#and also because I am a hypochondriac

[ceciliathecabinwitch]

I had a long rambling post planned but basically

Reminder not to drive when you’re tired bc I just had to file my first ever insurance claim

[uncanny-tranny]

To any disabled person undergoing tests to find What's Wrong: I hope your results come back the way you hope and that you receive the help you need. I hope you are not denied care, I hope you are taken seriously even after this, and I hope that you will be taken care of compassionately

[gaminegay]

Genuinely i wonder how common it is to hallucinate / perceive things oddly / have a notably altered perception of things

[sapphicautistic]

my partner's family is 100% how i'm going to get covid

[seilon]

I just realized I didn’t really announce this despite it being a Big Deal but. finally got a top surgery date and secured it with a big ol deposit. august 5th. kinda hard to process in a way

[notlongtolove]

suddenly, here it is

it’s sunday. his rest day. he used to protest—murmuring something about loving the sight of you when he woke up—but three sundays in, waking to coffee in your hand and the cat curled against your hip, he’d had nothing left to argue with.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff

content: reader and spencer spending a sunday morning together with their lovely little boy (cat), domestic fluff and bliss

word count: 1.8k

note: entry for the lovely @gold-onthe-inside's 1k event aaa congrats pookie! finally some fluff to get you through the drought. angst flood incoming. weee also mugi makes a reappearance. a line: His voice is unbearably soft, the telltale sign of Sleepy Spencer slipping in. It’s pure warmth, all gooey and loose.

I waited so long for love and suddenly, here it is standing in the garden, hands full of heirlooms hot from the sun. Soon we’ll make a supper of them. Salted slabs between slices of bread. Your beard silvers. My hips ripen. The mail piles up. - joy sullivan

You wake to warm breaths against your neck as Spencer sleeps heavy behind you, pressed against your form. It’s sweet, in theory. In practice, the warmth that emanates from him makes it unbearable. You last maybe two seconds before you’re peeling yourself away, kicking off the covers with a sigh. Spencer stirs, hand twitching against the sheets before settling again. 

It’s Sunday. His rest day. Something you enforced, because watching him drag himself out of bed before dawn every day had started to feel like a crime. He used to protest—murmuring something about loving the sight of you when he woke up—but three Sundays in, waking to coffee in your hand and the cat curled against your hip, he’d had nothing left to argue with.

You slip into the kitchen to set the kettle on and Mugi meows at you from his perch. It takes a bit of wrangling to scoop him into your arms, but he settles soon enough, purring in your arms. Coffee and cat in tow, you make your way back to the bedroom, where Spencer has reached an arm out toward your side of the bed in an unconscious attempt to hold on to the last bits of your presence. 

Released from your arms, Mugi instinctively jumps onto the bed. He stretches once before padding over to Spencer, curling into the space where his face is pressed into his arm. Spencer hums in his sleep, content. 

Mugi shifts only a millimetre as you slide back under the covers. Just enough to prove a point. Little menace. Your boyfriend might be an early bird, but you’re a night owl through and through—the three-hour screen time report from last night would agree. The only reason you’re even upright right now is love. Love for him, love for caffeine before 10 am, though you’re more than happy to let Spencer believe the former. Besides, this way, you get to regulate his sugar intake at least one day a week. A small but meaningful victory, considering the sheer amount of sugar he insists on pouring into his coffee.

You’re pretty sure he’s caught on—the slight pause after his first sip consistently gives him away—but he’s too much of a sap to call you out on it. S’perfect, baby, murmured against your cheek, warm and easy, before he goes in for another (reluctant) sip.

His hand fumbles blindly across the sheets in search of you, landing a little too close to Mugi’s face. The cat swats at him in protest, but Spencer simply redirects, hand sliding across the mattress until he finds your hip. He sighs, satisfied. You smile. 

You have a theory. A hypothesis, if you will. Elementary, perhaps, but Spencer once explained that a theory is any well-substantiated explanation for a phenomenon, supported by a significant body of evidence from observation and experimentation. So, you believe this stands as a theory too. 

And you have a theory that Spencer Reid is touchy.

Gasps from the crowd. The hypochondriac? The germaphobe? The man who once rattled off a statistic about how handshakes transfer more germs than kisses? 

Touch-starved? Impossible. 

But as his girlfriend, you see what no one else does. Or more specifically, feel. Hips pressed together as you stand at the sink, toothbrushes clinking against porcelain, eyes meeting in the mirror as you giggle through foamy mouths. In bed, where your legs drape over his as he reads from your Kindle—an indulgence he initially abhorred but tolerated for the sake of convenience. One hand balances the device, the other, absentminded, traces the curve of your thigh. 

Because, as your theory suggests, Spencer Reid needs to be touching you at all times.

And right now, the evidence is overwhelmingly in your favour. 

You start small. A simple shift, moving your hip from his hand and crossing your legs. Even in sleep, Spencer adjusts instinctively, lifting his hand to accommodate your movement. It hovers as he waits. When you don’t return to him, you catch the quietest little grumble escape his throat.

He doesn’t say anything. But under the sheets, his leg inches forward until his shin nudges against your ankle.

You bite back a grin.

A few minutes pass. You roll onto your side, pretending to check your phone, and like clockwork, Spencer shifts too. This time, with a sigh through his nose like he’s accepting some great burden. Blindly following your warmth, his arm drapes over your waist before you can stop him.

Alright. Upping the stakes.

You scoop Mugi into your arms, shifting again, knees tucking to your chest entirely as you cradle the cat against you. Mugi lets out a long, slow yawn but ultimately settles, eyes already slipping shut. Spencer, however, is not as easily appeased. One eye cracks open, heavy-lidded and suspicious, before he closes it again.

“I know what you’re doing,” he murmurs sluggishly. 

You blink down at him. “I’m not doing anything,” you say, all innocently. “I’m simply showing our son some love.”

“Yes. And he looks really appreciative of it.”

Mugi lets out a soft meow—more out of obligation than anything—before blinking at Spencer with the deadpan stare of a cat who is completely unbothered.

“You’re being mean,” Spencer mumbles. His voice is unbearably soft, the telltale sign of Sleepy Spencer slipping in. It’s pure warmth, all gooey and loose.

You hum, shifting just enough to let his fingers brush against your thigh. An unspoken truce.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right, just like how you have no idea why my coffee tastes like it’s sweetened with a single grain of sugar?” 

“Mhm. Exactly like that.” 

Spencer exhales, something between fond and exasperated, before shifting closer, fluffing the covers as he moves. The slight disruption is all Mugi needs as he takes that as his cue to leave, hopping off the bed with a soft thump before padding back to his perch without so much as a glance back.

You gasp, scandalised. “Now look what you did. You chased him off. You’re a horrible dad—”

Before you can get another word out, Spencer’s fingers curl around your wrist, tugging you forward with a slow, deliberate pull until you’re nose to nose.

“I know, I know. I’m horrible, aren’t I?” His voice is still drowsy, edged with sleep—It’s truly gooey warmth in every syllable. “Imagine wanting to cuddle my girlfriend first thing in the morning. What kind of monster does that?”

You try to huff sternly, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the way his thumb brushes absently against your neck, slow and steady. “It took two whole tuna crunchies to get him off the cat condo. I hope you’re satisfied with yourself."

Spencer makes a noise of deep consideration before burying his face into the curve of your shoulder, sighing deeply. “Mm. Forgive me, but I am very satisfied with having to settle for you instead.” His legs tangle with yours beneath the sheets, warmth blooming everywhere your skin meets. His hand splays against your back, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns. 

You sigh, long-suffering but half-hearted, making no effort to pull away. “I suppose I can allow that.”

“Allow that?” Spencer pulls back just enough to level you with a sleepy smirk. “Is that how we’re playing it now? I suppose I’ll allow it if Hotch needs me in today, I do have some case files to finish up—”

“You wouldn’t dare!” you gasp, immediately swatting at him, half-faking an attempt to sit up.

Spencer barely budges, catching your wrist with ridiculous ease and tugging you right back down. “I’d never abandon you or our son on a Sunday,” he chuckles. A quiet nod to the rule you’d cemented ages ago—that Sundays belonged to the three of you—and only the three of you. “As much as he apparently hates us.”

You roll your eyes, tilting your head toward the open bedroom door, where Mugi now sits perched on the couch, tail flicking in slow, deliberate disinterest. “He loves us, and you know it,” you argue, rubbing slow circles into Spencer’s forearm where you previously smacked him lightly. “He’s just in his teenage angst phase right now.”

“Aren’t you, Mugi?” you call, voice dripping with mock offence.

Mugi blinks at you. Then, in the most deliberate display of apathy, turns his entire body away, facing the wall instead.

Spencer snorts, shaking his head into your shoulder. “Yeah. He’s definitely real fond of us.”

You laugh, tipping your head back against the pillow, and Spencer takes the opening immediately, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your collarbone.

“Instead of wrangling an already clearly reluctant cat, we could just stay like this, cuddling all day, if you want,” he murmurs, lips still pressed against your skin. 

“Tempting,” you admit, stretching just enough to press a kiss to his jaw where your lips drag against the rough edge of stubble. “But I think I’d like some coffee first,” you say, already reaching over to your nightstand where the coffee has no doubt, gone cold. 

Before you even move an inch, Spencer shifts, pressing more of his weight into you, arms tightening around your frame, effectively pinning you beneath him. “Mm. No. Bad idea," he murmurs, muffled against your shoulder. “If I let you up, you’ll abandon me for at least five minutes, and I don’t think I can handle that kind of heartbreak right now.”

You laugh, squirming, but he’s relentless.

“Spencer.”

“Nope.”

He begins launching a full-scale attack—kisses pressed everywhere but your lips. Quick, fleeting, feather-light. A kiss to your cheek, your nose, your eyelid. There’s no real pattern, all soft and scattered and insistent, and by the time he gets to your temple, you’re giggling, hopelessly resigned to your fate.

“Are you done now?” you manage between laughs, breathless, as he plants another to the corner of your jaw. 

“Never.” His lips graze the shell of your ear. “Could do this all day if you’d let me. Would do this all day—”

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?” you cut in, fingers sliding up the nape of his neck, settling there with gentle intent.

“Hm, never heard that one before.”

“Shocking,” you quip, fingers threading into his curls, tugging just enough so he leans down, nose nudging against yours before he presses a kiss to your lips—

“Ow!”

Mugi, wide awake, has apparently decided that now, after an entire morning of pretending you both don’t exist—is the perfect time to show affection, rubbing himself insistently against Spencer’s forearm. He meows, triumphant, before padding around in a deliberate little circle and curling up—right between your pillows.

You giggle, nudging Spencer lightly. “You think we have room for one more?”

Your boyfriend groans in response, dramatically flopping onto his back. “What an ass,” he huffs, wholly unamused. 

You’re already reaching over to scratch behind Mugi’s ears, delighted to have your little boy back to his affectionate self, even if it’s only for a fleeting moment. “Oh, come on, you love him.”

Spencer exhales, resigned. “I suppose I’ll allow it.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: falling in love by cigarettes after sex when you know by neck deep (my attempt at converting everyone into a neck deep fan)

[the-world-of-nai]

astro notes

water signs can be more mean girl energy because they are selective with who they pour themselves into, but they are also more genuine than air or fire signs imo

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lana del rey's aesthetic can be attributed to her cancer sun (nostaglia, antiquity, femininity, romanticization), leo moon (glamour, glitz, luxury, larger than life), and taurus venus (sensuality, tradition, material wealth, the finer things). her mysterious allure can be attributed to her scorpio rising and her sun mars mercury being in the 8th house (occult, taboo, mystery, sexuality, secrets).

virgo moon are either hypochondriacs, or have legitimate health issues that make them very nit-picky when it comes to their daily habits (hygiene, diet, etc)

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sagittarius mars and venus can make an individual inclined to be a bit non-committal. when they do commit, it's unconventional and they need their freedom

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pisces sun and moon = innocent af, deer caught in headlights (if they're not alr tainted af)

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leos can be consumed with the notion that they must appear regal at all costs

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capricorn venus women stay superior because they know how to make a man chase them fr i am so jealous of this placement

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libra risings are indecisive af send help

[wishingprince]

Tw: chronic pain, mortality, disability, mental health issues

had major neuropathy pain flare up, numb and pins and needles enough to wake me up instantly and leap out of bed at 4 in the morning. went to urgent care and the doctor said my spine is likely getting weakened and fucked up because of whatever is causing my chronic pain.

i had about three full panic attacks in the last two days thinking about how I have been trying for the last six years at the very least to figure out my pain and no one knows what it is yet but my nerves are being damaged and I taste metal in my mouth and my body goes numb and because no one knows what it is, I don’t know what to do to stop it. I’m just scared and devastated about my body.

I talked with my psych and I have a pcp appointment on the 14th but im. really struggling.

this is such a stupid way to realize that I don’t just NOT feel suicidal anymore but I actually WANT to be alive. It makes me feel like im too late.

I’m hoping my pcp can help but she is quitting being a pcp and going into prostate cancer research in June so I finally found the most wonderful pcp who listens to me and respects everything I say and im losing her.

im just. struggling.

Random fucking extreme pain day today. Cannot focus on work. Tempted to just finish up the last two things that NEED to be done today and then leave early so I can crawl into bed.

[maculategiraffe]

I was bitching about someone I know and I said he's like a hypochondriac because he's always complaining about his various ailments but flatly refuses to admit that what's wrong with him is anything anyone else could possibly know anything about or fix. and my boyfriend said that's not a hypochondriac that's the opposite of a hypochondriac. but the opposite of a hypochondriac must surely be someone who insists there is NOTHING wrong with him despite all evidence to the contrary. so what is the term for what I am talking about. diagnosis resistance? reverse munchausen's? know it all disease? because whatever it is I just realized my mother also has it

[chaotictempleknight]

Some more of my writing advice

Hello, I'm Chaotic. I'm an author who is here to give you some more writing advice. I have written 7 self-published, science fantasy adventure novels (ULTRAMagic Alternate). I like to think I have achieved a fairly good grasp on what makes a good book and how to improve your writing.

Don't Show when telling is better, don't tell when showing is better.

You know how everyone tells you "show, don't tell" or the inverse of that? Well I have a better piece of advice. Sometimes it is better to show the problem than to talk about it. Some issues would legitimately make the story way too long and would be better just to show it in action. On the other hand, sometimes it is better to talk about the issue as showing it may require context at first. It all depends on what the scene calls for. Is it a complicated subject that needs to be seen to be believed? Or is it something that can be explained in a few sentences?

Of course, you could potentially do both. Perhaps the character is going to see someone about a problem they have and they are a hypochondriac. Have character A tell character B about their issues, with character A demonstrating their hypochondria. Don't explain the hypochondria, show it. Don't show character A's personal issues, talk about them. And if you are worried about a character not showing their personality/character, a character can speak through their words and actions. Everything a character does represents who they are, be it how they speak or how they dress.

Don't write everyday life; get creative

I am going to be upfront about this: Some plots are boring. Personally I don't want to read a book that is "milquetoast main character has a bad day and goes through every day real life issues normally." I don't want to read that, that's boring. What do I want to read? I want to read about knights fighting dragons, alien civilizations fighting drawn out wars that open up into greater conspiracies, eldritch entities ripping people's mind asunder, universes colliding and ripping a hole in reality, ancient deities coming back to destroy humanity, machines taking over the planet and turning it into an impossible factory of unfathomable proportions! It's fiction, go wild.

And if you still want to do the normal plot? Well make it interesting. Is the MC a vampire? Is there some kind of conspiracy involving window cleaner and zombies? Did your character discover alien life? Is the main character's community secretly forming a cult worshiping an obscure doomsday prophecy? Did a character murder someone and is trying to hide it in the most bizarre way possible? Or maybe the main character is running a marathon and witnesses a crime taking place, so they have to go on the run to stay alive. Again, it's FICTION, get creative. Do not write every day life as we experience everyday life every day. Every day life is boring.

And if you're going to say something like slice of life anime/manga is justification for "normal plots happening normally," no they are not. Boring anime of this caliber will be called out for being boring, and these stories have the benefit of visuals. The artists/mangaka put time and effort into making their characters and settings look interesting and expressive. They also take liberties in making exciting things happen. Writing does not have this luxury, so you need to make the story interesting to maintain the reader's attention. The average joe or jane does not want to come home and read about the day they just had.

Characters can be self-aware!

If anyone ever tells you that a character should never be aware of their issues because we are biased, do NOT listen to them. That is horrible writing advice and I kid you not-I heard that in a video one time. I really should have commented on how bad that advice was. Yes, we are biased, but we can also be aware of our issues. It's called self-awareness. Getting someone else's opinion and/or evaluation can help, but they could be biased too.

A character can have a moment where they realize they were being "the bad guy" and try to fix that issue. Will they succeed? Will their fix be perfect? It's hard to say and depends on the character. The hallmark of a growing character is that they recognize their faults and try to fix them. You do not need a legally registered mental health expert to recognize when you have messed up. Now if there is a deeper issue like a psychological problem or a learning disability, then yes, that individual needs some form of help.

A character is not a "sociopath" if they recognize their issues and resolve to fix them. That is backwards thinking and potentially leads to worse issues. Yes, physical and mental health experts are there for a reason and have dedicated their lives to their work (the ones with integrity...). They are here to help, but they also need you to recognize when there might be a problem. They are not miracle workers, they are experts in their field of study. Of course there will always be people that need intervention, but the point is that people can be aware of their issues, regardless of bias.

Editing and updating self-published work?

Are you a socially awkward, autistic man in his late twenties going on 30 constantly obsessing over making his work the best it can be because you're afraid of looking like a fool in front of everyone, but are too shy and awkward to acquire a proper editor? No, that's just me? Well I have some thoughts on updating your work after it's self-published.

There is multiple ways to view this, the idea of realizing your work could be better and going to back to fix it up:

If the work is free to read in its entirety and no money is being exchanged to experience the story, I don't see a problem in fixing it up. Ideally you should have an editor, but that costs money and editors who work for free are not obligated to help you.

A webcomic can easily be redrawn in the future, but it doesn't hurt to fix an error or mistake in the art. And if it is free to view, it is not a problem. No money is being lost to experience the comic.

This should never be done for work that requires money to experience. If you're work costs money to view/read, it needs to be ready to go before its made available. If it is that bad, either take it down or rerelease it with expansions and revisions. Note that this does not include authors who are relying on services like Patreon. You are paying to support the author, not read the book... unless they paywall the book behind a paid tier, then what I just said goes back into effect.

It's actually a fairly nuanced subject that should be handled on a case by case basis. Don't get angry at someone who goes back and fixes up a free book. You are not losing any money by reading it and presumably the author is doing it out of pride for their work. Of course, those who are doing it in bad faith should be called out. This goes doubly so if you have to pay to read the book. Naturally there will be those who read this section and start screaming their heads off, ignoring the nuance I just presented, but whatever.

The groundwork for a functional plot

I'll keep this simple. Having trouble figuring out the plot? Here's 3 questions that will help you:

What is the conflict of the story?

Why is the conflict a problem?

How is the conflict solved?

If you cannot answer these three questions, you do not have a story and are not trying hard enough. If you cannot answer these questions under any circumstances, you were never meant to be a writer in the first place. These three questions are the fundamental structure of a plot. They are what move things forward. You NEED to be able to answer these questions. If you refuse to address these questions, then your plot is fundamentally flawed and needs to be taken back to the drawing board.

Obviously this is just the first step in writing a plot. There is a lot more to a plot than just those questions, but they are what I view as the starting point.

Focus on finishing a story rather than starting more WIPs

Stop starting projects left and right. Finish one and then move onto a new project. You are not growing as a writer by starting one project, getting 1/4th of the way through, calling it quits, and starting a new project under the excuse that you are "sO ReLAtABle." This is being lazy and prideful. You cannot gain proper experience if you do not finish something. In finishing my novels in a timely manner, I realize how I can further grow my writing and where I could have done better. Having the story of my novel series evolve as time goes on forces me to think outside the box every time I begin the next book.

Where's my indies at?! Actually support those independent artists/writers

This is more for the audience side of things. Do you want more independent content? Then you need to go and seek out these independent artists/writers. You NEED to support them. You NEED to share their work around. They will not grow if you do not properly engage with them. Do not just leave a like, as those are just over glorified bookmarks.

Also critique and criticize their work. This is how these creatives grow and improve their work. It is very cool to do this, and anyone who says otherwise is afraid of being criticized due to their work being inadequate and they know it.

Stop expecting the creator to also be the audience and the critic. We need time to actually work on our art. You cannot expect the creator to be all three as I would not expect that of you. We are not superhuman, we have lives too.

Stop trying to democratize art. Anyone can do art and no one should be "voting" to decide who succeeds and who doesn't. This does nothing but hurt small creators who do not have the support of properly grown communities/fandoms. Let someone's work speak for itself and don't let a group of people decide whether or not you should engage with it. You need to take that first step for yourself, not let someone else do it for you. Art is not a competition. Selling art? Sure. Art in and of itself? No.

Be mature when engaging with other writers

I'm going to be frank: If you bait someone in by saying something like "Any thoughts?" and block them for having a different opinion or point of view, you are not a writer, you are a clout chaser. Same goes for the audience. When you engage with a writer or anyone in general for the purpose of starting a "conversation" or a "dialogue," you need to actually engage with the things being discussed. Sticking your head in the sand and blocking people shows a distinct lack of maturity and creativity. Silencing your opponent does not mean you have won, it means you are afraid of what they have to say. You know you might be wrong deep down and instead confronting that uncertainty, you're ignoring it and refusing to grow.

There is nuance to this as blocking someone who is harassing you or is going to harass you is acceptable. I'm saying don't block someone if you start a conversation with them and they disagree with you.

Also as a reader, you are not going to win a battle of wit against a true writer. This goes doubly so if you block them for disagreeing with you. And honestly, I don't want that kind of individual engaging with my work.

Our parents and school teachers always taught us "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it all." I think the principle rings true here. No, this is not a license to dismiss criticism, it's a call out of bad behaviour. Likewise, if you don't have anything meaningful to say, don't say it at all. And if you are reading this and getting angry at me, why? This issue doesn't apply to you, does it? Unless you want to admit that you have an issue which is ideal for resolving it, as you need to know about an issue in order to resolve it.

All of this to say please don't treat writers like trash. We are not machines, we are people with feelings just like you. We are not above you like many seem to arrogantly assume, we are just trying to get by like everyone else. Insulting us is not going to make us side with you, it's going to make us make fun of you in a future story as a commentary on how not to behave in society. Obviously we're not here to call people out specifically, but these experiences are now ours to use as we see fit. Keep that in mind next time you attack a writer for not agreeing with you. The pen is mightier than the sword.

Ending remarks:

To be clear, I am not here to say ‘it’s my or the highway’ or dictate what you can and cannot write. Write whatever you want at the end of the day. I just so happen to be a very passionate writer who legitimately cares and wants people to succeed. I may come off as very upfront and assertive, but know I do it because I care. I know you can write something truly great, it just takes time, effort, and discipline. And if you have an idea, write it. Is it good? Great. Is it bad? That’s fine, figure out how to make it better. You can do it no matter what, keep moving forward.

Note that all of this applies to REAL writers who actually sit down and put pen to paper. “AI authors” are not real writers and will never be real writers. Turn off the computer, get out a pen and paper, and actually write something. The only one gatekeeping you from success is yourself. The same logic applies to “AI artists.” Also no, I don't want to see these people "sued into the ground" or "banned from the creative space" as they have potential just like anyone else.

[outsidersheadcanons]

Could you possibly do how the greasers act at the doctor, like if they get scared or not, which ones get scared, what they’re scared of (this is probably weird but so am I so…)

Sure :D (Dw this is nowhere near the weirdest asks I've ever gotten)

Ponyboy

So let's start with the little hater. I feel like he kinda beefs w/ his doctor for no reason 😭 (actually. there is a reason. he tells him to stop smoking and it pisses him off 💀) But he behaves pretty well. Most of the time. He only crashes out if he needs a shot or smth 💀 (and ofc he's not going back there AT ALL unless Soda and/or Darry go too)

Sodapop

He gets a little nervous, but only because he's a tiny bit of a hypochondriac (me too). But he LOVES the doctor/dentist for the cute nurses who tell him how handsome he is 💀

Darry

Acts normally ig? He kinda neglects himself so he gets lectured sometimes about getting more sleep and drinking enough water 😭 Darry's not scared of anything, but he def doesn't like getting his blood drawn (same)

Two-bit

Also gets told by the nurses that he's handsome (which he appreciates a lot). But he's also the kinda guy to get caught touching the equipment if he's waiting in the room alone for more than 10 mins 💀

Steve

Gets dragged like. whenever his father remembers which is rarely 💀 if he's getting any kind of medical intervention it's in the ER (and he's a handful). CRASHES THE HELL OUT if he needs any kind of shot (and is dramatic as hell about it). also TERRIFIED of the dentist. (I'm evil for that sorry 😭)

Dally

You saw how he acted in the hospital 😭 but at the same time. most of the doctors he's seen in his life have literally been tough jail doctors so. he doesn't ALWAYS misbehave. But like Two he's definitely been caught opening the drawers and shit 💀

Johnny

This kid's so neglected man :( the closest thing he really gets to a doctor's visit are school nurse visits and the ER when he's really sick/injured. But he behaves himself very well (him and the school nurse are pretty close. She knows he doesn't get the best sleep at night so she always lets him take a nap during the day in her office if he needs it). I would say he's kind of scared of the hospital, just bc he doesn't really like being away from the neighborhood :(

[niscuit-gravy]

Health Update!

I just wanted to update everybody and say thank you for support with going through the things with my wrist(s)! that said - I am far from out of the woods. if anyone has any insight or has gone through something similar, please reach out because this is really confusing!

Started with my right wrist after doing a tricep extension ( with more weight than I should have). Ok - that's totally understandable, sports injuries are a thing! however, I was compensating with my left hand and wound up with some pains in my left wrist as well. Went to a hand specialist and figured out that I have a TFCC tear in my right wrist, and ECU tendonitis in both of my wrists. Ok, that seriously sucks, but I can still take walks and enjoy nature. That is, until last month when my left knee started acting up. At this point I'm kind of baffled - either this is some crazy bad luck, or something a lot deeper. Thankfully, I'm going to physical therapy for both my hand and my knee. Right knee followed shortly after. Then my right shoulder from carrying a purse and opening a car door at an odd angle. As of last week, starting to notice that my fingers are next. Of course, right pointer finger is where we start. Then left pointer finger. I'm not really sure where this is going. Some things get better, and thankfully I'm making some healing headway with my wrists and my knees. I was able to do a (light!) leg day, and walk for a bit as per my PT's recommendations. And I can turn off my shower and lift a mug now, and even draw for a very short amount of time. I did just stop a few medications I've been on very long term about 2 weeks before this started happening, but I'm looking to meet with an orthopedist and a rheumatologist in the weeks ahead. I have my "best case" and "worst case" outcome in mind, and I'm trying to keep my hypochondriac ass off of Reddit. (hormone shifts, EDS, RA, etc.)

Please know I fully intended to have something ready for Sunday (Granz boys' birthday), but it's evident right now that I won't. I also was working on something else, since my fingers are acting up I'm putting that on hiatus too. my job is very supportive of me, so I feel like my spoons should absolutely go towards work first. Art is losing its spark - rather than a way to forget the world as it formerly was, it's a countdown to when the pain starts and stops me again.

I'm prayerful that this ends soon, and that it might be a growing and learning experience in some way that I don't understand. <3

[pom-seedss]

After yesterday I'm probably throwing the desperate hope that it's menopause out the window, lol.

We had to drive 3 hours to see Bean's dad in the hospital yesterday because he was in a very bad way. He's still in a bad way, and I still don't know if he's going to make it through this bout of hospitalization. But Bean needed to see his dad just in case this was the end of things. Understandable. In fact I insisted on it too.

I didn't want to leave him to the drive alone, so I went too.

That we are dealing with. We were thinking about staying over the night but decided to come home because there wasn't much else we could do unless things change. If they do, Bean will be heading back on his own.

But that means it was a full 6 hours in the car yesterday and oh gods am I dying for it.

The neck tension and the hot symptoms are far too linked to be brushed off as coincidental hot flashes while I also have neck tension.

Pile on top of that a terrible migraine from my new bedframe smelling like a perfume section in a defunct Sears and I had a hell of a night last night and this morning.

I was grasping at straws with the menopause thing, because I wanted it not to be my neck.

I wanted it to be something more mundane. Something explainable. Maybe something I could get hormones to help mitigate.

Not something my doctor will dismiss as "maybe medicine will one day have an answer but we don't right now and you'll just have to deal with it."

Which I ... I don't know. She hasn't given me an MRI, she hasn't sent me to a neurologist.... she's given me all manner of blood test under the sun but I don't think that's the be-all-end-all of diagnostic possibilities and I'm kind of mad about it because she acts like it is.

I have a feeling it is a funding issue? Like her office has to front some of the cost of the diagnostics if she refers a patient? I have no idea how the back end of OHIP works to be fair, but knowing I got a very meanly worded letter chewing me out for going to a walk-in clinic (when I'd actually gone to a specialist clinic *she* sent me to) I have a feeling it's a funding issue and she just doesn't want to ""waste"" the money on me.

I know she thinks I'm a hypochondriac. She hasn't said as much, but I know she does.

So...back to square one. Doe-see-doe....

[dr-futbol-blog]

Grace Under Pressure, Pt. 5

Although we saw McKay start fighting with the jumper as though he could use rational (or at least impassioned) argument to convince it to play ball with him, when we join him again he has calmed down some. Even though the thought that he was going to die had given him momentary pause, he seems not to have given up but can still be found trying to figure out something to save himself. However, he has to pause his tinkering when he becomes aware of his physical sensations and although he now recognizes that he is feeling cold, it is possible he has been growing cold for a while without having paid any attention to the fact until this moment.

McKay: Oh. I'm freezing! Why am I so cold? Oh, no! I haven't lost that much blood, have I? Of course, it-it could have something to do with the billion or so gallons of freezing water you're surrounded by, you idiot! Alright, I need to heat this thing--

This is interesting. When suffering from a head wound that often bleed profusely, it is a sensible conclusion to come to that he might be going into shock and feeling cold because of that. It tells us that although possibly due to his tendency to dissociate he is not as aware of his physical sensations as most people, he is not in denial of reality or suppressing uncomfortable thoughts. McKay might well be going into shock. However, he then very quickly comes to the realization that the depth and volume of the ocean water surrounding him is the more likely culprit for him feeling cold in this moment, and this is surprising given how McKay himself had confessed to Beckett in Instinct (S02E07) that he was a hypochondriac (which may have been a misdiagnosis because if he had diagnosed himself with six conditions in college that had been undetected in his childhood home due to negligence, he might even have been low-balling the estimate at the time). If McKay was a hypochondriac like we have been lead to believe by himself most of all, he would have grasped onto this idea. But instead, he rationally disabuses himself of the notion and finds the most sensible explanation for the phenomenon.

What is real interesting here is again the way he talks to himself. He begins by talking in the first person, going over his own physical sensations. Then, his tone of voice changes completely, he takes on an accusatory tone and changes into the second person, and he actually calls himself an idiot using this whole other persona. He is talking to himself as someone else, and this someone else calls him not just a name but probably the worst name that you even could call him, from his point of view. And he does not mention his name, so we do not know whether this person who calls him an idiot in his mind would have called him McKay, Rodney -- or Meredith (which, to be fair, is a later retcon).

Now, back in The Hive (S02E11), we heard McKay on Ford's planet, while he was under the influence of the enzyme, talking to himself in the voice of someone that very much seemed like his father. Even though this persona now is also clearly talking down to him, that is not necessarily what this is because although this tells us how McKay has been spoken to in his past, this person is still trying to help him survive this ordeal, is still in his corner here. This is why, and we will return to this later, this may actually be McKay talking to himself in the voice of his own sister. This is what he thinks his sister would say to him in this situation.

"You are surrounded by a billion gallons of freezing water, you idiot" is the kind of thing that his sister might well have told him, and that is what the internal model he has of Jeannie -- who may have been in her late teens when last they have actually known each other, been in actual contact -- may have told him. Trying to save your life while making sure you know you are the dumbest man alive is precisely the kind of thing that a younger sister would do. Regardless, is is another clear case of dissociation. He actually clearly changes his whole tone as he talks to himself as someone else, like he does here.

McKay: ...and I don't want it cost me a lot of power. Can we at least do that, please? Ah, there you go! See? I'm not greedy. I just don't wanna freeze to death. Oh, come on!

Following that little pep talk, McKay again switches back to the first person and continues his dialogue with the jumper, although he likely does not really see it as a sentient being despite how magical the technology of the Ancients might seem to them. In effect, he is talking to it like he hopes that by maintaining friendly relations with the machine he might be able to guarantee benevolent outcomes. It is the same as why people might talk to printers or used to hit their television sets (this is called "Tool anthropomorphism" that goes back to when cave men started creating flint tools, imbuing pieces of technology with personalities to ensure that we take proper care of expensive equipment), where people likely do not think that the printer or television is really out to get them but it does not hurt to approach it with measured reverence and ritual actions, especially when needing to print something important quickly because some primitive part of our brains thinks that the machines can sense it when we are afraid.

McKay's understanding of Ancient technology is surpassed by none and while he recognizes that there is much he does not understand, he does not view it as magical whatsoever. But regardless, it is a trick of the human brain to want to bargain with machines and that is what we see him doing here. He is begging and pleading and cajoling, calling it names and trying to tell it he is a good boy, trying any and everything just to see if anything sticks. And given that Ancient technology works in mysterious ways and neither we as the audience nor the humans now using Ancient technology on the show via the ATA gene really understand how the mental component of their technology really works, it is possible that McKay actually gets the jumper to respond to him later on. McKay is talking to the jumper so the jumper may be wanting to talk back to him.

McKay: A little heat's gonna cost me forty minutes? Is that really how you want this to go down, huh? You wanna freeze me to death? You sure you wouldn't rather I imploded with you, you, you, you lemon? Do you even have an opinion anyways, you, you... no. Why? Because you are an inanimate object!

And so McKay goes off on the jumper, needing to vent out his fear and frustration over the situation. But he also again shows his self-awareness in acknowledging that he is talking to an inanimate object and that his rant is not going to do a damn thing to change his situation beyond making him temporarily feel better. Although he clearly has many issues and has likely been seeing a therapist for several actual reasons, McKay is intelligent and rational enough that it is difficult for him to be delusional and it may be impossible to tell oneself comforting lies when they can be dismantled using argumentation. Even if it might have shielded him from pain that he had been able to escape his reality as a defenseless child, McKay is far from delusional.

McKay also calls the jumper a lemon which is maybe not the worst thing he could call something but is the thing that knows is most definitely trying to kill him, and as discussed previously, it is possible that he has had a near death experience involving lemons in his childhood through which he had discovered his deathly allergy to citrus. It is not that he does not like lemons, it is that he knows lemons do not like him and want him dead, and hence the jumper is being a lemon because it seems to him like it is also wanting him dead now -- in addition to simply being a piece of faulty machinery, also called lemons. Only, his rational mind knows that lemons do not really have ill will against him and he knows that the jumper is not doing this out of a personal vendetta. And he knows that blowing up on it is not going to help any.

McKay: Does that stop me from talking to you? Oh, no-no-no-no-no, my inanimate friend, because I have been struck upon the head, you see? There. So...

McKay further recognizes that he is starting to feel more than a little hysterical and although he recognizes that talking to himself while pretending to talk to an inanimate object could be construed as -- what's the clinical term -- a little nuts, he chalks it up to his head wound. His use of the phrase "struck upon the head" is a little curious here because although it is used in a different context (God makes an East wind rise and he is struck upon the head by the sun), it is found in the Biblical story of Jonah and the whale in The Book of Jonah. Although McKay is not a prophet being humbled by a deity, the giant fish certainly connects this narrative with that of Jonah. It would frankly be more surprising if the writer of the episode had not been reading the Biblical story than that there would be some references in the episode to it.

McKay: Twenty minutes of power for just enough heat to stave off hypothermia. You drive a hard bargain, my friend, but you've got a deal. I just made a deal with you! A deal! Let's Make A Deal! You've got a deal! That's not funny.

McKay manages to shave 20 minutes off the first estimate of how much power warming up the jumper would cost him and as he again anthropomorphizes the interaction, he thinks that it is mildly amusing to call this making a bargain with the inanimate object, of making a deal with the machine. But again, he very quickly recognizes that he is not actually making any deals with the jumper and that he is both starting to feel slightly hysterical and that there must be some outside reason for him to be feeling this way because this is not normal behaviour for him. This tells us precisely how self-aware McKay is.

But first, let us recognize the reference he makes to the television show Let's Make a Deal. This show was not only popular when McKay was a child, it was also hosted by a Canadian (often called "Canadian-American", which may be relevant) man Monty Hall, and given that the show featured contestants making a choice that could improve their life, it might have appealed to young McKay. The premise of the show featured audience members making deals with the host who is most famous for inspiring the so-called "Monty Hall problem" that is a probability puzzle where the contestant is given a choice of opening three doors where one door holds the prize and the two other doors hide some nastier outcome.

In the dilemma, the question is whether the contestant should hold onto their original choice of door even after the host reveals what is behind one of the other two doors that are not the contestant's original choice. The reason for them to make the reference to the show and ostensibly to this logic puzzle is that later on McKay kind of has to make this choice with "Carter" playing the role of the host where his choices are whether to use up his remaining power in trying to save himself or to save up as much power as he can to ensure that the people trying to rescue him have as much time to find him as he can give them.

Obviously it is not purely a logic puzzle to him because he is both impaired by what he at least perceives of as a hallucination trying to distract him and by his subconscious fear that he is not actually worth saving, but there is something Monty Hallish in the options he is presented. However, he does not seem to account for the fact that "Carter" is not actually a game show host playing against him but is someone trying to save him and hence he has no reason to dig in his heels and to stick to his original choice as he might have otherwise. But this is slight foreshadowing for what happens later, at this point this is just McKay making such a bad joke that he realizes even he should not be finding it as funny as his giggles might lead one to believe. Something is not right.

McKay: What's wrong with me? It's euphoria, elation, over-confidence, it's... Hypoxia! I've gotta dial up the CO2 scrubbers or I'm gonna die of hypoxia. That is so funny!

We get further confirmation of how self-aware McKay is. He stops to review how he is currently feeling and he even acknowledges his feeling of over-confidence immediately which just tells us that while people might view McKay as arrogant, usually he is just aware of his own talents and does not bother couching his skills in false modesty. He is intelligent, better at the things that he is good at than most people, and he sees no benefit in pretending that he is not just so other people might feel better about themselves. But he can also tell when his confidence is not earned and in this case, when he has absolutely no reason to feel confident, he quickly comes to the conclusion that there must be some cause for the feeling that is coming from outside of himself.

The fact that they reference hypoxia here is another thing connecting this episode to 38 Minutes (S01E04), as though the parallels were not obvious enough as is. McKay mentioned hypoxia to Ford, telling him that he preferred dying from hypoxia to explosive decompression where here his current choices seem to be between hypoxia, hypothermia and implosion. But he seems to have taken what Sheppard told him then to heart, not accepting any of these choices as something final, instead remembering that as long as he used his brain (not using his mouth seemed to continue to be a problem, but he could use his brain and his mouth at the same time), he could still find his way out of this situation. One thing at a time. First thing he had to make sure was that his brain would be getting enough oxygen if he was going to think his way out of this.

Continued in Pt. 6

[mt-oe]

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡—modern mizu

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Hey dears!

So sorry for not doing requests much! I'll be deployed into a hospital known for being super busy ;; I'd like to get my ideas out before I become buried with work again.

This one's inspired by my favorite artist. They recently followed me back here and I melted ///// Every time I see their art, I always get so giddy and happy. They honestly make my day <3

I'll link them here: @winnie-illustrator / ig: winnie_illustrator / twt: babydollproject

Specific art that inspired me is linked here: link <3

Also, I feel excited because I want to try incorporating my field into my writing too. It won't be completely accurate to give it a sense of readability and because that would be hell to write www

Hope you enjoy! Mwa mwa :*

warning/s: not proofread, reader is older than mizu, autopsy, slight violence, reader thinks mizu is a man (pronouns used will be mostly he/him), implied afab reader

note: I am more than willing to take this down if the artist wants me to, especially if they are not comfy with reader inserts. I respect your decision, which ever it may be. I will still love your art regardless <3

Nothing but the soft sound of metal being placed on metal and the vent fans spinning resonated among the cold tiled walls. An occasional cracking sound from a rib being opened or the soft, slimy 'thud' sounds of organs being placed aside could be heard. The air smelled like decay, formalin, or xylene depending on which area you stood. An eerie atmosphere lingered with an unsettling feeling, enough to be suffocating. Even the lights flickered, making the grayish tiles appear colder. Scalpels, forceps, and saws lined up neatly on the counter, shiny and sterilized as opposed to mess of organs and body fluids you had on your tray.

This place looked gloomy, empty, lonely.

It doesn't matter. That was how a morgue was supposed to be.

You sighed as you removed your dirty gloves, the latex producing a loud crispy snap. It was bloody and probably covered with something else like bile or whatever was left of the decedent's last meal. Stains weren't allowed on your reports anymore. Don't know why. It wasn't like what you were writing was legal anyway. The head's son must have touched a shit stain while handing it to his daddy.

Removing your mask, you placed a cigarette between your red-painted lips before lighting it. The smell of burning tobacco filling up the room as you rolled the cigarette to get an even burn. Your hand picked up the pen and started writing out the autopsy report for the recent corpse, taking hits from your cigarette in between. You hated writing autopsy reports. It was a waste of time considering the lawlessness of this goddamn place.

No one cared if you died. They'd step over and desecrate your corpse.

Name: unknown Age: est. between 30-40 years old Length: 175cm Weight: 73.3kg General appearance: fair skin color, appears of good nutritional status Other findings: Livor: appearance of postmortem lividity most prominent on left side of the frontal region of the head, left hypochondriac region, and the epigastric region; decedent exhibiting tache noir Rigor: whole body exhibiting rigor mortis, rigor still easily resisted. -blood vessel dilation found on upper and lower mucosa of the eyelids -nails and fingertips exhibit cyanosis -irregular-shaped bruising found on the left occipital region measuring 6cm x 3cm -laceration measuring 3cm x 0..2cm located on the right infraorbital region -linear fracture on right parietal bone -depressed fracture on left occipital bone, depression measuring 4.7cm x 2.6cm -several linear abrasions located on the upper palate (palatine raphe) measuring between 1-3cm x 0.2cm -crush laceration resulting in rupture located on the right lobe of the liver -traumatic fracture of left ribs (7-10) and xiphoid process resulting in partial decimation of xiphoid process

'Poor man,' you thought as you drew out the location of the fractures and lacerations on the poorly printed out piece of paper.

No, you weren't taking pity on him. He was a fool that probably had mouths to feed and was tricked by the enemy into thinking that he could handle the life-threatening, high-risk-high-reward job of being a spy for the enemy organization. They must've gotten him so drunk on fantasies of amassing a fortune, getting high on drugs he can't even pronounce, and women hotter than his wife. This fucking idiot probably thought sneaking in and poisoning your subordinates was an easy job.

Now his wife would have to live wondering where her husband went off to.

With a few more words and one click of your pen, you finally finished writing the report. You'd have to culture and assay the samples from his body later for any substance or biological weapons that he might have left. Your back rested on the cushion of your seat, a hand over your eyes as you closed them. "Fuck.. finally," you groaned out before sitting back up again to grab another cigarette and lighting it up, allowing the sound of the vents to take over the room.

...

It was quiet here.

No one ever went to your morgue...laboratory..whatever. Dead bodies lined this place up, a new face everyday. If you're lucky, maybe a new one will roll in every hour. A gut-retching, unnerving feeling never left this place. A feeling that someone or something was always watching you would linger; and somehow, to you, it was the most peaceful feeling. Like a tiny cove hidden amongst the mess where all you had to do was open people up like a treasure box, get a bunch of samples to perform tests on, then sew them shut.

It was your haven. Your little territory. No one wanted to go here.

...

...

...

"Impressive. I take it you're done?"

Well except for this little shit.

It was that blue eyed demon that had somehow made a name for himself allover the scene. An assassin who steps into the scene wielding only a blue katana. The only person who was crazy enough to bring a knife to a gun fight. His eyes striking terror to who anyone who saw them. Even your allies had chills running down their spines whenever they saw him.

Rumors quickly spread about how he took down a whole unit on his own. Stepping straight into enemy territory alone only with pure seething rage behind his sharp eyes, coming out covered in the blood of his own enemies. They say he only joined to kill the don of four particular groups. His presence screamed anger and bloodlust.

An onryo.

That's what they called him.

Despite only having graduated from training, he currently possesses the highest body count in the whole organization—and we're not talking about sex.

And luckily or unluckily, you had the privilege of instructing him when he was still a trainee. You had no intention of teaching anyone, your plate was full as it was. But one faithful day, he appeared in front of your morgue. His presence undetectable until he was right in front of you, sending chills down your spine.

Your eyes met blue, staring at it with a deadeye stare, not even bothering to hide the irritation you held. The blood in your veins was running cold, the tips of your fingers tingling from how nervous you had become. You accidentally left your revolver in your laboratory which was now blocked by this stranger.

'How the hell?' you asked yourself in thought, eyes breaking contact to glance around the hallway.

It was a simple hallway with only two doors on either side, one leading to your office and the other back to the lobby. There were no windows, no cubbies, no anything. Absolutely nowhere to hide. And yet somehow, you couldn't even detect his presence.

Sound always echoed around the gray tiles, capturing any sound no matter how quiet. Even the soft pitter-patter of water dripping from the ceiling echoed like a drum within this hall. However, no sound nor sign of footsteps could be heard. He was like the wind, suddenly appearing before you.

Your eyes went back to him, stare turning into a glare. Every part of your body was silently screaming at you to run, telling you that this person was dangerous. That one wrong move would kill you. "What the hell do you want?" you seethed out, eyes watching for any sign of aggression. Even with your vigilance, you couldn't win this without a gun.

No.

Even with a gun, something in your gut was telling you that you wouldn't win.

His cold emotionless eyes continued to watch over you before his hands reached into his pocket, pulling out a picture taken using a polaroid camera. It was a picture of a recent autopsy you performed, corpse laying on the cold metal table, all stitched up. "How did you obtain this..?"

The decedent was an instructor known for being cruel to trainees. Everyone knew of his behavior but he was too influential within the organization to get rid off. Until one day, his body was rolled into your laboratory, multiple lacerations over the body, a few missing teeth, signs of struggle evident. No one knew who killed him. Too many people held a grudge with him to be traceable. It didn't matter, it wasn't your job to find out anyway.

"This..cut," he started, voice husky as his finger pointed to the picture, clearly referring to the cut you had made on the corpse. "Its clean. Exquisite. Clearly made by someone skilled." He looked up at you, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. "Its you."

A clear look of confusion painted over your face. This boy sneaked up on you because of a cut?

You took a look at the picture again and rolled your eyes. "A y-shaped cut. Every examiner and coroner in this world knows how to do one. So what?" you groaned. The blue eyed man seems intrigued by your answer, eyes glancing around in thought. As you moved over to the side to head towards your laboratory, the man stepped back and blocked your way again, making you let out an exasperated sigh.

"Teach me," he said, handing you the picture. "Or at least show me how you made that cut."

Another exasperated sigh escaped your lips as you glared at him, hands shoving the picture back to him. "No. Get out," you scowled. No matter how oddly unnerving this man's presence was, there was no way you'd waste your time taking in a trainee. Your hands shoved him away from the door before going to the handle.

Before you could twist the doorknob, his hand immediately gripped your wrist. "I'm not leaving until you agree," he said, pulling your wrist to keep yours hands off of the knob. The look in his eyes told you that he was serious. God, this man was stubborn.

Your eyebrows scrunched together in annoyance as you pulled your wrist away from his grip, crossing your arms. "Then make it worth my time. What do I get for teaching you?" you asked, raising a brow at him inquisitively.

His gaze shifted around the hall in thought before landing on you. "I'll tell you who killed this man," he replied, showing you the picture yet again. Your eyes softened for a moment before glaring at him again. "As if I care. My job is to provide evidence, not convict someone."

No, maybe you did care...or was it because you already knew who.

The man let out an audible huff before looking around again. Now his vision was focused on you. Looking over your features, observing every detail of your clothes and body. Anything to convince you, to force you. "You're missing a gun, aren't you?"

Your eyes widened slightly, the unsettling feeling returning to your throat. "And why would I tell you?" you said cautiously. He chuckled darkly before looking over you once more. "A model 57, am I right?" he asked, slowly approaching you with soundless footsteps.

As he approached you, you took a cautious step back, following his steps. Something was telling you that he was not so keen on negotiating anymore. Soon enough, your back collided with the wall, effectively trapping you between the tiles and his body. There was no use struggling. Both were equally immovable.

Rough calloused hands lifted your chin up, forcing you to stare at his face. His thumb running across your lips, smudging the red lipstick against your chin, staring at it before his gaze went back to your eyes.

He was reading you, observing the fear as it ran through your body. Once again, he took out the polaroid picture and showed it to you, now with a sense of satisfaction as he felt your breath. "You're not an idiot. You probably know who killed him," he said in a low tone. The look in his eyes hungry as if he was a predator hunting and you were the prey.

You gulped and turned your head away the best you could with his hand still holding your chin. Your actions neither confirming nor denying his statement. Numerous large lacerations, clearly made by a sharp object. The cuts were clean too. It wasn't hard to figure it out. At least not to you.

He chuckled at your stubbornness, knowing full well that he had trapped you. "Now," he proceeded, pressing your body further against his as he loomed over you. "Teach me." His hand slowly slid the picture into the breast pocket of your lab coat, fingers tracing the stitches carefully and tenderly. The threat sent chills down your spine. Your body was telling you to run, to scream at least. You were trapped between a wall and a killer.

"Fucking shit...Fine!" Your eyebrows scrunching together at the feeling of being defenseless. The threat of losing your life wasn't what bothered you the most. It was the fact that this cocky trainee waltzed into your spaces, wasting your time and disturbing your peace; and yet, you felt utterly helpless under him.

It was unnerving. It pissed you off.

Finally, he lets you go, face emotionless but his blue eyes told you that he was more than satisfied. Clicking your tongue in annoyance, you opened the door to your morgue before craning your head to glare at him. "Oh and never touch me again."

But this bastard never got lost. In fact, he came back every single day. At first he had the decency to wait for you to get back whenever you went out to submit your reports, standing in front of the door like a good little boy. Now he just waltzes in like he owned the place.

Sometimes he'd just sit around and watch, the blue in his eyes shining particularly whenever you cut up a corpse that died from something peculiar. Sometimes he'd dirty up the place, walking in after a mission, covered in blood and smearing it allover the chairs and tables. Most of the time, he'd walk in just to annoy the shit out of you, moving around the reagents and inspecting them. Like what he was doing right now.

"Didn't I just replace the lock?" you asked, raising an eyebrow and taking a long drag out of your cigarette. His hand reached into his pocket before presenting to you a bent up hairpin. This little shit picked the lock again. "You did," he affirmed, voice sounding a bit smug.

His footsteps echoed around the room as he approached you, sitting down right next to you on the smooth varnished wood of your desk. "You should consider having cameras in this place," he commented, tilting his head to look around as if he hadn't for the past years.

You rolled your eyes at his suggestion, exhaling the smoke through your nostrils in a deep huff. "Oh please, as if you won't find a way to break them and sneak in. You'd carve a hole on the ceiling if you had to."

He hummed in agreement, eyes closing while he nodded. For a moment, silence once again enveloped the place. His eyes looked over to the cigarette you were holding, blue orbs eyeing the red lipstick on the filter, gaze lingering on it in particular. "Did you like the corpse I gave you?" he asked, taking the autopsy report from your desk and reading it.

"You could've gone easier on the man," you replied, tapping your cigarette on the ash tray and snatching the report back from him. "Really. Blunt force trauma? What did you use? The back of a gun?" you chuckled, scanning over the report as well. "Just when they've handed us a new batch of rifles, you just had to use it like a machete."

The shrug he gave you was more than enough to affirm your suspicions. Raising an eyebrow at him, you put your half-finished cigarette out on the ash tray before walking over to the corpse, putting on a new pair of gloves, and zipping up the body bag. "A ruptured liver too," you sighed, bringing the tissue samples you took to another table and placing them in formalin.

"He deserves it," he replied nonchalantly, taking the lighter from your desk and standing up, striding over to where you were. Snaking his arms around your hips, he peered over your shoulder. Your body went rigid as you tensed up from the contact. Suddenly, the feeling of something firm being pressed against his shoulder made him step back a bit. His eyes trailed down to see the barrel of a revolver pointed at his shoulder.

Your eyes narrowed at him, warning him to back off. A clicking sound could be heard as you turned to face him, jaw clenched. "Touch me again and I will shoot," you warned, vexed expression evident. His gaze switched over to your gun then to his shoulder before he took another step towards you. It seems that your threat was ineffective towards him.

"Go ahead," he replied, pressing the barrel of the revolver against his shoulder before placing his hands on both your sides, resting it on the cool metal. "At least aim at a vital organ. A hit on the shoulder is easy to fix." Sharp blue eyes staring at your lips once again. The red on your lips fascinating him. It was like he was hypnotized.

You rolled your eyes at him, eyebrows knitting together as you realized that your threat was not working at all. "Oh and maybe I should remind you that I'm the only doctor here," you snarled sarcastically. He laughed softly, tilting his head down to look at you. "Aren't you a pathologist?"

"Exactly. So back off unless you want to be the next thing I cut open," you threatened but it was no use. The man in front of you stayed unmoving with his eyes fixated on your lips.

The more he stared, the more he pressed his body against you. Yet somehow, you couldn't bring yourself to pull the trigger. Instead, you raised a knee up before swinging it towards his crotch. However, upon impact, your eyes widened in realization. You stared at him dumbfounded, lips parting as you finally spoke...

"You're a woman."

At your statement, her gaze hardened, jaw clenching in sudden aggravation. Suddenly, her hands grasped your wrist, pinning you down on the table as she loomed over you. Your revolver now on the floor with loud clack, a heavy foot over it. Her eyebrows scrunching together in an irked expression. "Speak of this to anyone. I'll kill you," she threatened, face moving closer towards yours.

You couldn't believe it. All this time, the blue eyed demon was a woman all along. He who brought fear into his enemies, leaving them either dead or permanently incapacitated, was not a he. The little shit bothering you and messing around with the stuff in your laboratory was a woman.

The lack of reply irked her even more, her glare now directed towards your lips. Fuck. Maybe if she wasn't so distracted by your lipstick, she would have seen this coming. The longer she stared, the more her body grew hot either from infuriation or from something else.

Suddenly, her hand entangled itself within the locks of hair at the back of your head, pulling on it and smashing her lips against yours. Your lips opened slightly from surprise and she took the opportunity to slip her tongue into your mouth. Her tongue explored the cavern of your mouth, not caring if you returned the kiss or not.

Your body trembled under hers, breathing becoming shakier as the kiss continued. A small groan escaped your lips at the feeling of her hand pulling on your hair tighter. Eventually, you allowed your tongue to move with her's, dancing together with your groans and soft mewls as the melody.

A thin string of saliva connecting your lips together upon pulling away. Your red lipstick smudged over your cheek and allover her lips. You could see her chest rising and falling as she panted through her nose.

"Fine...I won't," you breathed out, looking away to hide the warmth crawling up to your cheeks. The heat of the atmosphere taking all the snarky remarks out of your mouth. Her gaze softened before she leaned down, placing a trail of kisses from your lips down to your collarbone. She lifted her head up once again and let your wrists go, helping you up.

Before you could speak, she slipped her hand into your breast pocket and took out the carton of cigarettes, taking one out and placing it between your lipstick-smudged lips. Reaching into her pocket, she took the lighter she picked up from your desk out and flipped it open, lighting the cigarette for you.

Her blue eyes scanned over your figure before chuckling, all the anger she had earlier completely gone. "I know you won't" she whispered with a sense of sincerity. "I'll leave."

You watched as she headed towards the door, footsteps quiet and quick. Upon reaching the door way, she turned towards you with a slight smirk.

"Mizu," she said suddenly.

"H-Huh?"

"That's my name, so don't forget." She turned back around and left. The sound of the door closing echoing around the morgue. Your eyes stared at the door, stupefied from the turn of events. Your fingers slowly touched your lips, tracing where she had placed hers.

There was no way you'd forget it.

She'd come back every day to remind you of it.

[oveliagirlhaditright]

As it turns out, I have liver fibrosis.

I... really don't know how to feel about this. Maybe because I really don't know how bad it is yet (my doctor hasn't talked to me about it yet: probably because it's a Friday and she may have not even gotten the information yet. I just saw the results of the ultrasound in my chart). The results in my chart make it sound like I might be stage two or stage three, probably closer to stage two? But I should probably wait until I talk to my doctor before I say anything definite.

At first, I was kind of freaking out about this, because it can be bad--and definitely get a lot worse without treatment--and maybe I still am, but right now I'm moreso getting more ho-hum about it, I guess, and feeling, "it is what it is," I guess. "And I'll deal with it, and see what happens?" I don't know.

And if nothing else, this seems to explain a lot a lot of what's been going on with me. (I'm not necessarily saying this is the magical answer I've been waiting for. Or that it explains everything. But maybe it actually is. Or at least explains some of it.)

And it's nice to actually have a test reveal something for once: because I've had the bad luck of a lot of them not doing that for me.

But... I'm also kind of angry. Because if I'm being honest? I feel like I've kind of been written off by a lot of my doctors for years, with them maybe thinking I'm crazy (or that everything is all in my head) or a hypochondriac or something. And if they'd actually listened to me about my symptoms, we probably would have found this sooner. IDK. One of the doctors I actually respect and admire--who I do think is in my corner--told me that he thought a majority of my doctors were assholes and had written me off... and yeah, I've definitely felt that before. And I kind of feel that right now, to be honest. (Though the doctor that ordered the test that discovered this is one of my good doctors, I think.)