#iv blood transfusion

[wikipediapictures]

Packed red blood cells

[etanow]

When ur zombie gf can't make blood on her own but she hates needles so you gotta distract her ♥️

[how-much-for-a-whump]

Tetikçinin Oğlu 2. Bölüm

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

[galkyrie]

I cannot believe my next Fates update is going to have one of those wild authors notes explaining myself jfc

[enderspawn]

got a bad grade in blood today lads :((

[lavellane]

triss thanking god every single day for her blood mutation and subsequent immunity to humiliation <3 thanks rook or whoever tf made it happen

[daydreaming-in-daisies]

true life: i'm addicted to kombucha

[orcelito]

🙂👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍

[megane-sama]

Life is so funny because one moment you're planning your next jigokuraku post and the next you're in the hospital for anemic heart failure.

[wikipediapictures]

Packed red blood cells

[genekies]

tag vent

[whatyoutaughtwasfear]

I am the master of the brown jacket (i own two)

(soon to be 3 plus a brown linen shirt) (the first two were supposed to be for sewing patches onto but I suffer from liking them too much as is and also fear of commitment)

[that-jack-kline-bestie]

hate my period im literally so tired and not quite faint my heads heavy. hate low iron i need more

[dragpinkman]

i get jackie kennedy cause id love to chop on some ferrous sheet metal right about now

[charliemwrites]

Part 7

Content: Injury and Recovery, Care, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Washing, Self-Blame/Self-Hatred, Codependency

Hell, Nikto thinks, is not punishment for sin. Not a lake of fire or eternal torture for earthly misconduct.

No.

Hell, he’s just discovered, is the absence of god. It’s the black, empty space where the divine used to shine.

It’s your blood soaking his gloves. The scent of your fear creeping past his mask. The single diamond tear that slipped down your scraped cheek when you told him you’d be okay. Your labored breathing and cracked voice. The scream that echoed, echoed, echoed through the stairwell and into his useless skull, rattling against bone walls and too-fresh memories.

Hell has become a hospital room with blank walls and shiny tile. How does that story go — that the deepest layer of hell is frigid? This hospital may not be dusted in frost, but it’s cold enough. You look small and chilly on the thin cot, entangled in wires.

Alive, despite everything.

You don’t feel alive to Nikto.

You’re too still, too washed out. Even when you nap with him, you tend to twitch, eyes flickering beneath your lids. Flushed with warmth in sleep and peaceful-looking. But you don’t move now; barely look better than you did fresh off the helo, unconscious and still bleeding, bleeding, bleeding—

It’s Nikto’s blood in your veins now. His unworthy, corrupted blood turned holy in the chambers of your heart. It wasn’t possession that made him offer his own arm for the transfusion, but rather atonement. The bare minimum he could repent for his utter failure. To offer up even a fraction of his own life in exchange for yours.

He’s been holding vigil by your side ever since, even if he doubts his place there. Waiting for your awakening to decide. Waiting for your judgment. Like a sinner at confessional, though he knows no Hail Mary will cleanse him.

He’s not even sure if you can this time. Not when it’s you he’s wronged.

The change in your breathing is what alerts him.

His eyes have hardly left you since they let him in. Even when his weak body surrendered to sleep, he would face you, so that you would always be the first thing he laid eyes on. Now, though, he searches your face with earnest, searching for any signs of consciousness.

The squeeze of your eyelids. A light furrow in your brow. Your mouth twists as you groan a bit, head drifting before you get control of your neck muscles.

Your eyes blink open slowly, flinchingly. He gives half a mind to breaking one of the overhead bulbs to ease the glare. But he would never risk the shattered glass over your head, or startling you with the noise. So he shifts and waits desperately for you to adjust.

Then you take a deep breath and focus on the ceiling. Seem to take stock for a moment, confusion smoothing into recognition, remembrance.

You tilt your head and meet his eyes.

“Nikto,” you breathe. The long, long hours of unconsciousness have taken a toll though, and even that causes you to cough. You wince a bit at the pain in your side while he reaches for the little plastic cup of water a nurse left. His name alone has brought you pain. It aches through his bones like condemnation.

You make a breathy noise, struggling to sit up. So he eases closer, supports your back to help you sip little doses from the full cup. It’s room temperature, but he knows from experience it’s better that way.

You don’t fuss when he regretfully has to pull it away, mindful of the instructions the nurses left him with. Lays you back as gently as he knows how as you sigh in relief.

He doesn’t feel worthy of touching you and tries to pull away. But you twitch, catch his wrist with the arm attached to an IV. He freezes.

“Nikto.”

There’s voice to the word this time, not just a dry puff of air. It takes Herculean effort to drag his eyes up to yours.

You look tired.

Tired, but all too aware, all too knowing. Sniper he may be, he knows better than to try to wait you out.

“I’m sorry.”

A thousand unspoken apologies crowd on his tongue. All the remorse he never felt compounded onto this one monumental failure.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Your brow furrows but you don’t interrupt. Don’t try to stop him. Just tug him in to huddle against your uninjured side. Let him prostrate himself over your bed, forehead pressed to your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I should have been better. I should have protected you. I almost— I almost…”

The words jam in his throat and then evaporate. No combination of syllables or sounds will be adequate.

Your nails draw gentle circles on his shoulder, then draw in towards his neck. Slip your hand under the collar of his shirt and jacket, just beneath the various trappings that hide his identity. You find skin. The vulnerable, damp nape of his neck. You lay your hand there, cool and dry.

“I forgive you, Nikto.”

“Y-you—”

“I do,” you affirm, giving him a little squeeze. “And it’s my choice to do so.”

He can barely pull himself away, but he has to see your face. Has to know what unconditional forgiveness looks like.

You’re half-lidded, soft. Eyes warm, blinking slow. You’re relaxed, understanding in every curve of your features. For all the world you could be divinity in repose instead of frightfully human, injured and frail.

“Punishing yourself from now on wouldn’t be noble,” you continue, tilting your head knowingly, “it would be martyrdom. And you are not my martyr, Nikto.”

He has not cried in… well. Long before his mind was torn apart and stitched back together wrong. Doubts he even knows how to, now. But his eyes burn as he presses his face into your hip again and shudders hard.

How foolish. To think he had any grasp of what forgiveness is. To think he understood what atonement was. When the only one who could set the bounds for damnation is you.

“I almost left you.”

“‘Almost’ and ‘would have’ are poison. You can’t convict on an almost. An almost is a warning, nothing to hang yourself for.”

You squeeze his neck again, unfailingly gentle. Unfalteringly steady.

“You stayed. I’m alive. Let’s focus on recovery now.”

He nods, hands clenched tight in the once-smooth fabric of the hospital sheets. It comes away wrinkled, but still clean.

—

You’re released from hospital two days later.

The wound, while dangerous in the moment, was a relatively easy fix once you had medical care. A clean shot, only just chipping off a bit of rib and grazing your large intestine. Everything is sewn and medicated and healing now. You’re uncomfortable, but KorTac isn’t as stingy with pain management as a normal military outfit — especially not with Nikto looming over your shoulder.

And you, his precious angel, are an absolute trooper.

You let the medical staff poke and prod and peal your bandages without fuss. Sit up with little more than a grimace and a hiss. In good spirits, all around.

Nikto carves your care instructions into the walls of his mind, a New Testament — temporary though it may be. The nurses send you in a wheelchair down to the ground floor, but after that, you’re allowed to walk.

Nikto doesn’t like it. He’d carry you to the edge of the Earth if necessary. But you just wave away his concern and grab onto his hovering arm for stability as you stand. A bit unsteady, terribly uncomfortable, but determined.

He gets you back to the barracks, you cursing with every movement that’s not a smooth step on even ground. Nikto lets you lean most of your weight into him and tries to keep his aching heart steady.

You sigh when you reach the barracks. Let him lay you down and get you comfortable before giving you another dose of pain meds. He busies himself collecting things and rearranging the room.

Making sure there’s not so much as a sock between you and the restroom. Getting your computer, phone, and respective chargers within easy reach. Filling a cup with water and arranging your soft blankets over your legs.

He’s just finished with that when there’s a knock at the door. Konig, delivering a meal. Not just any meal — takeout from your favorite little restaurant in town. Complete with sweets.

You call a thank you to the Austrian, who expresses his best wishes, and then Nikto shuts out the rest of the world again to let you rest. You don’t seem to mind, beckoning him back to your side.

Sharing the food, the blankets and pillows. Get him to set up your laptop with a movie — the meds kick in halfway through, leave you drooling a bit against his sleeve.

Nikto does not care. You may have forgiven him, and therefore it is not his place to repent for this anymore. But caring for you has never been atonement. It is his reward for putting his loyalty where it belongs.

—

The next day is worse. Your mood has dipped a bit, the soreness catching up. Not that you snap at Nikto or anything of the sort. But he knows you, and can tell from the tension in your body and wincing expressions when you think he isn’t looking.

You brighten a bit when he finally remembers to take his mask off. He even lets you babble when the meds make you fuzzy and overly-complimentary. Nearly falls asleep to you absently mapping the ugly scars that score deep into his hairline.

At some point though, the misery seems to catch up to you.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just… wash up, I guess,” you grumble, looking ready to throw something.

The nurses did what they could, of course, but their focus had been on fixing you and then keeping your wounds clean. Enough hygiene to avoid infection. But you’re still grimy in uncomfortable places and you hate being in bed feeling “icky.”

Nikto instantly sets to work correcting that. He digs out one of his clean shirts, your favorite sweatpants, a soft pair of underwear. You watch him curiously as he takes it all into the restroom. The shower is standing room only, unfortunately — and besides, you can’t get your stitches wet for a while still. But he can at least help you freshen up.

“Come here.”

You take his arm, let him sit you up and then guide you to the restroom. When you see the cloth on the edge of the sink you get a bit misty-eyed. He lets you sniffle for a moment, patient while you wipe your eyes and mumble a “thank you.”

Then he helps you strip to your underwear and sits you on the towel he’s placed on the toilet lid. He kneels and starts from the top, a little dollop of soap on the facecloth and hot water.

You offer up an arm, careful not to overextend, palm up and fingers lax. Nikto works from your shoulder down to your fingertips. Smoothing over bruised muscle, stale sweat, scrubbing away dirt and crusted blood at the nail beds. Rinses the cloth, wipes away the excess soap, and repeats the process on the other arm.

The bathroom is silent save for the falling water and your shared breaths. You tilt your head to let him caress over your neck, down to your chest. He pauses, unsure of his welcome here, but you mumble that it’s fine either way. His touch is perfunctory but careful over your breasts, though he marvels privately at the plushness, the warmth. Politely ignores the way your nipples harden as the water cools in the air. Even if he’s so… so tempted to provide care in other ways.

You don’t so much as twitch; he can feel your gaze upon him from above. Yet he cannot force his eyes away from his work. Each gentle sweep of the cloth feels like restoring a temple, like holy work. Like paying his dues more directly than any church’s offering plate. You are such delicate work, his attention cannot afford to waver.

At your ribs, he starts on your uninjured side. Counts as his fingertips bump along them. You hum when he reaches the soft tissue of your stomach, a little shudder going through you.

“Ticklish,” you explain when his hand jerks back. “I’m alright.”

He feels one side of his mouth tug when he dips the cloth into your navel and you snort a bit. The other side of you is still bandaged, clean and white. No damning spots of red. He avoids the medical tape to get what he can and then continues down.

More bitten off giggles at your hips. He indulges in arching his bare thumb over the bone, just to feel the warmth and silk of your skin. Then continues his work.

He braces your foot on his thigh as he swipes the cloth over yours, minding the pressure on the sensitive inner skin. Over your knee, down to the ankle before switching to the other leg. You lean back and sigh, knock your knee gently into his ribs. When he glances up to see if you need anything, you just smile. Soft and a bit drowsy.

Only then does he scrub your feet, making you twitch and laugh a bit, complaining that he’s doing it on purpose. He’s not, but he likes the sound of your laughter; he thought he’d never hear it again.

He washes the cloth out one more time and helps you stand, lathering circles into your back while you press into him.

You take over when he’s finished. This time he does turn away, though he aches to do so. But your hand is still on his back, using him for support while you finish cleaning up intimate areas.

“Done,” you murmur. He unfolds a towel and turns, keeping his eyes above your head as he wraps it around you from behind.

You hold it up while he pats over you, soaking up any droplets that haven’t dried yet.

Warm and clean(er), your mood seems much improved. He kneels again to help you into a new pair of panties, realizes he’s an absolute fool to put himself so close when you smell only faintly like the shared soap. The rest is you, and you smell delicious.

He swallows thickly and eases you into your sweatpants, split between longing and relief when he stands to put you in the shirt. If you notice the bulge in his own lounge pants, you say nothing — though he doubts you do. You’re nearly asleep standing, almost stumbling as he takes you back to bed. You reach for him weakly and urge him in with you.

“Thank you, Nikto,” you murmur into his shoulder. “Love you.”

And you’ve forgiven him, despite everything. So he allows himself just this one thing — and presses his lips to your temple.

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Masterlist

[woso-dreamzzz]

Second Time's The Charm VIII

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: You have your baby

It all happened so quickly that Alexia didn't know what to do.

One moment, the cries of your new baby girl filled the room.

She was perfect, bright eyes and a little tuft of wispy hair.

Alexia was allowed to cut the chord.

"Hello, Elena," You said when Alexia presented her to you.

"You did so well, amor," Alexia said, eyes shining with unshed tears," I'm so proud of you."

"She's beautiful."

"Yes." A little bubble of laughter spilled out of Alexia's chest. "She is."

She'd turned away for a second. Only a second to give baby Elena to the nurse to weigh and check. It was just a second, not even that.

A hint of a second.

A bare moment of time when her eyes weren't on you.

A tiny amount of time in the grand scheme of things. Not even enough time to say a word.

You were pale, much paler than before and breathing heavily.

You were already panting through the birth but this was different. It was worse.

You were clammy and unfocused and Alexia reached for you.

Only to have her hand knocked away from you by a doctor hurrying forward.

He said words but either Alexia couldn't understand them or didn't hear them at all. His mouth moved but nothing computed.

Bags were hung up on your iv pole, something injected into you, something else put on a drip.

But you didn't look any better.

You didn't even look really present at all.

This was meant to be one of the best moments of your lives, on the top spot alongside adopting baby Maya and marrying your wife but something was wrong.

Something was so wrong.

"No," Alexia said, scrambling to force words out of her mouth," I...What's going on? No! Stop! Don't take her! Please!"

The doctors were already activating the wheels on your bed, already pulling up the guard rails.

One of the nurses caught Alexia's arms as a flurry of activity happened around her.

"Miss Putellas, y/n is haemorrhaging. Has she told you what that means?"

"Mrs," Alexia says faintly, staring down at the wedding band on her finger, hot like flames against her skin.

"What?"

She looked up at the nurse. "It's Mrs Putellas. We're married."

The nurse's features softened a fraction as she gently led Alexia to the seat by your bed.

"Y/n is bleeding. Heavily. We can keep her on a blood transfusion or we can take her to surgery but we need permission."

"S-Surgery?" Alexia's eyes widened in panic. "She's dying?! She's going to die?!"

"Miss-Mrs Putellas-"

"You need to save her," Alexia insisted, a prickling feeling in her stomach," Anything! Everything! You have to save her!"

"We'll try," The nurse promised," We're going to take her in now but, for you, do you want to wait here or down by delivery with your baby?"

"Elena."

"Huh?"

"Elena. The baby. Her name is Elena."

"That's a beautiful name."

"My wife chose it."

Alexia sat by delivery practically catatonic.

Elena was in the nursery with all the other babies, routinely checked upon but Alexia couldn't bring herself to move, mind swirling with thoughts of you and just how weak you looked in that hospital bed.

You had been smiling before she turned away. You had been happy, eager to have Elena in your arms.

The pitter patter of little footsteps was all Alexia could hear and her body turned automatically, drawing Maya closer to her.

"Mami!" Maya chirped," Abuela say our baby is here?"

"She is. Elena. Your baby sister."

At some point, Alexia had called Eli. She didn't know how. She didn't know when but Maya had been sent to Eli to babysit when you went into labour.

For her to be here now means that Alexia had called Eli.

Maya stood on her tiptoes to look into the nursey.

"Alexia-"

"Mami, they took her. She's in surgery. They're-They're-"

The sobs that had been forced down until now, sprung out full force and Alexia sobbed into her mother's shoulder.

"She's going to be okay, Alexia," Eli said," She's strong. She's going to fight."

"I want my wife, Mami," Alexia said," She didn't even get to hold Elena."

"Something wrong with Mama?"

Maya stood in front of them, bored of staring at the babies and Alexia tried to clamp down on her tears, tried to explain but her words got stuck in her throat.

"Maya," Eli took over though," Your Mama just needs to be checked out a little more. Having your baby sister-"

"Elena," Maya interrupted," Name is Elena. Mama name her."

Alexia bit on the inside of her cheek to clamp down a heart-breaking sob.

"Having Elena has taken a lot out of your Mama so the doctors are checking her over."

Maya took a step closer. "Mama is doctor. Looks after hurt people. Mama hurt? Mami, Mama hurt?"

"Mama is going to be just fine," Alexia said, desperately wishing it into existence," She's going to be perfectly fine. She just needs a bit more rest."

Maya burst into tears.

Alexia cried harder.

The clock taunted them, the hands moving slowly but surely until it was hours past since you had first been taken away.

Maya kept crying.

Alexia cries some more.

Eli kept them hydrated and fed, making stops at the café to get them food.

"Mrs Putellas?"

Alexia was up like a shot, Maya already on her hip.

"Yes? That's me! How's my wife?!"

"She-"

"My Mama going to be okay?" Maya asked.

The doctor nodded. "She suffered a post-partum haemorrhage but we performed a laparotomy. It was successful and she's being taken back to her room. Should we bring the bab-"

"Elena," Maya said," My Mama name her."

"Should we bring Elena back too?"

Alexia nodded, wiping her tears. "That would be nice."

She was by your bedside when you woke up, Maya fast asleep on her lap and a little bassinet nearby.

"Hello, my love."

"Amor, how are you feeling?"

"Like I've just been cut open," You teased but Alexia's face fell," Too soon?"

She nodded. "A little bit."

"How are our babies?"

"Maya was worried. Elena is still perfect."

"Can I see them?"

Alexia gently transferred Maya onto the bed with you. The little girl automatically curled into you in her sleep as Alexia gently lifted Elena.

"Well, hello there, beautiful girl," You cooed as Elena was placed on your chest," It's nice to finally meet you."

She was asleep too, a nice weight on your chest with her scrunched-up little face and even smaller tuft of hair.

"My love," You said," Don't cry."

Tears rolled down Alexia's face as she joined you on the other side of the bed, burying her head into your shoulder as she sobbed.

"I thought I lost you," She choked out," Amor, I was so worried. I didn't understand what was going on."

"I'm okay, Ale," You assured her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head," I'm alright."

"But you weren't. They took you to surgery."

"And they saved me, Ale," You said," They saved me and I'm here, with you and our children and I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"I promise."