#so typical. doctors make the worst patients and all that

[freedcmscall]

“Just lean on me, I’ll help you walk.” from eritvita!

@eritvita

A stubborn shake of the head even as Anders stumbles over his own feet. He's fine, really. Templars have simply been better at watching him, or perhaps he got too comfortable, too confident. It was only a matter of time before his tattered robes were recognised as something only mages wear. It was only a matter of time before his 'walking stick' was too clearly recognised as a staff. They would leave him be soon enough, the good folks of Darktown would never let them get him. He would never let them get him.

"Really, it's nothing." A blatant lie. The healer tested out putting weight on his leg; it nearly buckled under the pressure. Dammit. He reached deep inside, practically floundering about for any sense of mana, but to no avail. Really, whoever it was who decided that templars deserved the ability to strip a mage of their access to magic was a true monster. The attempt to pull forth magic temporarily walled off from his access brought forth a new surge of nausea that he forced down. Best not to get sick in front of anyone, best not to worry Roland more than he clearly already worried.

"Well, nothing I've not dealt with before, actually," he laughs. Laughter is the best medicine, or something. Or humour is the best coping mechanism. "No one laid a hand on you, did they?" Even through his own suffering, Anders always has to put the well-being of others in front of his own pain. It was something in his nature, innate and independent of his practice as a Spirit Healer. Simply it is who he is.

[lily-radiance]

Picture Perfect Psychopath

Doctor Jonathan Crane/ fem reader.

3.9k words

(So far, this is just a drabble, but I do have an idea of where this story could go. I've been watching The Dark Knight trilogy and got inspired. Reader works at Arkham Asylum as a psychiatrist, sharing the field of study with Scarecrow and old flame Harley Quinn. Likely not canon-compliant. Kinda merged various movies since I'm no comic book expert.)

Arkham Asylum is a cesspool of depraved criminals, as it has been for the past few years. Typical people who are suffering from mental illnesses and were sent away without care were obvious. This institution was the cheapest and easiest way to lock up the sick, even before the creation of the vigilantes. Everyone in Gotham City knew to keep their eyes on the ground and act as if crimes were invisible. If you cause a fuss in any shape or form, don't be surprised if you get dragged away in a body bag. You hated the mere thought of disregarding the pain of the city, but what could you do if no one would listen? Criminals, no matter the type, always have a story to tell.

“Bruce, the next time you interrupt my work for a house call, I'm stealing your Batmobile!”

You've been sitting in Wayne Manor for the past two hours, all because your friend wanted to “check-in” on the status of the newest patients. On any other day, you might have given him leniency, but he's been siphoning you for information without a decent break. Now, you not only have to write and submit a few dozen reports before sunset, all while juggling Bruce Wayne. The billionaire rolls his eyes but smiles, enjoying a day where he can loosen up and act as a person instead of a shadow.

“Nice try, but the garage is foolproof. I learned my lesson when you took my ride for a spin last year.”

You sip the cola in your hand, amused at the memory of speeding around the house and getting the vehicle caked in dirt. You apologized to Alfred when realizing the butler had to clean it afterward.

“Too bad, I was hoping to test the maximum speed,” you said with a chuckle, “I'm kidding, of course.”

“Sometimes, I worry about your coworkers. Do they know how much damage you can cause when bored?”

You glare at him from the couch. Work was something you liked to keep separate from life; he knew that very well. After all, if someone identified Batman successfully, then Wayne Enterprises would crumble in on itself.

“Do you know how much damage you cause when I'm not around to cover your tracks? Honestly, you may give Alfred a heart attack.”

The butler frowns at your humor before taking your empty glass. You notice the lipstick mark left over, reminding yourself to reapply the makeup. Psychiatric professionals do their best to look formal, and this habit has followed them since college. When you consider the many polished individuals at the facility, one is always at the forefront of your mind: Doctor Jonathan Crane. No matter the time of day, his appearance is that of near perfection, or you like to think so. Today, you have a briefing with him, and the idea has prompted you to dress to impress; the shade of cherry red on your lips is a testament to that.

“I'm always careful, (Y/N). I have Gordon, Alfred, and Lucius for that very purpose. You know Arkham is filled with lunatics and, more specifically, the worst villains.”

“We've had this conversation before, Bruce. I'm good at my job, and the people you lock up are kept in the deepest parts. Plus, I always hear exciting stories, which makes time fly by!”

He gives you a stern glance, not happy with your unbothered attitude. You drop the smile and sigh.

“I know you think I can't handle myself in that place. You get up close and personal with villains more often than I do. Every floor has a ton of security guards, not to mention cameras and passcodes in each room!”

Eventually, he gives up the protective demeanor. If you needed his help, he was the first in line. If not, he would be prepared for the future.

“Right, I know you're responsible and cautious, (Y/N). It's still the institution with the most significant number of patients in Gotham, so I want you to stay alert. Tim and the others are patrolling tonight if you run into trouble. Remember, the GCPD is conducting investigations on a possible new perpetrator.”

You nod to his speech, tapping your heels underneath the coffee table. He is about to give you another piece of information, but the sound of the front door opening and hurried footsteps is your cue to leave. Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake, and Jason Todd enter the room, waving a synchronous greeting in your direction. Your phone beeps in your jacket pocket, and you fumble the device when the caller is listed. Barbara notices your excitement and chuckles, watching as you answer the phone.

“Hello, this is (Y/N) (L/N); how may I help?”

“It's Dr. Crane, as you probably knew judging by how quickly you answered. The administration got caught up in other matters, so it's just you and me. Don't be late.”

The voice catches you off guard, your heart beating too quickly regarding the abrupt message. You lose your ability to speak, and like everything else, he's already caught a glimpse of it.

“Doctor—what about the meeting on security clearances? We still have much to discuss with the board; isn't this important?”

“I've already taken care of most of the concerns. Currently, my priority is talking to you about your individual endeavors regarding Arkham. Do you have an issue with this?”

As he asks, you know he's not looking for an honest answer. You swallow your pride, although tempting to draw on this further.

“No, Doctor. I'm on my way right now.”

“Good, I have high hopes you'll be fascinated by my newest work.”

You have nothing else to add as he hangs up, an annoying habit you wish didn't leave you bitter. Barbara steps over, raising a brow in examination. Your behavior, coupled with the alluring cosmetics on your face, indicates an attention to detail made to attract. The young woman tilts her head, examining your efforts, and pauses. She prevents your curiosity by grabbing a maroon scarf hung on the hat rack and placing it on your neck. As she wraps the fabric loosely around your collar, she discreetly whispers, “In case whoever you see leaves a mark or can't keep you warm. It also matches your lipstick.”

The redhead winks at you, knowing that finding worthwhile men in Gotham is a rare treat. If only you knew who you were falling for, maybe someone else could have turned your head. The likelihood of your coworker getting obsessed with another pretty face was nonexistent, especially when he knew every method of pushing your buttons.

Gotham weather stands to be frigid regardless of the season, and the cold water on your cheeks proves it. Hurriedly, you head to your car, jumping in the driver's seat and turning the hot air on. You flip the sun visor down, using the compartment mirror to double-check your appearance. You smile, wink, and perform other expressions to understand if this is too much. It's not like you dressed yourself in fancy attire, but the makeup sensation tells you this is different—the scarf clings to your shoulders, adding an extra layer of comfort.

The City appears as dreary as ever, with gray clouds looming over the skyscrapers. You knew this landscape was not as picturesque as the Bahamas, but it was familiar. In this place, you felt like a necessary presence, that your actions were genuinely helping people live. Others complain that they think soulless thoughts and have no purpose in a city of thugs, but they don't see the possibilities. No, you appreciated the constant ebb and flow pattern because it meant everything was up to chance. Unlike Harvey Dent, you had no interest in flipping a coin to decide your fate; if you wanted something and could achieve it, why worry about the downfall? Bruce told you to avoid trouble, and maybe if you tried harder, you could, but curiosity always took control. The night turned Gotham into a place of both dreams and nightmares. When the streets glow amber and the windows shine with the moon, the law is subject to change.

Rain slams against the windshield, the downpour forcing you to drive at a snail’s pace. Common sense doesn't stop other drivers from taking risky turns; some cars cut in front despite your right of way. You honk your horn at the reckless speeding, internally regretting this venture. At least twenty minutes have passed since you left, and yet you're still running late. Luckily, most security guards let you pass immediately, while one or two demand identification. If you weren't so anxious, you would see the multiple faults that made Arkham’s reputation. People were lazy, some slacking without a care. Others were too busy dealing with life changes to support this institution.

The repetitive sound of your heels clicking on the tile floor draws someone's attention. Unfortunately, you can barely avoid this girl regularly, so it makes sense that she would be another obstacle.

“Woah, pudding, you getting ready for the runway or something? I haven't seen you wear red in a long time. It makes a girl wonder, what's the occasion?”

Harleen Quinzel stands in her cell, dressed in a jumpsuit that does her no justice. Her usually dyed hair is unkempt and faded, now a dirty blonde with pigment spots. Despite her living situation, her personality is still bubbly. She holds a bent cigarette and takes a drag, then tosses the leftovers underneath her boots. The woman approaches the metal bars, wrapping her hands around two and leaning through the gap. A stream of smoke is exhaled into your face, the delinquent playfully puckering her lips.

“I have a critical meeting with Dr. Crane, and it was supposed to be with the rest of the board until something got in the way. I'm running late, and if I don't get to that office in time—”

Harley raises her index finger, pressing against your lips to stop your words.

“That does sound like a pretty jumbo deal, dollface! From one doctor to another, rescheduling an administrative meeting is unnecessarily convoluted!”

She moves her hand to cup your jaw, tilting your face in multiple angles to glimpse your handiwork. A smile spreads across her lips, her tongue licking the front of her teeth. It makes you nervous, and she knows it.

“I mean, he said he ‘took care of it,’ but I don't know if that necessarily means it was rescheduled. The board could have discussed several possibilities, so I can't guarantee anything.”

You don't know what she's trying to prove.

“Something tells me your lover boy isn't inviting you for a simple coffee. No, with a mind as unpredictable as his, I bet you'll leave here with more than a headache. That is, if you leave at all, dollface.”

Her voice digs further into your mind, higher-pitched as she giggles to herself. You adjust the scarf to distract yourself, but she won't let this topic rest.

“Harley, as much as I appreciate what I assume is a concern, I know what I'm doing.”

“Sure you do, pudding. You think he's all sweet and charming, right? Doctor Jonathan Crane, who wears a nice suit and never gets his hands dirty? He probably compliments your work and swears to get back to your questions. I'll even bet he holds your hand a little too long when he shakes it, and you don't say anything because you want his hand on yours.”

She sees the blush rising to your cheeks and continues to torment you. You can't breathe clearly, not when your lungs burn like this.

“Oh, I bet you want him to do all sorts of things to you. When he holds your hand, do you imagine it somewhere else on your body? Do you think he'll have you by the waist while his other hand traces your neck? Will he squeeze your throat and bruise the pretty skin, rubbing his tongue up and down? Will you let him devour you as I did? I bet you'll have his handprints on your thighs for weeks, the dirty little secret that you keep to yourself?”

She plays with the ends of your hair, curling the strands around her fingers. You haven't been this close to her in years, and your proximity reminds you why. Getting close to villains is a quick path to insanity. You step away from the cell, regaining your focus. A pair of footsteps echo down the stairwell, slow and precise. When you turn, your coworker is impatiently waiting, a scowl etched onto his features as he stares between you and Harley Quinn. The blonde enthusiastically waves at him, earning a glare.

“Come along; we have lots to discuss and little time to waste. I thought I clarified that I wanted you in my office five minutes ago.”

You follow his figure, a knot in your stomach at his unusual mood. The doctor could be a pain when it came to protocols, but you two got along reasonably well. He gave you criteria to follow, and more often than not, he liked to debate your findings. You hoped this was a quick conversation, but then it didn't make sense that he instructed you to take a ferry for something he could have said on the phone.

“Yes, I had to drive through the rain and rush in traffic. I wasn't counting on the weather to be so awful or for Harley Quinn to pull me aside.”

He waits by the top of the stairwell for you, watching as your heels tap the concrete. It amazed him: the concept of walking on elevated stilts that could snap like a twig. You don't miss how he scans your legs or how the muscles in your calves tighten. He extends a hand, presenting the cordiality that made you admire him in the first place. You hesitate with trembling fingers, muttering a quiet “thanks” as he holds your palm. He's warm, and it gives you too much satisfaction. Instead of letting go, he merely continues walking, carefully trailing his fingers over your radial pulse. Each thrum of your heartbeat is now in his possession of knowledge, tipping him off on your anxiety. The door to his office is down a corridor, only accessible to visitors and himself.

“Had you considered wearing gloves, Doctor? You might want to invest in case the temperature drops. If you can't use your hands, I suppose the mind is sufficient, but exhausting yourself unnecessarily is no good to anyone.”

You sit in one of the two chairs, removing your scarf and placing it in your lap. Crane takes his place behind the desk and falls into the chair, folding his hands on the flat surface.

“Believe me, if I could grab a few extra layers, I would have. I was visiting a friend when you called, and since you requested I hurry, there was no point in going home to change. I've lived in Gotham for a long time, and a storm isn't enough to stop me from doing my job. Anyway, you said there was something you needed me to examine?”

He slides a manilla folder towards you, numerous papers spilling from the seam. You take the hint to inspect the documents, flipping through the pages and absorbing the content. MRI scans, coupled with test results and psychological jargon, cover the sheets. You wrinkle your nose in focus, recognizing the highlighted areas of the brain as the amygdala and the frontal lobe. The human brain structure separates information based on its importance, using the amygdala for the fear response and the frontal lobe for rational thought. If one of these locations is compromised, whether by neural chemicals or injuries, the body cannot regulate its reactions to stressful environments. You continue reading, wholly fascinated by the hypotheses listed. The last few pages are still being worked on, primarily blank except for messily written notes. While your train of thought is still understandable, you remove a pen from your coat pocket and begin scribbling. He stares in amusement, pride blooming at your coinciding wonder.

“Doctor Crane, this is beyond incredible! If you were to develop this drug, who knows what group might want it? Not to mention the possibility of designing a formula with the opposite goal of annihilating fear entirely!”

He doesn't bother to hide the smirk on his face as you supply him an ego boost. Initially, he worried you would have an adverse reaction given your good-natured spirit, but those doubts were put to rest by the sight of your smile. The longer he allows himself to relax, the more his eyes are drawn to your lips. Red was a beautiful color on you, contrasting the dim aura of this hospital. As you revel in this energized state, you do not anticipate the foreign sensation of his mouth against yours. Recognition dawns on you as the scent of his cologne lingers, and the papers fall to the ground. You cautiously lean into his touch, grasping his shoulders to bring him closer. The fabric of his shirt bunches as you dig your fingers into the material. He has no qualms with your proximity, but he recognizes the trepidation in your movements for what it is: the worry that you'll scare him away. It's ironic, and it tells him that the only way to disprove your doubt is to make sure you know that this encounter isn't based on the heat of the moment.

He kisses you harder, pushing his tongue inside your mouth. You gasp in surprise, allowing him additional access, as well as the ability to overpower you. Never had you thought that the absurd fantasy of him kissing you would come to fruition, and certainly not in his office over research data. This was supposed to be a dull day of filing paperwork and overhearing business, not the instance where your co-worker, technically your boss, would be sharing saliva. His lips travel to your cheek, then your jaw, trailing down your neck. He has to remove the scarf and unbutton your collar to reach the desired location. You tilt your head back, moaning as he grows closer to your carotid vein. Similar to your earlier encounter, he locates your pulse, biting and sucking the skin as your heart rate increases. You admittedly have no idea what you're doing, but you do know that the image of him making out with you is extremely hot.

Yet, rational is a demon that you cannot leave behind. You're a scientist through and through, which means taking time to analyze the effects of this situation is necessary. Gently, you press against his chest, halting his actions and putting space between you. He looks down at you quizzically, adjusting his glasses that had fallen from the bridge of his nose.

“We could keep going with this course of action, not that I would complain, but maybe we should consider what we're getting ourselves into. I mean, we work together, and if we pursue a relationship, that could cause an entire slew of issues. Let’s cool our jets and think about this objectively before getting too deep.”

You feel a new weight on your chest as you try to analyze his expression. Most days, you could guess his emotions based on small talk, if he even spoke to you. Unfortunately, he's again acting like a blank slate, unreadable as the silence grows longer. Somehow, this enigma of a human specimen has become a magnetic field, drawing you in despite your better judgment. It's not that you don't want to see where this night goes, but the idea of committing to him, especially in the workplace, sends a chill down your spine.

“I see what you are getting at, (Y/N). It's not a problem if you want to think this over. Honestly, I prefer my opinion, but I see no fault in mulling it over. We wouldn't be scientists if we didn't leave decisions up to logic, would we?”

He seems calm enough, and that takes some of the pressure off. You breathe out a sigh before stretching your neck, still a bit unsure of what to do. Another beat of awkward silence follows before you work up enough courage to face him. Blue eyes catch your thousand-yard stare and dart back to the ground.

“It's getting late. D-do you need anything else from me, Jonathan?”

He is not expecting you to refer to him by his first name despite the circumstances. The sound of your hesitancy is still cute, and he wasn't expecting his name to sound so good on your tongue.

“No, I have everything I need. Do you want me to drive you home? The weather is still raining cats and dogs. Not only that, but Gotham is dangerous already, and I wouldn't want you to get hurt.”

The offer seems adequate, and you know precisely the dangers lurking outside. If not for crime and insanity, you wouldn't have a job, but that doesn't mean you want to get caught up in legal shenanigans.

“I drove to the docking bay with my car, so assuming you drive, that would leave one of us without our respective vehicles…”

“You're partially correct. I take a taxi to get around town most of the time so that I won't abandon my car here. Then again, if I drove your car, I would still have to call a cab at one point or another.”

His analysis has you pondering the options until you decide to wing it. You've already made out with your boss, how much worse could it get?

“Screw it, I'll call you a taxi myself. If the weather gets too bad, you can stay at my place for the night.”

You pick up your scarf from the chair, throwing it around your neck in preparation for the cold air outside. The hallways are still empty, and for once, you're glad since the quiet gives you space to think. All that's left is to descend the stairs, pass security, and get the hell out of there. You place your hand in your pocket to grab your identification card but pause as your co-worker is two steps ahead of you, already swiping his badge across the checkpoint. That's right, he has a higher security clearance than you; no wonder he's always early to the office.

“There ya’ are pudding! How'd that meeting go—”

Harley Quinn wastes no time in asking questions as soon as she sees you approach. The doctor next to you gives her a scowl like last time, but the reason behind it is different. Before, he was irritated by her peppy attitude, and now it's jealousy. The blonde’s expression turns into a frown, but covers it with her usual distaste for nitpicky professionals. You would find their disagreement amusing if not for your fresh taste of humanity from the critical doctor, his shell still rough around the edges. You let your mind wander, barely recognizing the arm around your shoulder until you feel the support of his body against you.

These moments are the ones that make your heart race and your mind split. You know this guy, right? He has to be one of the good men in this rotten city. If not, what would you do anyway?

If you like this check the updating version on ao3: Click

[abilouwrites]

THE BEFORE, AND THE AFTER

SERIES MASTERLIST

2

I clock in again the next day, the same routine. A familiar face in Dynamight; Bakugo Katsuki’s room. A woman who I assume is his mother fretting over her son. Bringing him water, and knitting as he sleeps.

“Are you one of Katsukis nurses?” She asks as I walk into his room, hair clipped up as I check the IV and his BP.

“Yes” I respond, “has he had any complaints about pain? Headaches?” I ask her. She scoffs and shakes her head.

“No, not that he’s told me. He’s stoic like that; doesn’t let anyone know he’s in pain. It can be very annoying” she smiles a little, greying hair loosened around her shoulders. She leans back in her chair and sighs

“They make the worst patients, the cast is off and I think some physical therapy will help with function in that wrist. Do you want that contact?” I ask and she nods, “I’ll put it in his chart”

“Thank you” she squints her eyes to see my name, “Y/l/n, that’s a beautiful name.. your husbands?” She asks

“No” I say weakly, “I’m single” I hear her tsk and shake her head.

“That’s such a bummer, you’re so beautiful” she murmurs, “ah, I’m so sorry.. I must be wasting your time.. I’m sure you have other patients to see”

I shake my head, “it’s all good, I’m hoping by tonight he should be able to go home. Do you know if he has someone who can take care of him?”

She shakes her head, “no, I’ll have him stay with me and my husband. Will that work?”

I nod, “just for a week. The neurologist is still nervous about that concussion but he should be fine to be at home on bed rest”

She nods and thanks me as I walk back to the nurses station. Which is typically how my days go, I sit and finish charts online.

Bakugos mother leaves that afternoon to go home and shower, “how are you feeling?” I ask stepping into his room once again.

“Like I got hit by a bus and you won’t let me leave” he groans, shifting from the bed to stand. Leaning on his portable IV drop, “what? Am I not supposed to be walking?”

“I guess. Only if you don’t mind me walking next to you. I’m required to do so” I explain as he slowly walks out of his room.

He rolls his eyes, “I don’t get why I feel like this.. only my arm was hurt right?”

I shrug, “you were hit very bluntly in the chest— and you have been bed ridden for a day so it’s all very expected” I watch him nod and slow his pace.

“Y’know my mom asked about you” He speaks softly, a little wheezy and with a soreness to his step, “she’s nosy like that”

“I’ve heard” I raise my eyebrows, “let’s turn back now”

“No I can keep walking”

“We’re turning back”

He huffs and pouts a little before following me back to his room, I help him sit back down and he has this shut eye look about his face, “do you want some more painkillers?” I ask, “we’re trying to ween you off but if you’re in a lot of discomfort.”

He shakes his head, “no. I’m fine. How much longer until I can be back on the streets?” He asks.

“I dunno, you’d have to ask your doctors. I’m just a nurse” I tell him once again, “but you should be going home tonight”

“Y’know, I’ll miss our talks” He teases, a running gag that I do my charts with him when his mother is home. Someone to keep me company.

“Yeah, sure you will” I roll my eyes as I sit down and flick open a chart and begin scribbling some notes down.

“Why didn’t you become a doctor?” He asks, sitting up and looking at me, “you’re very smart”

I shake my head, “mom pushed me into it, said it’d be easier to keep working when I uh eventually get married.. if that ever happens”

I hear Bakugo laugh, “you’re twenty sixish? You have years until you need to get there”

I smile at him, “yeah yeah, tell it to her.” I shake my head a little and look out the window and see no-one. Which is fairly usual as the halls up here are empty. We keep the nurses few as to prevent leakage and paparazzis.

“I’ll miss this, but I am so ready to not eat hospital food” he jokes. There’s a seriousness to his face and he shifts a little, “hey mom” Mitsuki walks in and smiles.

“Y/n!” I’m quick to stand and tuck my chart into my armpit before wrapping her in a tight hug, “I’m here to bring Katsuki home” she smiles. In the two days I haven’t seen her she’s cut her hair. It falls just at her neck and she looks a little more rested.

“Yes, he’s told me”

“You were an absolute doll and a wonderful nurse, when he gets hurt again I’ll be hoping you’re on his case”

“Thank you Mrs. Bakugo, but I hope I won’t see him for a long time”

I wave goodbye to her and Bakugo as she slowly wheels him into the elevator, and maybe I’ll miss him. Maybe just the slightest bit.

And so I drive home in my crappy little car to my apparent. Which is how my nights usually go, some left over pasta and chicken that Suki made while her boyfriend was staying with us. It’s good and just enough to push me through to shower and detangle my hair.

Suki comes in my room as I slip into my sleep shorts and begin braiding my hair, “hey cutie” she smiles as she jumps onto my bed and lays down. She’s only twenty and has picked up the little sister act perfectly. She sniffles a little and stares at me, “how was saying goodbye to your boyfriend?” She teases a little— although not knowing who the person is I’ve told her about the guy I’ve been keeping company throughout his stay.

“It was fine? He’s not my boyfriend you know” I correct as I tie off the braid and lay down next to her, “and I ate your leftovers”

“You suck” she groans. She rolls over and stares at me, “are you going to bed?”

“Yeah, don’t you work early tomorrow?” I ask and she nods, getting up. But not before stealing my moisturizer and blowing me a kiss goodnight.

“Goodnight Suki”

[snippychicke]

It's just Business Eight--Hold On.

Fucking Bounty Hunters.

No. Fucking Luffy who had to have the largest bounty in the East Blue and still traipsed around every island you came across, shouting his name to the skies.

The bounty hunters were left in puddles of their own blood, and you didn’t bother to check if they were even still breathing as you and Luffy helped Zoro back to the ship, Nami and Usopp trailing behind with Sanji. The two had suffered the worst of injuries-- which was proving to be typical, unfortunately.

“I’ll get us out of here,” You heard Nami say, but you were already gathering supplies from the makeshift First Aid kit, mind whirling with what you needed to do. Zoro was still not completely healed from his fight with Mihawk, and then the brawl with Arlong’s pirates. You were pretty sure at this point he was just straight-up ignoring Death.

Your thoughts came to a stand still when you saw Sanji half-slumped in the chair next to the bed where Zoro laid, far more pale than usual and beads of sweat evident on his forehead. “Hang in there, okay Sanj’?” You spared a brief moment to squeeze his shoulder - softly, just in case it was injured - before turning to your first patient. "Let me get Zoro fixed first."

“I’m fine,” Zoro tried to protest until you poked his chest sharply and got a hiss in return.

“Bull-fucking-shit,” You snarled, ignoring the huff of laughter coming from behind you. “I’m not even a doctor and I can tell that lie from a mile away.”

“It’s not smart to piss off a lady, moss head,” Sanji muttered, making you grit your teeth as you worked. Of course he would decide to push Zoro’s buttons while you were trying to treat the swordsman. “Especially one that’s taking your clothes off.”

“Oh my god, Sanji!” You snapped before Zoro could react, turning your head to glare at the cook out of the corner of your eye. “Are you serious?” The blond’s head was hung back as he slumped in the chair, hair covering his eyes but you could still see the faint smile on his lips. Far, far too pale lips.

“You’re just jealous she’s undressing me first,” Zoro added and you saw red.

“I know you are both some of the strongest people I know, but do not think, for one second, that I would hesitate before murdering you both,” You swore between clenched teeth. “And I could get away with it. After all, I’m not a fucking doctor.”

Thankfully, once you started to fix the torn stitches on Zoro’s chest, the swordsman was too busy controlling his breathing to make any quips, and Sanji was unusually quiet - though you presumed you knew why once you heard the click of his lighter. Silence hung in the air along with the smoke from Sanji's cigarette while you worked, allowing you to finish quicker than you expected.

“Alright,” You sighed as you bandaged up the swordsman before throwing his bloodied shirt at him. “You’re good to go. I’d give you strict orders to get some rest, but…”

“I was already planning on it,” Zoro muttered as he stood and gingerly limped out of the cabin.

“Okay then, next…” Your words died on your lips as you turned and watched as Sanji undid the buttons of his blazer, and then his shirt.

Oh. Huh. It was… it was suddenly a lot hotter in the room, and you blamed that solely on the fact Zoro had shut the door behind him.

You swallowed thickly as you tried to focus on the wounds from the bounty-hunters swords. After all, you had seen him shirtless before. Granted, the times he had done so you had found yourself in similar situations of being hit with speechlessness and sudden hot flashes.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Sanji asked, shooting you a look, snapping you back to reality.

"Tired," You excused, gesturing to him to sit on the bedside. "Not used to all this excitement."

"I wouldn't think mosshead would affect you that much," Sanji muttered, making you roll your eyes.

"Hardly." You muttered. "The man's going to end up with more scars than anything else at this point." Zoro was… nice to look at.

But he wasn't Sanji.

Not that you would ever admit that.

Your heart took up residence in your throat as you cleaned Sanji's wounds, yet also relieved to note they weren't as deep or severe as Zoro's - And if your fingers lingered on his skin, gliding across the muscles, it was just part of the assessment. That was all.

"I think you might just need a few stitches," You decided, avoiding looking up at him as you looked through your first aid kit for another suture pack.

"...are you sure this is what you wanted?" He asked as you readied the needle and thread. "Being a jack of all trades for a bunch of pirates?"

You shrugged half-heartedly. "Even if it wasn't, I can't exactly change my mind now." Was this what you wanted--stitching up your best friend's wounds? Listening to him curse in pain because you didn't have the right painkillers, or even some kind of numbing agent?

Not at all.

But you thought that was the end of that line of conversation as you worked - your heart aching in pain with every hiss of pain. You were not meant to be a doctor. Not at all.

"I'm sorry," You repeated for what felt like the hundredth time as you pierced his skin. "Last one, I promise."

"I'd find you a way back," He said through gritted teeth, surprising you. "Back to the Baratie if you wanted. Or anywhere else for that matter."

You finally looked up at his face, meeting his gaze. "I'm not leaving you Sanji. So drop it."

His hand reached out to cup your face, wiping away tears you hadn't realized had escaped your eyes. "I don't want you staying here for my sake. I'd rather you be happy."

Your heart twisted into a knot. Did he really think you could be happy anywhere else? Constantly wondering if he was okay? Wondering if he was alive or dead? Especially now that you knew how dangerous it was.

You scoffed as you focused back on the last stitch. "Sorry, lil' eggplant. I said you were stuck with me forever, and I meant it."

~*~

If you thought Sanji-- the man as strong willed and stubborn as Red-legged Zeff himself, who survived nearly three months with barely any food at the age of nine-- would drop it there, you were wrong.

"Where is this coming from?" You swore after he pressed you again about going back to the Baratie while you helped wash dishes. Thankfully the rest of the crew had left the galley after supper, allowing you two privacy as you argued - though you would be highly surprised if they couldn't hear.

"I want you to be happy," Sanji excused again around his cigarette. "I know you only joined the crew because you felt like you had to. Because we pressured you back at Coco village. I don't want you risking your life because of me."

You ground your teeth as you scrubbed one of the pots. "Is that it, or because I keep cock-blocking you?" You weren't blind, there had been more than a few girls in the various ports that had been charmed by his wiles. Yet every time you had sworn to yourself you were going to turn and look the other way - allowing him to do whatever he pleased - his eyes would catch yours. You don't know if it was the sadness or disgust in your expression that always seemed to ruin his mood, but everytime you retreated back to the Going Merry - he would follow.

"You're not--" He choked out, surprised by your words. "That's not it. This has nothing to do with me, or how I feel."

"Bullshit. Because no one else has a problem with me except you." You slammed down the pot, biting back your tears. "I told you, Sanji. I'm not leaving." Go back to the Baratie, try to live a life without him? Without the promise of seeing him again at the end of every lonely trip?

Even if he disliked you, at least by staying here you would know if he was okay.

"I don't have a problem. I just want you to be happy, that's all. I want you to be following your own dream and not just tagging along because you feel like you have to."

Thoughts tore through your mind quicker than you could really handle. 'I don't have a dream. Not like everyone else. I just want to be happy, and that has always included you. I can't imagine life without you. I don't want to.'

Maybe you were foolish. Being blinded by your feelings. But hell, even if he hated you, you knew you would still care for him.

His hand slid over your shoulder, breaking you from your thoughts. You could barely see through the tears in your eyes as you looked up at him, and you wanted to curse him. Because you were sure the human heart shouldn't be so full of both love and anguish at the same time.

You slapped his arm away, and didn't give him a chance to say another word as you stormed from the kitchens and out to the deck.

》°《

Your eyes burned as you rotated the spices in the small closet, and you wished you could blame it on the sharp pungent smells.

But you couldn't. Maybe it was just because it was close to that time of the month. Or maybe you were overly tired. But after your usual meeting with Zeff to settle the books, you had escaped to your usual little table to watch the patrons of the restaurant.

Except today, one of the beautiful women must have really caught Sanji's eyes. The sous-chef had slipped from the kitchen with some delectable little dessert to serve in-person. The woman had blushed deeply, but seemed just as smitten with Sanji as he was with her. The two talked for quite a while until Sanji picked up her hand to press a kiss to it.

And, well, that had been enough for you. You slipped back into the kitchens to tell them to cancel your order before disappearing into the pantry to put away the items you had delivered.

Organizing and stocking was oddly soothing, though it allowed your mind to wander.

Were you really that idiotic? You knew he was a flirt-- a playboy. So why did it hurt so much? Why couldn't you let this stupid crush go? There was more to life than men. Then Sanji.

You needed something else - maybe even someone else - to think about. To worry about. To dream about.

A shadow fell over the tiny closet, and you looked over your shoulder to see Sanji. "Could you hand me some of the saffron?" He asked, gesturing to one of the shelves.

"Uh…" Despite being the main supplier for the restaurant, you weren't overly familiar with the various spices. Especially the less-typical ones. (You knew oregano, considering the lifelong debate about it, but the others you need to smell or at least see the label.)

It didn't help that the racks were tightly packed from floor to ceiling, so the vague gesture was less than helpful.

"Here," Sanji stepped closer, a hand on your shoulder as he pressed against you to reach over your head. Your face flushed as your breath hitched-this was definitely not helping your situation. "Damn Zeff got it in his head for some Saffron Risotto for some reason."

"Hmm," You hummed, unable to say anything with the lump in your throat.

And then the door slammed shut.

Both you and Sanji swore, though the space was barely large enough for either of you to move. "What the fucking hell," Sanji swore, and you heard the unmistakable sound of a lock.

"You two idiots are going to be stuck in there until you actually talk to each other," Patty's unmistakable voice stated from outside. "We are sick and tired of your teenage dramatics."

"Patty! Patty! Not funny!" Both of you swore, trying to move, which was very uncomfortable as you were more or less pressed into the shelving.

But if Patty was out there, or any of the others, they were unusually quiet.

"Fuck my life," You sighed as you pressed your head against the shelf in front of you. Because, unfortunately, you could easily guess that Patty, and probably many of the others, had jumped to the - correct - conclusion your unusual lack of appetite and sober mood had something to do with the flirty playboy.

"You and me both," Sanji grumbled near your ear. "That pretty brunette at table five is waiting for me."

Yeah, that did not help.

"Speaking of pretty girls, what are you doing in here?" He asked after a moment. "I don't recall your order coming through."

"Not hungry today," You bit out. "Look, do you think you can shift enough to try the knob?" Even though you had heard the soft click of a lock, you had to hold out hope.

"You? Not hungry after coming home?" Sanji scoffed, but also turned slightly behind you, his hands falling naturally to your waist as he tried to turn completely, but failed to do much more than press you against the shelving more.

"Ow ow, wait, no," You hissed, pushing back against him. You felt his fingers dig into your hips as he tensed. "Let me turn first so the damn bar isn't digging into my chest."

Sanji stayed oddly quiet as you wiggled and managed to turn around in the tight space. The hanging light lit the space sufficiently, letting you see Sanji's red face even as he avoided your gaze, his hands no longer on your hips but gripping the shelving on either side of your head.

Ah. Right. Knowing him and everything, having a girl pressing against him was not doing him any favors.

Or, at least when that girl was you.

"Bet you wished it was brunette in here with you now," You couldn't stop from grumbling. "Bear with me another minute and you can get back to your new girlfriend."

"Is that what you're mad about?" He asked as you tried to reach around him for the knob, pointedly ignoring how it felt to be pressed against his chest.

"I'm not mad," You growled as you tried to focus. "I just think it's poor work ethic for you to be flirting with every woman while on the clock."

For a moment you grinned as you were able to grasp the handle, but a small jiggle proved it was locked making you curse.

"I don't see why you'd be bothered by my 'work-ethic'. Hell, as much as the old geezer complains, that's not something he grumbles about."

"Should be," You huffed. "The damn thing's locked."

"Fuck," Sanji swore and you couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. "I'm gonna kill him as soon as we get out of here."

"You'll have to wait your turn." You were going to strangle that blue-haired menace. And whoever was his accomplice, even if Zeff himself was involved.

There was a moment of silence as both of you fumed, thinking of ways to exact your revenge as well as how the hell to get out.

Or, so you presumed.

"She's cute but she's not really girlfriend material."

You were confused for a moment at the non-sequitur before your mind was able to connect the metaphorical dots. You rolled your eyes, unsure if you were more annoyed with him bringing that back up, or the fact that it only solidified your belief he was a playboy despite his insistence otherwise. "You said she was waiting for you," You bit out. "So does she know that?"

"Considering she's waiting for her bill so she can get back to her fiance back on Maple Island, probably." He sighed. "She's here with a bunch of her friends for one last night out before she gets married. I was indulging them, that's all."

He finally met your gaze, face still pink but a faint smile on his lips. "You know it's hard for me not to indulge a beautiful lady. Especially when they ask so sweetly."

You huffed as you looked away. "Yeah yeah yeah, I've heard it all before." Still, there was no denying his admission soothed the wound on your heart. The one you rather not think about. "So, back to our issue at hand, how are we getting out of here?"

"Well, if you pardon my touch for a moment…"

Your breath caught as he gripped your thigh and pulled it up, bracing it against his hip. There was a devilish smirk on his face that did nothing good to your insides that were both twisted in knots and boiling.

"Kick it."

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah, your face was red judging by the fact your cheeks felt like fire as you shifted your weight, finding the door with the bottom of your foot as you held on to Sanji for balance. You weren't as strong as him or Zeff, but you could still do plenty of damage.

There was a sharp crack as you slammed your foot against the door, though it still held. Even after a second kick, it barely gave any.

"Harder, sweetheart," Sanji whispered in your ear. "Give that damn thing a piece of your mind."

Could you just die after this?

Still, you poured all your energy and slammed your foot one last time, which did the trick. The door freed itself of the hinges and fell to the floor with a loud crash.

Sanji chuckled as you caught your breath, still holding your leg against his thigh, mindless rubbing his thumb back and forth. "You promise to leave a bit of Patty left for me if I let you go?"

"I make no such promises," You retorted, and felt his laughter as well heard it as he pressed a kiss to your head.

"Alright, fair enough. You go kick his ass sweetheart, while I make your favorite dish."

[risingscorchingsuns]

okay so i have the bit where i reblog the post about genya having MALS every time mine flares up, but i realize nobody likely knows what the hell MALS is because it’s pretty rare and massively underdiagnosed. so because this is a thing that Hurts Me A Lot, and also because i genuinely do think it makes canonical sense for genya to have it, so im gonna infodump about it! obvious tw for medical shit and mentions of vascular problems. please do note I am not a professional- just a patient with too much time and having to do my own research because doctors won’t listen to me <3 I write from my own experience and very surface-level research; this is in no way an academic paper.

okay! MALS! what is it? MALS stands for Median Arcuate Ligament Syndrome. The median arcuate ligament is a vascular ligament in the lower part of your chest, and MALS is a kind of chronic vascular compression condition where this ligament sits lower than it should. This puts pressure on the celiac artery, which supplies blood to the stomach, liver, and all the other organs and stuff in the lower abdomen.

The symptoms vary, but from the limited research out there as well as my own experience, the primary symptom of MALS is agonizing chronic stomach pain, which has a risk of flaring up after eating or exercise. In my own experience, it’s both, but it’s mostly food. I’ve had days where I barely eat, or eat much less because i really don’t want to have to deal with a flareup. There’s no foods that trigger it specifically as far as I know, but I’ve noticed that things with high fat or oil contents make the flareups happen faster. For example, sushi- I love tuna nigiri, but the fat in the raw tuna always leaves me in agony 😔 I’ve also had to leave the gym early sometimes, because exercise triggers it. This is less common in my experience, though.

The pain is normally manageable- it feels like a stabbing cramp in my lower abdomen, typically about a 4-5/10 on the pain scale. It sucks, but normally i just have to sit down for about 20 minutes and it passes. But the worst ones have had me completely immobilized, sometimes for hours at a time. The worst one I ever had actually had me hospitalized; I was on the floor curled up, in so much pain I could barely even breathe. It was like someone was twisting knives in my insides- I thought I was dying. I run the risk of pain like this every time I eat. Pain like that is rare for me, and I’ve never met anyone else with my condition, but if they feel pain like that more often than I do, it’s all the more reason to raise awareness for MALS.

As far as I know, there’s nothing to be done for pain management. Ibuprofen and things like that either don’t touch it, or the pain simply passes before it takes effect. Regardless, the only thing I’ve found to do is wait it out, and don’t strain myself. There is a surgical cure, an open vascular surgery to relieve the pressure on the artery. But MALS is very rare, mostly because it is massively, massively underdiagnosed. It took ten years for doctors to stop telling me I was just lactose intolerant/experiencing menstrual cramps and actually run a CT scan on me. I believe the diagnoses rate is two out of every hundred thousand patients. MALS is mistaken for all sorts of things; lactose intolerance, IBS, Crohn’s, pretty much any Tummyache Disorder can get confused for MALS. Additionally, I’ve found mentions of patients saying doctors just straight up don’t believe their pain because there’s no obvious cause. In my experience, finding treatment has been nothing short of a nightmare; because MALS is only debilitating and not technically dangerous, I’ve had countless doctors dismiss my case and tell me to just deal with it. (I could go on a whole rant about sure, yeah, just deal with a coin flip’s chance of agony if I want to sustain myself by literally eating, but whatever thank you fuck you every doctor.) Regardless, MALS is really underdiagnosed, and it’s fairly under-researched as well.

Anyway, onto Genya Shinazugawa. From a surface level, I headcanon him to have MALS because he’s my blorbo and I love projecting onto fictional characters, but if I do a bit of analysis it actually makes a lot of sense. The most obvious symptom is his demon-eating; his ‘stronger’ digestive organs could be some fictional result of MALS. Something or other less blood flow tolerates demon magic something something fantasy. The important thing is, it’s mentioned in the manga that Genya has frequent checkups at the Butterfly Mansion due to his demon eating. I can’t remember exactly where, but im pretty sure it’s mentioned that this ability is harmful to his health/causes him pain. Therefore it’s not unreasonable to assume that eating demons can trigger Genya’s MALS, just as tuna triggers mine. Additionally, it was mentioned in the anime (I believe it was a Taisho Era Secret in the Swordsmith Village arc?) that Genya often refuses food, going long periods without eating. This is a common mental side effect of MALS- a lot of patients, myself included, develop a hesitance or even fear of eating due to the likelihood of it triggering a flareup. It’s likely that Genya is doing the same thing.

Anyway!! If you have any questions, or feel that I’ve missed something, please let me know!! As per usual for me I’ve written this mostly past 3am, so it’s possible I could have my lore crossed!! Regardless id be interested to hear everyone’s thoughts on this headcanon, because it’s not one that I’ve heard before. Thanks for reading! 💜🪲

[stanheighttrapped]

Voyeur

"What do voyeurs see when they look in the mirror?"

Adam grew up observing everything he could. No matter how insignificant it seemed, he would always make a mental note of it. A specific change in scent, a person turning sharply as though they forgot something important, a couple readjusting their hands into a more comfortable position. It wasn't like he could say it was never on purpose, no, he knew what he was doing but there was something so fascinating about observing. About knowing things that people don't pick up on.

It helps him a lot throughout school, lets him keep his head down since he knows things and his classmates know that he knows things. The ones who don't learn quickly why they should, usually in the form of the cops pounding on their door due to an anonymous tip of illegal possession of drugs and a one way ticket to juvie. He isn't just left alone though, he's the person everyone goes to if they need dirt on someone. Need to find out if your boyfriend is fucking that cheerleader? Adam can find out. Need to get dirt on the bestfriend who betrayed you? Adam can get you the worst of it. So yeah, Adam wasn't necessarily liked by his peers in high school, but they valued him enough to leave him alone unless they needed his skill.

When he'd gone to college, his 'hobby' of sorts had followed him. Word spread around that if you needed information on anyone in the city, all you had to do was bring their full name and a $20 bill and you'd get their entire life story in about a week and a half. Before long, he had to start turning people away unless they were willing to pay a higher price or needed it for legal dirt because there were simply too many people who asked him for his services. Sometimes it made things awkward with people who didn't know about his side gig as they had assumed by 'services' he meant sex work. After a certain point he stopped trying to explain that no, he wasn't a prostitute, he just followed people to make a few extra bucks.

And after he'd dropped out, he somehow managed to keep that job going if on a more professional level. He didn't have a secretary to sort through all of the requests he got, but he was getting hired by higher profile people. Politicians, lawyers, sheriffs all had picked up on the kid who could track damn near anyone and not be caught. He raised his rates and, somehow, realized he could actually survive like this. Granted, it wasn't easy living, but it was better than trying to find somewhere other than a god damn McDonald's to hire him. All he had to do was follow people around, take a few photos, and boom he had an extra couple hundred dollars for the night. It paid his rent and kept him mostly fed, what more could he ask for?

Then he got the job to follow Lawrence Gordon. The man was a doctor, oncologist specifically, and was the prime suspect for the Jigsaw murders in the eyes of Detective Tapp. Tapp had paid a pretty penny for this job, nearly $450 which was more than enough motivation for Adam to take the job. Dr. Gordon was the typical doctor, rich and had a surprising amount of time on his hands for someone who worked with cancer patients. Apparently he had a wife and a daughter, but it didn't seem like a happy marriage especially when Adam followed Lawrence to that shitty motel to fuck a med student. Despite all of this, there was something about Lawrence Gordon that drew Adam in. Something about the older man tugged at something deep inside Adam's mind, something terrifying. He had never taken pleasure in his job necessarly, it was a job like one anyone else might do, but with this one, it became a game to him. To see just how close he could get to Lawrence without being caught. The fear in Lawrence's eyes when he'd stop and look around, hair on the back of his neck standing up in a warning of somethine he chouldn't see made Adam go a little more insane each time. By the time he'd gotten enough pictures and information for Tapp, there were dozens of pictures of Lawrence pinned up in his dark room that had started bleeding into the rest of his apartment. Before this job, he had never liked to call himself a stalker, opting usually for 'private investiagtor', but now? Now he couldn't call himself anything else. Not when he had a plan to continue following Lawrence after handing the pictures off to the detective.

As it turns out, he didn't even have to. Not when he woke up inside that fucking bathroom with none other than Lawrence Gordon chained across from him, just out of reach like always. It drove Adam slightly mad when he wasn't thinking about how they were definitely locked in a Jigsaw trap, how he was finally face to face with Lawrence and he couldn't do a single damn thing. There was something strange with the idea that Lawrence knew what he looked like, but had no idea who he was. Lawrence was clueless to the fact that the man he was telling about his wife and daughter had known about them for weeks now. Oh Adam knew so much more than Lawrence would ever realize and if that didn't do something to Adam's head, pleasure simmering low in his gut at the mere thought.

But then the clock struck six and Lawrence got that fucking phone call. Watching him saw his own foot off was indeed terrifying, getting shot by him was worse. Then the guy behind it, Zepp is what Lawrence called him, had burst into the bathroom with a gun, spouting about how Lawrence hadn't finished his game on time and needed to die. Now, Adam couldn't let that happen. No, he would do anything to keep Lawrence Gordon alive, even if it meant killing a man. Killing wasn't the right word, however, it was more mauling. Adam had mauled a man for Lawrence. It wasn't even a conscious choice, he had just done it. Picked up that porcelain lid and brought it down onto Zepp over and over and over, almost relishing in the warmth that came from the blood splattering against him.

Adam wasn't one to beg, he never had been, but right now he would have kissed Lawrence's feet if he still had both of them and the ability to do such if it meant Lawrence wouldn't leave. He knew Lawrence needed to get help otherwise they'd both die, but as he reached out and grasped at whatever part of Lawrence he get get ahold of, all he could think about was that he couldn't let Lawrence go. He couldn't. But Lawrence had promised, said he wouldn't lie to Adam, that he'd come back for him. That had been a day and a half ago, based on that stupid clock that was still ticking away. He knew Lawrence wasn't coming back, he wasn't stupid. All he had now was Zepp's corpse, the shattered pieces of the mirror, and the photos of Lawrence.

Those words from the tape playing on loop in his mind. What does a voyeur see when they look in a mirror? The last thing he sees before that plastic bag is pulled over his head and he chokes on his own blood is a glimpse of himself in one of the mirrors across from him, but he doesn't know who he sees. After all, no one had ever paid him to take photos of himself.

[anony-man]

Some Delphi doctor Pharma thoughts because, well… why not? More specifically, a thought-out explanation for successfully hiding the very, very illegal business of organ harvesting (or cog harvesting, if you’re Pharma). Very, very long, and mainly Pharma-centric. Also TW for mild mentions of gore below (near the end):

It would have been a very, very good question to ask how in the world he’d managed to get into the practice of harvesting cogs for the enemy, but that isn’t exactly the focus here. What it came down to, for the most part, was being stationed at Delphi of all areas. It was a rough place to work, and it had quite the reputation of being the worst of the worst when it came to practitioners AND survival rates. The extra factors were probably due to the fact that an ex-Decepticon and a war frame were both in high ranks of the medical staff (not to mention the awful habit Cybertron’s governors had of actually making sure funds went to keeping heat and lights on in the building), but none of this phased Pharma. When the offer—well, not so much offer as it was threat to end his life and career if he didn’t accept—came up, he wasn’t exactly in a place to decline.

It was easy work, really. All he had to do was stay after hours and harvest cogs from dead patients before they left to be cremated, or buried, or recycled, or… well, whatever their loved ones chose to do. He was practically running the hospital at that point, and no one had ever questioned his authority. Besides, no medical staff outside of himself and Ambulon had ever worked at Delphi for more than a few months tops. Delphi’s hospital was severely understaffed with one or two medical drones patrolling the area outside of himself and Ambulon, but that’s the way Pharma would have had it. After all, it’s what made his awful situation possible.

Besides… If push came to shove, and by some miracle someone found out about his forced ties with the DJD, he could always blame Ambulon. It would be easy enough to frame him, after all. No one would believe him, anyway. Not with his past as an ex ‘Con. Pharma wasn’t much better, being built a war frame despite his work in the medical field, but what choice did he have?

Things were going well, at first. Pharma was averaging at about three to four cogs a month, give or take a few. Despite what outsiders said, Delphi was typically the place where those too far gone came to live their last moments in the peace and comfort medical support was able to offer, so the supply was always steady. That is, it was steady, until Pharma got a rather threatening letter in the mail. The DJD had begun to demand four times what he was averaging, and that number was expected every two weeks.

The first time he took a life with his own hands, Pharma had felt physically ill. He spent the rest of the day locked up in his office, ignoring Ambulon’s pestering concerns with the complaint that he was feeling unwell, which was true, but that he didn’t require support, which was… well, sort of true. He’d barely managed to make it through a ration of energon that evening, and he’d spent most of the night forcing down bottle after bottle of cheap alcoholic drinks. The overwhelming guilt didn’t last long, however, since Pharma knew he couldn’t physically keep it up. He’d have to tough it out, take in a few extra cogs from living patients, and maybe—just maybe—his circumstances would change.

As expected, things most certainly did not change. At least, not for the better. Enter First Aid, who soon became a sort of Achilles heel to Pharma’s process. The new doctor was young and inexperienced, practically fresh out of the academy from what Pharma had heard. For the first few weeks, Pharma was absolutely relentless in his blatant dislike of First Aid, and he took every chance he could get to publicly disapprove or humiliate the young doctor when he could. It felt awful, it really did. But given the very dangerous situation he found himself in, he couldn’t risk having more than one other doctor around the hospital floors.

First Aid wasn’t supposed to have lasted as long as he did. One week became two, which became four, which turned into one month, but still, Pharma relented. He chastised the young medic every chance he could get and occasionally gave crude, condescending remarks about question just how long First Aid would last before he, too, dropped out of the Delphi work force. Would he even remain a doctor, Pharma wondered? Would the stress from his experience at Delphi turn him away from any and all future medical endeavors? He’d hoped it might end that way—not for his sake, but for First Aid’s safety. Still, his nagging coworker who still struggled to turn over a new leaf was also relentless, but in the aspect of helping the new recruit. Before Pharma knew it, Ambulon was taking First Aid under his wing, showing him the ropes. It was infuriating, and it posed a very, very great threat to Pharma’s new business.

Primus, he grew so nervous during that time, so very, very nervous. He shouldn’t have been doing it at all. Everything, all of it—the manipulation, the twisted work, the criticism to both First Aid’s character and his career, it was all so fucked up in the worst way. It was unethical. It was awful, it… it was—ohh fuck. Fuck, what choice did he have? He didn’t have one. He had no choice at all, and this was how things would end. A well-known, well respected medic who’d risen above the hierarchy and racism, only to destroy it all after doing such dirty work for the DJD.

Despite his petty and discreet efforts, First Aid relented. It was nearing six months into the young medic’s employment at Delphi when Pharma realized he needed to do something different, and fast. He had already experienced one too many close calls, what with the nosy little doctor running into him after hours on the wrong floor at the wrong time. Sexual innuendos and workplace relationships had only gotten him so far with Ambulon, and after an awkward interface session in the washracks while bodies lay decomposing in locked bathroom stalls mere feet away, Pharma simply couldn’t take it anymore. Drastic measures had to be taken, unfortunately, and despite the medical oaths he’d sworn to observe and the many, many moral boundaries he’d never wanted to cross, Pharma was no longer against twisting the tables in his own favor.

He started out innocently enough. Aid was a smart one, of course, and Pharma caught the skeptical looks the young medic gave him every time he dared to bring up Delphi’s sketchy past. Despite the visor covering his optics and the mask he wore nearly all the time, it wasn’t hard to gauge First Aid’s reaction, and given a few weeks, Pharma knew it was starting to take a toll on the new medic. It was only when Ambulon had begun to scold him behind closed doors for “scaring” First Aid that Pharma realized he needed to push things up a notch.

He wasn’t a terrible person. Truly, he wasn’t. He never meant for any of it to happen, and he had never intended for First Aid to be affected so deeply or for his own reputation to be tarnished. He’d known his fate was sealed the moment he was given over to the DJD as their own personal provider of anything organ-related, but that didn’t make him a bad person, right? He was only doing his job. He was doing what he had been forced to do. He was still a doctor, a good person. Right? He was still him. He still saved lives, he still helped others, he still held the role and responsibility of being a strong, confident medic. He was a good person, right? Right?

He hadn’t been thinking all that clearly when it had happened. Still, the pieces just so happened to fall into place, and Pharma knew that his secret was sealed for at least a few months. He had been in the process of dragging the most recent body into a storage closet for safe keeping while he dealt with other more impending issues when it had occurred. Of course, shoving a dead corpse into an old closet wasn’t the best course of action, but with his mind starting to crack under the pressure and his options starting to slim, Pharma knew he didn’t have much of a choice.

He could hear the sound of quiet pedesteps entering into the washracks. It was First Aid, he knew, stopping to get cleaned up after a long shift. He always came into the washracks at this time, after every shift. Primus, he did it almost daily. How could Pharma have forgotten? How could he have forgotten?

Never mind that, he supposed. Pharma had waited until First Aid was rifling through his belongings and getting everything unneeded placed into a locker (really, with there only being three bots capable of making it to the washracks, what was the need for the locker?) before making a run for the shower stalls. He had thrown the body over one shoulder as he headed there, and as expected, it made quite the sound. Instead of hearing a bout of silence to follow the sudden interruption of First Aid’s prep-work, he was instead met with a small, startled gasp from the young medic. He paused in the middle of pulling the curtain shut and waited, just in case his cover was to be blown. He would hate to do it, but if he needed to take out one of his fellow medics—

“Is someone out there?” First Aid had called out, the anxiety practically dripping from his voice.

If Pharma hadn’t been so busy with not getting caught carrying a corpse around, he would’ve felt a little bad for the poor doctor’s frazzled nerves. Still, a job had to be done, and a job was what he was going to do. Pharma laid the corpse down onto the shower stall and, after quietly drawing the curtains back to hide it, made his way towards the exit. He managed to escape without running into First Aid, which would end up being a blessed accident for him in the next ten minutes.

Pharma was nearly halfway to his office when he heard it. A guttural, blood-curdling scream that sent a chill racing down his spine. He knew what had happened, of course, but the sound—Primus, the sound, the palpable horror and fear in the air as First Aid screamed—it would stick with him for a very, very long time. It didn’t take long before Ambulon was rushing down the hallway, a mixed look of confusion and concern plastered across his face as though First Aid—a disposable, inexperienced waste of space on their hospital’s floor—could have actually meant anything to him.

Pharma turned around quickly enough to see First Aid bursting out of the washracks, his entire frame rattling with choked sobs that even Pharma could see the plating shift and grind from such a long distance. He couldn’t quite make out the words—not that the poor medic was saying anything legible, but still—from where he stood, but from the way First Aid all but collapsed against Ambulon’s front, wailing about a “dead body” and the poor soul he’d just checked on so and so minutes ago and the guilt he felt, oh the guilt. What could have he done differently? Was it his fault? Was he to blame? God, why couldn’t he stop crying? He couldn’t breathe, Ambulon, he couldn’t breathe—

It ended up being too much to bear, too much to witness. Pharma slipped past with a distant pat to Ambulon’s shoulder and muttered something about giving First Aid a little something to take the edge off before he headed in to “take a look.” Of course, Pharma took the chance to properly dispose of the body so that nothing else could be said about the standalone incident, and when Ambulon had come in sometime later and informed him that First Aid was in the medibay sleeping off some heavy sedatives, Pharma was more than willing to show him the now-empty and pristine shower stalls. Every one of them, too, not just the one that had just so happened to inhabit the… the victim.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise when, a week later, there was a new medic among their ranks. First Aid had hardly even gone to the third floor—the floor where the incident had occured—at all during the week, and he had barely managed to keep himself moving throughout the normal shift changes. At first, Pharma expected him to drop out of the hospital staff like all of the other medics before him, but no. Instead, he was treated to a new recruit.

Ratchet was his name, Pharma recalls. Ratchet, Ambulon’s acquaintance, First Aid’s temporary mentor, and Pharma’s mortal enemy. Well, mortal enemy and secret obsession. If there was one thing Pharma had become good at during his many months spent harvesting the cogs of helpless victims, it was casting illusions. Though he had taken a deep, almost toxic, interest in Ratchet, Pharma knew he was more than capable of keeping up the charades.

[thoughtlessarse]

Adam, 27, first showed signs of an eating disorder at 12. His weight remained stable despite other overt signs that his body was in crisis – he had early-stage kidney and bowel problems and was not developing testosterone. “No one ever worried,” he says, because he was never underweight and so his eating disorder slipped under the radar. His body has been permanently damaged in the process. At 23, Adam was diagnosed with ‘atypical anorexia’. It is characterised by all the same behaviours as anorexia nervosa: caloric restriction, disordered eating and psychological markers such as an intense fear of gaining weight, and body image distortion and preoccupation. However, to receive a ‘typical’ anorexia diagnosis, you must have a body mass index (BMI) that classifies you as ‘underweight’. Never mind that BMI is famously a deeply flawed indicator that fails to account for differences in race, gender, age, or muscle mass – the size of the body is diagnosed instead of the behaviour. With atypical anorexia, although what you do, think and feel is the same, you may not have lost weight, or not enough weight to present as emaciated. The ‘atypical’ label declassifies the disorder as not yet dangerous, pushing the patient down the risk matrix. The premise of treatment is therefore the worst-case scenario: waiting until the patient’s BMI drops to a threatening level for action to be taken. This course of action would be harmful for any medical condition, but is particularly damaging when it comes to eating disorders. “Your mind is already constantly telling you that you are not sick enough – perhaps not even sick at all. So telling someone that they have to be skinnier in order to be taken seriously and to receive help encourages them to get sicker. It makes them want to prove that they are struggling,” says Taylor*, 21, who has been diagnosed with atypical anorexia. “Eating disorders, especially anorexia, are so competitive. You constantly compare yourself to others who are struggling. As if the one who gets the sickest wins. It would be incredibly helpful if doctors would not participate in this ’competition’ by only treating the one who has the lowest BMI.”

continue reading

[fadeintocase]

Ever since u released buzzified, and after watching ur streams, it got me thinking. Do u think that “mental illness” dx’s (depression, anxiety, psychosis, mania, ocd) are actual illnesses? Or rather (wrt suburbanites) a result of cellular inflammation, consuming large amts of hfcs, an intellectually understimulating environment, etc. and an excuse to weaponize shitty behavior? or (wrt the working class) a tool used by psychiatry to further marginalize ppl? And/or a manifestation of trauma?

oh boy. there's nuance to this. I think there's a whole clusterfuck of bad ways to look at things that meet at a head and result in our current outlook on mental health.

There's a lot, but let me try to consolidate all my feelings the best i can.

First off, i do not think our society is built to produce a "neurotypical" brain by default, and i don't think it has for decades now. Social media, engagement, parasocial communication and reaction baiting prioritized over actual socialization, everything bo burnham talks about in interviews. That's all very real.

Secondly, i believe the commonly understood meaning of "neurotypical" is completely fanciful. It's a hypothetical ideal state that can be measured against, but i do not know if i have ever in my life met a "neurotypical" person. I've seen well adjusted people that certainly have SOMETHING they are adjusting well to, and i've seen people who seem "normal" completely fall apart mentally over a matter of years. The truth is, as i see it, the brain has a lot of plasticity, and there can be healthy routines, unhealthy routines, structures too rigid they burn people out, and structures too loose they spiral into chaos. These structures and routines can be built by someone's own choices and actions, or put upon them from their environment because of their situation. These cycles are like 90% of what "mental health" is on its face.

Thirdly, i think there is a kind of clinicalization of mental health that aims to treat and alleviate symptoms, in the way that most medicine does, but that does not emphasize and sometimes even OBFUSCATES the effects of and need for positive behavioral and environmental changes. (With regard to working class people, a lot of these things, like having the right amount of rest or liesure time to activity time, work-life balance, proper diet, etc. are certainly class-gated.)

Fourth(ly), i think this clinicalization works really well for people in PMC classes, (who are generally the kind to live in the curly-q suburbs i talk about in If-Then), because the pressures they impress upon themselves are usually stable and structured. You get up and get in your SUV and drive from your suburb to your job, stop at a starbucks to get way too much caffiene and sugar for one human in one day, find an excuse to be mean to a coworker because you haven't finished your coffee yet, have one misunderstanding with a boss that's suddenly the worst thing ever, carry those bad feelings all day, stop at target on the way back, and routinely cuss out the cashier for SOMETHING, then go home and drink too much wine for one human in one day and wake up feeling sick and tired so you go wake up and get your coffee again and hate your life all day for another day again. Eventually when you burn your body out enough that torturing your endocrine system isn't cutting it anymore, you get on a medication and now have to make sure you don't drink that bottle of wine every night. Suddenly your routine which you always had just feels easier and you start posting things like "if you're happy and you know it, it's your meds". Also because the demographics of ppl like this tend to have their health care covered or at least affordable to them, and tend to hit enough other boxes that doctors consider "typical", a mentally unwell patient like this will be considered more meaningful than someone of a lower class that doctors subconsciously won't regard as civilized enough. I see a lot of people who could benefit massively from some of the things afforded to more privileged people, but they just don't have the right job with the right benefits or sometimes even the right schedule to make needed doctors' visits viable. So much of the pressures that lower-class people have to face will result in healthy reactions from the body. Senses of anxiety around safety, or food or developed compulsions to check things may actually be SENSIBLE REACTIONS to their environment. Their anxiety may be justified and REAL. The depression and hopelessness some people feel may actually be an accurate assessment of their situation. And there is nothing that medicating those feelings can do to help the effects their situation is having on their health.

Fifth(ly), yes absolutely i believe over-sugared cellular inflammation, over-caffienation, latent hangovers, sleep deprivation, the increase of CO2 in the atmosphere, i think all of these things can collectively chip away at your body and your brain's ability to function. I think the pressures especially forced on class brakets that take on more labor are absolutely depriving them of basic needs and replacing them with bullshit toxicity that makes its way into our cultural staples. I believe that our job market and our economy and our political reality can lead people to very real and very informed and very accurate states of hopelessness and nihilism. The only hope for this is to fix our system.

Sixth, America in particular is BUILT on self-exceptionalism. Everyone wants to be part of something, but also wants an excuse to be unique as a part of that something, not like the other girls, or "yeah doing this bare minimum thing every human being needs for homeostasis doesn't work for me, (so i'd rather not do it than trying and possibly sacrificing this part of my personality)." When i was a teen i saw a million people do the "I'm so dark. deranged, insane... i'm so twisted, you will never understand me." And looking back, it was a coin flip chance whether they self-DX'd and kept up the same bit with a more specific diagnosis, or whether they just decided one day it was more beneficial to be normal and they dropped the act. This culture hasn't gone away in the decade and a half since i was 15. We millennials already know about the "doing dishes is a trigger for me" suburbanite roommate meeting the "i wanted a found family that wouldn't constantly stress me about finances but all of you motherfuckers are children i am now raising" working class roommate. It's just easier to be broken, more unique to be broken, and more burden to be working. The privileged know this. Upper classes have far more experience with being rewarded for crying your way out of responsibility.

Seventh, There are certainly real mental illnesses, and there are real purposes for those diagnoses. I've seen people's with schizofrenia and how it melts their psyche. I've seen people with DID (not the fun RP-pretend kind) who just got less and less able to grasp reality over time, on a literal neurological level. But more often than not, if a kid tiktok or tumblr with their clean nice clothes in their clean nice room is going off finding a way to compartmentalize all of their personality traits into symptoms of diagnoses they haven't gotten, it's probably Munchausen's syndrome.

also, please let me express, NO ONE EVER TELLS YOU THAT SEROTONIN AND MELATONIN ARE BOTH MADE FROM TRYPTOPHAN. TRYPTOPHAN BECOMES SEROTONIN WHICH IS THEN CONVERTED INTO MELATONIN IF YOU NEED IT. NO ONE EVER EXPLAINS THIS? NO ONE EVER, IN MY HOPPING OF MEDS AND MY QUESTIONS ABOUT "HOW DO I MAKE MORE SEROTONIN" EVER TOLD ME THAT YOU CAN MAKE MORE SEROTONIN BY EATING MORE FUCKING VEGETABLES AND SLEEPING WHEN YOU ARE TIRED! IF YOU FEEL TIRED THAT'S THE MELATONIN AND IF YOU DON'T SLEEP YOU'RE BURNING THROUGH ALL OF THE SEROTONIN YOUR BODY IS MAKING! I HAD TO RESEARCH THIS MYSELF AND EVERY DOCTOR AND BIOLOGIST I'VE CHECKED THIS WITH HAS SAID "THAT'S PRETTY MUCH CORRECT." BUT THE WAY THINGS ARE EVERY PSYCHIATRIST WILL SOONER TELL YOU THAT YOU SIMPLY CANNOT MAKE MORE SEROTONIN AND YOU NEED AN SSRI TO DO THAT. AND THAT IS WRONG. IT'S INCORRECT.

YOU CAN MAKE MORE SEROTONIN BY EATING TRYPTOPHAN AND THEN SLEEPING.

YOU CAN MAKE MORE SEROTONIN BY EATING TRYPTOHAN AND THEN SLEEPING.

YOU CAN MAKE MORE SEROTONIN BY EATING TRYPTOPHAN AND THEN SLEEPING.

and our whole society is built on keeping you from doing fucking anything but that and then selling you a solution. Mental illnesses are very real, but we are all sick, and we do not care to get better.

[inscrutable-shadow]

Mediwhump May Day 5 - No Response

@mediwhumpmay

Later than I had anticipated, but at long last, it is complete, haha. James belongs to @rizzamacka-whump! I guess the Back-Alley AU is canonically in a really hot place now? Or maybe it's global warming, who knows.

“Thank you again for being willing to help,” the Doctor called down into the space under the clinic. “Oh, it’s no trouble!” the young man underneath called back, breathing slightly laboured but cheery as ever. They really were grateful for his assistance. They’d thought they’d have to close the clinic entirely today, owing to the sweltering heat making the inside intolerable with the air conditioning unit on the fritz again. Colonel Zhang, or James, as he had insisted upon being called, had noticed them dejectedly fanning themselves on the front step and asked what he could do. They were fairly confident that he saw them as a helpless old woman, which was not an illusion they would attempt to dispel, especially not before he’d finished down there. 

This heat wave was the worst in several years. The clinic, which was older than the Doctor and had already been run down when they had acquired it, had ancient utilities that just couldn’t take the strain. Apparently, the cooling unit’s main body was in the crawl space underneath the building, which hadn’t been constructed to code (or had warped to an incredible degree) and would be quite difficult for the six-foot-tall Doctor to manoeuvre around (if they were so inclined to get their hands dirty, which they were not). James, however, was much smaller and seemed to have no issues making his way to the problem area.

They were perfectly content to await his return with iced coffee and the frozen fruit cubes they had spent the morning making in lieu of treating patients. The Doctor’s Nordic blood wasn’t built for the heat, unlike the man downstairs whose complexion indicated he hailed from the tropics. Quite lucky that he’d come along, even if it meant they had to do more of a social interaction than they really would have liked at this temperature. Speaking of social interaction, they had heard nothing from him for a few minutes, actually. “Colonel Zhang? Er, James? How is it going down there?” There was no response other than the creaking of the building as the siding expanded in the heat. “James? Are you all right?” Nothing. Had something happened to him? Oh, blast it all. They’d have to go down after him.

They shed their lab coat, having already exchanged their typical black turtleneck for a sleeveless tank in the same colour. They would have to army crawl through the narrow space, something they hoped never to have had to do, but they wouldn’t leave a patient to die under the clinic. Especially in this heat, corpses smell. The air was thick and sweat bloomed on their skin in uncomfortable places, but they didn’t have to go as far as they’d thought they would before finding the young colonel lying motionless in front of the electrical box. “James? Can you hear me?” Nothing. Heat stress, most likely. With luck, he’d only fainted for a moment, but it was possible it was more serious. They pushed their glasses up onto their nose, trying to see how far along he’d got before succumbing to the heat. Was it really just this last switch that needed to be flipped? He’d done a rather good job…

With the aircon humming again, they carefully dragged the unconscious man back toward the opening to the clinic. It was fortunate that they had prepared a large quantity of medical-grade ice in anticipation of needing to treat things like this (and also to keep themselves cool). It would make it much easier to get his body temperature down quickly rather than having to wait for things to chill and for the air to cool. They heaved his body up onto the exam table (he was lighter than they’d anticipated) and set to work.

Chilled intravenous fluids were the way to go. The medical freezer had those ready to go as well, and they hung the bag while sorting through the next steps they’d need to take. Ice packs to the areas with large amounts of blood vessels: the armpits, groin, back, and neck. Then there was nothing left to do but monitor his temperature and suppress the shivering if he started before his body temperature dropped enough. They wobbled as they moved to sit down, realising suddenly that they must also be dehydrated. Time for an iced coffee. Perhaps next time they would attempt to use crushed ice like they did in coffeeshops. They didn’t really understand what a “frappucino” was, but people seemed to enjoy them. Just as they had this thought and reached the bottom of the glass, the patient woke with a gasp and a “so cold…” “Ah, there you are. You fell unconscious right before completing your work. How are you feeling?”

He attempted to push himself up on his elbows. “C-cold… sorry, I can… f-finish…” Really. The boy had almost died, and he was thinking about the air conditioning.

They pressed him back down. “You shall do nothing of the sort. The machine is running now, regardless. Rest until you have been properly hydrated, yes?” James nodded and allowed them to remove the ice packs. The Doctor handed him a safety cup of lemonade and a hand fan, and went to go sit back down. If this heat wave continued, this wouldn’t be the last time they had to do this treatment. taglist: @i-eat-worlds

[withbriefthanksgiving]

Gaza’s two largest hospitals have stopped taking new patients due to Israeli bombardment and shortages of medicine and fuel amid reports of rising deaths among patients and medical staff.

Al-Shifa and Al-Quds, Gaza’s biggest and second-biggest hospitals, respectively, said on Sunday that they had suspended operations as the World Health Organisation called for an immediate ceasefire to prevent rising deaths.

Dr Nidal Abu Hadrous, a neurosurgeon working at Al-Shifa Hospital, said patients and staff were facing a “disastrous” situation with no electricity or water and no safe passage out.

“This can’t last long. Urgent intervention to save the staff and the patients is required,” Abu Hadrous told Al Jazeera.

12 November 2023

Also on 12 November 2023, Steve Sosebee of the Palestinian Children’s Relief Fund hosted a webinar with Dr Ghassan Abu-Sittah (Instagram link).

Dr Abu-Sittah is a British-Palestinian plastic surgeon working at Al Ahli Hospital in Gaza. This is the hospital that was first bombed on 17 October 2023.

I managed to note some key takeaways from what Dr Abu-Sittah said during the webinar. Regarding the health situation:

The healthcare system is in total collapse. There is no medication. The doctor has no morphine, or painkillers of any sort. There is no bandages, no supplies, nothing. No ICU, no access to blood bank. 11k+ dead and 23k+ wounded. Impossible to travel in between hospitals due to bombing and sniping, so no aid can be shared.

Injuries and cases in the hospital: Mostly blast injuries: typical blast injuries e.g. burns, blast, gravel in wounds etc., people crushed under rubble. But also, since Gaza is a testing ground for weapons, the new hellfire missiles cause horrific injuries. They have 6 blades with a serrated edge, so they are seeing guillotine-like amputations.

The long-term effects will be devastating. An entire generation has become permanently disabled. Wounds: since healthcare is delayed, he is seeing that injuries are mult-drug resistant. So they will need more complex treatment. Reconstructive surgery: for kids, will be complex, because they will need to have continual surgeries as they grow. Mental health: they have seen people killed in front of them constantly. It’s constant trauma. They will need a lot of help.

The situation in Al-Shifa hospital is catastrophic. Al-Shifa properly collapsed on 09 November. Israeli snipers shoot anything that moves in the windows, so people have been moved to the corridors. Nobody can get outside even to bury their loved ones. [Reports now saying as of 13 November 2023 that stray dogs have started eating people’s loved ones]

The patients in the ICU +the babies in the incubators in Al-Shifa are likely dead. [note, information is emerging on this, but on 12 and 13 November the IMEU, Al Jazeera and the Middle East Eye all reported that 3 of the 39 preterm babies had died due to lack of electricity in incubators. It’s predicted that all the babies will eventually die due to the ongoing shortages and constant Israeli attacks.

As well as explaining the situation, Dr Abu-Sittah called on medical professionals around the world to be ready to help.

Medical professionals will need to help + must start preparing now. Once the bombing and siege is over, medical teams around the world will need to hit the ground running and be ready to as soon as they get the word

The worst part is the aftermath. We can’t be waiting 6-12 months for the first medical professionals to be deployed. 250k+ homes have already been destroyed. This is exactly the aim of the Israeli army: those who are not dead will leave because of total collapse. The aim is to make Gaza uninhabitable. We must do all we can to prevent that aim from becoming reality.

Medical professionals will need to bring everything with them. Gaza has no equipment. See above.

Medical professionals must lobby authorities: Doctors and professionals abroad must liaise with any medical associations they are members of to petition the relevant authorities to allow medical help as soon as possible.

Regarding his last point:

if you are a UK-based medical professional, contact your professional body. The Academy of Medical Royal Colleges has a list of its 24 member Royal Colleges and faculties. This includes the Royal College of Physicians, the Royal College of Nursing, the Royal College of Midwives, the Royal College of Surgeons, and 20 others. Organise with your colleagues and lobby the relevant persons so that we can help Gaza rebuild as soon as any borders open up. You can also contact the British Medical Association.

If you are a healthcare worker based outside the UK: check with whatever healthcare professional organisations exist in your country.

If you know Arabic, are licensed to practice medicine in Egypt, or have links with medical organisations in Egypt, Dr Abu-Sittah mentions this being a priority.

The international community (the people) cannot abandon Gaza, even as the international organisations (the institutions) remain useless.

As Dr. Abu-Sittah says: ¡Hasta la victoria siempre!

[plegdoctor]

All The Stars In The Sky - Greentia

She is escorted away from the festivities of the wedding, ribs still somewhat aching from the exertion of dancing, reminding her what she is here for. The hallways that surround emanate the typical smell of District 13 hospitals, a cleanliness that Veronica is not yet fully accustomed to. Fear pounds against her heart but still she walks, knowing what – or who – she is going to face.

They are not alone. Doctors swarm the room, scribbling down notes, assessing their patient. As soon as their eyes alight upon Veronica, they take their leave, presumably to hide behind the one way glass and further observe. Veronica does not take note of any of this. The only person she can see is them.

Tia Kofi, formally of District 12, is chained to the bed. They’re just as thin as the last time Veronica saw them but with noticeable differences: the bruises beginning to fade, the cuts slowly healing over. Their brown skin is starting to look almost healthy again. Veronica feels sick thinking about the pallid shell of a human that wrapped their hands around her neck. The person who has once loved her so unconditionally squeezing her throat in an attempt on her life.

She ignores the urge to put her own hands to her neck at the memory.

Tia observes her wearily, the way one might observe a wild animal in the woods. Their eyes are the same warm brown that Veronica used to stare into at night, just with a glazed expression, as if what Tia has suffered has created a glass barrier between the two of them.

She walks until she’s just a metre away from the bed, twisting her fingers nervously. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Tia responds.

There’s nothing for Veronica to do with her hands. She crosses her arms over her chest protectively. “Divina said you wanted to talk to me.”

They stare at her, searching for something. As if Veronica is about to transform into a snarling mutt right before their eyes.

“Look at you for starters.” The sneer in Tia’s voice is unmistakeable, sending a freezing wave of grief throughout Veronica. “You’re not very tall, are you? Or particularly pretty.”

She bristles. “You’ve looked better.” It’s not fair, she knows it isn’t fair, to be mean to Tia in this way. But they’ve all been through hell and back – the least she can do is stay true to the protective walls she holds up around herself.

Tia scoffs. “And not very nice either. Saying that to me after everything.”

“We’ve all been through a lot, Tia. Besides, you were always the nice one. Not me.”

“Didn’t make you fall in love with me though, did it?”

The accusation pulls Veronica up, and she bites back tears and the words of the truth, yes it did.

“I should go.” She turns towards the door, hand poised over the handle to throw it open when Tia speaks.

“Veronica, wait. I know about the stars.”

She turns. “The stars? They showed you that propo? Why?”

“You made a propo about the stars? Why wasn’t that used to torture me?” Tia sounds genuinely confused, eyebrows furrowed deeply. They become more agitated, hands clenching into fists and splaying back out again. Veronica wonders if that’s all they can do to stop them making their way to her neck.

“They filmed it the day you were rescued.” A pause. “What do you remember?”

“I remember that you were starving, and I was feeling sad. We bumped into each other outside my house. You scavenging through the bins. Pointing out the stars to me. Saying that your father taught you that even in the worst of times, they will appear to bring a light in the darkness. It touched me, so I snuck you some food from the shop.” Their voice is disjointed but it’s better than nothing.

Veronica’s embarrassing tears spring to her eyes again. “That’s exactly what happened. I wanted to thank you the next day at school, but I didn’t know how. And then in the games, the first ones, you told me you always thought I was prettier than all the stars in the sky.”

“We always had our best conversations under the cover of nightfall.” They pause, figuring something out. “I must’ve loved you a lot.”

“You did.”

“And did you love me?” Their voice is soft.

“People say I did. They say that’s why President Paul took you. To hurt me.”

“That’s not an answer.” Tia retorts, rubbing their wrists against the restraints. “I didn’t know what to make of being shown all the footage of us. Kissing. Didn’t know to match it to the feelings I remember of your chapped lips on mine. Just tell me this, Veronica. Were any of those kisses real?”

Something pierces her. “Yeah. Most of them.”

“Didn’t seem very genuine on your part. Did you enjoy kissing me?”

“I did.”

Tia grins, showing their teeth now chipped and yellowing. “And what about Lawrence?”

Veronica blanches. Gripped by that all familiar anger, the defensiveness that has been gnawing at her since she entered this room, she responds. “Lawrence isn’t a bad kisser either.”

“And that was okay? Kissing us both.”

“I didn’t need your permission.”

Tia laughs coldly. “Well you’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”

Nobody protests when Veronica walks out. She waits until she’s far enough away, in the safety of Divina’s strong arms, until she allows herself to fall apart, wailing for the Tia she loves to come back to her.

[jodilin65]

Why can’t it ever rain when people are more likely to take their motorcycles out? The honker came back quietly, but I couldn’t even meditate because the fuckers behind him went on a couple of revving sprees. Really wish someone would step up and complain, but maybe they did and it got them nowhere. So far, today has been quieter.

Now for my good and bad news. The good news is that I’m back in the 150s for the first time in ages. 159.9.

The bad news is that the only reason I’m here is because my thyroid medication is accumulating in my system and pushing my TSH too low for my personal comfort. My heart isn’t pounding but it’s a little elevated. What I’m mostly noticing is that I’m very warm, having trouble falling asleep and staying asleep, and my weight is dropping steadily without effort. Yes, I’ve been watching my portions but I haven’t cut enough calories out to lose weight. Even when I was younger and had a healthy thyroid, it went much slower than this and I would typically zigzag down the scale and not make a steady drop. Certainly not so fast either. I would still rather be cold, fat, tired, and calm than lose weight and feel anxious and overheated.

The worst part is that yesterday I got “stabbed.” Waves of adrenaline were stabbing in and out of my chest. It wasn’t extreme but it was noticeable enough. All symptoms that smack of being over-medicated. It’s lucky I don’t have the runs.

Since I don’t have 75s to throw one in each week, although if worse comes to worst I could take one of the 100s and cut them in half and cut one of the halves in half, I’m going to start by dropping the vitamin D from every 3 days to once a week. I also cut my waiting time before coffee to 10 minutes.

I read that the Diflucan can make you feel warm and flushed as well as cause sleep issues and some anxiety but that doesn’t explain the weight loss. Believe me, I’ve been through this shit with the thyroid medication enough times to know the symptoms of when it’s too much.

I still miss the sense of convenience and security that came with having Galileo but Tom thinks they were bad for me because they were pulling me in different directions and I was getting addicted to it. I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say I was addicted but I see where he’s coming from, especially with being pulled in different directions. That was the one negative about them…there were so many doctors that I would often be talking to someone who didn’t know all the details of a particular health issue of mine.

So now it’s mostly back to the traditional doctor-patient setup but it’s cheaper. Not as convenient and it doesn’t give me the same kind of peace of mind but it’s better than nothing and it’s what we can afford. Tomorrow I will be setting up the portal for my new PCP. I have so many fucking portals now for so many different doctors!

I’m not 100% sure whether or not I’m going to schedule an appointment with my GYN but I likely will because despite feeling noticeably better as of the middle of my day yesterday, I still have traces of burning. I just have a feeling that as soon as the Diflucan wears off, the symptoms are going to come back, and I still think I have more than one thing going on. I just don’t know for sure what everything is that I’ve had or that I currently have besides menopausal dryness.

Anyway, if I get anxious again today, it’s too soon to safely take hydroxyzine for it. I can at least meditate and do little things like that. Liminal VR gives some free experiences For different things like focus, energy, sleep, calm, etc. They had a beautiful 9-minute video you do lying down. I just tipped my head back, though. It looks like it would if you were lying on your back in a canoe or paddleboat, slowly going down a stream with a forest flanking it. You see the treetops and the sky in between. It starts off in the daytime, and then a starry sky appears with shooting stars and colorful Aurora Borealis lights flickering.

Then it was up in the sky in a luxury blimp.

That stomach cramp is back too, in the area where my gallbladder used to be. It’s faint but noticeable. and hopefully no big deal. If it is, it will get worse and worse like my gallbladder did. I hope not because I need everything left in that area.

Tom isn’t going to give plasma today because he still has bruising so he’s hoping for tomorrow. He bruises so easily that I don’t know if he’s going to be able to do it twice a week like he used to. In the end, he may still have to get a regular job.

Yesterday I noticed one of the zinnias sprouting and today there are about half a dozen.

[curly-cottage-girl]

Do you know of any support groups for people who have non cardiac chest pain? I saw that you posted in the tag and you were one of the most relatable people there. I’ve had chest pain multiple times a day for months on end now and it’s not going away and tbh I don’t believe my cardiologist when he says it’s not cardiac. I think it’s just something weird that doesn’t show up on tests and it’s driving me insane. I just really want a support group so that I feel less alone about having this terrifying symptom that no one else in my life can comprehend. There’s also got to be other anxious people who can’t be convinced that they’re okay too, and so are just living each day as if they’re going to kick the bucket. I just can’t find any support groups

Hi anon, I’m so sorry you’re going through that. Unfortunately I don’t know of any support groups. I’m glad you went to the doctor to get it checked out, even if it’s so disheartening to hear there’s “nothing wrong with you,” when you know that SOMETHING’s gotta be wrong.

In my experience, I think it was all anxiety based for me. I’m in a better place in my life now that I’ve had therapy and gained independence, and it’s been ages since I last had any (usually it’s the stomach issues that manifest frequently :P). During some of the worst times of my life were when I experienced the most painful chest pains, which makes sense I guess. But even if it’s not a heart attack or something, I know how scary and painful it can be, especially when you have issues that other people brush off.

Even if there isn’t any specific support group that I know about, I’m sure there’s plenty of people (myself included) who experience this or other mysterious health issues/health anxieties that are more than willing to talk!

I guess my main advice would be to 1) see if there are some major stressors in your life that you can try to work on, or at least talk with someone about, and 2) even if your doctor says it’s not a cardiac issue, if you’re having such a serious issue REGARDLESS of the cause, tell your doctor “okay, well if that’s not it then what else can I do? Because I can’t function with this pain all the time. YOU try living like this” etc etc. If he doesn’t know, then ask him who would or what other doctor you should see. A lot of times you have to be your own patient advocate when dealing with anything that’s not extremely typical, which honestly sucks. But I hope you’ll be able to stand up for yourself to get what you need, or otherwise get some answers.

(I’m not sure if you’re religious, but for what it’s worth I will also pray for you ❤️)

[who-is-muses]

Jonathan continued to trudge along in life, doing just enough to get paid so he could buy more booze, until seven months into his job at Arkham when he began to notice a trend with some of his patients. Namely that many of them did not behave criminally insane- or genuinely, in the case of those pretending like what they thought mental illness looked like. As he investigated further, he discovered a large portion of Arkham’s patients truly belonged in Blackgate Penitentiary rather than the mental hospital, admitted on faulty insanity pleas, and- much to his very personal horror- a fair amount of these criminals were serial rapists and pedophiles. This awful realization effectively snapped Jonathan out of his rut; he’d worked at Arkham long enough to know not only would it do nothing beneficial to bring this up, it would more than likely come back to harm him somehow. Thus it was entirely up to him to right this and deliver punishment unto these monsters that thought they could escape it, and he knew just how to do it. What would be more fitting than to fill them with the fear and agony they put their victims through? Digging up his old project left abandoned in college, he began updating it, revising the formula to suit its new purpose, quietly stealing chemicals from his old university and medicine from his present work, this effort giving him something else to focus on as he forced himself to curb his alcoholism and drug addiction. He tested this concoction on his “patients,” administering the injection while they slept and drilling them about their “night terrors” during therapy sessions, inevitably bringing up their crimes after a few sessions and reminding them of the conditions on why they were at Arkham in the first place. Needless to say this drug was the very first iteration of the infamous fear toxin (FT.)

As his testing continued and he tweaked the components and dosage, Jonathan became more brazen with his torture- quickly turning into more of a demented study, sedating his victims to restrain them more easily then waking them up before injecting them with FT, staying for increasingly longer periods of time to pick at both the fresh mental wounds he was creating and the scars he was tearing open. No one would pay much mind to an extra screaming voice in an asylum, thus he typically left them ungagged.

It took six months before his experiments were discovered, before someone just so happened to check the security cameras whilst he was paying a visit to one of his regular victims. After quickly reviewing the footage to make sure she was really seeing this, the security guard quickly reported Jonathan to the chief of security, who had someone call the police while he went to confront the doctor. Though Jonathan made certain to explain the gross injustice and how he was righting it- peppered with insults to the guard’s intelligence- the chief nevertheless wrestled the syringe away from him and easily overpowered the much thinner man. At his trial, after several outbursts and “irregular behavior,” Jonathan was given a legitimate (for Gotham) insanity sentencing and admitted to the very asylum he’d been terrorizing while on its payroll.

It took only four months before he escaped for the first time, stealing medication om his way out and chemicals once again from Gotham University. Creating more of his FT, he laid low for five days before hunting down the worst, most vile the city had to offer, inevitably leading to his first of many run ins with Batman and Robin. It would only be a matter of time before he escaped yet again, after all.

[the-homicidediaries]

Dr. Death (Christopher Duntsch)

Hello lovely people!

How are you all doing today? I'm doing okay, can't really complain too much.

I have about an hour to kill, so I wanted to try to write another quick essay. (Which will inevitably not be a "quick essay" and I will in fact work on this for hours until it's utterly perfect because of my mental illnesses.) Also, I have wanted to bring light to this godawful man for the longest time, but to be honest, I thought everyone else already knew about him. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. I absolutely fell down a rabbit hole. I listened to the podcast, watched the documentary, watched the documentaries from the victims themselves, and watched the Peacock Original Dr. Death as well. Just wanted to emphasize my mental illness some more. Dr. Christopher Duntsch was a neurosurgeon who operated and maimed several of his patients and killed two of them. His nickname is Dr. Death. He's the first surgeon to be convicted to life in prison due to gross malpractice.

(Also I don't wanna spoil anything, but he is no longer practicing and I don't really know what to call him, so I'll be calling him Christopher, Chris, Dr. Death, and Dr. Duntsch, okay?)

I do want to talk about him a little today. Well, specifically, the worst case he had, in my opinion, because I cannot cover all of his cases in this essay, haha. It would be at least 5,000 pages long. This is the worst case, again in MY opinion, because it was so personal. I mean, when I first heard this on the podcast, I don't know if I have ever been that shocked in my life.

(I would like to say first and foremost, as someone who a) works in the medical field and b) has had life-threatening shit happen to them, please please PLEASE advocate for yourself as a patient. If something feels off or wrong or not like your "normal" self, call your PCP, a family member, or the ambulance and get checked out. I'm not a medical professional, but I have had to make several ER visits and practically beg doctors to listen to me because no one thought anything was wrong with me and I could have died.)

Christopher Dunstch was born April 3, 1971 (an Aries man, ugh), in Montana to Donald and Susan Duntsch. From what all I read and have listened to, he seemed to have a pretty normal life. (And when I say that, I mean no signs of abuse, no abnormal behavior like hurting animals, small children, or other people, and no arson; nothing indicative of things to come.) I really wish I could get into a lot of the things about Christopher Duntsch that I wanted to because there is definitely a pattern, but I will say he attended the University of Tennessee Health Science Center and completed his residency participating in fewer than 100 surgeries. (Typically, a neurosurgeon will participate in over 1,000 surgeries before their residency is considered complete.) I will also say, he was at one point accused of preforming surgeries while under the influence of cocaine during his fourth year of residency (he definitely was) and was sent to a facility for impaired physicians but was eventually allowed to return to complete his residency. Just things like that. Things that should matter but for some reason didn't matter when it came to Christopher Dunstch.

Now I want to talk about Christopher's best friend, Jerry Summers. Admittedly, I couldn't find out much about Jerry's family, but he and Christopher met their junior year of high school when they both played football and when Christopher was an undergraduate in college, he lived with Jerry and Jerry's grandmother for a while. Jerry absolutely idolized Christopher. (It's really sad because even during Jerry's interviews, he would still speak so highly of his childhood friend.) The two would dabble in drugs and frequent the strip clubs regularly. Christopher's baby's mother nicknamed them "The Party Boys". During one of his interviews, Jerry said, "I had never taken a hit of acid before. Christopher Dunstch gave me my first hit of acid." Jerry has also gone on record saying he feels the two would be considered cokeheads. The two became very close and when Christopher accepted his first neurosurgery position in Dallas, he invited Jerry to come live with him to help him establish his practice. (Hi, me again. I always feel like there are two versions of me when I'm writing something; there's the version telling the story and then the person giving the inner dialogue, but I digress. I really got the feeling that Jerry was maybe a lonely person because of how hard he clung on to Christopher. I really don't know if he had friends, but he genuinely thought Christopher was the bee knee's and would cure cancer one day. And it's also really important for me to note that Chris was/is a very intelligent person, so I don't blame Jerry at all for falling into this trap.) As I am sure you have guessed, Jerry did help Christopher build up his practice physically and financially. Jerry would do odd jobs to help pay for Christopher's practice.

(Inner dialogue here again, ummmm when I say this might be one of the most messed up things I've ever heard of.. it's ROUGH. It's not gory or torture related like some of the other things I've written about, but it is extremely sickening, for me anyway. Okay, here goes.)

Jerry was in a pretty severe car accident and as a result had several bulging discs and chronic neck pain. In 2011, trusting his best friend in the whole world's expertise, Jerry decided to go under the knife at Baylor Regional Medical Center where Christopher had surgical privileges. Jerry said it seemed like a routine surgery and if Dr. Duntsch could perform it correctly on someone, it would at least be his best friend.

I watched a video of this surgery, and it looks horrifying LOL. Like, ugh omg. I would be so scared. Basically, and I am explaining this as simply as I possibly can, a neurosurgeon will make an incision on the patient's neck, dissect through muscle while avoiding the esophagus and other arteries, it looks SCARY, then he/she will locate the hernia and use this tool that kind of looks like tongs to separate the bones to remove the herniated disc, then the surgeon will scrape the bones to remove the soft tissue, place a bone graft, and use screws to help fuse the two pieces back together. (Mama or Dr. Edwards, if you read this, please tell me if this is explained correctly, haha!)

Soooooo. Christopher really botched this surgery. These are some of the most brutal things I've heard. Dr. Dunstch cut Jerry's blood vessels so deep that Jerry had lost two liters of blood, ten times the normal amount of blood loss during this type of surgery. Because Jerry had lost so much blood, Dr. Duntsch used a material called Gel Foam and he had used so much of it, it was constricting Jerry's spine. Dr. Duntsch had also removed so much bone that Jerry's head wasn't securely attached to his body. He was medically decapitated. When Jerry woke up, he said it felt like a ton of bricks was sitting on him and he couldn't move any of his extremities. Dr. Duntsch never performed any kind of exam, radiology exam, or test to see what went wrong. He did perform surgery on Jerry again at midnight to help alleviate some of the swelling near his spinal cord, and there was another surgeon who came in and did all he could to help Jerry, but there was no turning back. He was now a quadriplegic. And his best friend had essentially dropped off the face of the planet. He never once asked how Jerry was after the surgery, he never once apologized to Jerry after the surgery, and as far as I'm concerned, he's made no attempts to correct this with Jerry's family. Jerry really couldn't handle being left paralyzed, so he started screaming how he and Chris did cocaine the night before the procedure. He later recanted, but some people believe he was telling the truth. Jerry had a rough time with being a quadriplegic. He had a girlfriend named Jennifer at the time, and he became very angry and abusive towards her. He would run his chair into her or back her into a corner and keep running her over. Everyone suffered because of this botched surgery.

Jerry died February of 2021 from an infection caused by his surgery.

My sources: Jerry Summers: Who Was Christopher Duntsch's Friend? How Did Jerry Summers Die? (thecinemaholic.com) Christopher Duntsch - Wikipedia 'Dr. Death': Who Is Jerry Summers and What Happened to Him? (newsweek.com)

Below is a picture of Dr. Christopher Duntsch and Jerry Summers.