#Complete Medical Examination

[kodasea]

The Crew and the Fisherman (2021)

[essentiamortis]

@badboysupr | continued from here.

Look, when Lizzie came to him and requested intellectual abilities, Leo, first of all, had to assume she was just pulling his leg, maybe gearing herself up to get a good laugh out of it because—c'mon—when did anyone need him for anything . . . ? But then he had the passing thought of, Okay, so it's probably just one of the few things I am good at and should be honored she thinks so, too. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Then, she slid a literal Nintendo Switch in front of him, requested his help with . . . a game—? And Leo was left in bewildered silence (incredible!) for probably a full five seconds before digging up his voice again.

“Wait, you're, like . . . not kidding— You're serious?” He picked up the console, staring at the thing like it was a foreign object just as much as Lizzie was, but for a totally different reason. (Really, Leo should've been staring at her like that.) “You, uh . . . You realize games these days have insanely hand-holdy tutorials, right—? I mean, you could put this in front of a toddler and they'd be able to figure it out.”

He only realized how mean that sounded once it'd already left his mouth. But he course-corrected with a quick grin and a shrug to accompany it. “But who am I to deny a lady the right to the best tutorial around?” Leo wanted to toss his hair for dramatic effect, but he ended up just sort of flicking some curls out of his face. “Have a seat. Let Uncle Leo show you how it's done.”

elizabeth only bought the blasted device as a way to bond with nico. though she'd never outright tell him that she did find the concept of the pocket monster game - what had nico called it? pokémon? -interesting. elemental creatures trapped inside the tiny contraption. she understood so little of modern technology and its advances. granted, she still completed her autopsy reports with good old pen and paper. the speech to text application that her coworkers used on their computers gave her an unsettling feeling. careless mistakes could so easily made, and she's had to correct more than a fair share of those mistakes.

she scoffs at his remark, arms crossing over her chest. "i am aware of those tutorials and they were not at all helpful." in her defense, the tiny screen tutorials had been messing with brain, scrambling the letters - curse her dyslexia. why couldn't they put the tutorial in ancient greek. latin even! -and she wasn't exactly a picture learner. "those words float around the screen; it's difficult to read." she sighs, taking a seat next to the son of hephaestus. "ni siquiera cambiar al español sirvió de nada, leo." she forgoes the english and slips into spanish without much thought. javier had taught her the language when she was but a child and now, it's as natural to her as ancient greek or english.

uncle leo? she frowns, a confused side eye if given. age meant nothing when it came to dealing with the immortal greeks but hades is her father ; hephaestus is leo's father as well hades' nephew through zeus and hera, hades' brother and sister...wouldn't that make them cousins. don't think about that; you'll give yourself a migraine. "no vuelvas a llamarte "tío leo" en mi presencia."

[balajihospital]

Neurosurgeon & Neuro Care | HIRA Services Vadodara

Expert in Neurosurgery, Ulcerative Colitis, Vascular Radiology & Cancer. Includes HIRA work, Factory Rule compliance, Exams & Training in Vadodara, Gujarat.

[thesoftestpunk]

Maybe I just have too much medical anxiety but who is opting out of Pap smears and only getting them every 3 years 💀 an annual appointment feels pointless if you aren’t getting something annually

[chi1dofwoe]

@fragmcntdstars ( poison ivy ) asked : ❛ this place we're going to, what is it, exactly? ❜

｢ SNAP SNAP. ｣ —    it's late . moon high above the park , bathing the scene in an eerie light that somehow manages to perfectly highlight fluorescent yellow evidence markers adorned with black numbers to mark the location where a body had been only hours before . it had been ... difficult ... to convince investigators that she needed extra time with the body , that there was more to uncover that required a more in depth autopsy that would take privacy and time , a warning that perhaps there was something dangerous lurking under the skin ... spores that may spread , a poison that may sink into the bloodstream with nothing but a touch .

but the truth ?

she had seen something when her fingers had brushed against the skin of the dead man , something that did not quite make sense . she had recognized the flash of green ... unmistakable red hair ... but why ? the scene had not seemed to be covered in plants and she's fairly certain that they could not have been removed without leaving some sort of trace . however ... she had found traces of chlorophyll under the man's tongue . of course , it could be a coincidence ... but she did not believe in coincidences .

" i told you , clearly . a crime scene . what more do you need to know ? " frustration laces her voice as fingers tighten their grip around the woman's wrist , pulling her through the darkness towards the scene , offering a silent nod and a flash of her badge to the officer on guard . she's silent as she drags pamela towards the spot of pavement the body had been found , stopping short of the marker indicating the victim's head . she drops the woman's wrist , arms crossing over her chest as she turns her full attention to the redhead . " would you like to tell me what connection you have with emmett bowen and why i found chlorophyll coating his throat ? i would rather not send law enforcement after a fellow outcast , but my hands may be tied in a less than pleasant way . "

[joemama-2]

— the g (spot) in gyno

credit: _3aem on twitter

pairing — gynecologist! gojo x female reader

synopsis — you didn’t anticipate this is how getting your first ever pap smear would be like. soaked, shaking, and moaning. but hey—your doctor’s hot as fuck and dangerously good with his fingers, and his mouth is even filthier.

tags/warnings — smut, fingering, dirty talk in a medical way, slight praise, very unprofessional & unethical gojo, a little dubcon-y, power imbalance, oral (f. receiving). dividers by @/enchanthings

wc — 4.5k

a/n: s/o to remmm @/redrrem for helping me proofread + making this more slutty. xoxo mwah

Ever since you moved out of your suburban hometown and into the big city, you’ve had many more changes to get used to than you had initially thought. 

Someone taking your undesignated parking spot, the insane coffee prices, and waking up to the annoying sound of traffic in the early morning.

Another change that came with your move is finding not only a new primary care doctor or a hospital you can now call your go-to, but also finding a new gynecologist. 

And, unluckily for you, you haven’t been to one since…ever. 

You’re a bit afraid, which is natural, considering the many horror stories you’ve heard about metallic devices being shoved into your vagina, which hurt like a bitch, or how, on the contrary, it’s not painful at all. 

You know, you know, you need to go. And you won’t deny that you’ve been pushing this dreaded appointment off ever since you turned the right age. 

But now is the time. You’ve moved. You’re on your own in the big city, and times have changed. No more having to rely on your mother to schedule an appointment for you.

Your legs still feel wobbly as your name gets called. Standing from the chair you’ve been in for the past 20 minutes and following the kind woman in scrubs. She leads you to the back and into a designated room. 

Before you enter, you catch sight of the silver-plated "Dr. Gojo” plastered on the door. 

The first thing she does is check your height, then your weight, and lastly your blood pressure. 

That’s normal, you’re used to it. You reassure yourself and your pulsing heart rate. 

After the initial examination, she takes the strap off your arm, rolling over to the computer, and that’s when she begins to ask you questions. 

“So…Ms. Y/N, correct?”

You nod, fingers fiddling in your lap as you sit upright. “Correct.”

“I assume this is your first time?” she asks with a reassuring smile, noticing your fidgeting.

“It is,” you awkwardly laugh. “I guess I’ve just been…nervous, that's all.” 

She smiles and looks at you. “That’s completely normal. Many women have a hard time scheduling their first gynecologist appointment. But I just want to assure you that we will try our absolute best to ensure you are comfortable throughout the appointment. And of course, this is for your safety. We’ll be able to determine if—”

“Yeah, yeah. Diseases. Cancer. I know.” After you’ve just so rudely cut her off, that’s when you shamefully sigh and scratch your neck. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I’m just nervous.”

The woman nods in understanding, focusing back on the screen. After a few silent moments, she clears her throat. “When was the first day of your last period?”

You think for a second, then answer: “About two weeks ago now.”

She nods slowly. “And are they regular?”

“Hmm, mostly. I guess? Sometimes I’m a few days late, never more than a week.”

“I see, how long do they usually last?”

“Maybe a few days... Or even a week?”

“Any specifics?” She’s typing on the keyboard. 

You purse your lips in thought. “I guess…around five to six days at most. Somewhere around there. I don’t really know.”

“Do you experience heavy bleeding or severe cramps?”

“Both,” you slump your shoulders. “But some periods I feel nothing, and my bleeding is less heavy.”

“And are you sexually active?”

Your cheeks burn stupidly for some reason, gulping. It’s a slightly difficult question, in all honesty. 

You’re not a virgin, but you’re also not getting dicked down frequently. “I’ve been celibate for more than a year now.”

The nurse, humming again, continues typing her fingers against the keyboard. The next few minutes are full of her questions about your sexual life, any symptoms or concerns you may have, medication you’ve taken, family history, and even mental health. 

You audibly sigh in relief when she finishes up, but this was the easy part. 

Now, left alone, having already removed your bra and underwear from your tank top and skirt, you’re actually fucking terrified. 

You’re forced to wait in agony and anticipation, trying to focus your mind on whatever shit you’re watching on your phone. 

What’s even worse is that you were informed that your gynecologist is a man. You wanted a woman. 

“Great, fucking great.” You scoff under your breath, fisting the thin layer of bed sheet beneath you.  

You try to think on the bright side of things. Getting a Pap smear and a breast exam during the same session. It’s like killing two birds with one stone. Or more like killing one bird with two stones.  

Your head whips up the second you hear a knock. The door handle turns, opening from the other side, as you scramble to turn your phone off and into your purse.  

Your mouth dries. 

“Hello, Y/N. I’m Dr. Satoru Gojo. I’ll be your primary gynecologist. How are you today?”

You can’t even respond, eyes shamelessly fawning over the man in front of you.

Tall, lean, extremely handsome. Soft, white hair pushed back lazily, but elegantly. Thin-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose that barely do anything to obscure the fact that his eyes are just so, so blue.

Standing before you, in a long white coat with scrubs underneath, with a smile that showcases his pearly white teeth and his dimples on his cheeks. You can smell his expensive cologne from here. 

Sitting on the rolling chair the nurse was on previously, legs spread slightly, he regards you with a friendly gaze that leaves you wondering…This man is your gynecologist???

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for your response.

You blink rapidly, words broken as you manage to stutter out a response. “O-oh. I—um—I’m great, thank you. And you?”

“I’m doing wonderful, thank you for asking. It’s a very hot day today, isn’t it?” He fans himself and looks out the window. All you’re focused on is his fingers. “The summer heat is getting brutal.”

You force out a laugh when he does, though it doesn’t sound as genuine as his. “Yeah, really, really…hot….” Your voice trails into a soft whisper, hypnotized by the way he adjusts the watch on his wrist, exposing just a peek of forearm muscle and veins. 

From his peripheral vision, he glances at you. Oh no. You’ve been caught staring. 

He simply chuckles softly and rolls over to the computer to look over your chart. “So, this is your first time, correct?”

“Correct…”

“I'll walk you through every step, okay?”

You nod, his honeyed voice calming your nerves. 

“We’ll start with a breast examination, then move on to your pap smear. I’ll step out and give you privacy to undress and put on this gown.” 

He opens a cabinet nearby and hands you the folded piece of fabric. His fingers brushing against you, making you flinch. Maybe it’s your delusional side, but you could’ve sworn his touch lingered—and his eyes sharpened just slightly behind his glasses. 

You’re so not ready.

The moment his cold fingers feel the underside of your breast, you can’t help but softly gasp. 

That doesn’t deter him. He mutters softly, “Does anything hurt?”

You shake your head, your throat dry. 

He hums. “Good, if anything does, please let me know.” Then he uses his other hand to lightly prod and feel the sensitive, soft skin of your breasts. Slim fingers move methodically, fingertips just barely pressing deeper into you, examining the areas for any unusual or concerning lumps. 

He shifts closer on his rolling stool, knees brushing against the edge of the exam table. You’re completely hypersensitive. From the antiseptic smell emanating from the room, to the way your heart is beating rapidly, the flutter of his pale lashes, and lastly, on the focused creases between his eyebrows. 

And of course, his hands on you just have to feel better than any other time you’ve been felt up before. 

Granted, he’s doing an examination, not ‘feeling you up’. And you’re a little—well, very—touch deprived. So there’s a perfectly good excuse as to why your thighs squeeze together from under the gown, fists bunching the material up and doing your ultimate best to hold back a whimper when the pad of his finger flicks against your hardened nipple. 

“Any tenderness here?”

Somehow, you manage a response through a shaky voice. “N-No, Dr. Gojo.”

Another faint hum of acknowledgment. “You’re sensitive, which is completely normal, no need to worry. Especially during exams like these.”

You nod silently, feeling a puff of warm air that he exhales. Each gentle, circular rotation from him feels like a restrained study. Moving from the outer edge to the inner, until his fingers skim over your perky nipples.

You’re almost tempted to close your eyes. To tilt your head back and ask him not to stop, but you restrain yourself. You swallow hard. 

“Skin tone is even, no visible discoloration. Your tissue is soft, no abnormalities.”

“That’s good,” you exhale shakily, eyes fluttering. You’re not so sure if it’s in response to him or his hands. 

He raises his pale blue eyes, a smile creeping up his lips. Focusing on the other side, he repeats his ministrations. His movements never rushed, they’re slow and deliberate with an occasional squeeze. 

“Consistent texture. I sense no masses. Your breasts are symmetrical,” his eyes move back down to your boobs in front of him, a constant. “You’re doing very well. Just keep breathing, okay?”

Your chest rises and falls in a stuttering way. He glances back up. Just once. 

“If you’re holding your breath, that may cause some tension. Try to relax for me.”

“Right. Relax,” you repeat in a quieter tone of voice. 

Heat pools in your belly, squeezing your thighs tighter. He runs his finger across your nipple again, flicking it in a clinical way to test your reactions. 

And boy, is your small gasp a reaction for him. Too bad your eyes are closed, you would’ve seen the boner he carefully hides in his slacks. 

“Highly reactive to stimulation. Again—this is very normal.”

Finally, after what feels like forever, his hands pull away, and you finally breathe right. Slowly opening your eyes, you feel your cheeks red, a small wetness between your clenched thighs that makes you panic at the thought of him seeing it. 

Does he smell it? 

You make eye contact, his tongue running over his bottom lip. His white teeth peeking out from his semi-smile. It’s like he knows the effect he has on you; he just doesn’t point it out. 

At least he’s somewhat saving your dignity. 

“That concludes the breast exam.” He confirms in approval, noting down whatever observations he’s made, before moving on to the next half of the examination.

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your muscles relax, watching as Dr. Gojo reaches for a pair of fresh latex gloves, before turning to you once again.

“We’ll move on to the internal portion next.” His voice is smooth as butter, professional, and friendly. You blink, your brain a bit foggy. His head tilts. “Unless you’d like a moment to catch your breath?”

God, just the way he asks that question. How his voice lowered and softened into honey silk. 

“No, I…I’m okay to move on now.”

His smile turns crooked. “Excellent.”

Completely bare from the waist down, the gown that once offered you the slightest bit of dignity now lifted up to your hips to present your bare core to the man sitting in front of it. Your feet were held up, planted on the stirrups, legs up and apart, and you’re left blinking up at the blank white ceiling. 

You hear some shifting from down there, assuming he’s getting everything he needs ready for the exam.  

Your bare thighs prickle under the cold air, and from your own growing sense of anticipation. 

Gloves snap against skin, a subtle clink of metal against a tray. 

“This may feel just a tiny bit cold. But if you’re uncomfortable or feel any sort of pain or discomfort, tell me immediately.”

You gulp. “Okay.”

His chair wheels closer between your thighs, his gloved hand gently resting on your thigh. “I’ll begin with the visual exam, just checking to make sure everything looks safe and healthy.”

“Okay,” you say again, as if it’s the only word you do know right now. 

You bite your lip, eyebrows furrowing. You can’t help but tense when two fingers carefully part your folds, hips twitching—an involuntary response. He pats your thigh gently.

The cool air hitting your intimate area leaves you with goosebumps all over, unintentionally clenching your pussy as you feel his hot breath against your inner thigh. 

“Your labia appears healthy. No irritation, lesions, or abnormal discharge,” he clinically notes to himself. His two fingers spread you a bit more, wheeling closer. 

You can practically feel the heat of his gaze, your breath stuttering. It feels embarrassing. You try to reason with yourself once more that this is mandatory, just another check up for your own health, but fuck—getting examined like this, by a man this gorgeous, it feels different. 

Even worse when he says:

“You’re already lubricating naturally. That’s a very good sign, it means your body’s responding well.”

God, just kill me now. 

He pauses, then asks softly. “Do you wish for me to stop?”

“No,” you whisper. 

A low purr. “Alright.”

You hear latex against metal. “Now you'll feel just some slight pressure. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

You mentally brace yourself. 

Inhaling sharply as he presses the speculum into your entrance. It’s coated in lubricant, making the process somewhat easier. You’re still tense, however. 

“Relax your muscles, I’ve got you.” He pats your knee now. 

Well, that’s fucking hard to do when he’s putting a metal device inside your pussy. 

It’s cold, foreign. The dull slide of the metal instrument still manages to make you cringe and tense instinctively. His free hand that rubs your knee manages to ground you, even if just for a little bit. 

It slides in deeper in a controlled, careful manner. You wince. And he finally settles it in place. 

“Almost done, okay? Just a deep breath for me.”

Then, he gently opens the speculum, effectively widening your entrance to his focused gaze. The stretching of it makes your body and mind go rigid, a wheeze leaving your lungs as you fist the thin sheet laid beneath you. 

You want to just clamp your thighs together, to just push the object out. Somehow, you withstand. 

“You’re doing very well for me,” he praises, his voice smooth and even. “…cervix is high and centred. No inflammation. Looks healthy.”

He’s silent for a beat, and then: “We’ll take the Pap smear sample now.”

You nod, but your body stays stiff as a brush touches deep inside, brushing lightly, strangely. Not painful, but so intimate you could scream.

“Alright,” he finally says, retracting the brush and then closing the speculum before slowly sliding it out.

Instant relief washes over you, letting out an audible breath you were holding in for who knows how long. However, he doesn’t wheeled away yet. 

“And now, I’m going to perform the bimanual exam next. Just two fingers inside, and the other hand will press down on your abdomen. This allows me to check the size and position of your uterus and ovaries.”

You nod again, more dizzy than anything.

A pause. “Still okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathe.

Then his fingers are back—two gloved digits sliding in slowly, steadily, and deeply. They fill you quickly, curling slightly inside you while his other hand presses gently down over your lower stomach. 

“You’re tight,” he murmurs, still sounding like he’s merely observing facts. “No tenderness. Cervix is firm but not rigid… The uterus feels normal. No abnormalities detected. Good response.”

You let out a shaky breath. The pressure of his touch is maddening. Not rough. Just exact.

“You’re clenching again. Try to relax around me.”

You whimper slightly as his fingers curl just a little more deliberately, pressing gently against the front wall.

“Very sensitive here,” he murmurs. “Highly reactive. Normal, but worth noting for future visits.”

“I-Is this…is this really part—I mean—necessary?” You manage to get out, voice strained. 

He chuckles gently. “It is all part of the job. Remember, tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” He eventually glances up at you again, noticing the way your face is as red as a tomato, and how you look like you’re holding something back, albeit barely. 

He likes the look in your eyes. Loves it even.

And unbeknownst to you, his cock twitches. 

He manages to keep his composure, looking back down at you spread before him, how your slick coats his latex-gloved fingers. Your scent is beginning to make him dizzy, and he almost wants to pull out and lick his fingers clean. 

He holds back. 

He’s a professional, remember?

“Internal temperature is warm. Muscles are responsive.” His fingers twist up slightly. “There.”

A sound catches in your throat. 

“Found it,” he says simply, as if identifying a sample on a slide. “You’re particularly reactive here. Let’s test the consistency of that response.”

He starts up a slow, controlled rhythm—his fingers moving upward, pressing with devastating precision against your G-spot.

You bite your lip, your body jerking with every press. 

“Pelvic contractions are increasing,” he observes. “You’re clenching harder around my fingers. Excellent neurological response.”

“D-Doctor—” you whimper.

“Shhh,” he coos, face leaning closer to your dripping heat, savoring the slick sounds of his fingers exiting, entering, curling, then exiting again. 

The next few seconds are agony, pure agony. Because, sure, this is an exam. But are they usually this long? Do they usually feel this good? And does your doctor always finger your G-spot with ease until you’re dripping out onto the bed? 

“Hypersensitivity right along the anterior wall. Fascinating.” He murmurs lowly, as if the way he moves his fingers in and out of you was part of the examination all along. “And every time I do…this—“ his two digits curl, smirking when he hears the hitch of your breath and sees the jerk of your hips. “You tense up. Means your nerves are firing just perfectly.”

“This…this feels…..”

“Good?” 

You can’t help yourself this time. A surprised moan escaping your lips when his thumb comes into the picture, lazily skimming over your clit with enough force to make you practically yearn for more. 

You hadn’t expected that. Especially that. Not during an exam. 

“Apologies, that wasn’t part of the plan,” he murmurs more so to himself, thumb barely hovering above your bud. “But your body is begging for more stimulation. Your clitoris is swollen and hot to the touch. I’d be remiss not to note this down.”

When you whimper again, his eyes flicker up, half-lidded. A slight smirk against his glossy lips. 

“Still with me?” 

“U-uh…huh…” you pant, your hips shamelessly rutting up against his fingers. You need more. 

His smile becomes thinner, eyes glinting with something hidden behind them. “Then I’ll continue. Neurological response is reaching its peak, I’ll apply more pressure now.”

Your toes curl in the stir-ups, head tilting back with your mouth parted in a quiet mewl. The tip of his fingers hit that special spot so effortlessly, and the way he talks as if what he’s doing is completely normal, it makes you feel warmer. Wetter. It makes you want something else. Maybe even for his cock to replace his fingers.  

“P-Please—”

“Do you need me to stop?”

You shake your head helplessly. “N-No—I just—” 

“You’re pulsing,” he croons. “Try to hold on just a bit longer, can you do that for me?”

“No…!” You cry out, your hand shooting down to hold his wrist. Your body is moving on its own at this point. You moan again when his middle finger rubs your G-spot, back arching off the examination table. 

“I think you can,” he merely suggests, his thumb swirling your clit. 

You see stars, wetness prickling at your eyes. 

“Clitoral sensitivity is elevated. Likely from prolonged internal and external stimulation.”

Your hips shift, rutting against the heel of his palm. You’re conscious of the way you clench down around his fingers, like you’re trying to suck him in and bring them deeper. 

In your mind, it’s all a jumbled mess. You’re aware of what you’re doing—of what he’s doing. Questioning if this is appropriate in the first place, if he’s even a damn gynecologist. 

But this far in, you’re only focused on one thing. 

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Dr. Gojo, I—”

“I know, I know. You’re overwhelmed, correct? That’s normal.” His fingers hit your spongy wall, rubbing and curling. “However, I am surprised you haven’t orgasmed yet. Maybe my fingers aren’t doing that good of a job?” 

He chuckles at his own shitty joke, all the while you’re completely falling apart. 

“This is still a part of the exam,” he says again, but softer this time. More dangerous. “I’m checking your response to prolonged internal stimulation. Monitoring consistency. Depth. Pressure. Pleasure.”

And just like that, he brings his fingers out, thumb withdrawing from you. 

It feels like a blow to your pussy, a physical punch that leaves you winded and panting and broken. It’s completely devastating. You’re left clenching around nothing but air, desperately begging for something to fill you once more. A whine claws up your throat, raw and utterly needy. 

Before you can even question anything or attempt to regather your bearings…

He slides back in. 

Faster. Harder. 

Your loud, broken sob that morphs into a moan echoes off the walls of the office. “Dr!”

The wet, filthy squelchy sound of your cunt swallowing his long digits welcomes his ears. He sighs in blissfulness. His fingers drive into you, knuckles deep, curling—dragging—along that same pulsing spot with surgical precision. Your walls tighten violently around him, trying to hold him in, to milk him like it’s his cock instead, your body betraying your mind completely.

You can’t stop the tears that now trickle down your cheeks. The overstimulation, the embarrassment, the need. Your hips twitch again, greedy for more, even as your legs shake helplessly in the stirrups. “W-wait…I…this isn’t…”

The lewd sounds are slick and steady, timed with your ragged breathing and broken gasps. And somehow, you can’t find it in yourself to say ‘stop’, to tell him this isn’t right. 

Maybe this is normal? Maybe this always happens. It is your first time, so everything probably feels way more intense than—

Spit!

A filthy warm, deliberate wad of saliva hits your shivering cunt with abrupt forcefulness. It makes you wheeze, jolting. 

“Hah…look at that,” his voice is low, ragged—almost breathless in awe. “Oh, right. Sorry, intrusive thoughts. But I was right, you contracted again. It makes me wonder...”

“Dr. Gojo—!” You whine out, eyes closing forcefully. “F-Feels—hah—good!”

His spit slides down your creamy slit slowly, meeting his gloved fingers, and the rest of it wetting the sheet below. He studies the way your pussy tenses, how it flutters like it needs something bigger—thicker. 

“There it is again,” he whispers reverently. “You like that?” His eyes flick upwards, taking in your fucked-out expression. Eyes half-lidded, cheeks red, panting for air, your tongue peeking out from your pink parted lips. 

His fingers fuck into you with slow precision, letting the obscene squelches take over and act as background noise to your inevitable unraveling. 

“Now, just Imagine if I let my mouth take over.” His voice is pure filth now, drawn out and dark with desire. “I wouldn’t even stop to breathe, you know? I’d spit, lick, suck this pretty little clit until you came all over my face. Would you like that, sweetheart? You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You nod without much thought, hips bucking up again as you chase your high. The speed of his fingers slows down, allowing you some moments to breathe. But all of that is thrown out the window. 

You should’ve expected it. He did ask. And you did nod. 

But you didn’t think he’d actually—

“Ngh!”

A cry tears through your throat. 

His lips making contact with your slippery cunt is what you register first. Then his tongue lapping up the slick, swirling around your quivering hole, then up to your puffy clit. His lips wrap around the bud—wasting no time in absolutely eating you the fuck out. 

His nose is shoved against your skin, muffled groans mixing in with your whimpering sighs and gasps. 

Your brain short-circuits, back arching completely off the exam table. The flick of his experienced tongue—both slow and indulgent—absolutely wrecks you. “Oh my god—” you gasp, voice cracking. 

You can faintly make out the low muffle of his chuckle through your dazed mind. 

His mouth alternates. Switching from a long, slippery stripe up your cunt to hungrily sucking on your clit like it’s his favorite snack. Wet, popping noises fill the room. 

His moans are stifled, his so-called ‘professionalism’ wavering by the second and his hands—the ones that felt so precise and methodical just minutes ago—now dig into your thighs, forcing them open for his impatient mouth. 

He works you with obscene devotion, admiring the squelch of his hot tongue against your soaked flesh. 

“F-fuck, Doctor—please—” you whimper, hands fisting the sheet beneath you, head tossing back against the paper-covered cushion.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He’s like a man possessed. His tongue curling and flicking, dragging over your clit, teasing your entrance again just to lap up the fresh slick you keep leaking for him.

“Fuck,” he groans into you, the sound so guttural and real it makes your toes curl. “You taste so fucking good—this pussy’s unreal.”

You cry out again as he sucks harshly, tongue pressing flat, lips tugging just right—and it absolutely shatters you.

Your orgasm hits hard. Harder than any you’ve experienced before. Either by your own doing, or from another man. Because this time—this time—you see stars. 

Your ears ring with vibrations. Your vision whitens out, and for a second, you think you may have died from how fucking hard you just came. 

You think you’ve stepped through the gates of heaven. Your body? Limp. Chest heaving up and down with breathless pants. You feel flushed and hot to the touch. It’s utterly violent. 

Thighs instinctively clamping shut around his head like you’re trying to save yourself from something that’s already been done. 

How cute, he thinks. 

You sob through your unravelling, hips jerking against his face as he devours every second of your release. He doesn’t pull back, instead he rides it out with his mouth locked to your cunt, swallowing everything you give him like he’ll never get enough.

Finally, your spasms fade slowly. The ringing in your ears dulls, and you can make out the ceiling of the room—the antiseptic scent invading your nostrils again. Though this time, mixed with something much more salacious. 

Your back collapses against the table. Blinking weakly, you barely manage to look down between your spread legs. 

There—your doctor—tilts his head back. His beautiful face glistens. His lips are pink, shiny, and swollen. He smiles unapologetically. 

Breathing out—shaky, satisfied, and completely drunk on you. His lashes flutter across his cheekbones as he exhales through his nose, like he just came without even being touched. 

He licks his lips in a disgustingly pornographic way. 

His voice, when it finally leaves his throat, is wrecked—raspy and hot, full of hunger not even close to being sated.

“So, I’ll see you next week for your fertility examination?” 

a/n: hope u all enjoyed this <333. wish i could’ve made it longer but this whole fic took WAYYY too long for me to completely finish 😹😹 again, ty rem for helping me proofread & brainstorm. love you!!!

taglist: @miizuzu @dickktektive @momoewn @beabamboo @ilovemyswlf3

@hazel-babbit @satorus-princess @yuhhh03 @mymoonisgrey  @yesdere

@ilperfect @satoblue @all-with-angel @nina-from-317 @httpstoyosi

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[cheeseanonioncrisps]

A murder mystery film set in a medieval village. After an outbreak of plague, the villagers make the decision to shut their borders so as to protect the disease from spreading (see the real life case of the village of Eyam). As the disease decimates the population, however, some bodies start showing up that very obviously were not killed by plague.

Since nobody has been in or out since the outbreak began, the killer has to be somebody in the local community.

The village constable (who is essentially just Some Guy, because being a medieval constable was a bit like getting jury duty, if jury duty gave you the power to arrest people) struggles to investigate the crime without exposing himself to the disease, and to maintain order as the plague-stricken villagers begin to turn on each other.

The killer strikes repeatedly, seemingly taking advantage of the empty streets and forced isolation to strike without witnesses. As with any other murder mystery, the audience is given exactly the same information to solve the crime as the detective.

Except, that is, whenever another character is killed, at which point we cut to the present day where said character's remains are being carefully examined by a team of modern archaeologists and historians who are also trying to figure out why so many of the people in this plague-pit died from blunt force trauma.

The archaeologists and historians, btw, are real experts who haven't been allowed to read the script. The filmmakers just give them a model of the victim's remains, along with some artefacts, and they have to treat it like a real case and give their real opinion on how they think this person died.

We then cut back to the past, where the constable is trying to do the same thing. Unlike the archaeologists, he doesn't have the advantage of modern tech and medical knowledge to examine the body, but he does have a more complete crime scene (since certain clues obviously wouldn't survive to be dug up in the modern day) and personal knowledge from having probably known the victim.

The audience then gets a more complete picture than either group, and an insight into both the strengths and limits of modern archaeology, explaining what we can and can't learn from studying a person's remains.

At the end of the film, after the killer is revealed and the main plot is resolved, we then get to see the archaeologists get shown the actual scenes where their 'victims' were killed, so they can see how well their conclusions match up with what 'really' happened.

[renkyol]

This might have already been said but:

As much I'm loving all of The Pitt fanfiction, I've noticed a lot of people don't seem to understand how the med school and residency system works and it's annoying me. The basic order goes med student->resident->fellow->attending.

If you are a med student, you do not yet have your licence to practice medicine and have not matched to your specialty. If you are working, then you are completing a rotation, which is usually 4-12 weeks, depending on the specialty. Other healthcare disciplines (physiotherapy, occupational therapy, respiratory therapy, etc) refer to these as work placements. You do not get paid for these placements; actually, you pay to complete these placements. Whittaker and Javadi are med students.

At the end of your fourth year, in the States, you would write the United States Medical Licensing Examination(USMLE). In Canada, you write the Medical Council of Canada Qualifying Examination (MCCQE). The USMLE is completed in three steps. Steps one and two are typically written when you are a med student; step three is written at the end of your first year of residency. Provided you pass steps one and two, you are now a resident. Residents are doctors. Residency is a three to seven year training period in a specialty, e.g., emergency medicine, psychiatry, pediatrics, etc. You are matched into your specialty. Matching is, to my understanding, just the most complicated job hiring system in the world. The most important bit to know from a writers perspective is that there is a really good chance that a resident does not have a say in their specialty. A person preparing for residency will go on interviews and rank their preferred specialties and workplaces (meaning the hospital they complete their residency at), and then the hospitals and the departments decide to accept them or not. If you do not get matched, you can go through a process called SOAP, which places you with positions that did not get filled. The only way to change your specialty is to re-start the residency process from scratch. Santos is a first year resident, meaning she would have only passed the steps one and two of the USMLE that spring. This means she is most likely matched into emergency medicine. Although I learned recently that some surgery residencies have their residents complete a year of emergency medicine before starting in the OR. My personal headcanon is that Santos was soaped into emergency medicine, and that is why she was like that in the beginning. Mel and McKay are second year residents, which means they have been working as doctors for at least a year and already have emergency medicine as their specialty. They most likely would have completed all three steps to the USMLE It is mentioned in the first episode that Mel did her first year at a VA hospital which is apparently a common thing to do in the states. Mohan is a third year resident. I think this makes Robbie's comments to Mohan about switching to psychiatry really mean cause he's basically telling her to consider re-starting her residency when she's more than halfway finished. Collins, Langdon, and Garcia are fourth year or senior residents. Emergency medicine has a four year residency, so this means that they are almost done with their residencies. Surgery can have a five year or longer residency, so Garcia might still be a resident in the next season. Due to Langdon having to take most of the year away from work, he will have to re-start his fourth year.

After your residency is completed, you have the option to complete a fellowship. Not all specialties require a fellowship. These are take anywhere from 1 to 3 years. Emergency medicine does not require the completion of a fellowship, although there are a lot of options available. These are basically highly specialized training on topics in your specialty. For example, John Hopkins offers a fellowship in combat medicine for those specializing in emergency medicine.

After all of that: congratulations, you are now a doctor in attending aka an attending doctor. This means no more exams, just a re-licencing test every 5 years. You can take on residents and med students of your own to supervise, or not. No one is going to make you. You can also easily move now as you do not have to stay with the hospital you matched to for your residency. Getting a job goes back to the much more normal and not as stressful process of a job instead of the hellscape that is the residency matching program. Robbie, Abbot, Shen, Parker, and Walsh are attendings.

(Edit: Parker is a senior resident. I think I saw Parker's energy and assumed she was already an attending)

[si-cucumber]

I love ableist fuckwads 😀 Just the highlight of my week. The perfect way to start the weekend

[joga-blog]

Complete Health Monitoring: What to Expect from Full-Body Checkup Packages.

In maintaining optimal health and preventing potential medical issues, regular health checkups are paramount. Full-body checkup packages offer a comprehensive assessment of one's health status, encompassing various medical tests and evaluations. This article delves into the significance of full-body checkups, outlines the typical components of such packages, and provides considerations for individuals contemplating undergoing this evaluation.

Importance of Full-Body Checkup Packages:

1. Early Detection of Health Issues: 

Many health conditions, such as diabetes, hypertension, and certain cancers, may not exhibit noticeable symptoms in their early stages. Regular full-body checkups enable healthcare professionals to detect these conditions early, facilitating prompt intervention and treatment.

2. Preventive Healthcare: 

Preventive Full-body checkups emphasize preventive healthcare by identifying risk factors and providing lifestyle recommendations to mitigate them. This proactive approach can help individuals adopt healthier habits and reduce their susceptibility to chronic diseases.

3. Comprehensive Assessment: 

Unlike routine doctor visits focusing on specific concerns, comprehensive full-body checkup packages thoroughly evaluate various bodily systems, offering a comprehensive snapshot of one's overall health status.

Components of Full-Body Checkup Packages:

1. Physical Examination: 

A comprehensive physical examination, including measurements of vital signs such as blood pressure, heart rate, and body mass index (BMI), forms the cornerstone of a full-body checkup.

2. Blood Tests: 

Blood tests assess various parameters, including lipid profile (cholesterol levels), blood sugar levels (for diabetes screening), liver function tests, kidney function tests, and complete blood count (CBC) to evaluate overall health and detect abnormalities.

3. Imaging Studies: 

Depending on the package, imaging studies such as X-rays, ultrasound scans, and ECG/EKG (electrocardiogram) may be included to assess the health of internal organs and detect any structural abnormalities or anomalies.

4. Specialized Tests: 

Some full-body checkup packages may include specialized tests based on individual risk factors or specific health concerns. These tests may encompass screening for specific cancers, hormonal assessments, or assessments of bone health.

5. Consultation and Counseling: 

Following the evaluation, individuals typically receive a consultation with a healthcare professional to discuss the results, interpret findings, and receive personalized recommendations for maintaining or improving their health.

Considerations for Full-Body Checkup Packages:

1. Cost: 

Full-body checkup packages can vary widely in terms of cost, depending on the comprehensiveness of the evaluation and the healthcare provider offering the package. Individuals should consider their budget and the value proposition offered by the package.

2. Relevance to Personal Health History: 

Tailoring the full-body checkup package to one's personal health history, family medical history, and lifestyle factors can enhance its effectiveness in identifying potential health risks and guiding preventive measures.

3. Frequency: 

The frequency of undergoing full-body checkups depends on individual factors such as age, overall health status, and risk factors for certain diseases. While annual checkups are common, individuals with specific health concerns may require more frequent evaluations.

4. Choice of Healthcare Provider: 

It's essential to choose a reputable healthcare provider or diagnostic center with experienced professionals and accredited facilities to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the tests conducted as part of the package.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, full-body checkup packages play a vital role in proactive healthcare management by providing a comprehensive assessment of one's health status, facilitating early detection of potential health issues, and guiding preventive measures. By understanding the importance, components, and considerations associated with these packages, individuals can make informed decisions to safeguard and optimize their health.

Complete Body Health Checkup Packages in India: 

Medicas Wellness Prime 

Medicas Wellness Vital 

Medicas Wellness Complete 

Medicas Wellness Balance 

Medicas Wellness Ultimate 

[khanger]

URGENT MEDICAL DONATIONS NEEDED

@safaaabeed urgently needs to raise $2,000 to obtain blood work, complete examinations, and X-rays to determine the cause of her illness and hopefully receive the medical attention she desperately needs please help my sister safaa gets her health back .

DONATE HERE

Vetted by 90-ghost

[millers-girl]

a little sliver

a Dr. Jack Abbot one-shot (The Pitt)

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: the fear of being diagnosed with the very disease that took your mother's life keeps you away from the hospital – until a cut on your hand brings you in, and a certain ER cowboy keeps you coming back.

warnings/tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, age gap, serious health condition, medical anxiety

word count: 4.9k

a/n: in my angsty era, blame my hormones

You hadn’t looked up once from your shaking hands, not since you’d sat down. The fluorescent lights above made your skin look worse – washed out, tinged with a sickly pale hue. But it was the tremor your eyes were fixed on – slight, controlled, like your body was already beginning to whisper the secret and would soon shout it from the rooftops.

You barely even glanced at the doctor who escorted you back through the ED. Didn’t glance at the exam room door, didn’t care what the table looked like before perching yourself on the edge. 

Dr. Shen was kind. Gentle voice, competent hands. He didn’t comment on the tremor, not right away. Just asked you the procedural questions. 

“What brings you in today?” You dropped a glass and cut your hand rushing to pick up the pieces.

“Why did you wait so long to come in?” You thought you’d picked all the glass out. It didn’t hurt much.

“Have you noticed any muscle-twitching or stiffness? Not from the cut.

Now that response caught his attention.

Your voice held that flatness people only got when the weight was bone-deep, nearly crushing them.

He thought he caught the tremor when he began examining your hand but it was so slight, barely there, that he figured it might’ve just been a nervous tick.

But it wasn’t. 

You couldn’t control it. Your muscles twitched. Your grip had weakened, just the slightest. These subtle changes, in turn, caused a spike in irritability, aimed at whoever was in your line of sight. 

All in the last three days.

Independently, none of these symptoms were too worrying. But combined, it made him wary.

He ran through the possibilities.

A stress-related tremor – though you hadn’t been burnout or fatigued lately.

Caffeine overuse – you were a tea drinker. 

Multiple sclerosis – you didn’t have any vision changes or numbness. 

Hyperthyroidism – he sent your bloodwork to the lab to check your TSH levels, but it was unlikely as you weren’t presenting other symptoms.

“I don’t think it’s neurological but I’d like to bring in one of our senior attendings to take a look. Dr. Abbot’s got an eye for that kind of thing.” 

You nodded faintly, in the way people do when the words go in one ear and out the other.

Shen left for a moment, and you dropped your head to stare at your hand.

Your fingers wouldn't stop. The motion was subtle but consistent. It frustrated you to no end, especially at how familiar it all looked. How similar.

You pressed your thumb into your palm, hard enough to leave a crescent-shaped dent in your skin.

Another minute passed. Then, the door opened. You didn’t look up right away, just registered Dr. Shen’s rushed footsteps, followed by the sound of steady, deliberate ones.

Dr. Abbot introduced himself in a clipped voice, his tone lower and controlled. He sounded older, wasted no time – took one look at you and already knew it was more than just a hand injury. 

When you looked up at him, you saw that he was tall and broad-shouldered. Black scrubs, with a long sleeve rolled up underneath. Close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. 

Expression completely unreadable. 

He listened to you as you told him about your injury and symptoms. Didn’t interrupt, just watched you with unnerving precision. You knew he already suspected it was more than it seemed.

“Can I see?” he finally asked. 

You held out your hand and he took it without hesitation, fingers cool and sure. His touch was light but efficient. He palpated gently along the edge of your wrist, then traced the line of the cut. 

His eyes flicked back to your face. He noticed the fingernails you’d bitten, the raw skin at your cuticles. Your deepset, weary eyes, indicating sleeplessness.

He looked longer than he needed to, never saying anything, but you felt the weight of his gaze.

Dr. Shen, standing off to the side now, began listing what he’d already ruled out and what he wanted to test for. 

Dr. Abbot added, “Could be Parkinson’s, FNS, SCA, maybe Wilson’s – ” He paused, glancing over at you before doing a double-take, specifically at the bruise on your upper arm. “How’d you get that?” 

You shrugged, glancing at the bruise. “It’s dumb,” you muttered.

“How?” 

“I lost my balance and stumbled into my bookshelf the other day.” 

The way you said it was quiet, reserved. 

It made Abbot pause. His expression didn’t shift, but you saw something tighten in his posture. His voice changed – got flatter.

“Shen, let’s add a full neuro workup. MRI, metabolic panel. And order genetic testing.” 

You knew what he was circling even before he said it.

Shen, confused, asked, “For—?”

He looked at you again, and you answered for him, voice thin. “Huntington’s.”

Abbot’s eyes met yours, brows quirking slightly. He nodded once. No clipboard in hand, no tablet, but you could tell he was already categorizing, recalling data, mapping outcomes. Like you’d done for the past ten years.

You had this faraway look in your eyes, like you were already accepting your fate to be a brutal one. Like you already had it and now it was just a waiting game. Like you were already so used to bad news. Silently, he frowned to himself. You were so young; you shouldn’t have to be.

“Which parent?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

“Mom.” 

“How old was she when she was diagnosed?” 

“Forty-five.” 

There was a long pause before his next question. “Have you ever been tested?” 

You shook your head. The tremor felt worse when you did.

“Why not?” His voice wasn’t judgmental, but it wasn’t soft either. 

You looked away, shrugging. “I’m here now. Test me.”

The silence that followed was thick. You didn’t fill it. Neither did he.

Your words landed heavier than you meant. You weren’t trying to shock him by acting so blasé. You were just… tired. And, now, the idea of waiting for your body to betray you felt worse than knowing for sure. You were so far gone already – you didn’t have much fight left.

Abbot studied you, like he was trying to match what you’d said with the weight you carried. Something about the way you sat, arms folded protectively, eyes staring into the distance, gave him pause.

Eventually, he turned to Shen and gave him a short nod.

“We’ll order the bloodwork and genetic panel,” Shen said gently, almost apologetically, before exiting the exam room.

Abbot lingered for just a second longer than he needed to. Then he left, footsteps even and measured, like everything about him.

You didn’t watch him go. Just looked down at your hand again.

Still shaking.

Between that first visit and the time it would take for the genetic testing results to come back, you had plenty more reasons to return to the ED. 

And Dr. Jack Abbot was there every time. 

He always pretended it was a coincidence – half-shrugged when the residents teased him, brushed it off when Jess, the night charge nurse, smirked and said, “Your girl’s back.” It didn’t make Jack smile. But he never bothered correcting her either.

One of those days was more memorable than the others – the lab required a further test to conclude with certainty whether you had the mutation for Huntington’s. That test was a lumbar puncture, invasive and high-stakes. 

“I don’t want to do it,” you decided, voice flat, looking between Jack and the neurologist, Dr. Mehta. “I mean, there’s other ways to get what you need, right?”

Dr. Mehta glanced at Jack. He didn’t say a word, just stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes on you, waiting. 

“You don’t have to do it,” Jack said eventually. “But if you do… the results will have a higher accuracy.” He saw you squirm in your seat, and added, “I’ll stay.” 

You looked at him then. He wasn’t trying to talk you down, wasn’t trying to fix it. He was just there.

Quiet. Immovable. Present.

When the needle pressed into your spine, you didn’t flinch. Not really. But your fingers curled into the sheets, searching for something to anchor to. And then – his hand slipped between you and the sheet. Warm, calloused. Grounding.

When the worst of it was over and your body stopped shaking, you met Jack’s eyes and whispered, “Thanks.”

He didn’t answer. Just gave your fingers the barest squeeze.

Your other ED visits, though never fun, were never as bad as the lumbar.

Once, you showed up with a sprained ankle from a minor fall coming down the stairs. You told Jack you were just distracted, looking at your phone, but he noticed how you kept your weight off your left leg, almost as if your balance still wasn’t right. 

You were quieter that night, avoiding his eyes. He didn’t ask. Just brought you a snack from the vending machine to make you feel better, the same one he’d seen tucked in your bag that first night you met.

Another time, you cut yourself shaving. It was high up on your thigh, an unusual spot and uncommon angle. Again, you shrugged it off, but Jack didn’t buy it. He cleaned the wound, stitched you up, and in return, you learned his coffee order and bought him a cup as a thank you.

The third time, it was worse. You’d passed out in a coffee shop after not sleeping for three days. When paramedics brought you in, humiliated and defensive, Jack didn’t have to ask why – he could see the abstract formulae sketched on the edge of a crumpled napkin in your pocket, ink bleeding from sweat.

He tried to get the story out of you, but you clammed up. So he let it go. Put you on IV antihistamines, ordered fluids, made sure the light over your bed was dimmed. Hours later, as he passed by in the middle of his shift, he noticed you’d fallen asleep in the hospital bed, limbs awkwardly curled, blanket half-off. 

He adjusted it, pulling it up over your shoulders, careful not to wake you. 

In the morning, he was surprised to find you on the roof, in his spot, where he sometimes went to clear his head.

You sat on the ledge, a hoodie he’d lent you pulled tight around your shoulders, cup of tea in hand, half-empty. 

You startled when he walked out, shoulders visibly relaxing when you saw his familiar figure.

He sat beside you, thighs nearly touching, and you two just talked for a while. Not about the big metaphorical storm cloud clearly floating over you, but about things that could distract you: memories of your mom, stories he had from when he served in the military, a patient he couldn’t save last night – guilt he didn’t tell anyone else. 

He didn’t cry, didn’t even look at you. Just spoke until the words ran out.

And you listened. Leaned your head on his shoulder, offered him what was left of your tea. 

Neither of you spoke for a while after that, just silently watching the sunrise.

After that last visit, something shifted. Jack started checking the patient board at the beginning of every shift. Not consciously, not at first – but there was a moment each time, just a flicker of anticipation. More often than not, your name was up there. 

While attending to whatever injury you had that day, you two made small talk over bad coffee and overpriced vending machine snacks. It was awkward and brief, until it wasn’t. Until you started to become obsessed with your symptoms, always having the same grim theory about what was causing them.

“It’s getting worse,” you revealed after the fifth visit, finally having the courage to say it aloud. “I mean, it’s only been a few weeks. How could it be getting worse?” 

Jack’s gaze dropped to your chart, even though he’d already memorized it by this point. “It’s likely psychosomatic,” he said calmly. “You’re probably just stressed about the results. That can trigger tremors. Or – depressive episodes… I mean – have you been feeling hopeless? Uninterested in things you used to care about?” 

You blinked up at him like he’d grown an extra head. 

“Let me think,” you said, sarcasm thick in your throat. “I’m waiting on test results that could very well tell me I’m dying a quick death. Oh, but not before I lose my memory, motor function, and will to live. So yeah, Jack, I’d say I’m a little uninterested in anything else at the moment.”

That was new, too. You’d started calling him by his first name. It began as a joke, when you overheard Shen do it once, then it just stuck. 

And Jack never corrected you either. Besides, he’d seen the worst parts of you – this wasn’t just a brief professional encounter anymore.

Now, he watched you huff, crossing your arms over your chest – angry in that heartbreaking way he’d come to know so well.

In your chart, he quietly marked down an increase in mood lability. “Well, aren’t you just a ball of joy today,” he murmured, trying to crack the tension.

You instead transformed it into anxious energy. “The other day, I came across this 2017 paper – the Neuron study out of UCSD, where they tracked prodromal HD markers before symptom onset. And they found cognitive changes—subtle, but measurable—years before motor symptoms even started…” 

You swallowed hard, looking anywhere but at him.

“I mean, what if – what if that’s happening to me? What if I’m already on that path and I don’t even know it? What if I’ve already gone too far to come back?” 

The room went silent.

Jack looked up from your chart, and something in his expression changed. His posture froze, brows faintly lifting.

“You read that paper?” he asked softly. You shrugged, but the motion was stiff. “That paper changed how I evaluate prodromal cases. It’s dense. Most people never get past the abstract. But you… read it. Understood it.” 

The air between you suddenly thickened with everything that wasn’t being said.

He didn’t press, but you explained anyway. Maybe because the look he gave you wasn’t pity, like anyone else would’ve. Wasn’t sympathy. It was parity.

“I was at MIT when my mom got diagnosed,” you revealed.

Jack’s brows furrowed. “MIT?”

“It’s a school,” you shrugged. “In Boston.” 

He tilted his head. “I know what MIT is, kid.” You didn’t smile at that, nor meet his eyes. He waited, then asked, “What happened?” 

“I was studying bioengineering.” Your voice cracked, and you let out a dry laugh. “The universe has a funny sense of humor… Anyway, when she got sick, I started reading everything. Every case report, every preclinical trial. I used all my resources and funding and time and energy just to try and understand, conduct my own research… try to find a cure.” 

You drew a shaky breath. 

“I became obsessed with it. It was all I did, all I could think about, for seven years… and she died anyway.” Your eyes glistened, but nothing fell, not yet.

“And – and I’m not sick yet. Right? But the waiting is almost worse than a confirmed diagnosis. Like, there’s this little sliver of hope that maybe I don’t have it. And thinking about that sliver makes me sick. Because the odds aren’t in my favor. I probably do have it, and it’s gonna eat me like it ate her. And I won’t be able to stop it… again.”

With that, you left the exam room in a fog, before he could even blink. Didn’t wait for him to call you back – just walked, blindly. Found yourself in an empty stairwell on the abandoned sixth floor, slumping down in the corner, hands in your hair, breath shallow. Shaking. Finally sobbing.

Meanwhile, Jack was staring at the spot you’d just occupied on the exam table. He shut his eyes for a moment, sighed, and when he opened them again, he went looking for you with a heavy heart.

He found you in record time, after Shen told him he’d seen you heading towards the staircase. 

He didn’t touch you – just sat beside you, quiet, knees pulled up. 

He didn’t speak for a long while.

He watched the waterline of your eyes, how the tears couldn’t stop falling. How quiet you stayed, even as your hand began to tremble again.

His hand finally reached out, thumb brushing away the tears, even as new ones quickly replaced them. He offered a tissue.

“You’re right about the cognitive markers in the Neuron study,” he eventually said gently, “But that cohort had a very specific, very rare mutation profile. One that you’ve shown no indication in sharing.” 

You looked up sharply. He held your gaze. “The odds are in your favor. The Neuron study is just one. There are hundreds more that show how a positive mindset changes physiology. Having that little sliver of hope, it’s enough to change your brain chemistry. Enough to weigh the scales in your favor, diagnosis or not.”

Your hand twitched again.

He steadied it with his own. 

In that touch—warm and comforting palm over yours—he realized that the pair of you were two sides of the same coin. Both wired for control, science, self-sacrifice. 

He looked at you—really looked—and something in his chest shifted. Whatever this was, it wasn’t born from pity or obligation, but understanding. Matching scars.

You let out a shaky laugh, brushing the tear off your cheek with your free hand. “Is your bedside manner always this… emotionally fulfilling?” 

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, shaking his head. 

With the ends of your lips tugged upwards ever so slightly, you replied. “No, just a ball of joy.” 

Then, something you couldn’t have ever predicted happened – he laughed.

Not a huff or a grunt, like you usually got. An actual, honest-to-god laugh. The sound caught you completely off guard. It was warm, low, a little raspy. Like he didn’t do it much.

He looked different like that. Younger, less haunted. Like the weight he always carried slipped for a second.

And then it hit you – hard, sudden, uninvited. You wanted to see it again. Wanted to make him laugh like that again.

The thought lodged itself somewhere between your ribs and never left. 

And the sound of his laugh – it made that little sliver in your heart widen just the slightest. 

Jack felt that tiny warmth flicker inside him, too – but it brought something darker with it. Fear: that caring too much meant opening a door he maybe wasn't ready to walk through.

Beneath that warmth was the weight of your secret – the truth he’d just discovered, the one you hadn’t shared in a week.

And it terrified him.

So, the next time you saw him, he buried that laughter, that hope, deep under the surface.

You could immediately tell something was off.

You didn’t know what exactly – it wasn’t obvious. He still said hello when he entered the room, still glanced at your chart, still examined your reflexes.

But something was off. 

He didn’t meet your eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. Didn’t linger like he used to. Didn’t ask how you were sleeping or if you’d eaten today. Didn’t crack a dry, witty joke when you made some half-hearted comment. 

Just gave you the clinical version of himself – the stripped-down, by-the-book version that everyone else got.

You told yourself that you were imagining it. That it had been a long week, and you were sleep-deprived and anxious and inventing things that weren’t there. 

But even Jess noticed.

“Did you guys fight or something?” she whispered while re-taping your IV. “He’s been weird all day.” 

You shook your head, confused. “No, I mean – we barely talked.” 

What you didn’t know was that Jack had figured it out.

He knew.

Of course he did.

You’d gotten the envelope a week ago. The results – a definitive answer to the question that had threatened to split you down the middle since the moment you first walked through the ED doors. 

And you never told him.

Never brought it up.

No, you came in for something else entirely – what was it, dehydration? Maybe just another phantom symptom you were too scared to ignore. And he scanned your name on the board and felt… different. Like the space between him and your name on the board had increased.

And suddenly, he couldn’t stop thinking about the envelope. 

You kept it tucked away in your bag, the edges worn and creased from being handled but never opened. Sometimes, when you sat down, you could almost feel it burning through the leather of your purse – a silent promise of everything you weren’t ready to face yet.

And Jack knew it had come. There was a date, a system, a rhythm to those tests – hell, he’d even tracked yours down. It was delivered a week ago. And you hadn’t said a word.

And that did something to him. 

Frustrated him. Scared him. Hurt him in a way he didn’t have the right to be hurt. 

You were practically his patient. He wasn’t entitled to anything. 

But the truth settled under his skin like a splinter he couldn’t dig out: he wanted to know. Not because of your file, or because of pure professional concern. 

But because he cared.

More than he probably should, if he was being honest with himself.

And caring that much was dangerous. Unprofessional. Messy.

He realized it as he stood near the nurse’s station, after he’d just lost another patient. And it widened the hole in his heart.

“You alright?” Jess asked quietly, glancing up from her computer.

He hesitated, then shook his head slightly. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this… being this involved.” 

She gave him a small, knowing nod. “Sometimes, you have to protect yourself. It’s not giving up – it’s just keeping balance.”

He let out a slow breath, the decision settling like a weight he couldn’t shake. Maybe pulling back was the only way he wouldn’t break.

So he made a conscious decision to take a step back. 

Small things first – a little less eye contact, fewer jokes. Keeping his hands busy so they wouldn’t drift to yours. No more check-in texts. No more vending machine snacks.

And you felt it, clear as day.

You didn’t understand it, but the difference was like walking into a house you’d lived in for years and suddenly finding the furniture rearranged. Same walls, same door. But nothing was where it was supposed to be.

You immediately wondered if it was you – if you’d crossed that blurry line between you two. Wondered if your hand had stayed in his too long. If you sat a little too close one time. If you said something that made him realize he didn’t want this anymore.

You even considered bringing up the envelope, but something stopped you – fear, maybe. Or that strange, tight feeling that if you said it aloud—if you broke the silence—you wouldn’t be able to handle his reaction.

At this point in your relationship, he felt like an anchor. And you couldn’t handle watching him drift.

But you couldn’t do anything about it either, especially if he didn’t want to talk.

So, instead, you let the space grow.

And that was something Jack wasn’t expecting. But to prove to himself that he was fine with it—that he wasn’t that deep—he said yes to a date with one of the visiting surgeons at PTMC.

Someone age appropriate. Polished. Settled.

They got dinner at some nice place in Regent Square, somewhere one of the hospital admins had recommended. She ordered the house salad, said all the right things, smiled at all the right moments. 

But the whole time, he kept staring at her martini glass and thinking about how you would’ve ordered a fruity mocktail instead. He stared at her hand, steadily reaching for the glass, and thought about how yours shook when you were scared but pretending to be fine. He heard her speak and thought about how your voice caught when you talked about your mom. 

And he knew, in the pit of his stomach, that he could sit at a thousand nice restaurants with a thousand nice women and none of them would ever be you. 

As his date talked about some surgery or another she’d done today, his eyes drifted around the restaurant. 

He saw you instantly, as if his gaze was magnetically pulled to you. 

You’d chosen the restaurant because its bar was quiet, familiar. Dim and lowkey, the kind of place where you could drink in peace, alone and lost in your thoughts.

You sat at the end of the bar, fingers curled around a hot pink straw, stuck inside a fruity, orange mocktail. You hadn’t drank more than a few sips. Your mind was elsewhere. You were just tired.

Bone-deep, soul-wrecked tired. 

Hair in a messy bun, dark circles under your eyes.

Jack’s hand twitched around the whiskey glass he suddenly didn’t want. His date was speaking, but he didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear any of it.

Because you were across the room, and you looked like hell, and all he wanted to do was walk over and pull you back from the emotional spiral you were in.

The woman across from him tilted her head. “Jack, are you with me?” 

He hummed, forcing his eyes to tear from your figure and meet his date’s once more. “What? Yeah, I – ”

The woman knowingly shook her head, softly saying, “No, you’re not.” 

He blinked. Looked at her, guilty. “No,” he said, honest. “I’m sorry. I’m not.” 

She looked over her shoulder, finding the object of his gaze. 

“She’s why you’re not here?” 

He didn’t lie. “Yeah.” 

She nodded, kind. “Then go.”

He didn’t offer an apology. Just set his glass down, muttered something half-hearted about promising to pay, and left the table.

Crossed the room like it was both the easiest and hardest thing for him to do.

You didn’t turn when he sat down beside you at the otherwise empty bar.

Didn’t greet him.

Didn’t pretend.

Just took another mindless sip of your mocktail and said, flat, “You should go back to her.” 

Jack exhaled. “She doesn’t matter.” 

You paused, the quiet swallowing the space between you.

“She looked nice,” you said slowly, voice low. “Like the kind of person you could have a future with. A good, long life. She doesn’t shake when she drinks… she won’t forget your name in ten years.” 

That stopped him cold. The weight of your words pressed down on him. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched, but said nothing at first.

The silence stretched, thick and fragile, before he finally broke it.

“I don’t want her.”

Your laughter was bitter, sharp. “You don’t want me either.”

That hit him harder than he expected. His jaw flexed like he wanted to deny it immediately, but his hesitation said everything. 

He looked down at your hands, then back up, voice tight.

“That’s not true. I just – I pulled back because I knew… I knew you got the results. And you didn’t tell me, and I didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t want to be the person who needed to know something you could barely bring yourself to even do the testing for.” 

You stared at your drink, silence folding over you like a shroud.

“And I thought maybe,” he added, quieter now, “if I put some space between us, it’d be easier. For you. For me. Like if I pretended I didn’t care as much as I do, maybe I’d stop.”

You looked up, eyes glossy, rimmed with red. “Did it work?” 

He shook his head slowly. “No… it made everything worse.” 

You turned fully toward him, vulnerability softening your features. “So what now?” 

Jack leaned in, hand finding yours as the overhead light caught the streaks of grey in his hair. He was closer now, speaking low, like the words were meant only for you.

Because they were.

“Now I stop pretending. I’m here for you. I see you. And I’m not going anywhere.” 

You didn’t blink. “What if the results are positive for the mutation? What if I have it?” 

His eyes didn’t waver. 

“What if I stop remembering you?” your voice cracked. “What if I stop remembering me?” 

Jack didn’t hesitate. 

“Then I’ll remind you.”

Your chest caved in at the words. You shook your head, blinking fast, mouth pressed tight. A single breath quivered out of you. 

Slowly, almost numbly, you reached into your purse, fingers trembling as they pulled out the wrinkled envelope. It looked so small now. Just paper and glue and ink.

But in your hands, it felt impossibly heavy.

You held it between you, hands shaking harder now with all the unspoken fears and hopes.

“Will you…” you whispered, words catching before you could finish the sentence. 

But Jack understood.

His eyes softened as he reached out, hand closing gently over yours, steadying it. The reassurance in his touch grounded you, made you believe wholeheartedly in his promise of sharing the burden and providing unyielding support. 

He lifted the envelope carefully, and for a moment, time seemed to slow. The world around you faded away, leaving only this quiet, fragile moment between the two of you.

Then, with deliberate care, Jack took a deep breath and broke the seal.

[balajihospital]

Neurophysician & Cancer Care | HIRA | Vadodara Hospital

Advanced care in Neurosurgery, Cancer, Ulcerative Colitis & Radiology. HIRA, Factory Rules, Exams, First Aid & Health Programs in Vadodara, Gujarat, India.

[great-and-small]

Speaking of breed standards, would you be able to give me some context on what the heck is up with the German Shepherd "stack"? I see a lot of GSD owners saying it's breed standard and therefore fine, but the slant looks so extreme in some dogs that I have some skepticism about it (and also because, of course, breed standards have nothing to do with animal health).

This is a pretty hot button issue and you’re right that there is a ton of bickering back and forth about it online. I’m happy to share my thoughts, but keep in mind that as a veterinarian I am biased towards function over form. I care way more about if a dog can do the things it wants/needs to do than how it looks. I won’t get into it here but I actually have real qualms with the distinction between “working line” and “show line” in some breeds.

My quick takeaway opinion- There are several orthopedic issues in the German Shepherd dog (specifically show lines) that have likely been exacerbated if not entirely caused by breeders striving for the classic “sloped back” look that is considered breed standard.

Now that being said, it is a fact that the three point stack (how a dog is positioned when standing) greatly exaggerates the angulation of the back and hind legs. You will often see comparison images like this one that show a dog in stack versus standing square and you can clearly see the top line looks more sloped when the dog is stacked. This image is from a GSD subreddit, a pretty dog here nicely demonstrating how the stance can change the appearance of the top line.

This phenomenon is what certain hardline GSD breed standard loyalists will point to when discussing this issue. They posit that the sloped back is essentially an optical illusion caused by aesthetic posing, and therefore a German Shepherd is no more prone to orthopedic problems than any other large breed dog. This is where I disagree.

You can easily find stark examples of a poorly put together dog in any breed or mixed breed out there, so when discussing my concerns with the GSD I will only use photos of titled dogs that are accomplished within the show ring. These are not random backyard bred shepherds, but champion dogs from acclaimed lines that will almost certainly be bred to pass on their genes. When breed clubs like the AKC award these dogs as exemplars of the breed, they tacitly endorse the conformation issues I’m about to discuss. So my beef is not with German shepherds or dog breeds in general, but specifically with breed clubs that refuse to examine whether their standard harms animals. An important disclaimer, not every breed club is like this and many take health concerns extremely seriously.

Dogs have a very different limb anatomy and gait to humans and a healthy dog is meant to walk on their paw pads. The ���ankle” or hock should be upright and angled as you can see here in this nice-looking champion shepherd from 1902.

German shepherds can sometimes have a problem that is colloquially called “dropped hocks” where that joint is abnormally loose and in more serious cases can even be touching the ground, which is completely abnormal and something I would consider a serious physical flaw. A dog having dropped hocks/tarsal hyperflexion like this is proven to cause medical issues for these dog, but unfortunately the sinking joints also help to give the dog that “classic” sloping look that breed clubs love.

This dog “Ch Kysarah's Pot of Gold” won best of breed at the National dog show in 2015. You can see his hock is literally flat on the ground even when not stacked

And it’s not just one dog. Here is another champion dog (Cruaghaire Catoria), who got some controversy for winning best of breed at Crufts in 2016 despite an extremely abnormal gait.

Perhaps we could excuse the low hocks when the dog is standing as being the result of the stack, but it is glaringly obvious when she moves that this is no trick of her positioning. Her entire tarsus rests on the floor as she runs and in close ups you can even see bald patches there to suggest this is a “normal” gait for her. In this video, the announcers agree that this is the ideal gait for a shepherd. If I saw this gait in a friend’s dog I’d politely express my concerns for long term mobility issues and recommend an orthopedic consultation. To see it win best of breed is galling to say the least.

And lest you think the problem has been solved, here’s another from the National Dog Show in 2023

None of these dogs could charge athletically into a field and effectively herd sheep. If we are prioritizing aesthetic over function to the degree that a dog cannot do what it was bred to do, or more importantly that it cannot do the simple things that dogs love to do, then we have veered unforgivably off course. Not to put too fine a point on it but what the fuck is the point of a breed standard if it impedes the dog’s function in any way? We have no right. German shepherds are an incredible breed of dog that have stood by us humans in some of our darkest moments; I think the breeders and kennel clubs who claim to love them the most should work harder to ensure the “champion” dogs they are producing can live long pain-free lives. If we have to adjust our notion of what the breed is “supposed” to look like then so fucking be it.

This is too long already so I’m not getting into hip dysplasia, DM, carpal laxity, elbow dysplasia or other conditions that exist in the breed. If German shepherd clubs want to distance themselves from the notion that their breed standard is causing problems with canine health then they will need to stop publicly lavishing awards on dogs with medically concerning gait issues and start focusing on breeding dogs that can run around a ring without causing even the most casual of onlookers to realize “something’s not right there”