#Surgical Breakthrough | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

engeorged · 3 months ago

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The Bear and the Mountain

My life has always been defined by achievement. I sailed through university, completing a master’s degree in less than six months. I was confident in my intelligence and my looks—black hair, green eyes, and a constant carefully trimmed stubble that suited me. People often called me attractive, and I believed them, but I tried not to let it turn into arrogance. I just knew I had what it took to succeed.

After sailing through university, (I know I sound douchey but I’m just stating the facts) I launched a startup that took off almost immediately. In a few short years, I’d built it up and sold it for an eight-figure sum. I should have felt on top of the world, but instead, I felt empty. I had achieved everything I set out to do by the age of 27, yet something was missing. My life was a series of successes, but none of them brought me any meaning or satisfaction. Life was just a bit to easy.

In search of meaning, I tried everything. I spent time in Buddhist retreat lodges, seeking enlightenment through meditation. I pushed myself to the limits with extreme sports, hoping the adrenaline would fill the void. I even subjected myself to the intensity of sweat lodges, enduring the heat and discomfort in the hope of a breakthrough. Nothing worked. I was left more frustrated than ever.

Eventually, I decided to take a different approach—one that involved solitude and nature. I planned a solo trek through one of the most remote mountain ranges in the U.S., thinking that maybe the isolation would force me to confront whatever was missing in my life. The trek was challenging, but I was used to pushing myself. That was, until the seventh day, when everything changed. I was faced with a ravine and I definitely should have known better, but halfway up I slipped on a loose rock and tumbled to the bottom, breaking my leg badly and covering myself in deep cuts. I tried to move but I was trapped. I tried calling for help but I was literally in the arse end of nowhere. Stranded, in pain, and utterly alone, I realised just how precarious my situation had become.

After nearly a day of lying helpless, my hope dwindling with each passing hour, I heard heavy footsteps. Relief washed over me as a figure emerged from the dense forest. He was tall, powerfully built, and had a thick, bushy beard. There was something imposing about him, yet his presence calmed me. He introduced himself as Bear, and despite my dire circumstances, I couldn’t help but notice that beneath the wild exterior, he was remarkably handsome. His eyes, sharp and clear, held a depth that suggested he understood far more than he let on.

Bear turns out to be a man of very few words and after a few minutes of observing the situation and without a word, he lifted me onto his back as if I weighed nothing and began to carry me through the forest. I’m not gonna lie, it was actually pretty hot! The guy smelt so good too.

We arrived at his cabin, a beautiful structure powered by wind turbines and surrounded by the raw beauty of nature. Inside, the cabin was cozy and welcoming, filled with handmade furniture and intricate wood carvings. Bear set me down on a bed, and the exhaustion from the pain and stress overtook me; I passed out almost immediately.

When I woke, the first thing I noticed was the room. It was rustic yet comfortable, with wooden beams running across the ceiling and a large stone fireplace on one wall. Soft, natural light filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow over everything. The bed I lay in was firm but comfortable, and the smell of pine filled the air. But what truly stunned me was my leg. It was expertly set in a splint, immobilized with a level of precision that was astounding. My head and arms, too, had been carefully treated, stitched up with surgical skill. I traced the stitches on my head and arms with my fingers, marvelling at how neat they were. There was more to Bear than he was letting on.

Bear had not only saved my life but had done so with an expertise I hadn’t expected. The man who appeared so rugged and wild had the hands of a surgeon. I wanted to thank him, to ask him how he’d learned these skills, but when I looked around, Bear was nowhere to be found. Instead, next to the bed, there was a tray filled with food—a hearty stew, freshly baked bread, and fruits. My stomach growled, and though I was puzzled by Bear’s absence, I couldn’t resist the urge to eat.

As I ate, I couldn’t help but feel content. The food was incredible—rich, flavourful, and comforting in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Each bite seemed to melt away the tension I’d been carrying. The bread was warm and soft, perfect for soaking up the thick stew. The fruits were sweet and refreshing, a perfect complement to the savoury dishes.

Yet, as I savored the meal, something nagged at me. It was strange that Bear had disappeared so suddenly. I hadn’t heard him leave, and there was no indication of where he might have gone. Still, the cabin was secure, and the food brought me so much comfort that I pushed the thought aside. I was too content, too satisfied to worry about where Bear had gone or why he hadn’t said anything.

As the last bite of food settled in my stomach, a wave of exhaustion washed over me, heavier than anything I'd felt in days. The warmth of the cabin, combined with the fullness in my belly, made my eyelids droop uncontrollably. I didn’t fight it; the soft bed beneath me was too inviting. Within moments, I drifted off, my mind lulled into a deep sleep by the rhythmic crackling of the fire.

When I awoke, the room was bathed in the soft light of early evening, and the fire had been stoked back to life. I blinked a few times, trying to shake off the lingering grogginess. It took a moment for my eyes to focus, but when they did, I saw him—Bear, standing near the foot of the bed, a tray of food in his hands. His presence, so solid and quiet, filled the space, and I felt a strange mix of relief and unease.

“Feeling better?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, almost like the sound of distant thunder. He set the tray on the small table beside the bed. The smell of warm, hearty food wafted up to me, making my stomach gurgle in anticipation, despite the fact that I had eaten only hours before.

“Yeah… a bit,” I replied, still groggy but slowly coming back to full awareness. I shifted slightly, wincing at the dull ache in my leg. It was then that I noticed Bear's gaze was softer than before, though just as unreadable. He was watching me closely, assessing my condition.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bear began, his tone even, as if he were discussing the weather. “With the way things are right now—snow, ice, unpredictable winds—there’s no safe way to get you out of here for at least six weeks, maybe more. The mountain’s too dangerous to navigate, even for me.”

His words hung in the air, and I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my chest. Six weeks? I hadn’t even considered the possibility that I’d be here that long. But before I could react, Bear continued, his voice calm and reassuring.

“I know it’s not what you expected, but I’m happy for you to stay here with me until it’s safe to leave. You’ll be well taken care of, I promise.”

There was a certainty in his voice that made it hard to argue. Despite the odd circumstances and the isolation, something about Bear’s offer brought me a strange sense of comfort. The idea of staying here, under his care, didn’t seem so bad—especially after everything I’d been through so far. My leg throbbed again, a reminder of how helpless I was in this situation. Maybe, just maybe, staying wasn’t the worst option.

I glanced at the tray of food he’d brought—another generous helping, more than I thought I could manage. But the smell was intoxicating, and I found myself reaching for the fork without thinking.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, accepting both the food and the offer with a mix of apprehension and gratitude.

Bear gave a small nod, then turned to tend to the fire, his broad back facing me as he stoked the flames. I couldn’t see his face, but something in his posture told me he was at ease with the arrangement, perhaps even a little pleased. As I took the first bite of the new meal, I couldn’t help but wonder what the next six weeks would bring.

The days blended together as I continued to recover. Bear’s presence was elusive—he was rarely around when I was awake, but every time I stirred, there was more food waiting for me. It became a routine of sorts: I’d wake up to find a fresh meal by my bed, eat my fill, and drift back to sleep. I began to wonder if I was imagining him, but the expertly prepared food and the meticulous care I received were real enough.

Over time, I started noticing changes in my body. At first, it was subtle—my clothes began to feel snug, especially around the waist. I told myself it was just temporary, a result of being bedridden and inactive. But as the days passed, the changes became more apparent. My belly, once flat and firm, was now rounding out, pressing against the fabric of my shirt. It felt strange, yet I tried to convince myself that it was nothing to worry about. After all, I was healing, and once I was back on my feet, everything would return to normal.

Despite these thoughts, I couldn’t deny the pleasure I found in the food. Each meal was a masterpiece—perfectly seasoned meats, creamy potatoes, and desserts that were impossible to resist. I found myself looking forward to the meals, eagerly anticipating the next dish that would appear beside my bed. My appetite grew with each passing day, and with it, my belly grew too.

One evening, after another large meal, I decided to investigate. I ran my hands over my stomach, feeling the firmness of my belly beneath my skin. It was rounder, fuller than it had ever been before. The sensation was both unsettling and oddly comforting. I couldn’t deny that I was putting on weight, but I wasn’t ready to fully accept it either. It was easier to tell myself that it was just temporary, that it was a side effect of healing, and that soon I’d be back to my old self.

But deep down, I knew something was changing. The combination of solitude, indulgence, and the strange, almost mystical care I was receiving from Bear had set me on a different path—one that I wasn’t sure I was ready to confront just yet.

I woke up one morning feeling strangely energised. The routine of waking, eating, and sleeping had begun to feel monotonous, but today something was different. As I sat up in bed, I noticed something new at the foot of it—crutches. Handmade, with sturdy wood and comfortable grips, they were unmistakably Bear’s work. The craftsmanship was remarkable, each detail carefully considered, and I realised that Bear must have spent considerable time making them for me. I looked at the handles and saw a small family of carved bears catching tiny wooden salmon jumping from the curves of the crutches.

Excited by the prospect of moving around on my own again, I carefully swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My leg still ached, but the splint held firm, and with some effort, I managed to stand using the crutches. It felt good to be upright again, to be able to explore beyond the confines of the bed.

The cabin, as I saw it for the first time beyond my bed, was a work of art. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings and paintings, depicting scenes of wildlife and nature. The furniture, all handcrafted, exuded warmth and comfort. There were shelves lined with books, maps, and various trinkets that spoke of a life lived in harmony with the wilderness. The fireplace crackled softly, filling the room with a gentle warmth.

As I hobbled around, taking in the surroundings, I couldn’t help but notice how my body felt heavier, more cumbersome. My belly, once flat and toned, now hung over the waistband of my pants, a soft and unfamiliar weight. I caught my reflection in a window and was startled by the sight. My midsection had undeniably thickened, the result of a week of indulgent eating and inactivity. The roundness of my stomach was undeniable, pressing against the fabric of my shirt in a way that felt foreign and uncomfortable.

I tried to push the realization aside, telling myself it was just temporary. But there was no denying the evidence. The steady supply of rich, hearty food had left its mark on me. I felt a pang of discomfort, not just physically but emotionally. I was a man who had always been in control, and now, control seemed to be slipping away.

As I explored the cabin, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It was a strange sensation, as though Bear was there, observing me, but I couldn’t see him. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I turned to look around, but the cabin appeared empty. Still, the feeling persisted, a silent presence that was both comforting and unnerving.

Eventually, I made my way to the kitchen. It was as beautifully crafted as the rest of the cabin, with a large wooden table at its center. To my surprise, Bear was there, standing by the stove. His back was to me, but I could see the muscles in his broad shoulders working as he stirred something in a pot. The aroma that filled the room was mouthwatering, a rich blend of spices and roasting meat.

This was the only the fourth time I’d seen Bear since he rescued me. He was still the same imposing figure, tall and powerful, his beard thick and wild. But there was a gentleness in the way he moved, a careful precision as he prepared the meal. I watched him for a few moments, marveling at how effortlessly he commanded the space, how naturally he seemed to belong here.

Bear turned slightly, and for the briefest moment, our eyes met. There was something in his gaze that I couldn’t quite place—an intensity, a quiet watchfulness. He nodded toward the table, indicating that I should sit. I obeyed, lowering myself into one of the chairs, the crutches propped beside me.

Bear brought the food to the table—a feast that made my mouth water just by looking at it. There were roasted vegetables, a thick stew brimming with chunks of meat, and freshly baked bread that was still warm from the oven. He served me generously, filling my plate to the brim, before sitting down across from me.

We ate together in silence, the only sound the clinking of cutlery against plates. The food was, as always, incredible. Each bite was a burst of flavor, and despite my earlier discomfort about my weight, I found myself eating with gusto. The food was just too good to resist.

As we ate, I felt Bear’s eyes on me, watching my every move. It was unsettling at first, but as the meal progressed, I began to feel something else—an unspoken connection between us. It was as if Bear was studying me, understanding me in ways that I hadn’t even begun to understand myself. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was charged, filled with an unspoken bond that was slowly forming between us.

By the time the meal was over, I was full to the point of bursting. My belly, already swollen, now pressed even more insistently against my shirt, but I couldn’t bring myself to regret the meal. Bear cleared the dishes with the same quiet efficiency, and as he worked, I realized that my feelings toward him were shifting. There was more to this man than I had initially thought, and I was beginning to feel drawn to him in ways I hadn’t expected.

After the meal, Bear disappeared into another room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I sat there, feeling the weight of the food in my stomach and the weight of the growing connection between us. Something was happening here, something I didn’t fully understand yet, but I knew it was important.

As I made my way back to bed, my belly heavy and full, I couldn’t help but wonder what the next days would bring. The cabin had become more than just a place of recovery—it was becoming a place of transformation. And Bear, the enigmatic man who had saved me, was at the centre of it all.

The days turned into weeks, and the cabin, once a place of temporary refuge, became my entire world. The outside world seemed distant, irrelevant, as I settled into this new rhythm of life. My leg was healing slowly, and with Bear’s crutches, I could move around more freely, though I still spent much of my time resting. But it wasn’t just my leg that was changing; my body was transforming in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

Each morning, I’d wake up to the smell of something delicious wafting through the cabin. Bear’s cooking was exceptional, and I found myself eagerly anticipating each meal. There was always a generous spread—thick, savory stews, roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and rich, decadent desserts. The food was comfort itself, warm and filling, and I couldn’t help but indulge.

As I ate, I became increasingly aware of my body’s changes. My once-flat stomach had now grown round and heavy, a firm dome that swelled more with each meal. My shirts, which had fit me perfectly when I first arrived, were now stretched tight across my midsection, riding up to reveal a line of soft hair trailing down to my belly button. The waistband of my pants dug into my sides, leaving red marks on my skin, but still, I ate. I told myself it was just temporary, that I’d shed the weight once I was able to be more active, but deep down, I knew I was lying to myself.

I couldn’t deny the growing attraction I felt toward Bear. It was an attraction born not just from his rugged good looks or his self-sufficiency, but from something deeper, something about the way he carried himself. Bear was a man of few words, but his presence was commanding. There was an intensity to him, a quiet strength that I found irresistibly compelling. I began to crave his approval, his attention, though he never said much.

Bear watched me closely during our meals, his gaze intense and unreadable. At first, his silence made me uneasy, but as time went on, I began to interpret it as a form of attention, a sign that he was observing me, even if he wasn’t speaking. I found myself wanting to impress him, to catch his eye in some way. I started to eat more, pushing myself to finish every last bite, hoping that he would notice.

In those moments, I felt a strange satisfaction as my belly grew fuller and rounder. There was something about Bear’s quiet attention that made me want to show off, to prove something to him, though I wasn’t entirely sure what. I’d stretch after a meal, subtly arching my back to accentuate the curve of my stomach, hoping he’d see how much I had eaten, how much I had grown.

It became a game of sorts—an unspoken challenge between us. I’d eat until I was uncomfortably full, then stretch or shift in my chair, allowing my shirt to ride up and expose my swollen belly. Each time I did, I could feel Bear’s eyes on me, though he never commented. The tension between us grew with each passing day, and I found myself increasingly drawn to him, eager to elicit a reaction, even if it was just a lingering glance.

One evening, after several weeks of this routine, Bear prepared an especially large feast. The table was laden with food—platters of roasted poultry, glazed hams, bowls of mashed sweet potatoes swimming in gravy, freshly baked rolls, and a massive apple pie that filled the cabin with its sweet, spiced aroma. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement as I sat down, the sheer amount of food both daunting and thrilling.

As we began to eat, I could feel Bear’s eyes on me, watching as I loaded my plate with more food than I thought I could handle. I dug in with enthusiasm, the flavors rich and satisfying. The chicken was tender and juicy, the potatoes smooth and buttery, and the rolls practically melted in my mouth. I ate and ate, determined to finish everything on my plate and then some.

With each bite, my belly expanded, pressing harder against the confines of my clothes. I could feel the tightness increasing, the fabric straining as I continued to eat. I was full—painfully so—but I kept going, motivated by the silent presence of Bear across the table. I wanted him to see how much I could eat, how much I could take in, how much I was willing to grow for him.

When I finally couldn’t eat another bite, I leaned back in my chair, my stomach round and bloated, pressing up against the edge of the table. My shirt had ridden up completely, exposing the full expanse of my swollen, hairy belly. I stretched my arms overhead, feigning a casual movement, but really I wanted Bear to see—to take notice of the way my belly jutted out, heavy and full.

Bear’s eyes were on me, his gaze intense as ever. He didn’t say a word, but the way he looked at me, I knew he was watching, taking in every detail. I held his gaze for a moment, my heart pounding, then slowly lowered my arms and settled back into my seat, feeling the weight of my bloated belly resting on my thighs.

Bear remained silent, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made me think he understood. He got up slowly, clearing the table as he always did, and though we didn’t speak, I felt as if something had shifted between us—an unspoken understanding that this was about more than just food.

As I made my way back to bed that night, my belly aching from the sheer volume of food, I couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction. I had pushed myself to the limit, and though Bear hadn’t said anything, I knew he had noticed. That silent connection, the way he watched without speaking, was enough to keep me going, to keep me wanting more.

A few days later and after a particularly heavy lunch, I felt the familiar pull of sleep. My belly was stuffed to capacity, swollen and heavy from yet another feast, and I couldn’t resist the lure of an afternoon nap. I made my way back to bed, sinking into the soft mattress, my body surrendering to the weight of the meal and the warmth of the cabin. As I drifted off, the last thing I thought about was Bear—his quiet presence, his intense gaze, and the way he watched over me without saying a word.

I woke up a few hours later, the sun hanging lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the room. My stomach still felt heavy, the remnants of the meal sitting comfortably in my gut. I stretched slowly, wincing slightly at the tightness in my midsection, before sitting up and realizing that the cabin was unusually quiet. Normally, I would have heard Bear moving around, cooking or working on something. But today, there was nothing—just the sound of the wind outside and the crackling of the fire.

Curious, I decided to get up and look for him. Using the crutches Bear had made for me, I carefully made my way down the stairs and into the main room, but there was no sign of him. The kitchen was empty, the stove cold. It was strange—I had grown so accustomed to his presence, to the idea that he was always somewhere nearby, that his absence felt almost unsettling.

I wandered around the cabin, checking the other rooms, but still, there was no sign of Bear. Finally, I decided to venture outside. The late afternoon sun bathed the clearing in a warm, golden light, the air crisp and fresh. I felt a slight chill as I stepped out onto the porch, the cool breeze brushing through the holes made by the buttons on my shirt as my protruding stomach pushed them out.

That’s when I saw him.

Bear was standing in the clearing, a few yards away from the cabin, chopping wood. He had taken his plaid shirt off leaving his torso fully exposed and I was not disappointed. His broad, muscular back glistened with a thin sheen of sweat that caught the sunlight. His powerful arms, thick with muscle, moved with precision as he swung the axe, the blade slicing cleanly through the logs with effortless power. Each movement was fluid, controlled—his body a study in strength and grace.

I stood there, transfixed by the sight of him. Bear was a man of imposing size, and seeing him like this, shirtless and in his element, made him seem even more formidable. His chest was broad and thick, covered in a mat of dark hair that trailed down to his stomach, which was flat and defined, a stark contrast to my own soft, rounded belly. His biceps bulged with each swing, his forearms corded with veins as he gripped the axe handle.

His entire physique was the embodiment of raw, primal strength—his torso a canvas of hard muscle, honed by years of living off the land, working with his hands, and surviving in the wilderness. There was no doubt that this was a man who had mastered his environment, who thrived in the harshest conditions. His beard, thick and wild, only added to the ruggedness of his appearance, framing his strong jaw and emphasizing the sharpness of his features.

But it wasn’t just his physical power that captivated me; it was the way he moved, the way he seemed so utterly in control of everything around him. There was a quiet intensity in his movements, a confidence that came from knowing his own strength. It was mesmerizing to watch.

As I stood there, watching him work, I felt a wave of emotions wash over me. There was admiration, certainly—how could anyone not admire such a powerful figure? But there was something more, something deeper. I was drawn to him in a way I hadn’t expected, an attraction that went beyond the physical. It was the combination of his strength, his self-sufficiency, and the quiet way he cared for me, even as he kept his distance.

Bear hadn’t noticed me yet, and for a moment, I considered going back inside, letting him continue his work undisturbed. But something kept me rooted to the spot, a need to stay, to watch, to be near him. I took a few steps forward, careful to be quiet, not wanting to break the spell of the moment.

As I moved closer, I could see the details more clearly—the way his muscles tensed and relaxed with each swing, the droplets of sweat that slid down his chest, the rise and fall of his breath. There was something almost hypnotic about the rhythm of his movements, a primal energy that seemed to pulse in the air between us.

Finally, as if sensing my presence, Bear paused in his work. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, neither of us moved. The world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the rustle of leaves in the wind. His gaze was intense, penetrating, as if he could see right through me, straight to the thoughts and feelings I tried so hard to keep hidden.

I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny. My shirt was stretched tight across my belly, the fabric straining to contain the fullness that had developed over the past weeks. Compared to Bear, I felt soft, weak, but the way he looked at me made it clear that he saw more than just my physical appearance.

Bear didn’t say anything—he never did—but there was something in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection that had been growing between us. He nodded once, a small gesture, before turning back to his work. I watched as he resumed chopping wood, the moment passing, but the feelings it stirred in me lingering long after.

I stood there for a while longer, letting the sight of him burn into my memory, before finally turning to go back inside. As I walked back to the cabin, my heart was pounding in my chest, a mixture of excitement and something else—something deeper, more profound, that I wasn’t quite ready to name.

The following morning, light filtered softly through the cabin windows, casting a golden glow over everything. I had become accustomed to waking up this way—slowly, with the warmth of the fire in the hearth and the smell of breakfast already beginning to waft from the kitchen. But today, something was different. There was a heaviness in the air, a tension I couldn’t quite place. Bear had been quiet, more so than usual, and as I made my way downstairs on my crutches, I found him standing by the door, staring out into the clearing.

I hesitated, feeling a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. “Good morning,” I said softly, trying to read his expression. He didn’t turn to look at me, just kept his gaze fixed on something far in the distance.

“The weather’s changing,” Bear said finally, his voice low and rough. “Conditions will be good for travel soon. The day after tomorrow, I can take you back down the mountain.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I knew this day would come, but hearing it out loud felt like the ground was shifting beneath me. I had been so consumed by the strange, quiet life we had built here that I hadn’t fully considered what it would mean to leave. To go back to my old life, to a world that now felt distant and unimportant.

I forced a smile, trying to hide the turmoil I felt inside. “That’s… great,” I managed to say, though my voice sounded hollow, even to me.

Bear finally turned to look at me, his dark eyes unreadable. For a moment, I searched his face for any hint of what he might be feeling—relief, sadness, anything—but there was nothing. He was as stoic as ever, his expression giving nothing away.

“Is that what you want?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I immediately regretted it, feeling foolish for needing reassurance, for wanting to know if he wanted me to stay as much as I suddenly realized I wanted to.

Bear’s gaze lingered on me, his eyes glistening in the low light. But he didn’t answer, just gave a slight nod as if the decision had already been made. Then, as if the conversation hadn’t happened, he turned and went back to the kitchen, leaving me standing there, feeling lost and dismayed.

I spent the rest of the day in a fog, trying to process what was happening. The idea of leaving, of going back to a life that felt meaningless in comparison to what I had found here, filled me with a deep sense of loss. But even more than that, I was confused by Bear’s reaction. Did he want me to stay? Did he feel anything for me at all? The thought of leaving without knowing the answer gnawed at me.

That night, as I lay in bed, my mind raced. I couldn’t just leave like this, not without some sign, some acknowledgment of what had been growing between us. An idea began to form in my mind, reckless and desperate, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. If words weren’t going to get through to Bear, maybe actions would. Maybe if I pushed myself, showed him how much I was willing to do, I could finally get him to react.

I decided that the next day would be my last chance, and I would make the most of it. I would eat as much as I possibly could, more than ever before, until there was no way Bear could ignore me. Until he had to acknowledge what was happening between us.

The next morning, I woke with a sense of determination. I had a plan, and I was going to see it through, no matter what. When I made my way downstairs, Bear was already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. The smell of sizzling bacon and fresh pancakes filled the air, and my stomach rumbled in anticipation.

Bear glanced at me briefly, his face as blank as ever. I could tell he sensed something was different, but he didn’t say anything. He just placed a plate in front of me, piled high with food—eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and pancakes dripping with syrup. It was a feast in itself, more than I would normally eat in a day back home, but this was just the beginning.

I dug in, eating with more enthusiasm than I had in weeks. The food was as delicious as always, each bite rich and satisfying. I ate quickly, shoveling food into my mouth as fast as I could, determined to finish everything on my plate. My stomach started to fill up, the familiar tightness building in my midsection, but I didn’t slow down. I kept going, piling more food onto my fork, swallowing each bite with determination.

Bear didn’t say a word as I ate, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed, concerned, or something else entirely, but it didn’t matter. I had committed to this, and I was going to see it through.

When I finally finished, my stomach was already distended, pressing against the waistband of my pants. But I wasn’t done. I pushed my plate forward, giving Bear a determined look.

��More,” I said, my voice firm despite the fullness in my belly.

Bear raised an eyebrow but complied without a word. He piled more food onto my plate, another helping of everything, and I started again. This time, each bite was harder to take, the food sitting heavily in my gut, but I didn’t let that stop me. I could feel my belly swelling, the fabric of my shirt stretching tight, but I kept eating, determined to show Bear just how much I could take.

When breakfast was finally over, I was stuffed beyond belief. My belly was round and bloated, pushing out so far that it felt like I could burst, but I also felt a strange sense of pride. I had done it. I had eaten more than I ever thought possible, and I wasn’t finished yet.

I spent the rest of the morning resting on the couch, letting my stomach settle, knowing that lunch would be just as big a challenge. Bear kept his distance, but I could feel his eyes on me every so often, as if he was checking to see how I was doing.

Lunch came all too quickly. This time, Bear served up a spread of sandwiches, thick slices of bread stuffed with meat, cheese, and vegetables, along with a side of crispy fries. My stomach was still heavy from breakfast, but I didn’t let that deter me. I attacked the food with the same determination, forcing myself to eat every last bite, despite the growing discomfort.

With each bite, my stomach expanded further, the tightness in my belly increasing until it was almost unbearable. I could feel my shirt riding up, exposing the swollen curve of my gut, but I didn’t care. All I could think about was eating more, showing Bear just how much I could take.

By the time dinner rolled around, I was in a daze. My stomach was so full and heavy that I could barely move, but I knew this was my last chance. Bear had outdone himself for dinner—roast boar, roasted potatoes and vegetables gravy, rolls, pies and a huge chocolate and custard brioche for dessert. The table was groaning under the weight of the food, and I knew I had to finish it all.

I ate slowly this time, savoring each bite, even as my stomach protested. I could feel every inch of my belly stretching, the skin taut and aching, but I kept going. Bear sat across from me, silent as always, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching my every move.

Finally, after what felt like hours, I finished the last bite of cake. I leaned back in my chair, my belly so full and distended that I could hardly breathe. My shirt had ridden up completely, leaving my swollen belly exposed, round and taut like a drum. I could feel the weight of it pressing down on my thighs, the skin stretched so tight that it felt like I might split open.

Bear stood up slowly, his gaze fixed on my bloated stomach. He walked around the table and stood in front of me, his expression unreadable. My heart was pounding in my chest, a mix of fear and anticipation, but I didn’t say anything. I just looked up at him, waiting.

Then, without a word, Bear reached down and placed a hand on my belly. His touch was firm but gentle, his fingers pressing into the firm, swollen flesh. I sucked in a breath, the sensation of his hand on my overstuffed stomach sending a shiver through me.

Bear didn’t speak, didn’t ask if I was okay. He simply took a piece of leftover bread, slathered with butter, and brought it to my lips. Without thinking, I opened my mouth, letting him feed me, my body responding to his command. He pushed the bread into my mouth, his fingers brushing against my lips as he did, and I chewed slowly, feeling the food settle heavily on top of everything else.

But Bear wasn’t done. He kept feeding me all the leftovers he could get his hands on, piece after piece, each one pushing me further beyond my limits. My belly was so full that I could feel it pressing against the table, the skin stretched so tight that it ached with every breath. But I kept eating, swallowing every bite he offered, my body trembling with the effort.

is eyes never left mine as he continued to feed me, each spoonful a slow, deliberate act. My belly, swollen and heavy, lay like a massive weight on my torso. I could feel every inch of it, tight and firm, my skin stretched to its limit. I shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but it only made me more aware of just how full I was. Yet, despite the discomfort, or maybe because of it, I found myself craving more.

Finally, when I thought I couldn’t take another bite, Bear set the spoon down. His hand moved to my belly, resting on the roundness of it, his fingers splayed across the taut skin. I inhaled sharply at the touch, feeling the warmth of his hand against the coolness of my overstretched stomach. He didn’t say anything, just traced his fingers over the curve of my belly, as if admiring his work. The sensation sent a shiver through me, a mix of pleasure and something deeper, more primal.

Without a word, he helped me to my feet, guiding me outside into the crisp night air. The sky was clear, the stars bright and endless above us. I felt the cold against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that radiated from my overstuffed belly. We lay down on the soft blankets he had spread out, my belly rising like a small hill between us. I could hardly move, every breath a reminder of how full I was, but I didn’t care. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Bear settled beside me, his arm draped over my swollen stomach, his touch reassuring and solid. The night was quiet, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire inside the cabin and the slow, steady rhythm of our breathing. As we lay there under the stars, the night stretched out before us, endless and full of possibilities.

I thought back to how I had ended up here—how the search for something more had led me to this remote mountain, to this man, and ultimately, to myself. I had sought out the wilderness to challenge myself, to find meaning in my achievements and push my boundaries. But in the end, it wasn’t the extreme sports or the spiritual retreats that had given me what I was looking for. It was this—lying under the stars, my belly stuffed to the max, feeling the warmth of Bear’s body beside me.

I had found something here, something I hadn’t known I was searching for. Not just in Bear, but in the quiet, unspoken connection we shared, in the way he had cared for me, fed me, pushed me to my limits in a way I hadn’t expected. I had found a peace I didn’t know I needed, a contentment that came from letting go of control and simply being.

As the stars twinkled above us, I let out a slow, satisfied breath, feeling the weight of my belly press down against me, grounding me. I had come to the mountains looking for something, and I had found it, even if it wasn’t in the way I had imagined. And as sleep began to take hold, I realized that I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.

#gainer fiction #belly expansion #gay gainer #male gaining #stuffing #belly fiction #gainer stories #gainer story #stuffing art

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readychilledwine · 9 days ago

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Champagne Papí

Summary - Rhys just can't help but celebrate your recent accomplishments in the most extreme ways

Warnings - Alcohol, Mentions of wing clipping, Feyssian, drunk shenanigans, and sexual references/jokes

🎂Birthday Masterlist🎂

✨️Rhysand Masterlist✨️Master Masterlist✨️

All you had wanted to celebrate your new research publication was a quiet night with your mate and the Inner Circle circle, and Heavens knew you deserved it.

Years spent researching from dusk to dawn, countless hours with papers surrounding you with notes crossed out, rewritten, x'd out again, and then circled aggressively. Being a daughter of Day made you meticulous, a perfectionist, and frankly, too smart for anyone else's good. Helion being your uncle only made that worse.

You were practically raised in his lap, reading from a young age, asking him big questions, and only taking a nap once your curiosity had been sated. It had turned you into a scholar, and one the Night Court was desperate for once Helion shared you were near a breakthrough regarding the repair of clipped wings, but you just needed someone with wings to try it on.

Emerie was a shining example of your hard work. She was glowing next to Mor, repaired wings fluttering in delight as they were examined. You had found a surgical procedure that, in combination with healing magic, allowed you to reconnect the tissue and for everything to regrow. You had a small group of females you started with and all of them healed beautifully. Then from there, it was a camp of females, all housed away from their homes for a month while you and your team worked what they all thought was a miracle.

A hand brushed your waist, pulling you close and out of your thoughts. “You deserve all of this,” the soft purr of Rhysand's voice grounded your nerves. “My intelligent, beautiful, selfless mate.”

“The party is a little much.”

He scoffed, drinking his champagne before looking at you. “It isn't enough. What did you expect? A quiet gathering?”

Males and females were dressed to the nines in their finest threads, a lavish dinner was served, you had been forced to give a speech, and now drinks were flowing freely as other scholars and healers looked over the display of your notes and research, as well as looking at the physical evidence of repaired wings in graceful coordinated gowns paid for by the High Lord.

“Do you think they're happy?”A brow raised at you in a silent question. “The females, I mean. Do you think they're happy?”

“I think you've given them something back they thought they would have lost forever.” Rhys grabbed two more glasses of champagne, handing one to you. “The trauma is still there, but you will be able to single handedly create a new legion of warriors, heal little ones who had their birthright stripped from them, and now anti-clipping laws can be pushed harder. You've made it so there is a damage measurement, and therefore consequences other than imprisonment.” You took a sip of the beverage, savoring the flavor and soft bubbles. “I spared no expense. Only your favorites for a night meant to honor you, darling.”

You leaned up, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, Rhys.”

“Yeah, thank you Rhys.” You two turned to see Cassian with long legs thrown over his shoulder, high heels held in his hand as bare feet danced. “Feyre here decided that she needed, how many glasses, baby?”

He turned so you two could see his very flushed mate, her smile huge and eyes glassy. “Only 8.”

Cassian turned again only to glare at Rhys, “She called you her sugar male”

Rhys snorted, all signs of the High Lord gone as his shoulders relaxed and his smile grew. “What does that even mean?”

“You give her all the nice things,” another annoyed voice approached. Azriel was also glaring, Nesta on his back giggling as well. “Ness agreed.”

Rhysand felt his jaw drop, making you laugh, “This was for my mate!”

“Yes, well, Feyre and Ness decided tonight they are also your mates,” Azriel smirked as Nesta bit his ear before moving to kiss his neck. “What is it y/n calls you? Ness couldn't remember.”

“Champagne papí,” you answered while laughing. The nickname was an old joke. One passed along to all the new members of the Inner Circle.

Before Rhysand and you felt that bond snap when he returned home, he had courted you. Rhysand gave you expensive shoes, jewelry, books worth a pretty penny.

All because he wanted you to have the very best. And when he discovered you hated wine, but loved the bubbly, he started buying the most expensive bottles he could find.

Rhysand hated being called daddy, hated when he heard that name used between grown males and their partners.

But papí? Papí you could call him all day long. The way the native language of Day rolled off your tongue made him shiver and it stuck.

Rhysand rolled his eyes, “Papí is reserved for my delightful darling.”

Feyre's feet were still dancing to the music, her hair swaying behind Cassian, “And me!”

You couldn't help but let out a soft laugh as your mate sighed. His brothers both wished you a goodnight, leaving with their intoxicated mates. Rhysand was back to leading you through the party, letting other scholars stop you and ask their questions.

You were exhausted by the time you two collapsed in your shared bed, the soft silks welcoming you like gentle caress. But your mate clearly wasn't.

Rhysand's hands found their way into your hair, fingers digging at your scalp and sending a wave of chills down your spine. “You are the most amazing female I have ever met,” he whispered into your ear. “You so selflessly spent decades solving an issue your court wasn't even involved in. You've given so many females their freedom back. I can never repay you for this.”

“Rhys, it wasn't about repayment-”

“I know, darling. I know,” he continued massaging your scalp, fingers twisting your hair in the natural curl pattern. “Let me at least say that I love you then. That I am beyond proud that I have the honor of being your husband, mate, and High Lord.”

He watched your lips twitched up, “I got you a present. I wanted to wait until we were alone,” his hands left your head, making you whine as he stood and went to the closet you two shared.

Rhysand returned with a small black box, sitting next to you, “Neve out did herself with this, my darling.”

You sat up and took the box from him. The velvet was her signature black importanted from a fabric maker over in Scythia. You opened it slowly, laughing as you saw the stardust cut single champagne diamond centered on a delicate platinum chain. It was exquisite. Possibly one of the clearest diamonds with the clearest cuts you had ever seen.

“A champagne diamond from your champagne papí,” he purred in your ear as he put it around your neck. “And right now, I want to see you in nothing but this.”

He laid you back down, kissing you softly, and the true celebration party began.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites

#elizabeths.updates #send asks #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar x y/n #rhysand x y/n #rhysand x you #rhysand x reader #rhys x you #rhys x y/n #rhys x reader #rhysand fanfiction #high lord rhysand #rhysand acotar #rhys acotar

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dragoneyes618 · 3 months ago

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In its fortieth year, Israel remains in a state of war with several Arab neighbors. That is bedrock. It must never be forgotten in discussing the Land and the Faith. No guns are going off as I write, in March 1987, but formal hostilities exist with no end in sight. The Jewish populace has grown in forty years from half a million to more than three million. The Israel Defense Force has become a military power without peer for its size; considered comparable, in some aspects of tactics and technology, to superpower forces. That is probably way the guns are not firing at the moment.

Since I wrote "The Ashes and the Gold" in 1969, the remarkable chronicle of the Jewish State has been punctuated by further military exploits The brilliant but scary and very costly turnaround victory in the Yom Kippur War of 1973, the airborne rescue of hostages from Arab terrorists at Entebbe in 1976, the controversial expulsion of the PLO terrorists from Lebanon, the surgical bombing of the nuclear reactor in Iraq, the air strike on the terrorist headquarters in Tunis; such high combat drama has repeatedly made world headlines.

The Israelis would gladly trade all that adventure and glory for peace. They have proved it. I was present at the lowering of the flag at the Sharm El Sheikh naval base in April 1982, a final step in their peaceful evacuation of the Sinai peninsula, under the Camp David agreement. A son of mine was serving in a Wasp patrol boat based there. After the ceremony I sailed with him up the Red Sea to Eilat, the new base for his vessel, having witnessed the most impressive sacrifice for peace made by a nation in modern times. I will never forget the sight of his Wasp squadron, circling around and round full speed offshore with sirens eerily wailing, in the farewell ceremony for a lost ship; nor the ranks of girl soldiers in white dress uniform on the wharf, standing at attention and weeping as the Star of David flag came down. Egypt lost the war to regain Sinai by force of arms. The Israelis gave back this strategic buffer of their own accord, to fulfill their part of a breakthrough peace on one front.I once asked an Israeli general how it was that his tiny new nation had so swiftly acquired remarkable military prowess. He replied, "We had to." That is the long and the short of it. The oil-rich Arabs can buy all the weaponry they require from other countries, mainly the Soviet Union. The Israelis have to build their own tanks, and much of their defense materiel. So they have learned to make armaments, and to excel in advanced technology, scientific and agricultural as well as military, for one and the same reason: they have had to.

- This Is My God, Herman Wouk, page 273-274

#this is my god #herman wouk #jumblr #frumblr #israel #israeli history #history #jewish history #antisemitism

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megafart1 · 1 month ago

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WIP of my Fiddauthor fic!!!

Don't know where else to post, enjoy- follows the same premise as my comic but in more depth and more scenes.

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

An excuse to drink dissolved the fervent tenacity with which Ford and Fiddleford had pushed their pencils a few hours earlier. A desire to unwind, celebrate, and enjoy some rewarding and thoughtful conversation between the two was mutually acknowledged. Fiddleford had finally managed to adapt the hyperdrive into the rest of the mechanical configuration, entailing a huge advancement in their construction of the portal. Such a breakthrough in close proximity to the holidays was unprecedented but warmly welcomed, and naturally Ford had proposed an evening of indulging in nog. Neither was willing to admit that the progress on the portal didn’t exactly call for inebriated merrymaking just a day before Fiddleford’s flight, and so an awkward ignorance of this ethical transgression (and the fact that the other also consciously ignored it) hung in the air.

The lively buzz of their conversation filled the kitchen as Ford prepared the beverages. He’d offered to let Fiddleford sit back and enjoy the joint celebration of both work and the holiday plans that were run short. Idle talk between the two was always fast-paced, profound, and difficult for the ordinary person to follow along. They teetered down intellectual rabbit holes, bounced ideas off each other with incipient enthusiasm, and challenged each others’ thinking with astute noetic prowess. There was always something about which they could engage in heated discussion in their slivers of free time, and the loftiness of the kitchen provided a great environment for philosophical jousts.

Ford frequently looked up from the crowded kitchen counter to reply to Fiddleford, before reverting his attention to exactly measuring out each ingredient. The concoction was already simmering in a saucepan as Ford leveled out a cup of sugar with surgical precision. The topic was Fiddleford’s computer business now, Ford’s inquiries probing the reception of such radical innovation in Palo Alto.

“How about Emma May? Does she take an interest in your business?” Ford set down the measuring cup and looked at Fiddleford.

“I wish I could say so, but I conduct my business in the garage.” he chuckled. “She has more important things to worry about.” Fiddleford stopped fidgeting with his hands and turned his head to look at Ford, expecting a lighthearted quip. He was met with silence.

Ford’s expression was unreadable. There was a blankness to it that disconcerted Fiddleford, and he couldn’t tell whether Ford was looking at him or past him.

In a split second it was over and Ford turned back to the countertop as quickly as he had turned away from it.

-----------

Ford kept his eyes strictly on what was in front of him. She didn’t care for any of it? The thought was strange. Ford found himself ruminating over the entirety of the three seconds of Fiddleford’s remark. Could you spot any sadness in his eyes? Maybe he’s being a little dismissive? Is this possibly illating towards a bigger problem between them?

Get ahold of yourself. How on earth could you arrive at such a contrived conclusion???

Ford realized he’d already staled the conversation by retreating into his head, and there wasn’t any chance to further question Fiddleford. But good grief, was he curious. He wanted a sign, some sort of confirmation that he wasn’t just imagining Fiddleford and Emma May’s marriage as an unhappy one beneath all the chicanery. What does it belong to me anyway… what would my muse think if he caught me engaging in such nosy speculation? I’ve got better things to worry about. He glanced up at Fiddleford, unbothered by the abrupt introspection but now gazing somewhere else, absentmindedly bouncing his leg at ≈240 KBPM and zoned out. He turned his head to look at Ford again and met his gaze with a humoring smile. Ford sensed his cue to speak, having no choice but to let his mouth lead in diffusing the somewhat awkward atmosphere he had conjured.

“How would you like your nog?” Ford posed with false confidence, hoping nothing seemed amiss with his impromptu change of topic. He marinated in self-doubt as he waited intently for Fiddleford, who would clearly put a lot of thought into the matter, to formulate an answer. Did that come off as too abrupt? The time between what he said and what I said took far too long. I can’t let him think I care about what he said. It was a casual remark. Casual.

“Don’t be stingy with the booze.” he grinned. “D’you reckon the base is sweet?”

“I added 25% more sugar than the recipe called for- a calculated gamble,” Ford announced, a hint of prideful unseriousness in his voice. He could feel a bit of the self-induced tension melt away as Fiddleford flashed a pleased smile at him.

A bottle of rum was set on the kitchen counter, along with a dwindling bag of sugar, opened egg carton, and an emptied carton of half-and-half. Two small containers of cinnamon and nutmeg from the inadequately-stocked spice cabinet sat at an arm’s length away from the bowls and saucepans Ford had methodically arranged onto the counter. A scrawled-out recipe bearing neat folding lines rested right at the edge of the tabletop, which Ford periodically squinted at.

The conversation wandered off elsewhere and Ford maintained a dual attentiveness to both his thoughts and his ongoing conversation with Fiddleford. After turning back from the freezer, Ford permitted himself to sit down on the dining table and immerse himself fully (or as much as he could) in what Fiddleford was saying. Time off work was rare but to be enjoyed, especially with a significant hurdle now crossed. He felt his face glow with endearing warmth as he observed his best friend launch into yet another tangent about the inconvenience of hardware sourcing. There was something intrinsically admirable about the passion Fiddleford harbored for computers- the way his eyes lit up given the opportunity to mention his newest application of algorithms, his eagerness to cater to any interest Ford showed in technology, his devotion to tinkering away with microchips and circuit boards in the early hours, just as he had in university.

BMU. What a time. Even after five years of self-imposed isolation at Gravity Falls, an immediate rekindling of the friendship between them felt instinctive, and Ford couldn’t help but feel drawn (once again!) to Fiddleford’s kindness and brilliance. Things truly are the same way they’ve always been, he mused. He stole a glance at Fiddleford’s eyes. They were a pale hazel he knew well, focused and sharp, with a gaze that Ford felt only he truly understood. Fiddleford could never look at one place for long while talking, as Ford had noticed long ago, but it always seemed far easier to just tune everything out and listen to him during their split seconds of eye contact. I can appreciate him like this. This is allowed.

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

The conversation teetered to an unsatisfying halt after a while, as Ford stood up with a characteristic stiffness to retrieve the eggnog. Fiddleford wondered if he’d said anything disinteresting as Ford had his back turned to him.

“It’s lukewarm by now. Are you fine with that? It’s not as viscous as it could be.” Ford turned to stare at Fiddleford, gauging his reaction.

“Of course it’s fine! Hand me a glass.” Fiddleford was more than eager to calm his nerves after today, and he couldn’t imagine a better way to pass his last day in Gravity Falls before Christmas- he’d achieved something genuinely considerable after what felt like weeks of non-stop attempts. Something worthwhile at last!

Fiddleford’s arms remembered the ache of miniscule dexterity required to wire the hyperdrive just a few hours ago as he reached to grab the glass out of Ford’s outstretched hand. His knee still bounced as he took the first sip. It’s done. You can stop worrying.

Idle remarks about the success of the recipe bubbled into passionate chatter yet again, and Fiddleford felt the tension in his body begin to subside. He impulsively reached for another glass after he’d downed his first, rationalizing that he could afford to properly destress. The bitter aftertaste the nog left on his mouth was outshined by the warmth and comfort the kitchen bathed him in. For the moment, the grip his thoughts had on him was a little gentler. It feels great to be suffocated when one is used to being crushed.

Near-bottomless laughter and humorous reminiscence on university days transported Fiddleford back to his first day at BMU. He prayed he didn’t visibly reflect the emotions attached to the analepsis to (and by extension dampen the spirits of) the unusually raucous and unguarded Ford he became after a few drinks.

---------

Hot tears of shame spitefully trickled down Fiddleford’s cheeks. He shielded his face with his hands, as if they’d cover any of the sobs ripping from his throat, and hunched himself over the (pointlessly) unpacked bed. His shoulders jerked with the effort of containing each heave, and he could feel his skin begin to burn up against his clothes. It’s over. Starting university was supposed to be the greatest time of his life, yet here he sat, ridiculously, crying in his dorm on only his first day. It was plain and clear he wasn’t cut out for this- his mind raced to the farm and how sad everyone had been to see him go. He’d been too hopeful- no McGucket had ever amounted to anything good enough to get out of Tennessee, and he was stupid to think he was some sort of exception.

As Fiddleford dug himself deeper and deeper into self-loathing, he heard a door unlock. Dang it! Scrambling to collect himself, he looked up from his trembling fists to be blinded by the bright fluorescents outside. A silhouette sauntered into the doorframe, obscuring his view of the corridor.

“Greetings!” Fiddleford heard a flicker and the room was cast into light that felt inappropriately upbeat. Fiddleford shrunk back into himself as he could now get a view of the person’s face.

A man his age, clad in a blue button-down shirt, brown sweater vest, and dark slacks stood frozen at the door, his hand still hovering over the light switch. He was staring at Fiddleford’s tear-streaked face, wearing an expression that appeared equally appalled to be faced with such an awkward first impression. Fiddleford observed as the man reformulated his approach. His gaze swept the room before setting foot in it.

“Ah. I apologize for intruding… is this not a good time?” The hasty show of peaceful intentions was genuine, and Fiddleford could spy a hint of pity in his lively eyes. The bags the man carried in one arm rustled as he set them down as tactfully as possible.

“I-it’s fine.” Fiddleford internally grimaced as he bumbled over his first word, hiccuping as he choked the second one out. He gave his face a quick wipe with the sleeve of his sweater he’d been wearing all day, a pathetic attempt at fitting in at this stupid institution, then glanced back up at the man.

“Alright then. Will you be okay?” The man picked up his bags again and decisively shuffled into the room, unhindered by the moving boxes clanging against his belongings. He kept his eyes trained on Fiddleford even as he maneuvered himself through the chaos, causing Fiddleford to squirm a little under such scrutiny.

He wouldn’t be okay. All of his parents’ hopes for him had been steamrolled flat in a day, and the scholarship would go to waste. He could just about imagine their disappointment as he broke the news to them. Another bout of sobs seized Fiddleford’s body as he envisioned the scene. Could it get any more humiliating?

“No, dammit!” Fiddleford wailed, crumpling back into the support of his hands. His glasses slid down his forehead as he sniffled. He already looked pathetic in front of this man, an unsightly pile of cowboy boots and teardrops. What business did this stranger have knowing what had happened anyway? Fiddleford gave it some thought. Judging by the bags, this was his new roommate. The realization made him pause. It couldn’t hurt to open up the day’s events a little, he reckoned. He straightened his back out and smoothed the folds on his sweater, still avoidant of eye contact with the man.

“Today’s been- *hic* rough, that’s for sure.” Fiddleford let out a feeble laugh, trying to steady his breathing. There was no response from the man.

“Could you imagine? First day at uni and I’ve already made a fool out of myself. I wrote out an equation proving the universe is *hic* a hologram!” Fiddleford’s attempt to frame things cheerily was bogged down by the bitter reality of it all as the words left his mouth. Even he can’t laugh at the absurdity of it.

“Oh, did you?” The man’s voice was tinged with sudden interest, and he stood up from his bags to face Fiddleford. “Could I see?”

Wait, what? Fiddleford stared intently at the man. Was he joking?

His enthusiastic tone was clear as day. Fiddleford hesitantly rose from the bed to retrieve his workings with a skeptical “Alrighty then”. He braced himself to be mocked by this man as he laid out the paper on a worktable. To Fiddleford’s surprise, the man actually leaned over the work- with an air of solemn professionality at that. In the duration of time he examined the papers, Fiddleford beat himself up repeatedly, second-guessing every last detail of his workings despite quintuple-checking them. He didn’t want to be considered a fool by one more person.

“It’s plausible!” Fiddleford’s monologue was cut short as the man looked up from the grid-paper. Fiddleford didn’t know what else to do other than let out a disbelieving laugh.

“You think so?”

“Your equation works. With a thorough examination this, I think we’d be able to prove your conjecture!”

Fiddleford felt a glimmer of hope in his chest.

“Our conjecture- you’re proving it with me!” He flashed a smile to the man who now took to pacing the carpet.

“You bet your keister I am! I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep till I prove this.”

Fiddleford chuckled and agreed.

“I’m Stanford Pines. Pleased to work with you.” He stopped in his tracks for a moment, hands behind his back and beaming at Fiddleford. Another Ford? Fiddleford smiled, not back at Stanford, but for the fact that he was aware of the coincidence just a few seconds before Stanford would be.

“Fiddleford McGucket. Nice meeting you too.” Fiddleford could track delight arising from pattern-seeking manifest on Stanford’s face as he registered the similarity.

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

The raw memory seared Fiddleford’s skull with the vividity of it all, dizzying him even as he sat firmly rooted in his seat. Misery, glee, and longing amalgamated into a single crashing wave of emotion that submerged him in its magnitude, sweeping Fiddleford into a violent current. To his despair, Ford couldn’t see his dear friend drowning, flailing, thrashing for air as the pitcher of booze emptied itself over the hour. The kitchen was mockingly phasing in and out of proximity now, Ford’s voice the only certainty that anchored Fiddleford to his surroundings. He wasn’t even paying attention to what came out of his own mouth in response to his partner’s charming drabblings. Some hangover this’ll be.

On impulse, Fiddleford circulated the toasty air of the kitchen through his lungs until he felt his head clear sufficiently, turning to fix his attention to the story being told. He failed to do so, only noticing the way Ford’s features were illuminated with a tender clarity that the lamp failed to provide all else in the room with. Fiddleford let his eyes wander over the reddened face, wild dark eyes, and effervescent grin so familiar to him. When’s Ford last been this hammered? Vague flashes of solo cups filled with cheap alcohol, frenzied passion projects in the dead of night, and almost-kisses shared in dorm rooms crossed Fiddleford’s mind. The bouncing leg which he’d fought so hard to still today sped its way up to a steady rhythm once more. This calls for more booze. The batch of eggnog had been worked through with unprecedented speed, so Ford had at some point set what remained of the rum on the table for enjoyment. Looking for an extra shot, Fiddleford quickly spotted the bottle fully emptied and laying on its side. Ah.

#fiddleford mcgucket #fiddauthor #fiddleauthor #fiddleford hadron mcgucket #ford pines #gravity falls fiddleford #stanford pines #gravity falls #fanfic #fiddleford x stanford #a little draft #more to come

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azfellandco · 1 year ago

Note

Hi friend this ask is a request for you to wax lyrical about Crowley slowly dying of a poisonous dose of laudanum, because it seems That Scene is still on all our minds. <3

Godbless (they said agnostically). This is going to be a mess of a response because I have been working a lot of overtime and am pretty sleep deprived, and also because there are a lot of angles to this.

First off: you're so correct to point out that laudanum is an analgesic and not literally a poison, because I think this slots in so nicely with the pattern of stuff we see Aziraphale consume and why (food and wine, for sensual pleasure) and stuff we see Crowley consume and why (alcohol for numbing and six shots of espresso to brace himself, and now laudanum, a medical grade numbing agent, at a dosage that would have killed Elspeth had he not intervened).

To really get into this I'm going to have to talk a little about something I have a lot of approximate knowledge about: Victorian era medicine. Why I find poison sexy (maybe compelling is a better word here) is partially tied up in the Victorian era and this exact subset of knowledge, which I am going to disclaim right now as not very precise. I research stuff primarily to regurgitate it in fiction, and not for complete factual accuracy.

First off, let's take a moment to admire Crowley's prognosticative abilities once again.

Antiseptic is 25 years off, germ theory is held in disdain by the western world, but here's Anthony "that went down like a lead balloon" Crowley just trying to be helpful to this guy covered in blood.

Antiseptic was not in common medical and surgical use until the 1850s. It was pioneered by Joseph Lister, who actually worked at the University of Edinburgh, which was kind of the place to be in terms of medical breakthroughs of this time period. Before the advent of washing your hands and sterilizing surgical equipment, something like 2/3rds of surgical patients died either on the operating table or of infection afterwards. Medicine during this time period was difficult, dangerous work with a high risk of complications, and surgery was haunted by death and disease. Dr. Darymple would have administered laudanum to a patient and then strapped their limbs down and put something in their mouth so they didn't bite through their tongue before cutting into them, and even if he was a good surgeon they might have died a week later from gangrene or sepsis anyway.

It's in this world that laudanum and opium more generally got romanticized by literature and poetry. The Victorians loved opium, but the symbolism of the poppy, from which opium is derived, has been sleep and death since the classical world. My go-to example of the blending of these themes (poppies as sleep and death symbolism and this time period's interest in the classical world) is The Garden of Proserpine by Algernon Charles Swinburne, of which I will include an excerpt below:

No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.

The symbolic connection between opium (and thus laudanum) and sleep and death is my strongest association with either drug. The poppies = death association is used all the time even in the modern day. See this song, Flowers, from the musical Hadestown:

Lily white and poppy red I trembled when he laid me out "You won't feel a thing," he said, "When you go down" Nothing gonna wake you up now

Poppy symbolism is doing a lot of work in this song, actually, drawing a line between virginity and death, and the flower imagery standing in for both Euridyce's sexual relationship with Hades as well as her death but I disgress.

This is my personal context for laudanum and opium. I think it's encouraged to read the sleep and death connection into both of these medicines, both by the artistic tradition that arose contemporaneously with their use and by continued references back to it in the modern day. I am thinking of the scene in Inception where the opium den they visit is full of people who go to be drugged in order to dream their lives away as just one of many other modern day examples. Opium is sleep and sleep is death.

So while the laudanum is not literally poison, I think there is cultural context in which it is possible to read it as symbolically poison, regardless of whether Crowley's not-actually-human body should be able to withstand it. I think that it is compelling to read it as such, given the above-mentioned pattern of Crowley's habits of consumption.

I've seen a lot of posts about how the next time Aziraphale and Crowley see each other after this flashback is the time Crowley asks Aziraphale to bring him holy water and Aziraphale refuses on the grounds that he won't provide Crowley with a suicide pill. While I think this says more about Aziraphale than it does about Crowley (Crowley has never struck me, by behavior or attitude, to be the kind of person who would kill themself, whereas for Aziraphale one of the worst things that could happen would be losing Crowley) there is something there, something in that tartan thermos, something in the idea that Crowley would drink his death.

There is one more angle to this, and this is going to be a bit of a reach. I once read an analysis post in another fandom about the symbolism of poison as a choice of weapon. This line will haunt me until my grave: "a man stabs, a woman poisons". Just as a sword is a phallic symbol, poison (to me) is a feminine coded way to kill another person. For more context, please read The Laboratory by Robert Browning, a poem about a woman procuring a poison to kill her husband's lover, written by another Victorian poet. Crowley dying being discorporated by self-administered poison compels me for all the reasons mentioned above but also for gender reasons. Nonbinary icon.

Crowley dying being discorporated by self-administered poison feels like it is in conversation with two events that happen chronologically later but narratively earlier: the "suicide pill" conversation and Crowley trying to wait out the apocalypse in the bar after the bookshop burned. For all intents and purposes he seems to have given up at that point and only pulls himself together because Aziraphale appears to him and proves he isn't gone gone. It makes sense as an exploration of Aziraphale's anxieties (the suicide pill convo), and the extent to which they might be justified (Crowley drinking as the world ends). It's interesting it's compelling it's symbolically rich it's consistent with characterization choices in the show.

I think realistically Crowley would keep from Aziraphale that he was in pain until he physically couldn't do so, because it would threaten the wall they've had to erect to keep each other safe to do otherwise, but in a scenario where Crowley was hurt, properly hurt, Aziraphale would find a way to excuse them because he would not stand for Crowley suffering.

Just...

The idea of Aziraphale gathering Crowley close in the dark graveyard, feeling him stumble, Crowley who is so bright and brave and beautiful reduced to clutching to Aziraphale and the pair of them trying to will him back to health the way they can choose to sober up, and failing... Crowley because by this point he's too weak, he waited too long putting up a front for Aziraphale, Aziraphale because of conflicting magic or because he's too anxious, his own personal moment of the gun shaking in Crowley's hands during the bullet catch, where he knows what he has to do but he can't do it, can't trust himself not to make it worse.

And then Crowley's body going cold, Aziraphale holding it and crying because despite knowing it's just a body and that Crowley can get another one, he failed to protect him. Crowley died for someone and Aziraphale couldn't prevent it. And the things they don't say to each other, all rushing in to fill the silence left by Crowley's stopped breath. Aziraphale whispering to him, kissing his temple, part of him wondering if he'd ever be able to do this if he wasn't already gone.

It would just be really good, okay. It would be really good.

#the resurrectionist #good omens #meta #i stayed up way too late to write this and now i am going to sleep #tw suicide #tw death

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familythings · 2 months ago

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Light-Absorbing Dye: Advancements in Medical Imaging and Research

The recent breakthrough of a light-absorbing dye that makes the skin of live mice nearly invisible represents a major advancement in both medical imaging and biological research. Here’s a deeper dive into its significance, functionality, and implications: How It Works The dye operates by absorbing specific wavelengths of light, primarily in the near-infrared spectrum. When applied to the skin,…

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andhumanslovedstories · 1 year ago

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hello this is kind of heavy and no pressure at all to answer. and apologies because im sure you must have answered this before. but do you go through like a pain management flow chart for your patients and if so what are some of the steps? my dad is having some medical issues and i want to be able to help him manage his pain as much as i can. thank you and enjoy wasteland!

I work in a hospital setting so my pain management care plan is part of an interdisciplinary team in that setting. It's relatively easy for me to get, say, IV pain meds for a patient with extreme breakthrough pain. I don't know how well my approach would translate outside of that setting, I'm not palliative care trained, and I don't personally deal with chronic or acute pain (which is why I'm answering this publicly so other people can chime in), but in broad strokes:

First: Define pain. What type of pain is it? Muscle pain? Indigestion? Neuropathy? Surgical site? Stiffness from lack of movement? Is part of the pain also the fear of the pain? Sometimes when pain has been bad for a long time, or even has been bad in a short-term but very notable way, the idea of hurting that bad again is traumatizing. That fear of pain can, unfortunately, make you focus more on the pain you're feeling because now it's not just the physical sensation of pain, it's also the psychological impact of it.

Then, how does the pain affect you? Is it stopping you from sleeping? Is it stopping you from eating? Is it making you short-tempered or depressed? Does it make it difficult to focus on things? Does it make you nauseated? Anxious? Isolated? Do you feel like you need to hide it from those who care about you?

Everything pain is and affects is a place where you can intervene. Some of these interventions will be very small and would, if they were the only intervention, feel completely inadequate. Pain relief is rarely "you do one thing and you're done." You're addressing pain on multiple fronts, and sometimes that doesn't mean your focus isn't just the reduction of pain but the restoration of what pain has taken away. It's possible the worst part of pain for you isn't the pain itself but, for example, the immobility it causes. Are there different ways you can learn to move? Can you get a grabber? Can you get a shower chair? Can you find physical therapy exercises that help you regain strength or stop you from deconditioning to the degree you're able? What mobility aids might restore movement to you?

And if returning mobility is not possible at this time or ever, how can you modify your environment to support you? Can you figure out what bothers you the most about that immobility and mitigate that? If it's annoying that not being able to leave bed makes you bored, what can be within arm's reach? If it's frustrating that being too painful to move means you feel isolated from other people, can you make wherever you are more central? If pain makes having your bed on the second floor unfeasible, can you move your bed to the first floor? How can you adapt the environment around you?

I'd encourage movement too, to the degree it is possible. Being in the same position HURTS. If it feels good to stretch but you can't do it by yourself, can someone help you with range of motion? (You can look up "passive range of motion" to get an idea of how to do that.) This doesn't need to be exercising, just exploring the joy of moving your body. Related to movement is physical touch. I love lotions and medicated creams for pain patients because you can turn them into massages. Just be careful with pressure and be open about what hurts and what feels good. At the most gentle end of the spectrum is something called the M Technique which isn't even massage, it's like guided gentle touch. Give the body something else to feel.

Different medications work better with different types of pain. This part is hard to talk about in general because of the specificity of some pain med regiments. Tylenol is great, but be cautious with how much you are taking (acetaminophen overdoses are no joke) and remember that there's a point where more tylenol doesn't mean more pain relief. Opioids are great, but they can be very dangerous and aren't well-indicated for a lot of types of chronic pain. Even if opioids work best, I'd encourage you to be working on pain reduction on multiple fronts, as opioids are so controlled, it is easy to lose access to them. If opioids give you enough pain relief to do physical therapy, then make sure to do that physical therapy. Medications are amazing and I love them and I give out PRNs like crazy, but similarly to how I can't just take my depression meds and stop being depressed, pain medication works best in conjunction with other strategies. Those other strategies though can literally be something like "tramadol takes away the pain enough I can focus on something, and what I want to do with that focus is to watch a movie I've been meaning to rewatch for a while now but haven't had the spoons for." Sometimes all you will want to do when you get pain meds is sleep because you can't when you're hurting. Sleep is wonderful; how can you arrange your sleeping place and habits to make sleeping even more of a delight?

And if you find a medication that works, use it consistently. It is always easy to keep pain level than it is to address a pain spike. Don't wait until symptoms are at their worst to address them. Figure out what it feels like when your symptoms are ramping up, and intervene early.

Sometimes medications that aren't explicitly for pain can still help. If anxiety makes pain worse, consider an anxiety medication. If coughing hurts, can you get a numbing spray from your throat to make it less sensitive so you cough less?

I don't know how useful this is to you and your family. Hopefully it's at least something to think about. Think about palliative care (which is about the management of symptoms of illnesses rather than the treatment of illnesses) as not just taking away bad sensations but restoring good ones. You can't always get someone to a place with no pain. But what can you do to enhance life in the presence of that pain? There is a psychological aspect to pain, it's a parasite that drains you and makes you feel like you are nothing but a body that hurts and won't stop hurting. I want to make clear, I'm not saying pain is only in your mind. Bone mets and nerve pain exist whether you're cheerful about it or not. But pain doesn't have to mean suffering, it doesn't have to take away the things that make you you. Address pain through medication and therapies, but also remember that protecting, promoting, and prioritizing the parts of yourself that you most value and give you the most joy will help give your life so much substance that pain can't rob it all. You aren't doing one big thing. You are doing a thousand small things that make life easier, better, more suited to yourself and your abilities, and more aligned with the parts of life that you that give your life meaning.

(And a note in particular for being the family member of someone in pain--ultimately, they are going through this alone. It is their body. What can you make smoother for them? How can you protect their dignity and their privacy without making them feel abandoned or alone? How can you make it so your reaction to their pain is not part of their burden? Like for the six hundred other hypothetical questions in this endless post, the answers will be highly personal and will take time to figure out. Be patient and calm.)

#nursing tag #oops! sorry! it’s an essay with I think no definite answers for you #and also an extrapolation of my in hospital work and my home health work #long post

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morbidology · 8 months ago

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On a brisk morning of February 11th, 1987, a man pedaling along South Landings Drive in Fort Collins, Colorado stumbled upon a scene straight out of a nightmare. Initially mistaking the figure for a discarded mannequin in the vast expanse of an undeveloped area, his closer inspection revealed that it was a woman's body.

The victim was identified as Peggy Hettrick, a 37-year-old woman employed at Fashion Bar. She had sustained a single stab wound in her upper left back. Yet, the horror didn't end there. Hettrick had been subjected to gruesome sexual mutilation, with her left nipple, areola, and parts of her genitalia cruelly removed with surgical precision.

At the time, Tim Masters, a 15-year-old high school student living in a mobile home overlooking the field where Hettrick was discovered, became the focal point of the police investigation. When he was interviewed, he told detectives he had seen the body that morning on the way to school, but thought it was a mannequin so never called police.

Detectives weren't buying his story so they obtained a search warrant for his bedroom and school locker where they came across a number of violent drawings, sexually explicit photographs and a collection of knives. Interrogated relentlessly for hours without parental presence, Tim staunchly denied any involvement in the murder.

Years passed with Tim looming under the shadow of suspicion until 1997, when Dr. J. Reid Meloy, a forensic psychologist, interpreted Tim's violent drawings as vivid recollections of the crime. By now, Tim was an adult, and had served in the Navy, but he was arrested and ultimately convicted of Peggy's murder on circumstantial evidence.

A breakthrough came in 2004, when an investigation by Tim's defense team uncovered deliberately concealed evidence, including mismatched hairs and fingerprints, crucial for his defense. Consequently, in 2008, Tim's conviction was overturned, and he was released.

#Peggy Hettrick #true crime #unsolved #wrongful conviction

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colinmkl · 10 months ago

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Kamen Rider NRV Lore Dump!

Manticore

Manticore LLC is a major medical technology company. Publicly, they are most known for their artificial organs and limb prosthesis as well as several other medical devices and equipment used in hospitals worldwide. Less widely publicized are their numerous military contracts, developing cutting edge medical treatment technologies but also advanced weapons, drones, and other offensive hardware.

Nanoderm

The scientific breakthrough that lead Manticore to dominate in the field of med-tech is the invention of micro-sensors that are capable of reading brain signals in the nervous system and translating them into data a computer can interpret with absolute precision. These microscopic sensors can be integrated into programmable nanomachines that interlock in a mesh that forms durable skin-like material called Nanoderm. If an exposed section of human tissue is covered in Nanoderm and then allowed to heal, the Nanoderm will become integrated with the tissue like a layer of natural skin. Any impulses or signals sent by the brain to that part of the body will be received by the Nanoderm and translated into data. That data can then be read as motor commands by a Manticore prosthesis. Basic prosthesis models can receive this data via magnetic nodes embedded in the surface of the Nanoderm but more advanced models, capable of finer dexterity/expanded functionality, require a “bone spike,” a rod-like data plug that interfaces with a port in the Nanoderm area that is connected to more advanced sensors. The socket and sensor hardware is imbedded in the body through a surgical procedure.

The catch with the Nanoderm system is it must be applied to the body before the exposed tissue heals over and the exposed nerve endings have a chance to close off, or in other words, while the wound is “fresh”, otherwise the healed tissue must be cut away and a fresh wound made. This means that in emergency situations a patient or their next of kin must make a snap decision to undergo the expensive Nanoderm compatibility surgery as part of their emergency treatment. Of course some insurance plans will cover some or all of this cost. Additionally Manticore has deals with some insurance providers that the surgery come standard with higher end coverage plans, forgoing the need for patient consent. Manticore has exclusive patent rights to the Nanoderm system, meaning once you are Nanoderm compatible, you are locked into the Manticore ecosystem of prosthesis and devices. Additionally your devises can only be serviced by Manticore certified technicians and only Manticore doctors are trained in Nanoderm patient care.

Remote Command (RC)

Manticore is a sprawling corporation with many secrets. One such secret is the Remote Command program. A project Manticore has been working on behind closed doors, the Remote Command program involves research into sending brain signals over great distances without a physical connection between the sensor and the receiving devise. With RC a person could control a prosthetic arm in another part of the world as though it were part of their body. This is achieved by broadcasting the impulses across a proprietary electromagnetic wave length to the receiving nodes. The signal travels point to point and back again at light speed. The potential RC has for the future of drone warfare is staggering, not to mention the potential for profit.

Sensitive as this information is, there’s another layer. All Nanoderm currently in use by people around the world is capable of receiving Remote Command. With the right inputs it can reshape its self, self-replicate, and even, under certain conditions, send signals back to the user’s brain, causing brain damage or, theoretically, controlling them. Whether this functionality of Nanoderm was an intentional feature or not is unknown to anyone currently employed at Manticore but the company has no pans currently to use the Nanoderm in this way. What is known, however, is that if this function ever becomes public knowledge it would be disastrous for Manticore, not to mention the chaos that would ensue if a bad actor were to exploit this function for malicious purposes.

Manticore Special Security (Spec-Sec)

Manticore LLC has secrets, and it has enemies. To protect its secrets, combat its enemies, address the threats to public safety those things pose, (and protect its corporate interests), Manticore formed the Manticore Special Security Division. More than just your standard private security outfit, Spec-Sec is a fully equipped task force and strike force designed to identify, target, track, confront, and nullify any threat to the company and its assets. Thanks to Manticore’s history of generous donations and good standing with local police forces, the Spec-Sec Division is able to operate with a certain degree of discretion, allowing them to carry out operations without interference from police or the legal system. Lead by Special Security Director Sloane, her hand-picked crack team of Special Officers have carried out dozens of high risk operations with ruthless efficacy and, so-far, minimal casualties. Spec-Sec utilizes the most cutting edge technology and weaponry Manticore has, often before it’s even close to market ready. In some cases necessity dictates that Spec-Sec operations serve as ad hoc field tests for experimental equipment.

Core Drivers, Data Boosters, and the Kamen Rider program

The Core Driver is a piece of technology that was developed as part of research into the use of Nanoderm to enhance a soldier’s physical performance on the battlefield. The concept was to temporarily cover the user’s entire body in a layer of Nanoderm mesh that could respond to the signals from the user’s brain in such a way that would increase their strength, speed, perception, and reflexes. The solution was the Core Driver, a device that would house the billions of Nanoderm nanomachines and serve as the computational core for the whole mesh network. Along with the Core Driver was the Data Booster, a flash drive-like device shaped like a syringe. The data booster contained the information that told the nanomachines to deploy from the Core Driver and cover the user. Additionally the Booster came with its own payload of nanomachines that, when the plunger of the syringe was depressed, would also be deployed through the Core Diver and take the form of armor and weapons. Basically, a user need only insert the Data Booster into the Core Diver, clearly speak a voice authentication phrase, and depress the plunger and they would instantly be wearing a powerful yet flexible armored body suit. The project was called the “Kamen Rider program” after the masked visage of the user’s armored faceplate (“Kamen” being the Japanese word for “mask”).

The Project had its drawbacks, however. For one a user would need to already be Nanoderm compatible for the suit to work at all, meaning, practically speaking, the user would need to be an amputee, and the prospect of convincing soldiers to sacrifice a limb to use the Driver was deemed a “hard sell” and the idea of a approaching a freshly maimed soldier with the offer of further combat, well, that wouldn’t be a good look either. The second and most important drawback was the simple fact that the Kamen Rider program was far, FAR too expensive to be profitable, and the thousands of man hours it took to produce just one Core Driver meant mass producing them to sell by the battalion, as Manticore had planned, was simply out of the question.

The Kamen Rider Program was not completely abandoned, however. The first completed Core Driver, designation SVR (Special Versatility Rider model or “Sever” colloquially) is currently coded to Director Sloane of Spec-Sec, who happens to be a double transfemeral amputee. With the Director’s input, the device and the suit itself have been modified heavily over its years of use. It now features the ability for additional Data Boosters to be employed, loaded with weapons and tools in the form of appendages that attach to highly advanced versions of Bone Spike sockets on the suit at the amputation sites of the Rider’s body. The nerve signal enhancing properties of the suit allows the Rider to manipulate these complex, non-human-like appendages with a natural ease and minimal adjustment period.

A second Core Driver has just recently been put to use in the field at Spec-Sec. The first Kamen Rider designed from the ground up with Spec-Sec modifications. Designation NRV (Neo Rider Variant or “Nerve” colloquially) is encoded to the Division’s newest member, Special Officer Nat Agbayani. A right shoulder disarticulation amputee, he was promoted to the Special Security Division from the internship program in the research wing by the COO of Manticore himself… wait what? That can’t be right…

The existence of any other Core Drivers, in use or otherwise, is classified.

Thanks for reading

#art #my art #my text #sketch #lore #oc lore #kamen rider #kamen rider nrv #kamen rider oc #sci fi #original character #nat krnrv #sloane krnrv #medical tw #surgery tw #tokusastu #krnrv lore

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bestworstcase · 7 months ago

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Summer from Mountain Glen backstory would also fit with Salem's recruitment pattern. Hazel -> Gretchen. Watts -> Penny project chosen. Cinder -> Glass Unicorn. A concrete reason for dissatisfaction with the system, albeit some (Watts) pettier than others. Mountain Glenn which were buried and commute blocked off. Yeah that would definitely qualify.

Small thing - apparently from Grimm Eclipse there's one voice line from Yang that amounts to "It must have been nice here once" - though I can't find the source of that quote. Which if Summer was from Mountain Glenn holds a completely different impact as a statement from a survivor's daughter decades later.

as the resident Watts Defender i feel obliged to trot out watts was from mantle again, ’cause i think greenlighting the penny project was more the thousandth cut in a death-by-a-thousand cuts situation; esp. because i don’t think being pissed about the penny project is all that petty, given the context of ironwood challenging this team to come up with “the next breakthrough in defense technology” and then picked the proposal for [checks notes] a costly prototype robotic child super-soldier that requires the partial surgical removal of someone’s literal soul to function and can therefore never be built more than once, let alone manufactured at scale. like imagine being watts.

ironwood: we need to innovate to remove men from the dangers of the battlefield, so i want all of you to come up with a proposal for the next big breakthrough in defense technology. watts probably: okay well, our combat AI is still too rudimentary to let the synthetic soldiers fight unsupervised, so i’ve designed a heavily-armored walking tank that can run faster than a car and jump dozens of feet into the air in order to keep our living officers safe on the front lines while dramatically improving our offensive capabilities against hordes of grimm. pietro: i think we should carve out a piece of my soul and put it in a robot to create one (1) nigh-indestructible synthetic super-soldier who we’ll design to look like an atlas academy student. ironwood: i pick the robot girl :)

like are you joking.

we don’t know for certain that the paladins were watts’ proposal but that does seem to be the implication and like—if that’s so then ironwood held on to that proposal for years after watts faked his death and eventually put ’em into production as the penny project neared completion, which… tracks with “you just stood atop it and called yourself a giant.” in the face of such egregious favoritism and interest in technological spectacle and novelty over practical solutions i’d probably quit in disgust too!

/tangent

but yeah summer being a mountain glenn survivor is intriguing enough that i’m a little regretful i didn’t think of it before nailing down her backstory for time does this adlscfj—although not enough to scrap my plans for it lmfao—it puts a real face on this historical tragedy that has been kind of looming silently over the story. and the face is the character who’s haunting the narrative from her secret place as salem’s general. very juicy.

oobleck looks at mountain glenn and sees lives that could have been saved—why weren’t they? what motivated the inaction, the choice to cut mountain glenn off, leave people to fend for themselves in the undercity? what kept people there, living in caverns with grimm nesting over their heads, rather than evacuate to vale? (your so-called free world.)

if that was summer’s childhood and she escaped and got taken in by the huntsmen academy system, raised in these values, how might she feel about vale? about beacon? about herself as a huntress? how sharply might she feel the dissonance between what huntsmen are supposed to be and the sacrifice of mountain glenn? is that what drove her to confront salem, a determination to not be complicit through her inaction? is that why she chose to stay? etc.

it also adds some really interesting potential layers to summer holding beacon and presumably participating in the razing of vale. like is this something she has enough moral qualms about to give her pause or is it an act of long-delayed retribution to her. juicy!

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eretzyisrael · 4 months ago

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Good News From Israel

In the 21st Jul 24 edition of Israel’s good news, the highlights include:

Even the loss of limbs cannot defeat the Israeli spirit.

Israeli computer-brain interface breakthrough could restore the power of speech.

An Israeli surgical device can transform the lives of millions of heart patients.

Israeli tech enables those with impaired speech to access the Internet.

An Israeli food additive makes cooking oil safe for re-use.

The FBI used Israeli tech to access cellphone of would-be assassin.

In the latest EU Horizon investment round, the 3rd most funds went to Israel.

A Haredi community hosted 180 secular Nova survivors for Shabbat.