#pain treatment with heat therapy

[thirstghosting]

im also interested to know how much it cost you so leave that in the tags, if you feel comfortable with it.

[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 👍

[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

meant to write something cute but knowing them it turned into something filthy (who's surprised) hope you enjoy xx

part 2 & part 4 part 5

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

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

Even after he’s washed the sweat and the dirt off and changed into a clean pair of clothes, his shoulders are 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. It makes her furrow her brows, asking what’s wrong with worry painting over her features.  

“Nothing, just a bit tense,” he dismisses her, rolling his shoulders back, trying to alleviate the soreness that’s tormenting him; disturbing him from the movie they’re trying to watch as they wait for the casserole he’s made to bake in the oven. 

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

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it, Sweetheart,” he murmurs, turning his attention back to the television.  

“No, but Rafe you’re hurting…I wanna help,” there’s a slight pout forming on her mouth as she takes the remote, pausing the film.  

He turns the sapphires of his eyes to face her. The look she’s giving him tugs 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 as she scoots closer, raising on 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. 

“No, I just 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.  

She then settles her hands on his wide shoulder blades that lie underneath the white fabric of his t shirt, digging into his skin; feeling the sturdy muscle under her fingertips.  

“You want me to take my 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 up as he plucks at the collar of his shirt, exposing solid back muscles and soft skin to stare back at her.  

She blinks.  

Hesitantly, she rests her hands on top of his shoulders once again and begins kneading her fingers into his brawny structure.  

A heartfelt groan rumbles from his chest, making her swallow at the lewd sound as she continues to press into the parts that feel the most strained.  

“Just 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 beginning 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 low-pitched noise from the back of his throat, sounding 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 out, 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 there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now. He feels so relaxed he could almost fall asleep. 

She continues digging her thumbs into his achy flesh for some time until her fingers begin to feel so sore, she thinks they’ll fall off if she doesn’t stop.  

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

“It’s all good, feels so much better now. Thanks, Sweetheart,” he says 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 is peering down at her with a certain tenderness that makes her feel all fuzzy and tingly inside.  

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

“I’m serious, you just spent almost an hour turning my muscles into jelly. Let me thank you properly,” he murmurs.  

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

“What I’m saying is, haven’t been able to stop thinking about you grinding yourself on top of me, you know?” He says as he lifts his left arm in order to tuck a loose strand of her behind her ear; fingers lingering on her jawline. 

She freezes, not sure how to respond as his thumb strokes along her cheekbone and he tips her face up with an index finger tucked under her chin.  

“Was so caught up in it all, 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, barely managing to shove the words out from the gaps of her teeth.  

“Unless, you have somewhere else to be?” The edges of his mouth tilt and when she shakes her head, he leans closer, pressing his lips on hers in a tender kiss.  

However, when a faint noise of surprise escapes her, he deepens it; warm tongue prodding at the seam of her mouth, coaxing her to open.  

When she eventually does, he slips his tongue in, 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 she holds his face in her palms. He paws at her waist, bringing her closer and lifting her to sit on his lap with a steady grip on her hips.  

She’s straddling his thighs as his hands travel down to squeeze at the flesh of her ass, forcing her to let out fragile whimpers into his mouth as he continues to swallow her up.  

“There we go, Sweetheart. That’s a lot better, yeah?” He murmurs between soft pecks and sloppy kisses.  

Their spit-slick lips lock together again and again; her thighs becoming sticky and mind wandering in a 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 makes her whine and then he’s pushing her against his hardening cock firmer, pillowy lips smearing on hers all wet and messy; turning her into a moaning jumble, trying her best to keep up with his hungry mouth.  

All of a sudden, completely out of the blue, the timer of the oven begins ringing. It makes her jump in surprise; nearly falling off his lap, if not for his beefy arms holding her upright, not missing a beat.  

He lets out an airy chuckle against her swollen lips and presses a few sweetened pecks on them, reluctantly pulling away. His heavy panting fills her ears for a few seconds as she tries to even out her own rickety respiration.  

Then he’s gently setting her on top of the couch cushions and standing up on his feet; a disconcerted pout following his movements.  

“Shit, better go check on the food so it doesn’t burn, yeah?” He’s sporting a lazy, taunting smile as he offers his right palm to her; lifting her up on unsteady legs that try their best to follow him like a needy kitten 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

[somecunttookmyurl]

Hey, you recently mentioned somewhere about how growing pains aren't really a thing the way we think of them in the tags about a post about taking kids' pain seriously. And i've been sitting on that ever since, as someone who had severe 'growing pains' growing up that'd take me out for days but was told to stick it out. Thing is, they never went away and despite hitting 30 soon I regularly google something like 'growing pain in 20s' with some regularity.

I've finally bit the bullet, done the doctor marathon, ended up at a rheumathologist and was like 'idk i've had pain my entire life i was told it was normal'. (Didn't go over well, but how could it have.) Despite him then noting hypermobility he's adamant hsd or heds aren't worth looking into. And now i'm sat here like. Well, was it ever growing pains?

Could you talk more about what you meant with the growing pains? My mind is not letting it go

'growing pains' is something doctors say to dismiss pain in teens and children a lot.

the fact is, yes, some children get pains that are temporary and ultimately harmless and not at all related to growing in fact we don't know why it happens

the other fact is it tends to be limited to the ages of approximately 3 to 11, yet doctors use it to dismiss pain in teenagers - who still do a lot of growing often very quickly (especially boys).

it affects mostly if not exclusively the legs (notably calves and shins) and worsens following physical activity. yet doctors will often use it to handwave away any and all musculoskeletal pain

so yes there is a type of pain children (but not really teens) can experience in their lower legs. but not a) the rest of the body b) long-lasting c) bad all the time and d) it has nothing to do with actually growing

and frankly given we "don't know" why it happens at all i'd bet decent money there actually is a cause for whatever pain happened even if it was temporary. like doing the three-legged race wrong.

edit: sorry skipped over the hypermobile part. for some people (i hate them personally) hypermobility is not painful. for most people it IS. this is for the simple fact that your ligaments and tendons (connective tissue) are too stretchy so they aren't holding your joints in place as well as they should. so you know what has to pick up your slack? your larger muscles. you know what is built for movement and not 24-7 activation to keep you assembled? your muscles. they're doing something they're not supposed to have to do, and they're doing it all the time and they are fucking tired. unfortunately (i have hypermobile EDS and didnt get diagnosed until i was 28) there is no "cure" for this. the only treatments are stabilisation - physical therapy to try and build up the smaller stabilising muscles and support garments or things like k-tape to take the load off the bigger muscles by providing external support. also massage and heat to relieve the tension and tiredness.

[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!

[eclipsewilliam]

Endometriosis is a chronic condition where tissue similar to the lining of the uterus grows outside of it, causing symptoms like pelvic pain, heavy menstrual bleeding, pain during sex, and infertility. Treatment for endometriosis depends on the severity of the symptoms, your overall health, and whether you want to have children in the future. Here are the main approaches that can help manage endometriosis:

1. Pain Management

• NSAIDs (Non-Steroidal Anti-Inflammatory Drugs): Over-the-counter pain relievers like ibuprofen or naproxen can help reduce pain and inflammation associated with endometriosis.

• Prescription Pain Medications: For more severe pain, doctors might prescribe stronger painkillers or opioids for short-term use.

• Heat Therapy: Applying a heating pad or warm compress to the abdomen can help relieve pain and muscle spasms.

• TENS Therapy: A transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation (TENS) unit, which delivers electrical impulses to the skin, can sometimes help with pain relief.

2. Hormonal Treatments

Hormonal therapies are often used to reduce or eliminate menstruation, as periods can worsen endometriosis symptoms.

• Birth Control Pills: Combined oral contraceptives (the pill) can help regulate periods and reduce pain by suppressing ovulation.

• Progestin-only Treatments: Progestin injections, implants, or intrauterine devices (IUDs) can help control the growth of endometrial tissue.

• GnRH Agonists: These drugs, such as Lupron or Zoladex, work by shutting down ovarian hormone production and inducing a temporary menopausal state, which can help shrink endometrial tissue and reduce pain. However, they often have significant side effects, including hot flashes and bone thinning.

• Danazol: This synthetic male hormone can reduce estrogen levels and shrink endometrial tissue, but it has side effects like acne and weight gain.

• Aromatase Inhibitors: These medications decrease estrogen production and can be used in combination with other treatments.

3. Surgical Treatment

Surgery can be considered for women with severe symptoms or if other treatments haven’t worked.

• Laparoscopy: This minimally invasive procedure allows the surgeon to remove or destroy endometrial tissue. It’s commonly used to treat endometriosis when other treatments aren’t effective.

• Hysterectomy: In cases where endometriosis is severe and other treatments have not worked, a hysterectomy (removal of the uterus) may be considered, sometimes with removal of ovaries. However, this is typically only recommended for women who no longer wish to have children.

• Excision or Ablation: Surgeons may remove endometriotic lesions or use laser or heat to destroy the tissue.

4. Lifestyle and Complementary Therapies

• Diet: Some studies suggest that a diet rich in anti-inflammatory foods (such as omega-3 fatty acids from fish or flaxseeds, and antioxidants from fruits and vegetables) may help alleviate some symptoms. Reducing intake of red meat, trans fats, and processed foods may also be beneficial.

• Exercise: Regular physical activity can improve overall well-being, reduce inflammation, and potentially help manage pain.

• Acupuncture: Some women report pain relief and improved symptoms with acupuncture, although more research is needed to fully support its effectiveness.

• Stress Reduction: Practices like yoga, mindfulness, or meditation can help manage stress and may contribute to pain relief.

• Supplements: Some people find that omega-3 fatty acids, vitamin D, curcumin (from turmeric), and magnesium help reduce pain and inflammation, though it’s important to talk to a healthcare provider before starting any supplements.

5. Fertility Treatments

If endometriosis is affecting fertility, treatments such as in vitro fertilization (IVF) may be recommended. Fertility-preserving options like egg freezing may also be considered for women who want to preserve their fertility before pursuing aggressive treatments.

6. Alternative Therapies

• Herbal Remedies: Some women explore herbal treatments like chamomile, ginger, or vitex (chaste tree), which are believed to help with menstrual regulation and pain. However, their efficacy is not well-established, and some herbs can interact with other medications.

• CBD Oil: Some women report relief from pain with CBD oil, though more research is needed.

7. Support and Counseling

• Support Groups: Connecting with others who have endometriosis can provide emotional support and practical advice on managing symptoms.

• Counseling or Therapy: Chronic pain conditions like endometriosis can lead to mental health struggles, such as anxiety or depression. Therapy or counseling can help you cope with the emotional impact of the condition.

Managing Endometriosis in Daily Life

• Track Your Symptoms: Keeping a symptom diary can help you and your doctor understand your condition better and tailor treatments accordingly.

• Work-Life Balance: It can be challenging to manage work, school, or social activities when you’re in pain. Finding accommodations at work or school and giving yourself permission to rest is essential for managing the condition.

• Educate Yourself: Knowledge is empowering. Understanding your condition and the available treatment options can help you make informed decisions about your health.

Consultation with a Healthcare Provider

Since endometriosis varies widely in its severity and impact on different individuals, it’s important to work closely with a healthcare provider to find the most appropriate treatment for your specific case. In some instances, a specialist in gynecology or reproductive health may be necessary for optimal care.

[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!

[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

[thus-spoke-lo]

Pain Management // Trafalgar Law x afab!reader // NSFW/18+

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Series Masterlist // AO3 Link // Playlist

Chapter 3: Observation

Chapter Summary: You've been busying yourself aboard the Polar Tang, distracting yourself from conflicted thoughts about your "treatment" session and avoiding Law whenever possible. It's hard to escape the good doctor, however, when he makes a late night visit to your quarters to help you with your assigned "therapy."

Chapter CW: afab!reader, no pronouns used; gendered pet names [ex. "good girl"]; extremely dubious consent; emotional and sexual coercion/manipulation; praise kink; slight voice kink; abuse of authority [doctor/patient]; masturbation [reader]; guided masturbation; orgasm control/orgasm denial; begging

WC: 3.1k

It had been three days since you’d been thoroughly ruined on Law’s exam table, three days since you laid open and exposed for him to manipulate and manhandle, three whole unbearable days that you hadn’t stopped thinking about the way his fingers felt, the heat of his breath on your bare leg, the honeyed words of praise that settled in your psyche.

It had been three days that you had been avoiding Law as much as you possibly could, which turned out to be no simple task in a metal vessel that felt more and more like a shoebox every day, as you drifted through the ocean with no plans to head topside to a port anytime soon. The Polar Tang was a beautiful and frightening beast, and you were grateful that there was so much for you to learn—despite the close quarters, you were able to keep your interactions with your captain—your doctor—relatively infrequent, limited to occasional uneasy glances in the mess hall and keeping your eyes fixed on the floor while he gave orders to whomever happened to be standing next to you.

It had been three days that you had managed to escape his looming figure, and you tucked yourself into bed to read, keeping your fingers crossed you could make it to four. As your fingers slid across the page and read aloud to yourself in a sleepy mumble, an urgent and sudden knock at your door vibrated through your quarters. The hefty piece of metal starting to creak open before you’d even opened your mouth to ask who it was. You sat up in your bed, pulling your knees towards your chest when you realized it was Law filling up the open space in the doorframe.

“Just wanted to check in with my patient.” He closed the door shut behind him and leaned against it, not troubling himself with waiting to be invited in. “It seems like you’ve been avoiding me.”

You set the book on your nightstand slowly, as if avoiding any sudden movements would keep you from becoming prey. “Not on purpose. I’ve just been working a lot.”

The lie rang hollow even to you, and the way Law cocked his head and blinked at you told you he didn’t believe a damned word.

“That’s good you’re keeping busy,” he smiled, voice tinged with condescension. “I just wanted to make sure you’ve been following the instructions I gave you.”

You sat up straighter, pulled the blankets a little tighter over you. “What do you mean?”

He took a few steps further into your space. “Well, I gave you very specific instructions when you left. Have you been administering your treatments?”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, the machinations in your brain stalling for a moment. “Are you–are you asking me if I’ve been masturbating?”

“If you want to put it that way, sure.”

“I… I can’t say that I have,” you stumbled. Despite your best intentions, despite the rich sound of Law’s voice reverberating through your bones, you found it all but impossible to even attempt to pleasure yourself. You told yourself over and over again that it was the painful humiliation of losing yourself in front of your captain under the cold fluorescent lights that kept you from wanting to so much as place a hand on your body the wrong way. It was only in brief moments of honesty and clarity that you even began to let yourself acknowledge that it was also because you worried it simply couldn’t feel as good as it did with his fingers crooked inside of you.

“Tch,” he scoffed. “I gave you very clear directions.”

Your chest tightened, as if you were wearing a shirt three sizes too small and it was shrinking ever smaller with each breath. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll make sure I do from here on out ‘til I see you again.”

You needed him to believe you. You needed him to believe you, and you needed him to leave your room before you found yourself wanting him to do unspeakable things to you again.

He stepped forward and closed the remaining gap between you, stood looming over your bed like a depraved specter. “Well, then maybe I should observe.”

“Observe… what, exactly?” You swallowed thickly, felt the blood starting to drain from your limbs, knowing the answer to your question before you even opened your mouth.

He knelt down beside you, placing his large hands on your bed. “Observe how you bring yourself to orgasm.”

You scooted back, pressing yourself against the wall next to you, putting as much distance between yourself and Law’s penetrating glare as you could. “Well, I—I don’t really think that’s necessary.”

“As your physician, I beg to differ.” He stood up and moved to the foot of your bed. “If I’m going to provide you long-term care, I should know that you’re taking this seriously, getting the maximum benefit from my treatment plan. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I just—I just don’t think I can do this.” Your heart thumped ferociously in your chest, your breaths harsh and uneven. There was no way you were going to do this, no way you’d agree to get yourself off for him—perhaps in another life, one where he didn’t already know you from the inside out, but not like this, not here.

“Why not?” he cooed, as he knelt on the bed. He found your leg beneath the blanket and placed a hand on you, long fingers wrapping around your calf. “Don’t you want to be a good patient?”

You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze for a moment, feeling yourself melt under it slowly and surely. “I guess so.”

He began to stroke your leg softly. “Don’t you want to be good for me?”

You held back a sigh, choked it down, tried to ignore sudden the heat pooling between your legs. He knew—he knew—what that did to you, knew that you wanted to be good for him—that you wanted to be good.

“Of course I do,” you admitted through shaky breaths.

“That’s what I thought.” He moved off the mattress, taking a seat in the chair at the end of the bed. “Now why don’t you undress for me? Just from the waist down.”

You stayed tucked under the blanket and slid your sweatpants and panties off, discarding them on the floor. “Okay, now what?”

“Well, now I need you to take your blanket off,” Law chuckled. “I can’t observe if I can’t see, now can I?”

You hesitated just a few seconds too long as your mind started to slowly empty itself of all reasonable thought, and Law grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked, dropping the covers into a heap on the floor.

“That’s better.” He smirked, his eyes scanning your semi-nude form. “You can start whenever you’re ready.”

It was easier, in some ways, when you were flat on your back in the exam room; you couldn’t see more than the top of his head, didn’t have to consider how he was leering at you, what expressions he must have making. But here—here you had a clear view of one another, as he sat in your chair leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, his gaze moving between your face and your now-exposed cunt.

“Something wrong?” he asked, as though he didn’t know.

“I—I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” You pressed your legs tightly together and held your hands in your lap. “You’re staring at me.”

He sat back a little. “It’s no different than if I were to ask you to pull up your shirt during physical therapy so I could see your posture.”

“It’s a little different than that, you know it.”

“Come on now. Don’t you want my help to relieve your symptoms?

“Sure but—”

“And don’t you want to be so, so good for me?”

“You know I do.” You hated it, hated how you loved it—he was vile, plying you again with the words that sent vibrations straight through to your core.

“Then indulge me,” he grinned. “We’ll call it professional curiosity.”

“If you insist, doctor,” you mumbled. You reached over to your bedside table and rustled around in the drawer, pulling out a small vibrator you’d acquired in some back alley shop some time ago.

Law cocked his head to one side. “That looks like fun.”

You shrugged. “It certainly speeds things up a lot.”

“I suppose time is of the essence without much privacy, isn’t it?”

You would know, you thought as you nervously fiddled with the controls and placed it on the highest setting—the quicker you could make this, the quicker he would leave, and the sooner you could get back to both dreading and secretly counting the days to your next session with him. You inhaled deeply as you pressed the device to your clit, and felt a sudden rush of heat between your legs, your muscles beginning to tense. Your head tipped back of its own accord and your eyes drifted shut, as you tried to pretend that Law’s steady breathing was just white noise, no different than the hums of the submarine.

A few arduous moments passed, and you exhaled noisily and stared at the ceiling. What little desire you had was gone, and the warmth in your lower half rapidly dissipated as you lost focus over and over again, still unnerved by your captain sitting at the end of your bed, unable to shake the thought of him leering at your every movement. “I’m sorry, this is too weird, I don’t think I can finish.”

He laced his fingers together and placed them in front of his mouth. “That’s alright, I don’t have anywhere to be right now. Just try again for me.”

“Look, I’ll just do it after you leave, I promise.”

He chewed on his lower lip, letting a strained silence fill the room for a few beats. “I have a better plan. Do you trust me?”

You nodded. You weren’t exactly sure that you could trust anything that came out of his mouth, but what else could you do but comply as you laid half-naked on your bed with your legs spread open?

“Good. Now, I’m going to talk you through it. Just listen to my voice, and follow my directions.”

“I don’t see how that’s going to make it any less weird.”

“You said you trusted me, so let me help you, hm?” There was almost a tenderness in his tone, one that your hazy brain easily latched onto and wanted to earn from him again and again.

“Okay.” You inhaled deeply, held it in your chest for a moment as you picked the vibrator back up.

“No. Leave it,” he reprimanded, shaking his head. “Not yet.”

You reluctantly set it back beside you, letting it rest against your hip, and anxiously played with the hem of your shirt while you waited for instructions.

“First, close your eyes,” he began. “Now, I want you to lower your hands down and touch your thighs. Run your hands up and down them, nice and slow. Focus on the texture of your skin, the temperature. Is it warm? Cool to the touch? How does it feel?”

You concentrated on the coolness of your skin under your fingertips, the subtle goosebumps that formed, the way your whole body shivered. “My legs feel cold.”

“Good.” His voice was low and smooth, like the whiskey you hid in your bedside table, reserved for only the loneliest nights. “Now slowly slide your hands up your body. Imagine it’s someone else doing the touching—exploring you, taking in every inch of you.”

That won’t be too hard, you thought, as your mind slowly started to wander towards images of his tattoo-covered fingers drifting over your skin. He continued to guide your movements, the deep, steady cadence of his voice slowly washing over you like waves—he led your hands up to your breasts, instructing you to cup them in your palms and knead them gently, let your fingertips glide over your pebbled nipples. Slow waves of pulsing pleasure lapped over you, and your hips began to roll into it, small sighs escaping your lips.

“That’s it.” His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “Don’t stop until I tell you.”

You groped at yourself with increasing urgency and pressed your legs tightly together, desperate for something—anything—to stimulate your aching clit, as the muscles in your core began to twist and tighten. Your thighs became sticky and slick the more pressure you applied, your cunt leaking uncontrollably as you were made to tease yourself for what felt like an eternity.

“Now,” he finally continued, “I want you to pick up your toy, turn it on the lowest setting, and press it against yourself. Not hard. Just enough to feel a light buzzing.”

You wasted no time in grasping for the vibrator and hurriedly held it to your swollen, saturated pussy lips, just over your throbbing clit. Your hips bucked against the device, the low vibrations enough to make you spasm and clench in response, and you groaned under your breath with every pulse.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Just a little more for me.”

Your heart swelled at his praise, and you felt your greedy cunt dripping in response. It hurt how much how you wanted to be good for him, how much you wanted him.

“Oh shit, I’m almost there.” You felt yourself coiling tighter and tighter with each passing second, your body shivering with every labored breath.

“Not yet,” he said quickly. “Turn off your vibrator.”

“No, please.” Your words were nearly a wail as you started to feel your climax taking hold of you. “I need it.”

“I said turn it off.”

You reluctantly turned the device off, imploring him the whole while, the word “please” tumbling from your lips over and over again like a prayer. You didn’t care how appallingly pathetic you sounded, begging him to allow you the privilege of an orgasm—you needed this, needed to reach that dizzying moment of release.

“I said not yet.” His voice was deep and commanding, and it reverberated in your ribcage. “Let yourself come down, just a little longer. Feel all the heat start to subside, let the blood start to return to the rest of your body. Wait for my permission.”

You whined as your body trembled, precariously close to the edge, aching to feel that sweet moment of release. You could only imagine the sick grin on his face, the way he must be relishing in watching you suffer, seeing how needy and pitiful you must look, barely able to control yourself from lowering your hand down and pressing your fingers against your pulsing clit. You wondered if he was salivating at your whimpers, if it stirred something in him to watch your sweat-slicked body writhe in your tangled sheets, if his cock twitched at the fact that your pleasure was his to control.

“Now,” he growled, “I want you to look at me.”

You reluctantly opened your eyes and tilted your head forward, suddenly very aware of everything in the room—the lamp beside you too bright, the air too cold, the smell of your sweat and your drenched cunt hanging heavy in the air. You glanced down and noticed Law had moved from his spot in your chair, and was now kneeling at the foot of your bed, his hands pressed firmly into the mattress, fingers gripping your sheets.

“That’s my girl,” he smiled. “Now cum for me. And don’t take your eyes off me.”

You nodded eagerly and quickly flicked the vibrator back on, pressing it against yourself firmly. You stifled a sharp yelp as the vibrations hit you, and the blinding heat of arousal rushed back to your core, spreading through you like a wildfire. You breathed in ragged gasps, and your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to keep your focus on him; he watched you with an agonizing intensity—lips parted, chest heaving, making slow, deliberate nods that wordlessly urged you to your orgasm. You surged and ebbed, over and over, until you finally plunged over the crest, your body overcome by powerful spasms.

You shut off the vibrator, your clit pulsing painfully under even the lightest touch, and rested your tingling hands at your sides. You glanced down at Law, who was still at the foot of your bed, watching you intently with his steel-grey eyes, and suddenly felt devastatingly fragile, ready to break apart at the slightest provocation.

He smirked as he rested his chin in his palm. “Feel better?”

You nodded slowly, unable to speak through the stuttering gasps that left your lungs.

“Good. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You shook your head, your head still devoid of any thoughts besides him—his rumbling voice, his long fingers, his magnetic gaze, his everything.

“I’m glad.” He stood slowly, turning away from you. “That was very informative. I think it’s really going to help me with your care.”

You quietly snorted at the suggestion; it was bullshit, utter horseshit, and you knew it had to be. But what did it matter, when you were already so far gone, so deeply and irrevocably under his thumb?

He pushed your chair back under your desk, and made his way to the door, pausing briefly as he placed a hand on the smooth steel. “I’d like you to alternate between your toy and your hands—I don’t want you to get too desensitized. I’ll see you in just a couple days for our next treatment session. Follow my orders in the meantime?”

“Sure, yes, I will,” you slurred, bleary eyed and body wrung out like a damp washcloth.

He slid out of your room and into the hallway, pausing for just a moment to gaze at you with half-lidded eyes and whisper, “That’s my good girl.”

You watched the door come to a close, and hastily slid your hand between your thighs, shuddering as you felt the leftover vibrations of your arousal against your palm. The thin barrier of revulsion for your captain’s—your doctor’s—methods was starting to break down more and more, his sordid treatment plan seeming ever more reasonable with every bit of pleasure that he coaxed out of you.

Just a couple more days, you reminded yourself as you absentmindedly started to rock yourself against your hand, your plentiful slick soaking your skin, just a couple more days until I can feel him again.

[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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[artiststarme]

College is for me but only if it’s us

No angst today, I just got accepted into my master's program so I'm thrilled! All humorous/fluff/good vibes stories today. I hope you guys like it and please leave your thoughts in the comments!

~*~*~*~

It took Eddie three long years to graduate high school and even then, it was by the skin of his teeth. He barely scraped by with straight D’s and even then, his grade in history threatened to hold him back for his fourth senior year. Luckily though, with Nancy’s flashcards and Steve’s motivation while studying, he was able to pass all of his finals and his classes. Eddie army-crawled across the stage, ignoring the anger and slurs from the self-righteous townsfolk,  as he received his diploma. He waved to the Party sitting in the audience and smiled at his uncle. Eddie didn’t think he’d make it here but here he was

He, Max, and Steve were in the hospital for weeks following their Spring Break from hell. Eddie had had daily blood transfusions and enough skin graft surgeries to last him for a lifetime. There were still moments where he would feel ice-cold pain flash across his body in a spot deep enough he couldn’t reach it. 

Max was in a coma for two weeks before her blurry eyes opened to a world she would never see quite clearly. She still had to attend near-daily physical therapy sessions to be able to walk without the assistance of a walking aid for balance. She would probably never skateboard again.  

Steve was in a bad way too despite his reluctance to accept treatment. His wounds from the demobat bites caused him to develop sepsis that nearly killed him. He had to get his system flushed with saline for days to fight off the septic infection and he needed several surgeries to repair the damage done to his sides. 

Even still, they all made it. They were moving on with their lives and Eddie had finally graduated. His friends and Uncle Wayne were of course thrilled. They knew he’d graduate with time but he could tell that they were glad his attempts finally paid off. They expected him to devote more time to his music or get a full time job out of town or something. 

No one expected him to go to college. 

But when Steve expressed interest in enrolling in a local community college and some apprehension in doing so for fear of what their friends may say, Eddie jumped at the chance to take the heat off of him. And boy, did it. 

When Steve announced to the Party at one of their regular gatherings that he was going to college, he got some mixed reactions. Some of the Party gave uninterested grumbles, some asked if he was serious, and some pointed out that it would probably just be a waste of money since he wasn’t good at school. Robin was the only one, besides Eddie, that congratulated him on moving onto the next step. 

Eddie wasn’t impressed with any of them. No wonder Steve was afraid of their reactions, no one seemed to care and those that did were pointing out how ‘dumb’ he was. So Eddie did what he did best and created a distraction. 

“I’m going to college too. Steve and I enrolled together and if we increase our GPA’s enough, we might be able to go to a state school later. We might even move in with each other and get our own place.”

That caused an uproar. Mike and Max were arguing about why he wanted to go with Steve, Uncle Wayne was cheering and toasting him with his beer, Dustin and Will were congratulating him, Jonathan and Nancy were looking suspiciously between him and Steve, and El and Robin were looking on in confusion. But Steve was beaming at Eddie. He’d never seen smile so broadly, so happily. 

Eddie watched as Steve ignored all of their friends and stalked up to him. “Hey Big Boy, sorry to steal your thunder-”

All thoughts left his mind as Steve grabbed both sides of his face and brought him in for a deep kiss. Holy shit, Eddie felt like he died and went to heaven. If Eddie knew that this was what would get Steve Harrington to smooch him, he would’ve made plans to go to college with him a long time ago. 

Once Steve pulled back for air, Eddie started hearing all of the comments that their friends were making. He pulled back to see a variety of expressions. Some of their friends were supportive like Nancy and Robin who were cheering and wolf-whistling. Others were somewhat offended or disgusted. The most notable voice of the group was Murray who was screeching at Hopper. 

“I fucking knew it! Didn’t I fucking call this, Jim? You said I was out of my mind but I was fucking right!” 

“Murray, shut the hell up,” Hopper hissed at him. 

“Very much like you to doubt the truth, Jim.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” He asked him. 

When Eddie made eye contact with Dustin, the kid leapt to his feet and pointed an accusing finger between him and Steve. 

“What the hell is this?” Dustin yelled in confused outrage. “You’re not even friends!”

“We clearly are, dude. And more,” Steve told him in a tone that said it should be obvious. Dustin just opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water in response. 

Meanwhile, Mike was throwing up behind some bushes muttering nonsensically about Steve ‘doing it again’ and ‘hooking up with his brother too’. He obviously wasn’t over Steve dating Nancy all that time ago. 

Steve just shook his head at all of them and pulled Eddie in again. “I’m really looking forward to going to college with you.”

“I can tell, Big Boy. Kiss me again.” At his request, Steve kissed him again. They ignored the pitiful protests of Hopper, the fake gags of Max and Lucas, and even the supportive cheering of Joyce and Wayne. With Steve’s lips on his and his arms around him, nothing existed in the world but them. 

Sure, they had some talking to do and some shovel talks to hear. But they would get through it all just as they had before. Things were only looking up for them now. ‘86 really was Eddie’s year.

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[alicegokugirl]

The Treatment (one shot drable)

pairing - trafalgar law x afab!reader

warning - nsfw // minors dni // fingering // medical setting

author's note - it's my first time writing for the one piece fandom. i wanted to write something with a doctor involved so law seemed like the perfect character to participate in my little story. ♡

"The patient's case presents as follows: heat flashes, irregular breathing, hiperhidrosis and excessive wetness and sensitivity in genitals." Dr. Law enumerates.

"Worry not, miss." He assures, tying your ankles to the bed's posts.

"The treatment is quite simple..." He pulls a stool towards the bed and sits down in front of your open legs. "A little physical therapy will suffice."

He put on gloves before commencing the procedure.

"This is what I'm going to do, miss. First, I'll massage your clitoris to ensure more wetness and avoid any pain that will come with penetration. If you fail to get wet enough we can use lube if you desire. Though, I doubt that will be necessary considering your current state. Next, I'll insert two fingers inside your vagina and finger you until you orgasm and your current symptoms should go away. It might take more than one considering the severity of your case though. If at any point you feel uncomfortable or you want to stop let me know, okay?"

Dr. Law waits for your approval before placing his hands on your lips, spreading them to reveal your glistening pussy and your hardened nub.

"I'm going to touch your clitoris now, alright?"

You nodded again, flinching the moment his plastic wrapped thumb touched your most sensitive part. You covered your mouth to avoid any of the embarrassing noises coming out.

"It's okay if you moan, miss. The treatment room is soundproof."

Dr. Law made circles on your clit. Practiced movements made with a confident hand that spoke for his experience and expertise on the treatment of this particular condition.

"You should start feeling hotter now. It's normal."

You nodded at his words before closing your eyes a throwing your head back at the feeling.

"You're doing great." He reassured.

You then felt another finger touching you a bit lower and you jumped on your seat.

"Just collecting the juices around my fingers, miss."

You apologize to which he replied that it was completely normal to react like that when patients are this far into the treatment.

"Now I'm going to put one finger inside and spread you until you're good enough to take two, alright?"

You moaned a timid 'yes sir' and he proceeded with the insertion which made you moan even louder. Your pussy constricted around his finger, milking it with the force of a vice.

He quickly took notice of your reaction and thrusted in and out, looking for the spot that would give you the most relief.

"You are very wet and open, miss. I think you're ready for two."

You are too busy losing your mind at the pleasure but you still manage to nod at him.

Having been given the green light, he shoved the other one in, taking advantage of your naughty cunt's greed and messiness to apply give you relief faster.

"That's it, miss. You're doing so good."

You trashed and squealed and thank god your ankles were tied because otherwise you'd probably had squished Dr. Law's head between your thighs already.

His fingers assaulted your g-spot as relentlessly as his thumb abused your clit. And sooner than what normally happened you were already feeling yourself nearing your orgasm.

"Almost there." He confirmed, maintaining the speed and harshness of his movements until it finally caught up to you with a particularly pin pointed thrust.

Dr. Law didn't stop until you ceased your moaning and twitching in the bed.

He got up, took of his gloves and gave you a glass of water.

You thank him and his golden hands profusely before drinking it like a man in a desert who just found an oasis.

"You're welcome miss. I'm just doing my job." He gives you a smile.

The doctor untied your ankles and was prepared to leave the room when he heard you whimper and reach for your naked pussy.

"I think we should repeat the therapy again, miss." He suggests to which you immediately agree.

He opens the door slightly and looks around for his nurse.

"Nurse Bepo?"

"Yes, doctor?"

"Cancel my next appointments."

i take requests from multiple fandoms! ♡

[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.