I find my own spot ..." Bastian murmured, still a little hesitant. His tense posture finally relaxed a little when the drugs began to take effect. “But really only until then, just so we're clear. This mansion doesn't exactly vibe with me, as you probably remember. There are a few people here whose faces I can't deal with. And I've heard that once you've become part of this whole X-Men madness, it's hard to get away again from Westchester. Brainwashing and all that.”

Hank decided to focus on data acquisition rather than commenting on this nonsense, which was not only spread by enemies of his team but also by the odd former resident. Mostly out of wounded pride, because most of the students in this house simply didn't have the necessary gifts or hadn’t been disciplined enough to make up for this physical deficit, so it had been out of the question to offer them a place on the X-Men's team with a clear conscience. As far as such rumors were concerned, it was usually better for Hank's nerves to let someone else do the talking.

“I wish that were the case,” the woman across the bed, who was now trotting at a much faster pace and with more incline, raised her voice again. ”Sure, then it would be really cramped here in the house by now, but I wouldn't have had to say goodbye to hundreds of children, crying my eyes out. You got any idea how much you have to drink to compensate for that much dehydration? And alcohol is off the list for that, sadly.”

“I wasn’t talking about the students ...” For the first time, Bastian sounded thrown off his grumpy game plan.

“Well, where do you think we get our employees, and where we do the recruitment for our special unit? Mutants don't grow on trees.” The woman threw her head back and laughed softly, not even the slightest hint of sweat glistening on her skin. It looked like in the case of this particular team member, Hank could spare himself the actual fitness check this month. “But here's an insider tip if you don't like the brand name: Form X-41 in the guest network. Our IT whiz should have programmed access for you already. The list isn't particularly long, but we've compiled all the mutant aid organizations among normal people known to us, in case someone would rather try to find work and housing this way. Unfortunately, almost all of them are minimum-wage jobs, but they're enough to afford a shared flat in some outskirts. Maybe. In form X-42, you'll find the mutant safety net; the prospects there are more lucrative. Since you like freezing your butt off, Siberia might be just right for you. Colossus and Shadowcat would be thrilled. It's been long since we last sent them any fresh meat. As a mutant, you should keep as far away from the Kremlin as possible for the sake of your freedom and health though. It's warmer in Vancouver, but Jubilee suffers from 24/7 sugar shock courtesy of her mutation. Personally, I can only stand that for a week's vacation at a time. Especially since I've never heard her husband shut up for more than five minutes either. Hammy the Squirrel in a double edition is too much for my taste."

“Look who's talking.” Of which, for Bastian's slightly dazed mind, there was indeed far too much of, though he did seem impressed that the stranger was able to cross her marathon off the list during her little lecture without getting out of breath even once.

“Comes with the job.” The woman was entirely unfazed, only her cheeks had flushed a little, which was probably also not exactly due to the physical exertion either. “Our reputation is bad enough, as you have just proven so impressively. If we send someone away alone, I rather make sure they at least don't get themselves into trouble right again on our doorstep. Things were generally more peaceful with Banshee in Central Europe than here or at Piotr and Kade's or Jubilation's. But that option sadly no longer exists as you know.” The woman's features promptly darkened with anger at an as-of-yet unexplained tragedy not even processed yet in the slightest. “Anyone thinking this school's headmaster is torture to work with as a field leader has not met Sean's daughter after he's been murdered. That whole thing went down the drain faster than we could help. Theresa is a former riding pupil of mine, by the way. That was one of those goodbyes after which our furball here threatened me with drips because I couldn't find the off switch for those damn tears for a week.”

For a moment, the well-fitting mask of hyperactivity in the shape of a lecture that was not being held in this room for the first time by this person, slipped, always interrupted at this same point by a too-fast blinking, by her voice breaking.

“So why didn't you go with her if things with your partnering teams are so much better than here?” Bastian started to sound interested against his will. And now he was so distracted at last that Hank could turn his attention to the somewhat more unpleasant examinations under the shield of the blanket, where, since Andréo had freed Bastian from his torn and bloody clothes before already, more and more bruises and untreated wounds came to light, adding to his growing aggression. Bastian accepted it reluctantly but at least without a protest that Hank cleaned the damages and covered them with sterile bandages before adding a higher dose of ibuprofen to the boy's IV. Pouting, he even parted with a tiny strand of brunette hair, with the necessary superficial skin samples for DNA acquirement, looking and turning in Hank's direction when Hank maneuvered him under the body and retina scanner, and only occasionally rolling his eyes, muttering something about “over-motivated idealists” that was easy to ignore.

The woman also did, raising her left hand to show a simple gold ring with a small diamond in it, the only piece of jewelry she was wearing even for her training. “Me, I can't get away from here that easily indeed. Long-distance relationships aren't really our thing. And Sean only accepted high-level mutants for his team back then. I never made it that far. Somehow there was never enough time to develop my powers.” This time it was his teammate who ignored an unwilling growl from Hank's direction, as she had perfected it in the course of the years. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the right setting for that kind of discussion, and Hank was simply no longer interested in that for a second time today either. “Guess that's just how it is when you don’t mutate before turning twenty.”

“Twenty …?” Bastian no longer even seemed to notice how far he had turned to his conversation partner, that he barely looked up when another band-aid covered a particularly badly infected wound. When the woman confronted him with a gap in his education – which was an actually surprising one, given Bastian's experiences in another mutant refuges –, he even blushed a little.

“Late mutant. It's rare.” The woman briefly wiped her face with a towel, not so much to cool down, as Hank knew, but rather to hide a bitter expression on her full lips. ”Unfortunately. Otherwise, I might not have been terrorized by Magneto nonstop during my first year here. Without the X-Men, I would be spending my life in a constant coma in the Brotherhood's basement, connected to catheters, IVs, and probes, while they use my blood to forcibly mutate the entire world population against their will. That does leave a certain sense of obligation, sure. And you need it when you have to let go of almost everyone in your life whom you teach to protect themselves from such crap.”

Bastian was visibly at a loss for words. “Frankly, I would have expected better marketing from you guys.”

“Do I look like someone trying to sell people glorified heroic tales?” Hank's teammate pointed down at her small, well-trained body in simple, short leggings and a spaghetti strap top, revealing very old but still clearly visible scars. “For that, you'd have to make a trip to Frost Ltd. A membership there comes with a whole lot of mental manipulation thrown in for free though. I try to avoid sending people there. Not worth half a star on Yelp. Hank, this thing needs more juice.” Impatiently, the woman tapped the controls of the treadmill, but couldn't get it to pick up speed or incline any further. “Do you at least finally have some weights in here?”

“Out of the question. You're welcome to set up a gym in your office.”

“When was the last time you saw me there?”

“Your problem, not mine.” Hank pointed a warning claw at the treadmill. ”You dopamine junkies will not start stealing my patients right from under my nose to train them before I've even finished patching them up.”

“Nobody needs to patch me up, and I don't need no training either.” Bastian had apparently remembered his endeavor to be as unbearable as possible in order to be left alone and reluctantly pulled his left leg away before Hank had decided whether he actually needed a needle and thread for this particularly disgusting cut on the inside, which he very much doubted came from a razor, or whether Shi'ar glue would do the trick.

“Debatable. Both,” Hank replied ironically, but held up a butterfly as a compromise until Bastian reluctantly turned his leg outwards again so that Hank could reach the highly sensitive spot. ”So whose wrong side did you get on, anyway? Mutant haters? Inhibitors, you don't get at the mall. It wasn't these people from that lab back then who got their hands on you again, was it?”

“Not half as dramatic as that, don't worry. Just my ex. Ex-Marine. He's probably still had that damn thing from back then. Jealous type, that one. With the damper, he tried to make sure I would never leave again after I'd moved in with him.” Bastian lowered his eyes again remarkably quickly for his previous unruliness. “Today, he got into trouble with the cops. I don’t care for that shit. He didn't like that I finally wanted to get the hell out of there. But I made it out of the house when he left to go drink with his buddies. Suddenly, it all happened so fast … That's why I'm really glad you have a free spot here. I'm sorry if it doesn’t sound like it.”

“After what has happened in Alaska, your mistrust is understandable, don't worry.” Hank reached for another bandaid for the tear at the corner of Basti's mouth, which had burst open again during the boy's first few longer sentences in a row. That tantrum of said partner couldn't have been that harmless. Not for the first time that day, Hank thanked fate that the regular supply of Shi'ar technology to this house hadn't stopped when the former head of the school had decided to move in with the leader of that alien species almost two decades ago. This multipurpose salve, the recipe for which Hank had brought back from his only trip into space back then, would take care of all wounds within a few hours without leaving any scars. “We'll talk about this later. Right now, I'm just glad you found your way here after all this time. Do you want to report your ex-boyfriend? It's what he deserves.”

“He wasn't my boyfriend. I slept with him because I had nowhere else to go. With him and whoever else he brought home when he needed buck to pay his gambling debts,” Bastian replied flatly. ”The answer is no. Bastard's in enough trouble for pimping other people out without me having to deal with the police. I've had a few not-so-nice run-ins with the vice squad in the past. If I reported anyone, they'd die laughing.” A grin, far too bitter for a boy his age, curled on his pale lips, which only had the lump in Hank's throat grow thicker. “Look, I'm trying hard to ignore all these rumors right now that there's only naive snobs living here, but not all of us end up in a golden cage when we fall on our faces because of our genes. If you've never had to survive alone out there, if you're trained to become a fighting machine between swanky statues and in high-tech classrooms, you probably can't understand why people rather sort out some shit themselves.” Goddamn ... So this teenager had had an even harder time than the X-Men had known so far – unfortunately not an isolated case among mutant children. Bastian feeling like rebelling against everyone and everything for the moment was understandable – and ironic enough considering another of his former professions and the stage name that had gone with it back then. And right now, said hostility was clearly aimed toward the fitness corner again, where the fast hammering of strong runner legs had now stopped, probably causing Bastian to fear that he would soon be pushed from two sides at close range.

But Hank's teammate rather preferred stretching exercises after the endurance effort. With one leg held high above her head, supported by a wall, she slowly pulled herself towards the dark blue metal paneling inch by inch, in a perfect split, and then braced herself there with crossed arms, as if she were lounging on a sofa. “Oh, you know, Doctor McCoy and I are just trying to hide our disappointment right now.” Although Hanks' enhanced senses didn't miss the woman's body's radiating a hint of shock at certain revelations too, she managed to maintain her aura of composure. Only that she remained in said exercise a little longer than necessary, trying to numb the dark feelings in her own soul Bastian's story had caused with painful physical efforts, betrayed the truth. “Loser perverts abusing people who are not even legal in all states yet? Those, we're actually happy to help get a grip on their oh-so uncontrollable urges if their victims don't want to go to court. The support group for trauma caused by illegal mutant prostitution meets on Tuesdays at four, by the way. Right now, we got seven active members. They tend to get candid when it comes to experiences with customers, just as a warning. But you don't have to say anything if you don't want to."

“I'm not interested in listening to anything either,” Bastian replied, a lot less brusque than he'd surely meant to thanks to his growing surprise. "I'm not ...”

“Not traumatized?" The woman only threw him an inquiring glance before she changed sides, trying to achieve vertical records with a marginally weaker leg as well. “In that case, I can recommend a former prostitute working for us. It's been two decades, but he was pretty good at it back then. Got paid nicely in both money and information. Trading red light stories sometimes helps when your thoughts start going in the wrong direction, he says. If you want to stay in business, we'll have to think of a solution for your living space. As I said, this topic has no place in the lives of minors. But I can get you in touch with an active mutant colleague of yours. You'll just have to go there alone. We're not exactly besties. And if you please, if you go back on the streets, stay away from the sewers. It's hard enough to keep the Morlocks from selling their bodies to get by, and almost none of them are even 18 yet. Contrary to what you've been told about us, we're really into consent here.”

“But I'm not a ... I didn't want to ... I don't plan to ...” It had taken a little longer than usual, but now Bastian had been torn from the arrogance of his self-pity at last.

The woman seemed to feel a little sorry for him and came to stand straight again, wiping her face once more and throwing her towel in the vague direction of the laundry hatch. “As I said: No matter what your decision in that regard is, it's entirely up to you. The most important function of this mansion is to provide help, no matter in which way.”

Almost seeking help in the face of such rhetorical superiority, Bastian turned back to Hank. “Who is this, Doctor McCoy? What's going on here?”

Hank pulled Katja close for a brief hug and a loving pat on the back of the head for her somewhat too enthusiastic efforts, pulling up a chair up to the bed in a well-practiced, elegant movement with a foot claw. “As the teenagers here would say, you've been visited by the Mutant High's in-house predator department. She's our Kitten.“ He nodded briefly at his workmate.

“But he's the one with the claws,” Katja added just as briefly, but with an unmistakable smirk.

“Seriously? That's your pitch?” Bastian was at least able to grin weakly again, even though he was visibly irritated at being dragged into a first therapy session without asking. ”With that Boomer humor, you guys must be married.”

“My husband would object to that, too.” Katja crossed her legs on the stool in a small balancing act, as always driven by far too much restlessness to sit still for even five minutes.

“Who would be …?”

A mischievous chuckle, which even after almost two decades had lost none of the infatuation from the early days. “Principal Summers?” Bastian gasping now at last, eyes wide open, that was a much-needed and relieving change after the stressful topics that had just been discussed. ”Welcome to Mutant High.”

“So this is how you truly catch new students in your web.” That did no longer sound half as aggressive. The information that had been literally dropped in passing had noticeably left an impression. The most important thing Katja had learned in her psychology studies at the time was how to relax the mind of a patient before filling it with any well-intentioned advice.

“No, this is how we say hello.” Katja held out her hand to the young man so shy could finally introduce herself by name. Bastian was still shell-shocked enough to take it immediately. “You and I didn't meet back then when the others got you out of that laboratory because I was in Germany with my daughter and her best friend at the time. My husband, you've already met but he doesn't like this job interview flair in his office that Professor Xavier used to prefer either. And I only have mine so that my files don't pile up to the ceiling in our bedroom.”

“So you don't teach?” Bastian sounded almost a little … disappointed. Yes, someone had definitely just left a good first impression.

“Riding and gymnastics only, and only when our actual teachers are absent, but the counseling center rarely leaves me time for that. If there's one thing the mutant world always needs, it's people with a sympathetic ear, broad shoulders to lean on, and an incurable helper syndrome.” Sometimes Hank wondered if Katja, in all that deeply rooted self-deprecation, even noticed the way people like this so distraught young man looked at her after spending less than thirty minutes in the same room with her, comforted in their pain by something you couldn't learn from a textbook. Something that twenty years ago, had already not least made Charles and Ororo involve a complete stranger in their childcare in this house. But to have a positive influence on her in this regard, that was Scott's job, and as long as whatever Katja was doing helped, Hank would be damned if he tried to slow her down.

“Right now, what I need is a good night's sleep. But I'll probably come back to that. That's already cleared my synapses once in a while back when I was with Jericho. And you don't give people a chance to get used to the idea of such counseling first anyway,” Bastian said after a few seconds of silence. It didn't have nearly as much bite as earlier.

“You develop some tricks over time,“ Katja shrugged, not at all guiltily.

“So you guys do this often, huh?” Bastian raised an eyebrow pointedly in Hank's direction.

“Usually, we give people 24 hours to settle in, but Cat really wanted an autograph from your second mutant personality.”

“Fuck you, McCoy,” Katja replied just as charmingly, which promptly caused Bastian to gasp again.

Well, if adapting to the slang of the street of your conversation partner helped to prevent them from jumping off the medical stretcher out of shyness ... “No thanks. Especially not as long as you're obviously spending way too much time with Logan.”

Too late, it occurred to Hank that this wasn't exactly the most empathetic topic of the day, and Bastian's expression promptly darkened again.

“This guy really still hangs around here?”

“The man lives here,” Hank reminded the boy with a sigh. “So maybe it's rather Siberia for you after all, if you can't handle that. But the mansion is actually big enough to avoid each other.”

“Do I at least get time to decide that, or will you guys rush me through that, too?” Bastian still sounded a little annoyed about being deceived, but anything else would have been surprising from a nineteen-year-old with a definitely very healthy ego.

“Everyone does. I personally make sure of that. Because I didn't have a chance to think things over when I was in your situation.” Katja's fingertips unconsciously grazed one of the few scars on her side not left by that psycho Anderson back then, but in fact by Hank himself with one of his medical scalpels. ”I arrived at this house a week before Liberty Island.”

Bastian whistled through his teeth, strong and melodic enough to remind Hank once again that there had been a time when this young guy had had something completely different planned for his life but selling himself to the next best bastard for a living. “Hell of an introduction.”

“And for me, triggered by my ex-boyfriend, too, yes,” Katja replied with a wry grin. “Other than your guy though, he didn't do anything to deserve me frying him with lightning. You sure you don't want to tell me where your ex lives? And do think about that report, okay? Even if it's just so the guy doesn't move on to the next victim. Our social and political position is nowhere near as bad as it was twenty years ago. There are way too many of us now. Since people in Washington started making sure themselves that the right people sit in the mutant department, we can usually defend ourselves successfully when we are discriminated. Let's be grateful for that and work to make things even better instead of constantly complaining about grievances. This house stands for that too.”

“I'll think about it.” It was clear that despite all the feigned toughness, Bastian didn't like the idea of having to see this guy again, even if it was in a courtroom. “Maybe I'll stop by the asshole myself when I'm fit again and can morph. I'm usually not that easily pushed around. I wasn't paying attention for a moment when I arrived there, and then it was already too late to react because of the damn damper. Fortunately, Samba got between us today, otherwise, things would have been even worse.”

“How long have you been with this man?“ Hank asked thoughtfully.

“Half a year.” Bastian suppressed a yawn. Thanks to the drugs, his tiredness was finally making itself felt. After the first necessary emotional support, the boy now needed rest above all. “Well, ever since New York II is no more. He owns a ranch on the outskirts of New York, and I was able to leave Samba there. That's mostly why I stayed. She has been my everything since Jericho gave her to me in Alaska. I secretly put aside quite a bit of money. I'd planned to leave soon anyway.”

“Did you go to school?” Hank tried in vain to put as much calmness into his voice as Katja. Even though this wasn't the first time he had had to deal with something like this, of course ... You just never got used to it.

Bastian had to physically recover first, lose his suspicion of everything and everyone. Before that, it didn't make any sense to try and process this terrible past, which he was now talking about with such masterful distance again.

“No, don't need that. I'm good enough to work as a riding instructor and trainer. Jumping, dressage, cross-country ... I'll even do the jockeying for you if you need it.”

“Careful what you wish for, or we'll come back to that sooner than you'd like,” Katja remarked, immediately with a much more honest sparkling in her eyes at the mention of one of her favorite topics. “Our breeding stable, Pride Of X, is always looking for good athletes, and, as I said, we can always use riding instructors here. These are the best conditions for you to build a future in this house. That way, you can continue to earn your own money, if that's what matters to you. I know that made me feel a lot better back then. But for the papers, you should still graduate. You can do that even if you prefer to move into your own apartment. We've been accepting external students for a few years now. I'm sure there can't be missing a lot, is it?”

“A year and a few months. I used to be a singer as you know by now from what Jericho told you. I lost time because of my tours and all the promotion,” Bastian explained, slightly embarrassed. ”Whatever. Better than the street.”

“I'll say.” The treatment of the wounds was finally completed, and Hank hadn't found any other serious injuries. So he could withdraw with a clear conscience. ”What do you say, Bastian, try to get some sleep? I'll keep the Pit Bull away from you for the next few hours, I promise.”

“Oh, that's okay.” Bastian snorted at Katja. ”You won't fool me that easily anymore. After all, I do know all your files from the New York II database, just not all the faces yet. Otherwise, you'd have been busted immediately. We'll get even as soon as I can morph again. And just for the record: Then I'm 'Shade' for you guys, please. With the code name quirk, I guess I fit in quite well here, don't I?“

“One of the more charming quirks of this school.” Hank quickly became serious again, though.

Said code name had reminded him of what he knew about Bastian's powers in this other body. It was probably more thanks to Bastian's stay in the once-protected seclusion of New York II than to luck that the boy had ended up here, and not with another mutant organization that would have welcomed him with open arms as a potentially very powerful fighter.

“By the way, I'm happy you didn't decide to join the Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood?” Bastian frowned thoughtfully, without pain, it seemed, which probably meant that this conversation would be over in five minutes either way. ”Jericho didn't have a lot of love for them, but I've read up about them in online media a few times. They don't sound particularly dangerous.”

“Believe me: Jericho usually knew what he was talking about.” The mention of this particular mutant left a deep sense of depression not only on Bastian's face; Hank was not surprised to see Katja playing with her wedding ring absentmindedly from the corner of his eyes. “The Brotherhood is changing its face faster than its leader can thanks to her mutation. They used to be one of the most feared mutant terrorist groups on the planet, but under Magneto's leadership, they fortunately never succeeded with their deadly plans. After the Great Inferno, they were considered all but defeated. After Magneto's death, they suddenly resurfaced, pretending to look for non-violent solutions.” Hank snorted disparagingly, the memory of that tearful live appearance at the Congress still very much present in his mind years later. The X-Men had hardly been able to believe their eyes ... and even less what had happened at the end of that public conference. “Their leaders were then immunized by the President. Ever since then, they have been involved in politics, supposedly working for a tolerant coexistence between humans and mutants, but they keep on riling people up with unrealistic demands. They claim to not want to harm anyone, but they are hiding in an unknown place and training every mutant they can find for war.”

“Pretty creepy.” Bastian wrinkled his nose. “Don't worry, doc. I've never cared a lot for people trying to pull me into anything. I prefer the stables over the battlefield. Unless someone's pissing me off,” he added harshly, but not elaborating any further. It was no secret that Jericho, too, had trained his charges extensively in fighting and defense techniques, regardless of their age. At the next restless wandering of his gaze across the room, Bastian's eyebrow suddenly went up when he noticed a holo-image on the partition wall to the laboratory that showed two repeated seconds of a red-haired young woman in black leather clothing. “Image or video?” He sat up a little to be able to see better. Now he was really curious, and Hank couldn't blame him. There were few mutants who didn't know this face.

It wasn't something the X-Men discussed with every new arrival, and this image was actually sacred, but Katja and Hank both sensed that Bastian was beginning to trust them, and that had seemed completely utopian at the beginning of this conversation. It wasn’t just that the boy deserved to finally find a permanent home ... There was always the worry about any reasonably talented mutant about where he or she would turn to if they didn't feel comfortable here. The X-Men had to be happy about anyone who didn't go to Watergate.

So, at Hank's reluctant nod, Katja took the square data carrier from the wall, touching it only by the frame, and held it out to Bastian. “Just press here.”

“Thank you.” Very carefully, with just a fingertip, Bastian touched the button that deactivated the holo-video mode. The curious glistening in his eyes turned into an excited sparkle when his suspicion was confirmed as to who was on this recording.

'Scott, can you stop filming for a second?' The woman in the video projected into the air turned to the camera with an exaggeratedly annoyed expression, but she couldn't quite hide the proud smile on her lips as she strode through the very room that Hank, Katja, and Bastian were in.

'Out of the question. This is your first job as a doctor after a mission. That needs to go down in the archives.' The picture blurred a little when the cameraman laughed softly.

'If you guys are always going to be this clumsy in the field, I can soon never leave this place again,' the doctor grumbled. 'At least sit down. Your knee has taken quite a hit. You stay, Ororo! Don't even think about trying to get out of this.'

A third, also very young voice joined, from a person who couldn't be seen, but the mere mention of that name made Bastian inevitably tighten his lips again. 'Tone it down, doctor. I just ...'

'You almost got shot and fell off a balcony, so sit down and shut up!' The doctor put her hands on her waist and turned to the camera again. 'Scott, if you don't put that stupid thing away, I'll hide the Vicodin from you in the next few days.'

'Sadist.' Again that amused laugh ... Then the colors over the image blurred as the flap over the projection lens closed.

“Is that Phoenix?” Bastian asked quietly, an obligatory question.

Hank felt his expression harden involuntarily, and this time he couldn't do anything about it. It still hurt, after all this time. Especially because there would probably never be anyone who could see Jean the way she was in this film. No one except the people in this house, for whom she had died three times. “For the world out there. Not for us. Her name was Jean Grey, and she used to treat some mutants right here in these rooms.” He reactivated the photo setting before hanging the frame back in its place, after a brief squeeze of Katja's now also very low-hanging shoulder. “I like having her around. The picture makes me feel like she's still here somehow, watching over me.”

“And then people say I'm a freak.”

“Excuse me?” It was Hank's turn to raise an eyebrow disapprovingly. Sometimes he wished he could just have turned off certain enhanced senses.

“Nothing. I mean: Thank you for letting me watch this before you guys tuck me in.” Bastian tried to sit up again a little. It was clear, the idea of sleeping in the middle of the day didn’t appeal to him, despite his exhaustion. But the headache, which continued to plague him despite the anesthetic, made him groan softly and sink back.

“Don't.” Hank fleetingly put his paw on his arm again. "You need to rest. If there's too much on your mind right now, do you want a sleeping pill? In a few hours, everything will look different.”

“That sounds like a really good idea," Bastian agreed. “Uh ... Mrs. Summers?”

While Hank was already busy with the infusion again, Katja had silently made her way to the door. Her job here was finished for the moment, and this very vivid memory of someone she was still missing terribly had visibly affected her. Nevertheless, she managed to put on another friendly expression in Bastian's direction. “I'll see you later. And ‘Cat’ is just fine. Like I said, I rarely teach here. Hey, Hank ...” The smile turned into a familiar harsh line of depression and unease around Katja's mouth, as something seemed to come to her mind regarding Bastian's story, which she could understand all too well, given her own lousy experiences with certain psychopaths in this world, no matter hard she stubbornly she refused confiding about that in anyone but her husband. “Leave the lights on when you go, okay?”

With a surprised frown, Bastian seemed to notice from Katja's clenched shoulders and her fleeing gaze that he could not have wished for a better advisor at his side in this new home, and he gave the woman a grateful nod, visibly dazed after Hank had reduced the intensity of the neon lights on the ceiling by a few levels, but not completely. “Thank you, Cat.”

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