#second impact syndrome

[concussionspot]

The Risks of Continuing to Play After Suffering Concussion

Continuing to play after a concussion significantly increases the risk of long-term symptoms and further brain injury. This blog highlights the importance of immediate medical evaluation and proper recovery protocols. Prioritizing safety ensures better health outcomes for athletes.

[lukarion-ven]

your local magician's love confession went wrong..

thinking about lunette finding out lyney's connections with the fatui without him knowing, and the betrayal she felt since her family was ambushed by the fatui during her childhood (and her long lost twin brother is now a member of it)

hopefully i can draw the whole scene next time o<-<

[combeauferre]

the problem with everyone else getting meds before me means that they've sold me this basically miracle drug that works wonders right away and clears ur head and makes u feel like u can do things and wow do neurotypicals feel like this all the time? and i start and it's just another pill that does fuck all and touches nothing

[kitticula]

healing from brain damage is definitely the worst injury ive ever had to heal from so far 😞 this shit is so difficult yall

[attila-werther]

the ongoing show has healed my heart enough that I'm looking at the show that has been burning a hole in my skull for a decade like 🥰

hi I've missed you, can't wait to remember why I hate this show in about (checks watch) two minutes

[toxicanonymity]

The Stitch

PAIR: THOMAS HEWITT X READER

WORD COUNT: 3.6k | THE SPREAD UNIVERSE one shot

SUMMARY: A stranger tries to get into the shed. You help Tommy when he's hurt and... hungry, then sit in his lap.

WARNINGS: 18+ Smut*, stockholm syndrome, violence off screen, blood, giving stitches, hand kink, light angst & dark fluff. *oral, squirting, captivity dubcon, unsafe cockwarming-adjacent piv, creampie. Feral/soft Tommy, leather muzzle.

SIZE KINK: Tommy is a strong, hefty 6'5", reader much smaller.

Ty for your enthusiasm for this fic! Ty @dark-scape for title help and @gasolinerainbowpuddles for the ⛓️ divider. 🖤

It was dusk when you spotted a man prowling around, then you ducked away from the shed’s clouded window and pretended not to see. Time crawled by–-you didn’t know how much–-as you sat frozen, afraid of making any noise at all. The wind howled, and twigs snapped in the woods behind the shed. You would’ve felt safer with Tommy nearby, but he must have been dead asleep after his family worked him hard all day.

You finally let yourself relax enough to fall asleep, only for chains to rattle on the outside of the shed. 

“C’mon,” the stranger pleaded to himself, then whisper-shouted into the distance, “hurry up, Ronnie!” followed by a startled “oh shit.”

You recognized Tommy's footsteps as he lumbered across the yard.

Huddled in the corner of the shed, you held your breath and listened to the ruckus just outside. You were pulling for your captor. He had committed violent acts, but he didn't seem like a violent man at heart. You felt sure he wouldn’t hurt you… even though he already had. 

Arms wrapped around your knees, you pulled your hands into your oversized sleeves and gripped the fabric with your fists.

“Get outta here, freak!” the man yelled. 

Tommy grunted. 

“Ronnie!” the man pleaded to his friend who was nowhere in sight. Then he warned Tommy, “Don’t do it man. My buddy’s got a gun.” 

Tommy’s grunt sounded almost like a laugh. 

“There’s more of us too,” the trespasser claimed, then muttered, “shit.” 

Shoes scraped against dirt. The shed door shook with an impact, and chains rattled. The man coughed and tried to vocalize. His shoes thumped and slid against the wood, with his feet unable to reach the ground. Tommy held him by the neck with just one hand. The struggle continued. 

The man went quiet, and Tommy grumbled indistinctly. 

Dead weight hit the ground. 

There was shuffling, dragging, and a few seconds later, the wet thwack of sharp metal through bone.  

-

Tommy caught his breath, then came around toward your window. His massive shadow was just visible enough in the dark to make his presence known. He tapped the glass with one knuckle, then you approached and lifted the curtain. 

He had an ax slung over his shoulder.

He braced his other hand on the shed, to the side of the window. Then, he stopped down to rest his forehead gently against the glass. Below his half-muzzle, his breath fogged the window and his chest heaved. The glass was cloudy, but you still felt his eye contact. You looked at each other, then he pulled back, leaving a smear high on the glass where his forehead had been. He gave you a nod that felt like a promise—he’d come back.

When you peeked out the window again, Tommy was walking toward the main house with the man’s body slung over his shoulder. The head and arms hung limply over Tommy’s back. The guy’s head was dripping into the dirt. In Tommy’s other hand, he held his ax, letting it hang by his side in a loose grip. He was unbothered by the prospect of another man to fight. 

You sat in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, trying to calm yourself enough to get to sleep. Eventually, you heard Tommy on his way back. 

After unlocking the shed and ducking inside, he lit a lantern. The warm light flickered on, just bright enough to see dark splatter on his shirt and neck. His hair was matted dark. A thick path of blood oozed down the side of his face. He looked you over and took a seat against the adjacent wall.

For a minute, he simply breathed and watched you. 

You watched him, too. “Are you okay?” 

He nodded. The trickle down his face hadn’t stopped. It must have been his own blood. 

“You’re bleeding,” you observed.

You started to move toward him, but he lunged forward before you could get up. Even on his knees, he was a looming presence.

“Can I see?” You asked, and brought a hand out of the blanket, squinting to find the source of the blood. 

Before you could touch him, he scooped you up in his arms for a swift exit, shaking the shed with each step. After ducking through the door, you expected him to put you in the wheelbarrow. Instead, he stood up and adjusted your weight so you were held flush against him, hugging his apron. He made sure you were covered by the blanket. You couldn't wrap your legs around him–he was too big, but you trusted him not to drop you. The soft padding of his torso was warm and comforting as he took long strides toward the house.

Tommy’s footsteps clopped under you in the garage. He slowed down, then stopped in front of a piece of furniture and leaned forward. He took a hand off your back. You tightened your limbs around him as best you could while he pushed some things out of the way, clearing a space for you. Then he sat you down on a smooth wood surface and uncovered your head. He reached up toward the ceiling and pulled a chain. A dim light buzzed on. You were seated on a desk, with all sorts of scraps and junk scattered around. 

Tommy took off his apron and he sat down in a chair, facing you. He reached across the desk and slid a tin box toward himself.  When he opened the tin, it looked like sewing supplies. His fingers were so enormous, you couldn't imagine how he sewed anything, but he handled the box with care and familiarity. 

It was his. This was his place. His craft. 

He turned the tin toward you so you could get what you needed. Meanwhile, he reached for an old glass bottle with an inch of clear liquid in it, and he used every drop to wet a rag. He held the cloth to his head. 

Okay, not his first time. 

You held up a needle. “It’s dirty.”

Tommy shook his head no. Okay, it didn’t look dirty, but it sure wasn’t sterile, and for some reason, you wanted him to be okay. 

“It could get infected.” 

His eyes shifted around in thought, then he looked back to you for the answer. 

“Do you have any matches? Fire?”

He placed his thick, wide hands on your thighs as he stood up. He squeezed them lightly and checked your face for whether you might run. Then he went over to a workbench that was against the wall. 

As he rummaged around, your eyes wandered. The space was cluttered and stuck in another era. There were doll parts strewn around. A softball-sized, hollow head with no hair and  a painted-on face chipping off.  There were tools. So many tools. Cleavers and saws hanging from the ceiling by chains. Too high for anyone but Tommy to reach them. 

He returned with a rusted zippo lighter and flicked it open as he sat down. You held the needle to the flame and he held the lighter steady for you, with the casual intimacy of a stranger lighting your cigarette. In the glow of the flame, he watched your face. 

When the needle was ready, you looked at the thread. You unwound the spool long enough to reach some unexposed thread.

Tommy watched patiently, never making you feel rushed or scrutinized. 

With the needle threaded, you announced, “okay. It’ll hurt, but not too bad.” 

He gave a short nod with a squint that bore the hint of a smile. 

-

"Little closer," you whispered, never speaking at full volume with him. 

He spread your knees, making your heart skip a beat. He settled in between them, leaned forward, and his elbows bracketed your thighs.

His face was close. His eyes were blue with lines of gray darting out from the pupils. His eyelashes were dark and thick.  Your heart skipped a beat as his face moved closer, thinking for a split second that he might kiss you, but he dipped his head to offer you his injury. 

"Good," you encouraged him.   

His sweat wafted into your nostrils, and just as you felt heat rising to your face, his hands curved around your bottom. Arousal buzzed in your gut, so loud you had to pause and compose yourself. “Ready?”

He nodded his head forward. 

You needed to adjust the angle of his head so you could comfortably work on it, and when your fingers grazed the side of his muzzle he flinched. 

Your hand pulled back, but then he held it. As he placed your hand back on his cheek, the sight of his giant paw holding yours made a butterfly float through your chest. 

You wet your lips, then bit your lip and saw him glance toward your mouth.  

Bracing one palm to the side of the wound, you held the skin shut. You rested the needle point against his skin, then pushed and dragged the thread through it. He didn’t react. He watched your face in silence as you patched him up, thread by thread. Not a single puncture made him move his head.

You could feel his appreciation in the way his hands gently cradled you. He looked at you with a soft fascination.

Was this the first time someone helped him like this? It was easy to imagine why, but somewhere in this monster, there was a little boy. Did anyone ever take care of that boy? Tuck him in? Walk him to the bus stop for school? No, surely not. He hadn’t ever said a word to you, but he told you so much. His eyes told you. The way he moved. The way he never spoke, and hung his head as the others barked orders at him.

—

When you were about halfway done stitching him up, he began to sniff the air, and it made you realize how turned on you were. With your legs spread and no panties under the shirt-dress, you had to be leaking onto the desk. 

Tommy sniffed and growled, and maybe his primal sounds shouldn't have hit the way they always did, but your core tingled. You felt exposed with your legs spread around him. He sniffed again, and your face was hot with why. 

–

You tied off the threas and whispered, “Good, Tommy." You blotted the area with the wet rag.

Tommy reached for his face to touch the stitches, and your hand stopped his: “no."

Your hand lingered, with your fingers wrapped around the heel of his palm. You wanted to hug him, have your body against his again, which made your mind jump back to the way he carried you there. In that moment, something clicked, and your throat tightened. No one but him had ever handled you in that particular way—big arms wrapped around you like you were too precious to lose. He did his best to make you comfortable. So what if you were his possession? It felt like you were his world. Maybe no one ever cared as much as Tommy Hewitt cared about keeping you. 

Your vision got cloudy, and Tommy’s eyes narrowed. Once you blinked, a fat tear pushed through your lashes. Before it could run down your cheek, his thumb was there to collect it. Then he put your tear just below his eye. It slid down to his muzzle in a tiny trickle that left a clean path through the grime. 

You smiled and whispered, “It’s okay.” 

His gaze fell down your body, and his eyes darkened. The corners of his mouth glistened in the shadow of his muzzle. He took your chin in his hand and took a deep breath. 

-

Tommy reached behind you and urgently cleared the whole desk. Then he put his hand on your chest and pushed you down flat on your back.  Your feet dangled off the edge, but not for long. He bent forward, lifted your knees, and soon had your legs over his shoulders with your ass in the air, held up by his massive hands. With your sex exposed so close to his face, Tommy growled. Your upper back remained flat on the surface. 

With his elbows braced on the desk, he held you with your cunt at his mouth. His breath was warm. With his mouth ever closer, he began to drool. His breath was heavy and full of desire.  

You let out a little moan, and with that, he attacked you like his first meal in ages. Holding you like a juicy burger, he fed himself your cunt. There was no ceremony in the first touch, he simply dug in, licking right up the center, then sucking at the apex. He ate you with a hunger that was felt in every push of his lips and heard in every breath through his nose. He used his face to spread your lower lips apart, wedging his mouth into your heat like it belonged there. 

He ate with abandon, licking and planting his lips and sucking. Collecting every drop he could from each secret little ruffle of your body, scavenging each surface for more to consume. The firmness of his lips, the rhythmic suction, and the strong lap of his tongue had pleasure building in your gut.  His hands continued to hold up your hips, thumbs digging into your asscheeks. His grip kept you firmly at his mouth with your thighs hugging his cheeks. With his mouth latched fully onto you, it was a vision you could never forget. God, it felt good. 

He couldn’t have known it, but he’d found the perfect angle, bridging your hips for you, with his elbows planted on the desk. He feasted selfishly, and his ravenous work had your body churning out more and more arousal for him to slurp up. 

He refused to come up for air, his nose instead taking ragged breaths. He paused only to adjust the muzzle, nudging it against you thigh. Then, the smooth leather nudged your slick clit as his tongue plunged into you. His eyes closed as he licked upward, massaging your front wall with his hunger. Your eyes fluttered closed. His tongue was so strong and thick, he really fucked you with it, filled your wet little hole with it.

Each slide of his tongue against your spongy spot made you lose a little more control. Soon, it felt like you were going to pee. 

“Tommy,” you warned him. 

He only fucked you harder with his tongue. 

“Tommy,” you whined, “I’m gonna—please—I—Ohhh” 

Tommy’s response was to growl and pull you closer, harder against his mouth.

At least there were no bedsheets, no decorum, and no expectations from him. He nudged that spot again, you let go. Your release began, pulsing through you, and he moaned as it filled his mouth. His mouth was so large, and he was so thirsty, there was barely any overflow. You rode that high and he drank every drop. You sighed when you were finished. His pace slowed, and his eyelids drooped. 

-

Satisfied with his meal, he let your ass back down on the table and ducked out from under your legs. He turned his head to fix his muzzle in case his feeding frenzy had exposed the center of his face. When he turned toward you again, you sat up on your elbows. 

Tommy's eyes panned over you as he palmed himself under the desk. His muzzle was shiny with you, and so were his lips. His pupils were dilated. He caught you watching the motion of his arm, and his face blotched pinker.

"It's normal," you reassured him. "It's normal to get hard from doing that." 

What were you saying?

What were you asking for?

A swell of shame washed through your chest, but it didn’t change what you wanted. 

Tommy looked at you, unsure. 

You nodded. “It’s okay, don’t be embarrassed.”

–

He grabbed you by your (his) shirt and pulled you upright. Then he ripped the shirt open, sending two buttons flying. 

When you looked down, your chest expanded with desire at the sight of the massive log straining his pants. He squeezed the outline and you nodded reassuringly. A wet spot was growing.

Your mouth hung slightly open as you looked at the gift in his pants. Your thighs were still spread wide. Tommy looked between your legs, then down at himself. Then in a flurry he unbuttoned and shoved his pants down, reaching into his underwear at the same time to help free his massive cock. Your knees twitched with the urge to sit on it. 

And sure enough, he grabbed your ass, pulling you off the edge of the desk and into his lap in one swift motion, which made his stiff cock slap heavily against your pussy. He quickly jostled it into place at your entrance and moaned when your wet heat covered the tip of his cock. Between his precum, your slick, and his slobber all over your cunt, the stiff log prodding at your hole was well-lubed. 

Tommy wrapped his arms around you and pulled you down, making his girth divide your soft, warm walls. His cock claimed every inch of your cunt and then more, as your body relaxed and opened with arousal. He was impossibly stiff. It must have been painfully hard in his pants. Slowed by his girth and stopped by his length, you came to a rest as far down his shaft as you could, far enough to meet the cushion of his bush.  His swollen shaft throbbed, and he let out a contented sigh.

He held your waist, and you were prepared to be used as a fucksleeve, but he hesitated. Instead of jerking himself off with you, his hands loosened and slid under your open dress shirt. His two palms rested warmly on your back, together covering a significant portion of your skin. You closed your eyes and bent forward, curving your torso snugly against the swell of his midsection. As you laid your head on his chest, your hips shifted and his throat rumbled with a twitch of his dick.  His heart thumped against your cheek. 

You moved your hips again, and his chest expanded with a deep breath. Another twitch of his cock made your walls spasm, and you let out a little moan. He pulled you closer and inhaled the scent of your hair, then lifted you ever so slightly against him before  sinking fully into your tight, wet cunt again. 

He shifted you in small motions, letting out lazy grunts and shuddering when you squeezed him in just the right way. This was perfect for how tired he was. 

You rolled your hips cautiously, curious how long he could wait before ravishing you.  He seemed to enjoy this new way of experiencing you. And God did you love it, too — stuffed full of his cock, with your tits and tummy pressed against him. 

“This is nice,” you whispered.

His lap lifted, and you sighed, “God, Tommy.” 

His breathing stuttered. His fingers twitched, pressing against your back. His dick throbbed and seemed to occupy even more of you.

His breathing sped up. You just barely rocked yourself, and observed his quiet loss of control until he groaned and throbbed so powerfully it made your whole body tighten. He held his breath as his balls spasmed, then he sighed with his hot load throbbing into you. With his seed pumping into you, he used a hand on your ass to pull you even tighter against him.

The pressure of his heft against your front sent you to the stars. You turned your head with your mouth against his chest and whined into his shirt as you came on his cock, making him shudder. While you came, he held your head to his chest. His stomach heaved under you, as you both finished your release.  

–-

You stayed impaled on him, and after a minute, you felt him tense. You lifted your head to look at him, and could see he was self-conscious. 

With his hands on your waist, he lifted you off his dick. Your pussy tried to hang on, but the last of his dick slid out, leaving you empty as he put you down on the desk, leaking his cum onto the wood. 

He stood up and turned away for a moment to put his dick back in his pants. 

He looked you over, and held both sides of your unbuttoned shirt-dress. He ran a thumb over the threads where he had ripped the buttons, and he grumbled quietly in dissatisfaction. He retrieved the sewing tin, scooting it closer again, then he pushed the shirt off your shoulders. He wrapped you in the blanket, then sat back down. 

He pulled you into his lap, having you sit on his thigh to make space on the desk. You sat in his lap while he went to work. He got out a needle and thread, and began to select a button, then paused. He looked at you, then back at the buttons, and slid the tin toward you with a nod. You picked out two different shades of blue. 

He reached his arms around you to work on the shirt, and you watched his hands as he sewed them on. It was amazing to see how nimble his fat fingers could be. How studious he was with his work, and how well he sewed them on. 

When he was finished, he scooted the chair back and you stood up off his lap. He gently took the blanket off you and dressed you in the shirt again. He admired the way you looked in his shirt, then picked you up to carry you back to the shed. Before he covered you with the blanket, you looked at his wound. 

“You have to keep that clean, okay?” 

He nodded once. 

“Do you have a shower? Bath?” you asked.

He grunted with a nod. You thought you’d smelled soap on him before and wondered what he'd look like fresh and clean.

-

Back in the shed, he tucked you in and sat next to you as you grew sleepier. It was easier to fall asleep with him by your side. 

-

-

-

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

Thank you for reading, and I really appreciate all your comments and reblogs on the first two. 🖤 Your enthusiasm goes a long way.

You can follow @toxicfics and turn on notifications to see when I've posted new fics.

[bloodblanks]

one umbrella cover two [mr. scarletella x reader] — prologue.

You think playing dead will save you. It does. The killer dumps your—still alive—body in an abandoned apartment complex. You’re fortunate to survive, but that’s the extent of your luck, seeing how you’re now trapped in another world. A world inhabited by monsters whose language you don’t speak and a myriad of secrets waiting to be unravelled as your humanity crumbles away.

note: reader is not player (mc).

author’s note: dead dove: do not eat. this fanfiction will contain dark and explicit content, including heavy dub-con, stockholm syndrome, violence, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

Just where is the line between human and monster drawn?

One look at the ashen skin on your hand was enough to show that you weren’t human. A quick glance at your left forearm would dispel any lingering doubts. The crooked bone and mangled flesh—resembling the pulp of a crushed fruit—where the crowbar had struck you mere moments ago was already beginning to repair itself.

The wielder of the crowbar stood just over a metre away from you, her weapon raised, a glistening crimson hue smeared across its metal surface. You wondered just how much of her was human. Her hands appeared to possess a muted tint of plum, but with the blood caked over the vast majority of her fingers, you couldn’t be certain. While the raincoat’s hood obscured her face, you were still able to make out her features, which appeared humanlike. Her irises, however, were a bright, glaring scarlet, just wide enough to contain the darkness seeping from her dilated pupils.

People often said eyes were the window to the soul. If that was true, then what stood before you was nothing short of a monster; her eyes glazed over with madness.

You supposed you couldn’t judge, not with your arm having entirely regenerated within the brief timeframe of your musings, a feat only possible for otherworldly beings. You flexed your wrist—it was good as new.

You raised both hands, holding them in front of your face. You never had much knowledge of physical combat; not in either of your lives. The chances of you being able to incapacitate her with your sorely lacking combat skills would already be low, even had this just been a fistfight, which it wasn’t.

An explosive pain shot through your freshly repaired arm as you used it to block her attack, though it lasted barely over a second before fading into an aching numbness. The grotesque cracking sound of your radius shattering echoed through the desolate chamber. Unlike the first time, she swung at you again, her movements precise with a practiced ease. Your right hand imploded next, though you couldn’t be sure which specific bones had broken in it. Not that it mattered—her next strike was aimed at your head.

Your skull’s ability to mend after being smashed into fragments was unclear to you. While you were enough of a monster to potentially survive such an injury, even inhuman bodies had their limits.

But as you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the oncoming impact, you found yourself unable to stop the man clad in red from flashing in the forefront of your mind, a brilliant sanguine blossoming over your vision like a myriad of equinox flowers.

Dying for the person you love is a rather human thing to do. 

next chapter ->

[livefastdriveyoung]

Every team has a first and second driver. It is just that not every driver fulfills the role in the same way.

At Aston Martin we know Fernando is driver one. He is the more experienced driver, and right from the mouth of Lawrence Stroll himself, was brought in to make Lance a better driver so he could one day be the first driver. He does media, he's funny, and he also clearly has a mentor/mentee relationship with Lance.

I call this the mentor/mentee set up

At Mercedes, we know that Lewis is Driver one. Based on titles certainly, age almost definitely, and also because he is Lewis Hamilton. Until February, and even after, when you think Mercedes, you think Lewis. He is their better driver. He won six championships with them. He's stayed longer than most drivers stay on the whole grid. It is his through blood, sweat, and tears. George is the prince, he's set to inherit, potentially (BTW TORGER, I would like a word), and has a lot to live up to. Comparisons are hard, especially when the first driver is Lewis. I think that it's a forced proximity set-up, but they are friendly. Mostly off the track because on track they do not have their greatest moments.

I call this the King/Heir Apparent set up

At Red Bull, we know that Max is Driver one. Aside from the championships, he is just too fast. Every time one of the other drivers who drove alongside him was brought up to Horner or Helmut (YIKES to both), they would compare where they raced to Max. It is unattainable, and isolating. Until Checo. Checo didn't think he was going to be able to drive after BWT. He didn't have a contract, he was a middle of the pack driver, Mexico's son, and his story was supposed to end there. The Red Bull contract was a dream, but for all of the weird behavior some of y'all have with him (again, he's had his problems but the racism and idiot syndrome some apply to him is also NOT OK) he's not an idiot. He knows he's on a limited contract, he knows he's no spring chicken. Hearing him talk about next year, he knows he's very likely out of a contract. But he doesn't let any of this impact his relationship with Max. They are teammates, Checo will do what is best for the team. Max's whole world is predominantly driving. Checo has more of a balance, and in some ways, allows Max to be young.

I call this the Sibling set up.

At Ferrari, Charles LeClerc is Driver one. He is il Predestinato, the second coming, Monaco's prince. He can do no wrong. Carlos Sainz is the second driver. In spite of the fact that he got dropped from the team, in spite of the fact that he has won them two races, he is the one that is being pushed out. But he and Charles are friends, and teammates. They've driven together for several years now. Ultimately, while Carlos has done most of the heavy lifting on his side of the garage in terms of strategy and driving, he is also the one who knows when to walk away from the fight, when to stop letting yourself get hurt by the team that should be defending you. For Charles, Ferrari is a promise to Jules, to his father, to himself. He cannot walk away. In some way, Carlos can. That's why he makes the good second driver. The second in command is the one that sees the whole picture, including the first in command, because they never look at themselves.

I call this the friends/us against the world set up.

At Mclaren, driver one is Lando Norris. An indefinite contract, the sponsors, the adoration, Lando is the golden child. But Oscar is too, sort of. They're both young, both incredibly talented. But they're young. They're doing this together. McLaren went from disaster to top of the pack last season, and they're both on this ride together. I think McLaren is going to do whatever it takes to get Lando his win, but then I think they'll split 50/50. What will happen then, I don't know.

I call this the to soon to tell set up

At Williams, Alex Albon is so clearly driver one. Last year, he scored the majority of the points, they signed him for an extended contract, and they're desperate to keep him for 2026, when the car is supposedly going to be insane. Logan is the second driver. Alex wants to be the mentor, and to some degree he is. But Logan's narrative from last season to this season has shifted dramatically. Less and less people want to see him gone, they like the American. Williams renewed him. Whether because of sponsorship or genuine interest in his improvement, I don't know. But, in the last two races, they have managed to tank Alex's reputation, and boost Logan's. You don't publicly destroy your second driver's confidence, and career potential so publicly and walk away clean. We've seen it with Red Bull and Pierre, and Alex. Both times, those two drivers walked away with insane support. Logan is now receiving the same, but I wonder if it is going to make a difference. I think that Logan talking about what is best for the team is what is keeping him going, but if you watched the newest Team Torque, you can see fatigue and some tension between him and Alex. I don't know if it is jet lag, or work, or stress, or damage to the relationship. But this is a driver relationship on a razor wire.

I call this the Icarus set up

At Alpine, it is Pierre. He gets away with murder, at least by the team. Esteban has certainly mellowed a little, but he calls Pierre out still. However, they are both miserable with the car this year, so I think they are probably commiserating. The fact they can work together after years of rivalry and blatant hurt between the two is interesting. I think that both of these men have racing above all on their heart, and they will do whatever it takes to stay there. So for now, they suffer in the car, and they are colleagues.

I call this the "there's no other choice" set up (aka forced proximity)l

At Visa CashApp, there's currently a power struggle. Daniel is Daniel. He's been second driver for a few years, he's been third driver. He's got the popularity, though it is waning, and more importantly, he's got Christian Horner's support. That, plus the fact that the team talks about Daniel's presence being about helping them improve, makes him sound like first driver. Except, Yuki has been First driver for years. He's the one who stayed through the revolving door of drivers. This is his team. Honda pays the majority of his salary. So when you bring someone in, someone who doesn't even want the seat as much as he wants the Red Bull seat, the seat that should be yours, you're not going to go down without a fight. It creates this weird tension, but then Daniel is like "I know how lucky I am to be here, I'm focused on driving here," and is already being threatened with losing the seat like Nyck was, and Yuki realizes he might never get the Red Bull seat. So you have these two guys who are fighting for the same thing, that doesn't want them.

I call this the Alone Together set up

At Sauber, it is Valtteri. He has won gps, he's former Mercedes, who used to come second usually only to Lewis. He's funny, older, a weirdo that people love and feel they know. Zhou is younger, he's dealing with the pressure of being China's only son, and the higher expectations of him. Valtteri helps keep him young and focused. He's been through the wringer, and he's teaching Zhou that it is not going to be what breaks you.

Also Mentor/Mentee except the mentors are nuts in a different way

I don't know what the hell is going on at Haas.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hiii so I was reading your posts about how confusing the dreams are and I was trying to come up with an explanation of my own. What if both Malleus and the dreamers are subsconiously influencing the dreams and that's why no one really understands what's happening? Because we're not always aware of what's going on in that part of our minds.

[Referencing this post!]

That might be the case?? I really wish this was the lore we received from the beginning; it would have saved us a lot of trouble in the long run if the devs had chosen to go with a looser, more vague explanation of the dream worlds.

@/twistedminutia suggested in this post that the dreams may operate like an AI algorithm, which I thought was an interesting concept + is similar to what anon is pitching too. The idea is that Malleus isn't directly influencing the dreams or determining explicit details within them, but rather he has set a definition for what makes a person "happy" and his autonomous magic (ie the AI) is running off of that definition to determine what would be the most efficient path to "happiness". However, the end result tends to be shallow because of this. The commentor then proposes that Malleus might associate "happiness" with being in control, and because of that, it accidentally "colors" or influences the dreams of those touched by his magic. Thinking back on what we've witnessed so far... Malleus associating control with happiness might not be that far-fetched. Several of the dreams we've witnessed so far involve granting the dreamer a sense of control or outright places the dreamers in positions of power. Lilia is restored to his days as a war general, Leona is the unquestioned king of the savanna, Cater is Heartslabyul's dorm leader, Azul leads a Coral Rush team, Vil is Neige's boss, Jamil is student council president, etc. Malleus himself expresses being insecure when he lacks control over a given situation. In 7-29, he confides in Silver:

"There's something my Grandmother has often talked to me about. It's the reason why our family, with our draconic lineage, is so exceptionally powerful even among the nocturnal fae. She said it's to ensure that nothing ever diminishes the happiness of our people in Briar Valley. Yet here I am, incapable of dispelling the sorrows of father and son alike. What good does all this magic do me? ...I'm completely powerless."

Malleus has also previously acted in ways which suggest that he interacts with the world by projecting his own experiences onto others and relating to them that way. For example, he helps out the late ghosts in Endless Halloween Night because he feels a kinship with them as someone who also misses out on celebrations. In his own dorm uniform vignettes, Malleus thinks of what would be most convenient for him to attend dorm meetings and disregards how his classmates would feel at being summoned like objects. This makes sense, as he has a limited understanding of the world beyond his castle walls and of non-fae societies in general. Malleus only has his own experiences to go off of.

Thinking of it like that, it does make some semblance of sense. Malleus's subconscious desire for control might be trickling into the dreams and either influencing or overriding what the dreamers truly desire in their hearts. And while we're on this topic, maybe it also depends on the dreamer...? Like maybe the more emotionally vulnerable the dreamer is, the more of Malleus's subconscious impacts them? For example, Cater has demonstrated confusion over his identity and what he wishes to do for his internships. This lack of self could mean that Malleus's influence projected more strongly on Cater's dream in order to fill in all those cracks, thus resulting in a dream that is very far away from, even the opposite of, what Cater wants. Azul and Vil have had histories where they were judged and rejected by their peers. Leona and Jamil have their "second place syndromes". And Lilia has to deal with the inevitability of aging and leaving behind his loved ones for a foreign land...

But hey, that's just a theory ^^ A gaaaaaame theory--

[gunsandspaceships]

Tony was disabled and suffered from chronic pain

Tony may not have looked like a disabled person, but not all disabled people need wheelchairs, canes, or hearing aids. Some simply live in constant pain, cannot breathe properly, cannot sleep due to nightmares, or may die without medication or a medical device. All this applies to him.

Tony has suffered from many conditions, many physical and mental traumas. I will describe the most important here (in chronological order), but some things like broken bones, cuts, bruises, etc. happened to him regularly and their impact on his health is unknown.

Blast injuries

You can find details here.

This type of injury has happened to Tony many times, as explosions are not uncommon for superheroes. In his case (he's not an enhanced Homo sapiens, we remember that, right?) they were more harmful than for many others, like Thor, Hulk or Steve.

We can't say exactly how these injuries affected his health, but they couldn't disappear without a trace. What he could have been left with: damaged hearing, vision, brain damage, respiratory system and blood vessels and heart damage, damage to muscles, liver, spleen and intestines.

Shrapnel

And here comes chronic pain, and our first case of overt disability - shrapnel in Tony's chest and most likely right in the heart. Some shrapnel may have remained in other parts of his body, such as his arms and legs, but this was not mentioned in the movies.

Shrapnel can cause harm in two ways:

mechanical (cuts tissue - leads to scarring, puts pressure on nerves and blood vessels, causing pain and ischemia - reduces blood and oxygen flow to parts of the body);

chemical (metal ions can be released from the fragments and travel through the bloodstream, affecting other parts of the body). Many forms of shrapnel contain uranium, which is highly toxic and can lead to health problems, including kidney damage, liver cancer, and bone cancer. It may also cause high blood pressure, autoimmune disorders, and loss of reproductive function.

Other complications may include infections and chronic inflammation around the fragments.

In Tony's case, he received at least three unpleasant gifts from the shrapnel: chronic pain, heart damage, and the constant possibility of death if the medical device that literally keeps him alive stops working or is taken away from him.

So yes, guys, shrapnel is already enough to consider him disabled. But this is just the beginning of the list.

Arrhythmia

Here is a post entirely dedicated to Tony and his arrhythmia.

To summarize: Tony had a severe arrhythmia (most likely Sick Sinus Syndrome) that required a pacemaker and an ICD (implantable cardioverter defibrillator) powered by an arc reactor. Possible causes of this condition include the blast injury, electric damage from water torture with an electromagnet in chest, and heart damage.

This is the second case of disability and constant mortal danger for Tony - just like with the shrapnel, without the pacemaker he would have died, and even sooner than without the electromagnet that stops the shrapnel. And let's not forget the risk of sudden death associated with arrhythmias.

What Tony could experience on a daily basis due to his arrhythmia: exercise intolerance (he stopped running and surfing after Afghanistan), exhaustion, shortness of breath, chest pain, fainting (among all the Avengers, Tony lost consciousness most often), lightheadedness or dizziness, heart palpitations. Arrhythmia is a thing that usually gets worse over years.

Reactor

Hard stuff. Here you can see why.

The damage done to Tony's body in order to implant the reactor was enormous. With all things considered, it is not necessarily a deadly trauma, but certainly a debilitating one.

This case is the third obvious disability and the main source of chronic pain that Tony suffered from 2008 to 2014.

What he definitely experienced every minute of those years: pain, exhaustion and depression due to this, discomfort and pressure in the chest, difficulty breathing (for which his suits contained supplemental oxygen), limited upper body mobility and decreased muscle strength, sensitivity to ambient temperature (the metal would conduct the temperature of the environment and could become too hot or too cold. That's why he would prefer to stay in California until his surgery at the end of IM3 and not move to New York yet - because of the cold winters).

Potential complications that required Tony to constantly monitor his health included: collapsed lung, asthma, chest infections, chest trauma, thoracic lymphedema, blood clots.

He would also be prone to respiratory infections, which could easily lead to complications. For example, a common cold would most likely develop into bronchitis and/or pneumonia. That is why it is very dangerous for him to be around sick people.

The device could also pose a real danger if it encounters another strong magnet (no MRI for Tony!).

Tony always had to be on medications to help him breath (oxygen, asthma inhalers when he picks up a virus or his airway gets irritated, nebulizer treatment), antibiotics due to weakened immune system, painkillers as needed, regular beta blockers to reduce risk of arrhythmias and sudden death.

PTSD

In IM3, we were shown Tony suffering from this mental disorder. In CA:CW we also saw him using B.A.R.F. to ease his trauma over the death of his parents. This is one of the factors that makes me think he had complex PTSD since childhood, not just acute PTSD caused by the alien invasion.

The acute PTSD affected his quality of life, depriving him of sleep, causing nightmares, anxiety and panic attacks from 2012 to 2014. Although it couldn't go away just because Tony became a little more confident in himself by the end of the movie. It takes years of treatment to get rid of this condition, and the VA considers it a permanent disability.

Other things that could have long-term effects on his health:

Radiation (cancer, liver failure, infertility, and thickening and scarring of lung, liver, and kidney tissue)

Heavy metal poisoning (palladium is carcinogenic, may damage bone marrow, kidneys and liver)

Repeated concussions (one possible consequence is chronic traumatic encephalopathy, which often begins years or even decades after the last brain injury)

Use of B.A.R.F. (could be the cause of the migraine he experienced at the beginning of CA:CW)

Left arm/shoulder injury

Penetrating trauma (it is unknown whether Carol actually brought Tony the Xorrian elixir to cure him as she promised)

Conclusion: before the attack that changed his life forever, Tony was a healthy, strong man who ran canyons and surfed. Thanks to his health and high exercise tolerance, he was able to survive many serious and even critical injuries. However, he was not an enhanced super soldier, and the injuries that did not kill him left him physically weaker and with disabilities that could not help but affect his well-being. He became immunocompromised, could no longer endure strenuous exercise without his high-tech prosthesis, take a proper deep breath. He also became smaller due to loss of muscle mass (compare IM1 and IM3).

Tony also suffered from chronic pain due to the damage to his chest and the presence of shrapnel.

PTSD gives him another type of disability that affects his mental functions. Unlike the damage from the reactor and shrapnel, this damage was not fully healed in 2014 and remained with him until the end, although the symptoms subsided.

[thedisablednaturalist]

If you are someone who hates bugs and kills them on sight (except for those that can actually cause considerable harm) please..just..take a second...think before you act. Does that bug need to die? Are you killing it just to feel better?

Yes, phobias are real. I have arachnophobia. And it's taken a long time for me to get to the point I'm at now where i can hold jumping spiders and be sort of near wolf spiders. I still struggle but to be in a field where you're outside a lot, you have to get comfortable with spiders sometimes crawling on you.

The first step is respect. You don't have to like or enjoy bugs. But you need to respect what their role is in the environment. To make it easier, think of animals you DO like and learn about their relationship with bugs. You really like birds? Well guess what a ton of birds eat. Even birds that don't directly eat bugs may eat things that do (ya know the whole food web thing). Bugs also may positively impact their environment through nutrient cycling, eating other, more destructive bugs, eating harmful molds, bacteria, or fungi, pollination, etc.

I used to be skeeved out by a lot of bugs, particularly bug larvae. Guess what I'm studying right now? Invertebrates are so interesting once you get past the initial discomfort.

Many of us believe invertebrates = gross/scary. This needs to stop. Invertebrates are going extinct so fast and because everyone hates them we don't have enough research to even know how many we are losing. Pesticides/herbicides have completely wiped out a significant portion of the invertebrate population, and that's along with other things like pollution, ocean acidification, invasive species, etc.

We are losing spiders. We are losing centipedes. We are losing tiny flies. We are losing worms and beetles and bees and wasps. We are losing butterflies and fireflies. Some invertebrate species only exist in one small pond or cave. Some have never actually been seen and some have only been seen once. And its affecting all of us. Fish are disappearing from streams because there's nothing to eat. Amphibians are disappearing because there's nothing to eat (and bc of chytrid fungus). Bats are disappearing because there's nothing to eat (and bc of white nose syndrome). Pangolins, axolotls, red pandas, armadillos, woodpeckers, monkeys, salamanders, these all have diets that are either partially or only fulfilled by bugs.

I go outside in the summer, and don't even have to use bug spray anymore. I remember getting chased by swarms of nats and mosquitos. Nights glittering with hundreds of fireflies. Now I only worry about mosquitos in the spring by the water. Even then I have maybe 5 bites at most, when before I used to be covered in bites from being outside. Before I was born, windshields used to be COVERED in bugs when you went down the highway.

Please, you don't have to like them, but please make an effort to change your initial reaction. They are earthlings just like us. They don't deserve to die because they aren't cute. We need more funding and research. They are getting wiped out and people think that's a fucking good thing. Stop using bug zappers. Try using bug repellent that doesn't have DEET in it (only use it if absolutely necessary), take the bug out in a cup and piece of paper, use methods other than pesticides to get pests out of your garden. Yes sometimes you need to kill a tick or get the termites or ants out of your house. Sometimes a venomous spider gets in your house and it's not safe to handle them. Sometimes they are killing your plants and you need to get rid of them. But a harmless millipede who's one defense is to literally curl into a little spiral and is completely harmless? Does it really have to die?

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive (Check out all of our long covid resources!)

BY Rhys Richmond

Research reports and detailed case studies from doctors and other providers can tell us a lot about Long COVID. But to understand the full scope of the disease and its impact, we must also listen to the experiences of patients who are suffering.

Today’s post features a contribution from one of our readers, who details his experience with Long COVID and a preexisting illness—in his case, myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS). As someone who suffers from both ME/CFS and Long COVID, Billy Hanlon—in his role as the director of advocacy and outreach at the Minnesota ME/CFS Alliance—also advocates for advancing research into these conditions.

While researchers and clinicians have noted parallels between ME/CFS and Long COVID, as well as among other post-acute infection syndromes, much more research is needed to fill the knowledge gaps. Some researchers hypothesize that multi-organ damage wreaked by COVID-19 might explain how people with preexisting disease in certain organs (such as the heart, lung, liver, and kidney) might be at higher risk of severe COVID-19 affecting those same organs. Furthermore, research has linked an increased risk of developing post-acute sequelae of COVID-19 (Long COVID) to having a preexisting medical condition prior to SARS-CoV-2 infection

In a sense, we’re beginning to see that COVID-19 infections might take advantage of less-than-perfect health to cause persistent symptoms. While other viruses have exhibited similar opportunistic patterns—for example, influenza has been shown to cause more severe illness and hospitalizations in patients with obesity and heart disease—the long-lasting and poorly understood manifestations of Long COVID merit particular attention. In Hanlon’s account below of his own struggles with ME/CFS and Long COVID, he also details how you may be able to help advocate for more research into both of these conditions.

A patient’s chronicle of life with ME/CFS and Long COVID I’m a resident of Minneapolis, living with ME/CFS and Long COVID.

In 2017, at age 28, I suffered from an acute viral-like illness. Before long, I began experiencing severe neurological complications, such as difficulty with concentration and comprehension, as well as heart palpitations. The newfound, crushing exhaustion was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Physical or mental exertion seemed to exacerbate these complications, a phenomenon called post-exertional malaise (PEM), the cardinal symptom of ME/CFS and now Long COVID. In 2022, following a second COVID-19 infection, my symptoms worsened, leading to a Long COVID diagnosis.

As my personal experience can attest, ME/CFS and Long COVID are multi-systemic diseases involving pathologies of the brain, immune system, autonomic nervous system, and energy metabolism system. Many patients report that the onset of the illness (ME/CFS) is preceded by a viral infection, such as Epstein-Barr virus, H1N1 flu, or SARS-CoV-2.

Despite my best efforts, I have never recovered from ME/CFS and Long COVID. There’s no cure or FDA-approved treatment for these conditions, which affect people of every age and background. Very few American medical schools include ME/CFS and Long COVID care in their curricula, so only a handful of specialists in the country are trained to treat these diseases. As a result, many patients are disbelieved or discredited in medical settings, leaving essentially no system of care to lean on. I learned firsthand about the barriers and inequities faced by patients with ME/CFS and infection-associated chronic illnesses. Care for these conditions is vastly under-resourced, under-funded, under-studied, largely overlooked, and highly marginalized.

I anticipated these formative years of my adulthood to be marked by time spent with friends and family (my wife and nephews), new homes, job promotions, and vacations, but instead I find myself in a twilight world of this medical enigma. My life trajectory was headed one way, then viral illness has completely redirected it. I now spend the majority of my time horizontal, forging ahead as best as my body will permit, advocating with the will that still endures. ME/CFS and Long COVID rob futures and confine lives. Coming to terms with losing my career, my independence, and so many hopes and dreams has been as difficult as the chronic illness.

A lot more could be said about the profound loss I’ve felt professionally, physically, personally, and socially, but I instead want to focus on actionable items that anyone reading this can do to help support future care for this rapidly growing group of people affected by these illnesses.

First, Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) recently announced a legislative proposal for The Long COVID Moonshot Act. This proposal is aptly titled as the advancements needed surely warrant a moonshot—the term used when Congress marshals resources across the federal government to expedite progress. These infection-associated chronic illnesses have historically been left at the end of the queue for research funding.

You can reach out to your elected official and ask for their support on this proposal, which will help accelerate and prioritize research, diagnostics, and treatments. This proposal would provide $1 billion in mandatory funding per year for 10 years so that the National Institutes of Health (NIH) can respond to this crisis with the sense of urgency that it demands. Recently, Reps. Ilhan Omar (MN-05) and Ayanna Pressley (MA-07) have also introduced a companion bill for the Long COVID Moonshot in the House of Representatives.

Second, an ME/CFS Research Roadmap Report was approved in May by the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke (NINDS). This is a step in the right direction toward clinical trials, but now we need the NIH to robustly fund it. You can contact your elected officials and ask that the NIH help make this a reality. These are also efforts that could pay dividends toward an ME/CFS platform clinical trial. This was recently recommended by Senior Investigator and Clinical Director Dr. Avindra Nath following the completion of the NIH ME/CFS Intramural Study. A platform trial or advancements in the Research Roadmap Report could potentially yield a lot of intel for Long COVID treatments and help inform the RECOVER Initiative, a research program by the NIH that aims to understand, diagnose, prevent, and treat Long COVID..

Lastly, Long COVID and ME/CFS were highlighted in May at the Senate Labor, Health and Human Services, Education and Related Agencies Subcommittee FY25 NIH Hearing. During the hearing, NIH Director Dr. Monica Bertagnolli stated, “… I want to say about Long COVID and ME/CFS—we are so grateful for our partnership with the people that are affected by this. They have taught us over the last two years what we needed to do. Now we just need to deliver for them.” Millions of people would agree. A crucial step would be to establish a dedicated Center at the NIH focused on Long COVID, ME/CFS, and infection-associated chronic conditions and illnesses.

Rhys Richmond is an MD candidate at Yale School of Medicine

[antaniilla]

Kidd (Trolls OC)

BACKSTORY/CHILDHOOD: Kidd (also responds to Kiddo) is biologically a pop troll, but she was never raised amongst them. Her parents were eaten by the outcasted Chef (before the events of the first movie), but at the last minute, her mom managed to throw Kidd's egg far from Chef's view. Eventually, an unsuspecting Cloud Guy came across Kidd's egg. He wasn't that interested in it and disregarded the egg, throwing it behind him, only for the egg to crack upon impact and for Kidd to be born (prematurely at that). Realizing what he did, he kinda took responsibility for baby Kidd but was barely a reliable guardian. Cloud Guy never truly named her, resorting to just calling her kid/kiddo, so much so that she considered that her name. 

Growing up, Cloud Guy would tell her how there were other trolls out there, to which she started to wonder where she belonged. She craved finding out what type of troll she truly was-- sure she was technically a Pop Troll, but she wasn't entirely sure if she could just accept that without experiencing all the different genres of music. Her curiosity only grew as she grew till eventually, at the age of 12, she decided to explore the world on her own. With some encouragement and support on Cloud Guy's side, Kidd made her way into unexplored territory, letting the winds guide her journey (she didn't have a plan, so she just went with the flow-- a trait she learned from C.G.). It was rough... to say the least. Even if she had lived moving around the forest, there was only so much a 12-year-old could do on their own. She was almost eaten by some creature, barely escaping. She lost a piece of her right ear during the escape. Despite all this, and more, she never lost sight of her goal. She kept brave and optimistic throughout her journey. Kidd enjoyed her time exploring, she wrote and drew everything down in a journal she was given. She was crafty and good at using her resources (and she was extremely lucky), so traveling alone wasn't much of an issue. Her friendly personality earned her the trust of a few nonhostile critters, specifically Poof, a Glowfly that had become quite attached to Kidd.

PERSONALITY: Kidd is a very brave and optimistic troll. She is friendly and easygoing. So much so that she is usually just going with the flow of whatever is going on around her. She is very open-minded and easy to talk to. On the other hand, she can be very reckless, blunt, and indecisive. She tends to mirror the behavior of others around her, which does make her much easier to approach in most cases, however, it comes to a point where she doesn't know if she's acting on her own accord or just copying someone else (She suffers from copycat syndrome and is mildly aware of this). She sometimes lacks social cues, but that's mainly from being raised by C.G and never staying in one place long enough to understand how others might truly feel. However, she does know when she oversteps a boundary and tries to fix it once she realizes it. She has a rather dry sense of humor and tends to find herself in mischief more often than not. She loves teasing others and seeing how far she can get without getting in trouble. She doesn't scare easily but has a deep fear of being outcasted. Despite that, she does not mind traveling by herself (mainly because she's on a mission to find a true home). She loves having company and is more of a listener than a yapper. 

GENRES SHE HAS VISITED/EXPERIENCED...in order:

Funk (pre-first movie... 12-14 y.o...)

Country (pre-first movie... 14-15 y.o...)

SubGenres (pre-first movie... 15-16 y.o...Lost Map during this time)+ Latin Trolls and Folklore Trolls

Rock (post first movie... 16-18 y.o...)

Pop (pre-second movie... 18-19 y.o...)

*On her way to Symphonyville, she got there a bit late, seeing how it was in ruins, so not sure what to do, she went back to Pop Village. By the time she got there, the Rock Apocalypse had ended. She resides in the Troll Kingdom (based on the series: TrollsTopia), where she experiences all the main genres. She has yet to decide what type of troll she is.

TRIVIA:

was created more as a self-insert but eventually turned into an oc

is not part of the main cast whatsoever but reappears in the background as a minor background character (still knows/has heard of the main cast before, just doesn't stick around long enough to be considered one of them)

Despite having already seen most of the main genres of music, she continues to explore outside of the Troll Kingdom in search of other subgenres, and mainly to explore. She always goes back to the Trolls Kingdom after a few months or so. (still going through an identity crisis lol)

Calls Cloud Guy her Cloud Pa

When she dresses up to fit in, she dresses Poof up too

very touch starved, but never initiates it unless needed

Turned 20 after the events of the third movie

Due to the way she was born, she was much smaller than most trolls her age (but not as small as Smidge)

What she wore before she met the funk trolls was a makeshift top and pants from some of Cloud Guy's old socks

Carries with her Socko, which is just a sock with googly eyes that C.G made her when she was a child to keep her entertained.

Looks up to Queen Essence a lot, mainly because she was like her first mother figure

LIKES & DISLIKES: Likes: 

Moving around (never in one place for too long)

Dressing up

Playing the Piano/Keyboard and Harmonica

Singing and Whistling

Listening to people talk

Bad jokes (usually sarcastic jokes, puns, or dad jokes) and doing high-five variations (got that from Cloud Guy)

Collecting Memorabilia

Puffalos- (and of course her little companion, Poof)

Hug Time (again, very touch-starved)

Dislikes:

Stotic/Serious people 

Glitter (or anything flaky and hard to get off)

Feeling left out or seeing others get left out

THIS IS ALL FOR NOW THE FUTURE UPDATES WILL HAVE MORE INSIGHT INTO HER AND HER RELATIONSHIP WITH OTHERS

[armoredprincess]

I don't want french vanilla housepet-feral bitey scratchy sex. I want to give you second impact syndrome.

[slut4thebroken]

Exposure Therapy pt. 4

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Jonathan Crane × reader

Summary | Dr. Crane tests a new drug on you and punishes your disobedience.

Warnings | 18+, sexual content, smut, dub con, p in v sex, crying, breeding, unprotected sex, drugs, coercion, impact play, bondage, degradation, humiliation, emotional manipulation, non consensual groping, angst, stockholm syndrome

Words | 6.6k

Notes | Sorry I did not mean to make this chapter so long lol but there's not really a good place for me to cut it unless I want a super short chapter.

Ao3 link | <3

Fic Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Part 3

The next few days were relatively uneventful. You ate, tried to sleep, and showered, not really interacting with anyone. You also didn’t see Dr. Crane that whole time either. Which was nice, but you were anxiously awaiting his return for three straight days. Three days of barely sleeping, panicking when someone walked down the hall or opened your cell. But the fourth day came and you knew that when the orderly took you from your cell, you were being taken to him. 

“Have a seat.” He said, finishing writing something, but pausing when you didn’t move. “Is something wrong?” That made you scoff. 

“Seriously? You drugged and raped me.” 

“With your consent.” He added. 

“Through coercion!” 

“What’s done is done. Sit.” You clenched your jaw and your fists, digging your nails into your palms, but decided to do what he said. “Thank you. I apologize for being gone so long, there was something I had to attend to.” It took everything in you to not tell him that you don’t fucking care and it was the best three days you’ve had since he kidnapped you. 

“However I did have some time to work on some modifications for the drug you tried.” You scoffed at the way he made it seem like it was voluntary. “It should still lower your inhibitions,” He said as he pulled out his desk drawer and took out a syringe, “but it shouldn’t necessarily make you aroused. We’re going to find out.” His lips turned up into a small smirk, making you narrow your eyes at him. 

“I’m not fucking taking that shit again.” You said bitterly, watching the way his smirk turned into an amused expression. 

“It truly baffles me how you still think you have a choice.” He said, standing up and walking toward you, making you stand to back away from him. “If I need to use force, I’m more than willing to do so.” 

“Fuck you.”   

He stopped walking and sighed, then went back to his desk, calling someone to come in. When a large man opened and closed the door, your breath caught in your throat. 

“I just need you to hold her still while I administer this. Afterwards she shouldn’t be a problem.” He said to the orderly, who nodded and walked toward you. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” You yelled, trying to move away from him, but you accidentally cornered yourself. You could either go toward the orderly, or toward Dr. Crane. The man didn’t give you a chance to decide before he was lunging toward you and pushing you back until you slammed into the wall, knocking the breath out of you and making your vision spin. In your disoriented state, Dr. Crane was able to easily grab your face and turn your head to inject the drug. When they both stepped back, you stayed leaning against the wall, head pounding from the force of him pushing you into it. 

“That’ll be all, thank you.”

You whimpered at the throbbing pain, but he paid no mind to your dramatics. Letting yourself slide down the wall until you were sitting against it and hugging your knees, you couldn’t hold down the sob crawling up your throat.   

“I don’t wanna do it again.” You whimpered, grabbing the sides of your head and resting your face on your knees. You babbled out incoherent protests and pleas, trying not to give in to the feeling flooding your brain, calming you down, making the emotions you were feeling only seconds ago, all but disappear, now a distant thought. When your sobbing died down after a few minutes, he moved his chair back and turned to face you. 

“Look at me.” You obeyed, wiping your tear stained cheeks with a sniffle. “How do you feel?” 

“Normal? I don’t- I don’t know. I’m sorry.” You croaked. 

“What do you mean by normal?” 

“I feel like how I used to feel.” 

“Elaborate.” He said, quickly growing impatient. 

“Before… you. I feel like how I felt before you- before you… took me.” 

“You feel like you can trust me?” You just nodded in response. “Come here and sit down.” You obeyed, sitting across from him, waiting for his next command. 

“Do you feel like you would be honest with me?” Another silent nod. “Do you think you could lie?” You hesitated at that. 

“I- I’m not sure.” 

“Let’s find out. I’m going to ask something I know the answer to, I want you to lie. What did you see during the experiment?” 

“You.” 

“Another just to be sure… You moved to Gotham a year ago, yes or no?”

“N-no?” Despite the simple questions, your brain was still getting confused over what he wanted. 

“Interesting. So you’ll tell me anything I ask?” You nodded hesitantly. “What is your biggest fear?” 

 “You...” You said quietly, feeling awkward saying it to his face. 

“What was your biggest fear?” 

“Being raped.”   

“Do you think that with time, you could become willing and eager to participate in my experiments?” 

“Um… yes? I think? I would now.” You said, making his brows raise. 

“You would?” You just nodded. “What about your treatment? Are you willing and eager to continue that now too?”

“If that’s what you want, yes…” You said quietly, cheeks growing warm. 

“Fascinating. You’re still aware of your fears, but this has completely overridden it.” You internally beamed at the fact that he seemed pleased with you. “I’d like to try something.” He said as he opened the briefcase on his desk, then put on the mask. He walked over to you and you waited patiently. 

“You’re not scared?” He asked, tilting his head. 

“No?” He hummed in acknowledgment, then sprayed the toxin in your face, making you flinch back and start coughing. Now that you knew what to expect, it wasn’t as bad, but it was still unpleasant. 

“Look at me.” He said eagerly and you obeyed. “What do you see?” 

“Just you.” Then, after you remembered how this conversation went last time, added, “Dr. Crane. I see Dr. Crane’s face.” He took a step back, staring down at you, making you squirm. “Did I say the wrong thing?” You asked quietly, wondering why he was looking at you like that. 

“As long as it was the truth, then no.” You breathed a sigh of relief at that. As you stared up at him, it looked like his face was glitching between him and the scarecrow mask he put on. “What are you seeing now?”

“Still you, but also… the mask? It’s changing.” 

“My toxin is wearing off significantly faster.” He muttered to himself. Then, to you, “I’m going to try something. Stand up.” You rose from your seat and waited as he moved closer to you. He placed a hand on your neck and squeezed lightly. “That doesn’t frighten you?”

“…No?”

“Does it arouse you?”

“A little I guess.” He moved his hand down to grope your breast, making your breath hitch. 

“And how does this make you feel?” He asked, tone void of any emotion. 

“Good?”

“What about this?” He cupped your sex, making your hips flinch forward. 

“Good.” You said through a breath.

“Do you want me to keep doing it?” You nodded and he pulled back completely, walking to his desk, making you almost whine. 

“Bring in Dr. Bowman.” He said into the phone. “I want to try something else. When he gets here, you’ll listen to me, correct?” 

“Yes.”

“Good.” He said, then the door was being opened and a man was walking inside. “Thank you for coming, I’ll only need a moment of your time.”

“No problem. What can I do for you?” 

“I need you to touch her.” 

“What?” You and the doctor both asked in unison. 

“I just need to verify something.” When he hesitated, Dr. Crane continued. “I am aware of your history here and I’m giving you permission, so what’s the problem?” He waited a moment as if he was expecting Dr. Crane to say that this was all a joke. When he didn’t, he shrugged, moving toward you. 

“If you say so.” He said and you stepped back, looking to the other man for help. 

“Stay.” He demanded, making your legs freeze. 

“Where?” The other doctor asked as he looked you up and down with revolting hunger. 

“Start with her breasts.” He said, crossing his arms over his chest. You wanted to recoil away from him as he reached out, but you couldn’t make yourself do it. He groped you slow but firm and you couldn’t hide the grimace on your face. “What about that?” He addressed you this time. 

“Don’t like it…” You muttered. 

“You can touch between her legs- over her clothes.” He said, making you whine in disfavor. The doctor eagerly obeyed, cupping your sex more aggressively than Dr. Crane had. He rubbed your clit through your pants and you held back tears as you couldn’t make yourself move away. 

“And that?” All you could do was shake your head while you squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for it to be over. “Thank you, Dr. Bowman, that’ll be all.” Despite the obvious dismissal, the man didn’t move yet. “Leave.” He growled, making the man huff but obey. He waited until the door slammed shut before talking to you again. 

“You seem to have formed a connection to me specifically. If I had to guess why… maybe because I administered the drug. Although that’s unlikely.” He said, walking back over to his desk to write down his thoughts and telling you to sit back down. “Other than the occasional escort and other patients, you're mostly only seeing me… Can you answer me honestly again?” He said, looking up from his writing.

“Yes.” 

“Have you formed some kind of attachment or feelings toward me?” Your brows furrowed as you stared at him, caught off guard by the question. 

Have you? Even though right now it feels like you have, you remember how you felt four days ago when the drug wore off and how you felt every time you were around him before that. But you also remember how you used to feel during your sessions, just sitting and talking, fully trusting him. 

“I think… I did? Before you brought me here. But it- it’s hard to tell now.” 

“How so?”

“I can’t tell if it’s really how I feel or not.” 

“So you’re cognizant of the fact that the drug is changing your perception?” You nodded. “And that doesn’t bother you?” 

“Not right now. But I remember that it bothered me last time after it wore off.” He hummed in acknowledgment, writing something down, then taking off his glasses and furrowing his brows as he thought. 

“It’s almost like I’ve accelerated the stockholm syndrome process rather than simply alter your feelings.” He muttered to himself.

“You think I have stockholm syndrome?” You asked, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Early stage, but yes.” You frowned and looked away from him. “Does that bother you?” 

“I feel like it’s supposed to.”

“But it doesn’t?” You shook your head. 

He asked you questions for a while before someone opened the door, reminding him of an appointment. He checked his watch and sighed, then dismissed you, calling an orderly to escort you back to your cell. 

The drugs wore off and you had a long crying session, trying to make your head feel like your own again. You tried to think plainly about what he did- drug you against your will, grope you, and have someone else grope you. It doesn’t matter what your headspace was, he still did that, knowing you wouldn’t want him to. And that was just today. 

But those thoughts were getting muddled in your brain. Instead, the more clear ones were how he had a normal conversation with you when you were on his lap, how he gave you relief from that aphrodisiac even after he was done and trying to work, and the way he smiled when you said something that pleased him. 

You were getting confused. So you tried to repeat all the bad things he did to you, but the more you said it, the harder it was to remember. 

You saw him over a week later- you know because you started counting after the second day. And you grew to miss his calm presence. The nurses and orderlies were mean and the patients were all bat shit crazy, as well as mean. You hated being around everyone because of that. 

As you sat across from him, anxiously picking at your cuticles and bouncing your leg, you were reminded of your first session with him. 

“You were gone a long time.” You finally said, breaking the silence, making him look up from his work. 

“I have other things I need to attend to besides you.” He said plainly. Your stomach twisted and you averted your gaze to the ground, swallowing thickly. “I hear your behavior has improved.” All you could do was shrug in response, still not looking at him. 

“Is something wrong?” He sighed, making you look up at him. You were silent as you tried to think of a response. How can you answer when you don’t even truly know what is happening? 

“I feel like I’m going insane.” You said quietly, looking away from him and biting your bottom lip when it started trembling. 

“Insane?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” You whispered, voice breaking. You blinked back tears, not wanting to embarrass yourself further. 

“I can only help you if you tell me.” His tone wasn’t empathetic, it was clinical and detached. 

“I don’t like being around anyone else here. And this past week was just so dull and- and long. It was so long. And I’m trying to make myself remember but it keeps getting foggier,” 

“Remember what?” 

“What you did. That I hate you.” You whimpered, not meeting his gaze. “I hate you because you ruined my life, but- but I just… What’s happening to me?” You whispered brokenly, hearing him let out a soft sigh. 

“I can give you something so you don’t feel like that.” He finally said, breaking the silence. “What I gave you last time.” 

“No- no. I don’t- want to not feel like that. I want to remember, I want to hate you. I want to… I want to leave.” You whispered the last part, unsure. 

“I can’t let you do that. Not in your current state.” You let out a choked sob, only this time you weren’t sure if it was because you were upset or relieved that he denied you…

“I don’t understand. Why me? Why did you take me?” You cried, watching his form become blurry from unshed tears. 

“The more I learn about your mind, the more intrigued I become.” He said simply. 

“Out of millions of people in Gotham, some who probably have more interesting minds than I do, you just had to pick me?” You scoffed. 

“Let’s not forget that you came to me.” 

“No.” You hissed. “I came to a psychologist who specialized in psychotherapy for the treatment of phobias. Not some fucking psycho doing illegal experiments on non consenting patients.” 

“Do not raise your voice at me,” 

“How are you so fucking calm?” You asked, louder than before. “How does none of this bother you? How can you so easily rape and drug me repeatedly?” 

“I do what I do because I am dedicated to my work.” 

“Bullshit! You’re just insecure and need to have power over everyone’s minds to make yourself feel like you’re above them but you’re not.”

“I recommend you choose your next words carefully.” He said lowly. 

“Or what? You’ll drug and rape me again? That trick’s getting old, doctor.” You spat, ignoring the way your heart was pounding in your chest. As he stared at you, you forced yourself to maintain eye contact. 

“You know, I was planning on having a nice conversation with you. Give you more of that drug, let you decide if you want to resume your treatment today or not.” He said, opening a drawer and taking out a syringe. “Now you’re going to spend the next week in isolation, tied down, getting more of this everyday.” He said, raising the syringe to indicate what he was talking about. 

“Unless you apologize and correct your behavior immediately.” 

“Apologize?” You scoffed. 

“For being a fucking brat and abusing my kindness.” He said harshly, not even raising his voice.  

“So- what, I tell you something we both know is true and now you’re going to have a tantrum about it? “Punish” me so you can regain control, is that it?” You did your best to hide the growing fear, trying to sound assertive. 

“You know what? Punishing you physically won’t do any good.” He said, opening the drawer and switching out the syringe for another. “Your mind however? Well you just confessed that one dose of this has already started to break you down. I shouldn’t need much more before you lose the battle to your own mind completely.” When he started walking toward you, you stood up and staggered back. 

“Be a good girl and let me do this and I won’t hurt you as much as I plan to.” He sneered and your body started trembling from his words. 

“Fuck you.” You spat. 

When he lunged at you and managed to push you into a wall, you shoved his chest, making him stagger back a step. You used that opportunity to run, but before you could even take two steps, he was grabbing your hair and yanking you backwards until you fell to the ground. He placed a knee on your chest, resting his weight on it, then used one hand to turn your head and painfully push your face into the floor while the other injected you. 

He waited impatiently for the drug to kick in before telling you to follow him as he grabbed the briefcase from his desk. You obeyed and he led you to an elevator, going down two floors. As you walked down the hallway, your eyes widened at the sight of the patients in the cells, some restrained, some not. Most screaming or crying or both. The ones who weren’t were just muttering things to themselves, staring blankly at the wall or floor. He stopped in front of a cell and unlocked it before leading you inside. 

“Mr. Williams, how are you?” The patient visibly got hit with a wave of panic when he walked in. He started shaking his head, muttering incoherently, body shaking under the straps of the bed he was on.  “Since you’re mostly immune to the toxin with that drug in your system, I’m not going to give you a mask.” He explained to you, opening the briefcase and taking out his mask and the fear toxin. 

“Do it.” He said, presenting the canister to you. 

“What?” You asked with wide eyes. 

“Take it.” He waited until you obeyed before continuing. “Do it.” 

“I- I don’t…”

“Now.” Your body stiffened at the harsh tone and you unwillingly stepped closer to the man. As you stood in front of him, you could make out some of the words he was muttering, like ‘no’ and ‘please.’ You hesitated, looking back at the man in the mask who just stared at you, waiting. As you slowly raised your hand, his muttering turned into sobs, begging you not to. 

“I- I’m sorry.” You whispered, knowing the effects of even a small dose and not wanting to make someone else experience that. You sprayed it at him, then took a step back, listening to the way his sobs turned into full blown wails and screams.  

“Good.” He said, startling you and making you turn to face him. 

“Why did you make me do that?” You frowned. You knew why. It was so that he could display his control over you. But the thought didn’t make much sense in your cloudy head. You blinked rapidly as you watched him start to glitch between burlap and skin, trying to make it stop and just see one. 

“I’ll make you a deal. You help me with my experiments and I’ll stop everything I’ve been doing to you. No more drugs, no more treatments, no more fear toxin. You live as a normal patient, but you assist me everyday.” Your frown deepened and you looked away from him. “It’s either you and them, or just them. The question is whether or not you’ll be able to live with yourself after being the cause of that every single day.” He gestured to the man behind you who was now writing under the restraints, still screaming and crying. 

“Think about it. As for right now, you still need to be punished for your behavior.” He said, walking out the room. Once the door was closed, he pulled off the mask and put it and the canister away before leading you somewhere. 

“Punished how?” You asked quietly, growing more and more nervous when he ignored you. Finally you reached a room and he opened the door, walking in behind you and locking the door as you eyed the room anxiously. It looked like a doctor's office. There were cabinets on a few of the walls, as well as a sink. The only difference was the restraints on the exam chair. 

“Sit.” He said, not looking at you as he walked over to a counter to set the briefcase on. You tentatively walked toward the chair and sat down, watching him. “Take off your clothes and sit back.” Your face flushed at his words, but you did what he said anyway, slowly removing your clothing, then hesitantly sitting back down. You eyed the stirrups nervously, hoping he would just pull out the bottom of the chair to make a table and have you lay down instead. But when has anything worked out for you here?

“Put your legs up.” Your blush deepened as your legs moved up on his command. He strapped you in, then attached the cuffs on either side of the chair to your wrists so that your arms stayed by your sides. When he walked back to the counter, you let out a shaky breath. 

“Do you like pain?” He asked, fidgeting with something before turning back around, mask in hand. 

“N-no?” 

“You have a cnc kink and you expect me to believe that?” He scoffed teasingly. He walked back over until he was next to you and your eyes moved between his face and the mask. 

“I- I like a little.” You said honestly, making him smile. 

“That’s good. I plan on inflicting more than a little so this should be a suitable punishment.” He placed the mask over your head backwards so that you couldn’t see through the eye holes in the front. When you didn’t feel or hear anything, you strained your ears, trying to get some indication of what he’s doing. You faintly heard a cabinet open and close, then a hand was placed on your thigh, making you jump. He rubbed up and down slowly, teasingly, and you tried not to squirm under his touch. 

“Have you ever used any bdsm toys before?” He lifted his hand so that only his fingertips touched your skin, raising goosebumps. 

“A few.” You squeaked out when his fingers grazed over your mound, just inches above your clit, to do the same to your other leg. 

“Arkham has quite a collection. I don’t particularly enjoy them myself, but a lot of the orderlies prefer that method of punishing patients, rather than your typical electroshock therapy or ice bath.” His fingers trailed all the way down to your ankle before slowly moving back up. 

“They like the extra amount of humiliation that it adds and in your case, I have a feeling you’ll enjoy that too, but your mind won’t.” He removed his hand and you stiffened in anticipation, then flinched when you felt his feather light touch on your stomach moving up to your chest. “Who knows, maybe you’ll even come from this. If you do, I won’t stop you, and you’ll have to accept the fact that you came from a punishment that had no intention of bringing you pleasure.” He said softly, moving up between your breasts. 

“As someone who’s studied psychology, I know what that can do to a person. You’re going to have to acknowledge that you enjoyed it- that you wanted it. Even if your mind disagrees, your body won’t lie to you.” He traced over your collar bones, then went down the outside of your breast, nowhere near your hardening nipple. 

“And once you give in to that fact, you’ll have to admit that the only reason you enjoyed it was because it was by my hand.” He grazed across your stomach, then up the outside of your other breast. “As we discovered last week, you only respond positively to my touch. Do you know why that is?” He asked, removing his hand as he waited for an answer. You shook your head and released a low whine. 

“Because you want my touch. You want me. Sure, your conscious mind might not be able to admit that, but your subconscious knows. The sooner you accept that, the sooner your time here will become more enjoyable.” You weren’t sure how to respond, but it didn’t seem like he expected you to. 

“Ready?” He asked, voice back at a normal volume. 

“For what,” A sharp smack on your clit had you crying out, at first from shock, but after a second from pain. It definitely wasn’t his hand, so if you had to guess it was probably a paddle. 

“I’m going to hit you until you break, I don’t care how long it takes. Do you understand?” You whined and squirmed in your binds, barely able to move. “Answer me.” He growled, emphasizing his words with another strike. 

“Y-yes! Yes, I- I understand.” 

The third time he hit you, you choked on a gasp. By the fifth time, you were letting out little sounds and breaths. By the tenth time you felt tears growing in your eyes. He barely paused between hits, never allowing you a genuine moment to get your bearings. And the mask made everything worse since you never knew when he was about to hit you again. After a few more he stopped, then strands of leather were being lightly dragged over your chest. 

“Do you know what this is?” He asked, trailing it over your nipples, then down to your stomach. 

“A flogger?” You choked out, body stiffening every time he removed it from your skin. 

“That’s right. Have you ever used one before?” His words almost sounded like praise, adding to the arousal quickly building in your stomach. 

“No.” 

“I’ve heard it can be quite painful- like knives cutting your skin, depending on how hard you hit. Shall we see if that’s true?” 

“No…” You whimpered, squirming away from the strands grazing your skin. 

“No?” You shook your head hesitantly. When the strands came down on your breast with a light slap, you flinched dramatically, making him chuckle under his breath. He hit you again, slightly harder this time, but it still didn’t hurt yet. In fact, you had to bite your lip to keep the sounds of pleasure in. He hit you three more times, then you heard footsteps before he started on your other breast. 

“You turn such a pretty shade of pink.” He said quietly, making you choke out an embarrassing sound. “Do you like it when I compliment you like that?” You nodded and he hit you slightly harder in response. “Use your words.” 

“Yes.” You said through a breath. After he finished the five hits, he trailed it down your stomach to between your legs, making you try to close them. 

“But you like it when I degrade and humiliate you too?” He asked, lightly dragging the strands over your sensitive clit, making your hips flinch. 

“Yes…” You whined. 

“I can tell. That’s why your pussy is dripping already.” You let out a choked moan as your whole face grew warm- the only positive part of wearing the mask. He brought the toy down lightly, teasing you, making you squirm in anticipation. 

“I bet you want me to fuck you too.” He said absentmindedly, lightly hitting you again. “You want my cock stretching that needy little cunt don’t you? Just give me the word and I’ll do it.” You whined as he purposefully brushed the strands over your clit. You did want that- really fucking bad. But can you say that out loud?

“I- I want…” He reached forward to lift the mask up enough to see your face and your blush burned brighter. 

“Go on. Be a good little whore and beg for it. Beg for your captor to fuck you.” You let out a long, needy whine, bucking your hips up as much as you could in the restraints. 

“I’m not giving you anything until you ask for it. I’m sick of you calling it rape when we both know you want it more than I do.” He scoffed, moving the toy up your leg slowly. 

“Fuck me…” You muttered, barely audible. 

“Speak up.” He said firmly, emphasizing it with a strike on your inner thigh. 

“Fuck me.” You whined, not looking at him. 

“I can’t fucking hear you.” He hit your other thigh, harder this time, and you swallowed down a whimper. 

“Fuck me! I want you to fuck me- Please.” You cried, feeling the blush spread down to your chest. He relented, holding the paddle and flogger in one hand so he could open his pants enough to free his cock. 

“Maybe I should’ve been more specific,” He started as he stroked his cock to full hardness, “I’m not going to fuck you yet.” He said, making you frown. “I’m just going to bury my cock in that tight little pussy and feel you clench around me every time I hit your clit. Maybe I’ll keep hitting you until you make me come, we’ll find out.” He shrugged, leaning down and spitting on your hole before lining himself up. 

You let out a low moan as he sunk in, not stopping until he was fully sheathed inside you. He groaned under his breath and closed his eyes for a second. Resting the flogger on your stomach, he readied the paddle in his right hand and pulled out just enough to have space to hit you. 

The first hit made you both release loud moans and you started squirming as you grew more eager for him to fuck you. He placed a strong hand on your hip and pushed you down. 

“Stop moving.” He hissed, making you freeze. He gave you another experimental hit, adjusted the position to have a better angle, then hit you again.  

He maintained a steady beat, not too hard, but hard enough that while he kept doing it, tears welled in your eyes. When he increased the intensity, you cried out, a few tears starting to fall.  

“It- it hurts, Dr. Crane, please.” You cried, trying to squirm away from the constant pain that was only getting worse. 

“You can take it.” He said and you squeezed your eyes shut while you shook your head. 

“Hurts too much.” You whined, making him slow to a stop. 

“I have a question for you.” He said, so you let your eyes flutter open. “How does it make you feel knowing that you’ve disappointed me?” Your brows furrowed at the question. 

“I- I didn’t mean to,” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“Bad…” 

“What about knowing that you’ve upset me?” 

“Still bad.” 

“Good to know. I guess since you can’t take it, that means we’re done.” He shrugged, pulling out of you, making you whine. 

“Done?” 

“Well you can’t handle what I wanted to do so yes, we're done.” He picked up the flogger and reached for the mask, making you panic. 

“Wait-” You said suddenly and he froze as he waited for you to continue. “I… disappointed you?” You said hesitantly, almost confused. 

“Yes.” 

“I- I didn’t…” He stayed silent, waiting for the rest. “I didn’t mean to.” You said quietly. 

“Well you did.” The harshness of his tone made you flinch. 

“I’m sorry…” 

“I don’t forgive you.” He said simply. “I went through all of that trouble to give you what you want but you can’t even do one thing that I want?” He scoffed, making your frown deepen.

“No I- I’m sorry. You can keep going.” You whimpered, trying to ignore the way your burning clit was protesting your words. 

“I can keep going or you want me to keep going?”

“…I want you to.” He stared at you as he thought and you tried to wait patiently and not fidget. 

“Fine. I’ll give you what you want, but you owe me, okay?” You nodded, trying not to seem too eager. He slipped back inside and you let out a relieved sigh as you felt full again. 

“I’m going to hit harder this time, but I’m only going to do ten. I want you to count them, do you understand?”

“Yes.” 

He lined up the paddle and you watched anxiously, body tense. He wasn’t lying, the first hit was significantly harder than the previous ones. 

“One.” You whimpered, trying not to squirm. He lined up the paddle for the second hit, the sharp pain making you let out a choked sob. “Two.” 

“Look at me.” He said sternly and your watery eyes fluttered up to his face. He hit you again and you squeezed your eyes shut as you cried out, but quickly opened them when you remembered his words. 

“Three.”

“You poor thing. Does it hurt a lot?” He cooed, rubbing the leather over your aching clit. 

“Yes.” You pouted, hoping he’d go easier on you. Instead, he brought the paddle down the hardest he had so far.  You let out a quiet sob and started writhing. “Four.” You croaked. On the next strike, you couldn’t stop the tears from falling down your cheeks. “Five.” You whispered, looking up at him through wet lashes with furrowed brows, your bottom lip trembling. 

“Do you like it?” He asked casually. You shook your head with a whimper, feeling more tears fall. “No?”

“No.” You said through a sob, making him smile. 

“Good.” He hit you again, barely letting you get the word out before hitting you again. 

“S-six. Seven.” You whined. 

“I think you’re lying though- I think you do like it. Why else would you be clenching down on my cock so hard?” He brought the paddle down again, waiting for you to count this time. 

“Eight.” Before you could finish he was hitting you again. “Nine.” You cried, clit burning so bad it almost felt like you were on fire. The last one was the hardest of them all, making you let out a broken sob as even more tears streamed down your cheeks. “Ten.” You whimpered, staring at his face that was blurry from the few tears that remained unshed. He set the paddle on your stomach with the whip, then used his thumbs to pull your folds apart, examining you. 

“Such a pretty shade of red.” He mumbled with a small smile. When he brushed an experimental finger over your clit, your hips twitched as you whimpered. “That hurts?” He asked, looking back up at your face. You nodded with a pout, hoping that would be enough to make him not want to draw out your pain. Surprisingly, it was. 

He moved his gaze down as he placed both hands on your thighs for a better grip, then slowly pulled out, letting you feel every inch of him before pushing back in. He started up a cruel, teasing pace, slowly rolling his hips into yours, making you let out a needy whine. 

“Please, Dr. Crane.” You whimpered and his eyes snapped up to yours. He sped up, now seemingly chasing his own orgasm, using your body for his pleasure. When he touched your clit again, his lips curled up into a small smirk as you gasped out, your hips trying to move away from his fingers. 

“Keep squeezing me like that.” He groaned, rubbing your clit again, this time maintaining the cruel touch. You let out pained whimpers along with needy whines, the pleasure and pain confusing your fucked out, drugged mind. 

His hips stuttered and he removed his fingers from your clit to grab your thigh again and pull you flush to him as he let out a low groan. His hips bucked into you with each pulse of come that hit your walls, and you could just barely feel your orgasm starting to grow, but once he stilled inside you, it quickly disappeared. 

He pulled out, then examined your hole with a small smirk, pulling your folds apart for a better view. When his come trickled out, his expression faltered. 

“Is something wrong?” You asked, voice small, worried you were the cause of the sudden shift. He didn’t answer you as he freed your limbs and collected the mask and toys to bring to the counter. “Did I do something?” You tried not to cry at the thought. 

“No.”

“Oh… Then what’s wrong?” 

“Why do you care?” He said coldly as he turned to face you. “You’re supposed to hate me, remember? That’s what you wanted.”

“I- I just…” 

“Stop talking. For once just stop fucking talking.” He spat, making your brows furrow as you frowned. 

“Sorry…” You whispered as you averted your gaze to the floor. 

“What did I just say?” He snapped, making you flinch as your eyes started watering. You didn’t understand where this was coming from. Especially because he’s never talked to you like this before— emotional. He slammed the briefcase shut then walked over to the cabinet to put the toys away. 

“Get dressed.” You slid off the table, then pulled on your discarded clothing, grimacing at the mess between your legs, too scared to ask if it was okay for you to clean it. He didn’t say another word as he left the room with you following him. He walked quickly, you barely managed to keep up with him until he stopped in front of your cell and opened it. 

“I don’t understand what,”

“Get in.” He said coldly, gaze hard. 

“What did I do wrong?” He grabbed your bicep and shoved you in, making you whimper and grab you now aching arm. He’s never been this rough with you in just normal circumstances. “Why are you mad at me? I don’t understand.” You whimpered, bottom lip trembling, now hurt from his words and his actions. Before you could protest, he was slamming the door shut and walking away. 

You stared at the door as your eyes started to burn and your chest started to ache. Trying to think back to what you could’ve done, nothing came to mind. You didn’t complain or fight him at all. But he only seemed upset after he pulled out, while you were just laying there, not moving or speaking. 

What else could it have been then? You thought back to your conversation after the switch. ‘Why do you care?’ He asked. 

Why do you care?? The answer couldn’t come to you. You just knew that seeing him like that was upsetting and you wanted to help him stop feeling like that. But there wasn’t a reason behind that either. 

Part 5

[imhonestlyjustamess]

It's been forever since I've posted so here's a fun (very simple and surface level) infographic about POTS I made last year for an assignment that also helped explain my extremely poor attendance.

Please note that I am not a doctor or an expert, I only have google and my personal experience as someone diagnosed with the condition.

[Image Description:

An infographic poster. There are text boxes surrounding a cartoony illustration of a person looking sick. From top to bottom: Spotting POTS Symptoms of postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, Brain fog (forgetfulness and difficulty with concentration), Headache, Dizziness, Fainting, Fatigue (exhaustion), Insomnia, Chest pain, Shortness of breath, Shakiness, Excess sweating, Heart palpitations, Blood pooling, Low blood pressure, Nausea, Bloating. On the left side is a simple illustration of the brain and spine. The text reads: Impact on the autonomic nervous system: POTS disrupts the bodies ability to balance heart rate and contraction of blood vessels to maintain normal blood flow despite changes in position. Along the bottom of the poster is a depiction of an increasing heart rate. The text reads: Standing for an extended period of time causes a rapid increase in heart rate and a worsening in symptoms for POTS patients. A tilt table test monitoring this increase is the primary diagnostic tool for the condition. A second text box reads: 10 minutes: sustained increase in heart rate of 30bpm or more. ]