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dfortrafalgar · 5 months

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I'm Losing You... (But We're Filling the Cracks)

Having a family isn't always as easy as fairy tales make it seem. But now, it might as well be a dream come true.

Warnings: read chapter 1 for warnings.

Chapter 31

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“I… I feel like I need to push,” you grunted out.

Your doctor ran to your bedside. “Okay, dear, okay, follow my lead, alright?” She assisted in turning you on your side, adjusting your various tubes to better accommodate your position. “Like we discussed, okay? This position will help reduce the pressure on your pelvis and make it much easier to push.”

You nodded, your expression contorting in a grimace as a much stronger contraction ran through you in waves, lingering in your muscles like radiation. Your hands were curled up by your head, lacking anything to hold on to, so you resorted to fisting the white cotton sheets covering the mattress below you. It felt mildly uncomfortable, but as soon as you were settled, you felt like your muscles were able to work much more effectively. You breathed out a pained sigh, the pressure in your lower abdomen increasing in waves.

“You’re starting to crown already,” another nurse spoke up. “Your body is already so primed for delivery! It’s like you’ve been practicing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume this was your third or fourth baby!”

“I’m going to hold your hand, alright?” your doctor asked, confirming with you on what would make you the most comfortable. “How bad is your pain? We can get you started on an epidural.”

“It’s…” As soon as the contraction ceased, another one followed in its place. You were outrageously close. “It’s pretty bad,” you confirmed.

“I’m impressed, when I gave birth to my first, I almost passed out. The pain was so bad!” one of the nurses at the other side of your room called out. “You have quite the tolerance!”

You flashed a weak smile. If only these nurses knew.

Your doctor rubbed your head reassuringly. She really did feel like a mother in her own right. “We’ll start that epidural. Once that’s in place and you’re stable, we’ll begin pushing. Can I get you anything?”

Your eyes wearily glanced up at her calm, reassuring face. “I know it’s a long shot but… can you call my husband?”

—

The second lung was almost fully detached. Over halfway through the surgery now, it had been much faster and more successful than anyone thought it would be. Alongside a few breaks that were taken by the staff to relieve themselves and stretch their backs, sterile orange juice breaks sipped through plastic straws, and brief physical therapy for the unconscious patient to make sure his blood continued to circulate properly and his skin wasn’t damaged, the operation was going very, very smoothly.

And thank goodness. Law needed some good news right now.

Among the beeping sounds of the patient’s heart monitor, the wrrr of the bypass machine, and the soft chatter amongst the team as they worked, a new sound infiltrated the space. In the farthest corner of the room, Law’s hospital pager went off.

“What was that?” one of the nurses asked.

“My pager,” Law responded. His voice was laced with anxiety. He was barely keeping it together, and who knows why his pager might have been going off in the middle of an operation.

The circulating nurse took it upon herself to snatch up the small device, pressing the response button. The best, or arguably worst, thing about the pagers was how loud they were. Everyone could hear the voice that came through the other end.

[Dr. Trafalgar Law? Dr. Trafalgar?] It was a woman’s voice.

“I’m listening,” he shouted back. The nurse stepped slightly closer with the pager in her hand.

[This is Nurse Kaya from Labor & Delivery, your wife is crowning. Just wanted to let you know.]

Spoken far too casually for the news that made Law’s stomach drop like a brick. He was missing the birth.

“FUCK,” he suddenly shouted, his hands still carefully working at the lung’s connective tissue. It was as if his body and his mind were on completely different wavelengths. So much for operating room etiquette. The air in the room had gone completely cold as nervous glances among the team were shared.

“Doctor, I’m not opposed to relieving you with another on-call surgeon. I know this is a huge ordeal, but we’re almost done and… this is a special case,” one of the head nurses spoke up.

He was clearly deliberating heavily in his mind. He wanted to run, carry himself as fast as his feet could handle, and get to your side. He needed to be there with you. He was missing the birth of his first child. A lump developed in his throat. The protective husband side of him had the stoic, focused surgeon side pinned against the wall with a knife to his throat.

“Get the on-call surgeon here immediately and have him gowned and sterilized,” he finally barked, passing his tools off to his assistant and stepping away from the body. A few relieved gasps were shared amongst the team as the circulating nurse brought Law out from the theater and into the prep room where she assisted in frantically undressing him from his surgical scrubs and passing his phone and pager back into his possession. His operating room attire was quickly disposed of in a biohazard waste bin while he quickly washed his hands in the nearby basin.

“Doctor, good luck,” she said with a smile, her eyes crinkling under her mask.

Law could only pass her a faint grin as he shrugged on his white coat, stuffed his phone in the pocket of his slacks, and sprinted out of the prep room. On the way, the on-call surgeon passed by and planted a reassuring smack to Law’s shoulder before replacing him.

Law was breaking every hospital rule there was. Sprinting through the hallway, his feet hammering against the tiled ground as he fought his way through the hospital’s expansive campus, past patient rooms, nurses’ stations, and waiting areas. Why did L&D have to be so far away?! His eyes followed the signs on the walls pointing him in the right direction, his muscle memory leading the way. He scaled two flights of stairs two-at-a-time, the muscles in his legs screaming at him to stop. He was almost positive he would tear a muscle with how fast he was running. But that didn’t matter.

Finally, finally, he pushed through the doors into the maternity ward, flashing his badge frantically at the nurse behind the check-in desk. He was panting, barely able to catch his breath, one of his hands shaking as it supported his weight against the desk.

“My… Trafalgar… where… shit…” he panted, beads of sweat pilling on his forehead below his ragged bangs.

“Down the hall, take a left, then a right,” the nurse instructed, her voice pleasantly calm. She must have seen this a lot.

He barely uttered out a ‘thank you’ before he was off again, pounding down the tiled hallways past delivery and recovery rooms, past the expansive NICU and small groups of families and doctors. He had tunnel vision. He needed to get to you.

Take a left.

Then a right.

He almost sprinted past the door to the delivery room you were in, only backtracking when he caught the pained sound of your voice from within. He flung the door open, nurses surrounding you jumping from shock at the sight.

“Dr. Trafalgar?!” one of them exclaimed, her eyes wide.

Law ignored her.

Your eyes went wide, your hand being held by the doctor who had admitted you. Tears immediately brimmed in the corners of your vision as a pained smile broke out on your face. Law took the spot of your doctor instantly, almost throwing himself at you as he littered your face with kisses, grasping your hand and holding in his pain as you squeezed harshly against his bones, the force of another contraction gripping your body. You were laying on your side, one of your knees tucked upward toward your chest as far as you could manage to allow the baby more room to come out. You had an epidural tube sticking out of your spine, your upper body barely covered by blankets and the open-back hospital gown to accommodate for the birth.

“You made it…” you wheezed, torn between the attention on your husband and the baby coming out of you.

“I couldn’t miss it… I couldn’t…” he wheezed. He was still very winded, his lungs shuddering for breaths. Any longer and he would’ve been the one needing a dual pulmonary transplant.

“Ready for another push?” shouted one of the nurses at your bedside above the noise.

You nodded, biting your lower lip. Your face was glistening with sweat. Your body tensed up, gripping Law’s hand like a lifeline as you pushed, a pained groan emanating from deep within your throat as your eyes pinched shut.

“How is she doing?” demanded Law, gazing at the doctor who took her spot at the end of your bed where your legs were parted.

“She’s doing great, both babies are in cephalic position, her blood pressure is good and her heart rate is even better, it’s unlikely she’ll need emergency intervention. I’m incredibly pleased considering her medical history,” the older doctor explained. “Come over here.”

Law gazed at you, a fond smile on your lips as you released his hand so he could join his extended colleague at the foot of your bed.

“Delivering on her side helps lessen the pressure on her body as well as the baby’s,” the woman explained.

Law’s breath caught in his throat. Emerging from you was a head of fuzzy black hair, slicked with amniotic fluid. One of the nurses called for another push, and your lower body tensed up, your muscles clenching as hard as they could while you pushed the baby out more. Law quickly returned to your side, grasping your hand once more.

“Baby… how are you doing?” he asked, desperate for your personal opinion, his lungs finally settling as he took in your exhausted appearance.

You grimaced. “The epidural has been helping, but it hurt like a bitch going in,” you groaned. “I’ve been having contractions since 2 in the morning. I just want them to be out already.”

“Once the head is delivered, the rest will be easy!” one of the nurses called, a bright smile on her face.

Law felt himself smile as well. Being a delivery nurse must have been incredibly rewarding on the best days. He glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was almost 10 in the evening. His heart panged in his chest.

“You’re doing amazing, baby, you’re amazing,” he whispered in your ear, planting another kiss against the soft, sweat-soaked skin of your forehead.

“One more push, dear!” the doctor called.

Your eyes squeezed shut, your muscles contracting with all your might at the count of the nurses assisting you, your hand clamping down on Law’s. He held in his grimace of pain, supporting you as best he could. Some slight hand bruises were nothing compared to what you were experiencing. How chivalrous of him.

A sudden rushing feeling emanated from your body, a wet sensation prickling your skin through the numbness of the epidural. Your heart rate picked up, your eyes growing wide as you worriedly asked, “What was that?!”

“Your water broke, dear! Everything’s alright!” a nurse responded.

You moaned in pain. “It’s about damn time.” Your grip on Law’s hand released slightly, and you watched as a small smile appeared on his lips.

With one more push, the pressure in your groin finally dissipated somewhat as a nurse pulled your first baby out of you. With the collapse of the amniotic sacs, it was much easier to deliver the rest of its body, much to your relief. As soon as the contractions stopped, however, they began again.

“Keep going, darling, just one more to go!” the doctor called. “It’s right there!”

You barely had the energy to pick your head up to look, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as Law examined the nurses huddled around your baby at the foot of your bed. It was placed in a small portable incubator, being hooked up to machines to assess its condition. 35 weeks was still pretty early, so it made sense. Its umbilical cord was clamped about two minutes after emerging from your womb. Law tried to keep his anxiety repressed as your body shuddered with another contraction.

“The second baby is always easier, darling, you’re already fully dilated from the first,” explained your doctor, giving a reassuring pat to your ankle.

“First baby’s stable!” called one of the nurses. “It’s a girl!”

Law felt his chest clench at the news. His eyes lit up as he gazed at you, a smile pulling on his lips. A weary smile formed on your own face as you were instructed to push once again. Much to the room’s relief, the second baby did indeed come out much quicker than the first. The loss of the amniotic fluid from your uterus and the stretching that your pelvis had endured with the first made it worlds easier for your second baby to emerge into the world. The process repeated- a quick cleaning, a clamp after two minutes, and a quick check of vital signs.

“Another girl!” one of the nurses called, assessing the second in another small incubator. “Also stable!”

You were helped onto your back in somewhat of a hurry, the two boxes containing your babies pushed toward your bedside where they were quickly gathered in bundles of blankets and placed on your chest. It was all happening so fast, the world was practically blurring around you. As soon as your babies touched your skin, it was as if a deep-rooted instinct emerged from you. Law watched with pride as you nestled your newborns into your chest, your gentle hands holding their backs as they took in their first breaths as living humans.

Holy shit.

The room had quickly gone quiet around the four of you, a few of the nurses cleaning you up and reviewing your condition while additional nurses left the room to prepare suitable beds in the NICU for your newborns. Even though they were both healthy and stable, they needed some extra time to grow.

“Law…?” you asked weakly, turning your head to look at your husband.

Law’s golden eyes were wide, frozen, large, salty tears streaming silently down his cheeks. His chin was quivering as he gazed over you. His three girls.

His girls. He had two daughters.

Your husband huffed out a laugh that sounded more like a weary sob as he moved closer to you, stroking your head with his hand as he gazed warmly over the two tiny bodies on your chest, making their first contact with their mother. He wiped his eyes clumsily with the sleeve of his white coat, inhaling a gross-sounding sniffle through his nose.

“I’m sorry I’m crying…” he blubbered.

“Don’t be…” you replied, your own tears welling in your eyes. “You’re finally a daddy. I’m happy you’re crying.” You quietly laughed as Law reached forward with his hand, wiping your tears away from your cheeks, followed by another tender kiss against your jaw.

A nurse quickly stopped by your bedside, slipping small white cotton hats onto the tiny noggins of your daughters before leaving the four of you alone for a few more moments. The skin-to-skin time was crucial for their attachment to you, and once that was established, they’d be able to go into the NICU for their extra care.

Both of the girls, despite being only around 35 weeks, had near-full heads of hair. It made you wonder what they would have looked like being born at full-term. The one over your left breast had tiny black curls that still stuck to her head. The one over your right breast had thinner, straighter wisps of a lighter brown color. They’d come into their own in a few more months as they grew, but even just from first looks, they were both clearly their father’s daughters.

—

The minutes following the birth were quite nasty if one were to ask you. Law thought they were an interesting few moments, but you weren’t listening to him. He was biased. And frankly, you hated the way it felt when two placentas ejected themselves from your body. It was like having another two babies but slimier and worse.

Your epidural was removed and you were cleaned up and helped into a cotton gown to rest in. Your legs were weak from your long labor, but you were rewarded with some light food that didn’t taste like hospital sludge. The third best piece of news you received was that, by some miracle, you didn’t tear a bit, and your uterus had completely and successfully done its job.

Finally.

You passed out very soon after your placentas were delivered, exhausted and completely spent after delivering two babies.

Law took the opportunity to retreat to the NICU and oversee his daughters as they were hooked up to breathing tubes and heart monitors to ensure that their good conditions remained that way. They had their hand prints and foot prints taken by gentle nurses who were cooing over how cute they were, a sight that brought a smile to Law’s eyes.

“Dr. Trafalgar,” the voice of the doctor who oversaw your delivery shook him from his blissful state. “Congratulations.”

“Dr. Linlin,” he replied as he turned to face her, shaking her hand. “It’s good to see you. Thank you for everything.”

“No need to thank me, dear,” she hummed. “I’m a veteran of the motherhood game. It’s all in a day’s work for me. I’m so glad to see you happy and healthy, and with a wife even. I remember the first day I met you, that skinny, scared looking post-grad doctor forced to speak in front of a huge crowd.”

Law groaned, rolling his eyes as the memory. “One of the worst days of my life, for sure.”

The woman laughed, a hearty, bouncy chuckle. She hadn’t changed a bit in the 20-some-odd years, probably even longer, that she had been a doctor. “But look at you now. A huge, monumental surgery, and now twins. All in one day.”

“I’m going to sleep for centuries after all of this settles,” he added with a small smirk. “After helping my wife, obviously.”

Dr. Linlin gave Law a hearty smack on his back, right in between his shoulders, making him lurch forward slightly. “Your daughters will stay in the NICU for 24 hours for observation, and then they’ll be transferred to stay with the two of you in postpartum. Let me know if you need anything, alright? In a few hours, I’ll be back in your room to help you two sign the birth certificates.”

Law watched as the woman walked down the hall, her own bright pink doctor’s coat trailing behind her. One of the only things Law knew about Linlin was the amount of kids she had. It seemed like she popped out one every year, and yet she still had the time to be a labor and delivery doctor. He shook his head, trying to ignore the logistics of it, before walking back to the postpartum room you had been transferred to.

You were awake and staring at the ceiling above you, your hands clasped around your belly. You were still quite swollen, having been told that it would take a bit for your stomach to return to its pre-pregnant state, but you were already trying to come to terms with the fact that you would most likely never look exactly the same ever again. Not after carrying and shoving out two humans. When Law entered your quiet room, you smiled, all your anxieties melting away at the sight of your husband.

He wasted no time in crossing the space between you, leaning over you to plant a loving kiss against your lips. All the emotions he had been holding in throughout the day, all the tension that arose during his mad dash through the hospital, and all the worries that the two of you had shared during your pregnancy struggles flooded between your exchange. One of your hands traveled up to caress his cheek, your fingers trailing across his sideburns and into his slightly greasy black hair, pulling him ever closer to you.

“I’m happy you didn’t tear, or need anything else, really,” he whispered, pulling away from you. “After everything you went through, you needed an easy birth.”

You grinned. “I like to think our two other babies, somewhere out there in the universe, wanted it to be easy for us. For once.”

Law pulled up a chair and sat beside you, leaning against your bed and dropping his head onto your shoulder. You gently caressed your fingers through his hair in the way you knew he loved, watching with a fond smile as his eyes closed.

“What did they say about the NICU?” you asked, your voice tired and weary.

“24 hours. Then they’ll be transferred here to stay with us.” Law kissed your hand cheek. “They’ll be eligible for discharge after they’re able to eat, stay warm, and breathe efficiently.”

“Speaking of which,” you stated, slowly moving yourself to sit up despite the aches in your bones. “I pumped for the first time when you were looking at them.”

“How quick were you?” he asked with a joking tone. “I didn’t think I was gone for that long.”

“It didn’t take as long as I thought it would, but I also didn’t need to give that much milk. One of the nurses helped me, and they’ll be able to feed them in the NICU. At some point in another hour or so, though, she told me I’ll have to visit them there so we can make sure they can latch on their own.” One of your hands traveled up to painfully grab at one of your breasts. “I’m already feeling so achy in my chest. It’s gonna be a rough few months.”

Law grinned, dipping his head back down. “But you’ll have help. Don’t forget that.”

You hummed in response. “You’re right.”

After a few extra moments of silence, you added. “Names?”

“Hm?”

You chuckled. “Names. We have to name our girls.”

“Oh shit, you’re right,” Law muttered. He had completely forgotten one of the most important parts of being a new parent. “What were you thinking?”

“Cora and Rose,” you said, matter-of-factly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. And now we know they’re both girls.”

Law smiled, a rare, genuine expression that reached his eyes. A smile he only ever showed you. “Cora and Rose… which one is which?”

“Rose is the one with those little black curls. Cora is the one with the lighter hair,” you confirmed.

Another tender kiss was planted on your forehead. “I couldn’t ask for anything better than that.”

—

You didn’t expect breastfeeding to be as euphoric as it was. In less of an immense pleasure way, and more of a ‘holy crap, it feels like my breasts are losing 25 pounds’ kind of way.

Your girls were already so good. Cora latched instantly, one of her tiny, weak hands curling slightly upward to grasp at your skin. Both of them were still curled in a fetal position, and it would take them a bit longer to finally stretch out and look more like usual babies, but right now, they were the perfect size to swaddle and nestle into your skin.

The neonatal intensive care unit was a surprisingly colorful place. You always imagined it would be rife with anxiety, desperation, and sadness, a bunch of little, sick babies fighting for their lives, but the second you and Law finally entered to see your daughters, all those expectations flew out the window. Their corner was bright and colorful, with rainbows painting the walls and a fairly large window with a view of the surrounding city below. It was pitch black out, just past midnight, but you imagined the daylight would flood the room with a warm, natural light.

Your daughters were already so warm, kept insulated by their little cotton swaddles they were bundled in, and their tiny beanie hats that covered their fragile heads. The sight warmed your heart.

A breastfeeding specialist (which was a job you had no idea existed until then), helped situate you in a chair, accommodating your sore and spent body. She assisted with adequately positioning your daughters, one for each nipple, and gave you tips on how to make sure they latch and stay on while nursing from you.

You had an additional blood test a few hours after the birth, when your girls were done with their first natural feed and were now sleeping calmly in their incubators. It was looking like you’d be able to go home within the next 24 hours, if everything continued as normal.

While you were taking a light nap in the chair beside your daughters’ beds, Law used your phone to snap some pictures of Cora and Rose in their tiny beds side by side, smiling as he pulled up your text messages and sent them off to Shachi, Penguin, and Ikkaku. He didn’t think they’d respond, with it being so late, but their messages rolled in almost instantly, bringing a fond smile to his face.

Ika-chan OMGOGMOGMGOMGOMGOGMOGMGOGMOMG

Ika-chan TWO LITTLE GIRLS

Ika-chan ARE THEY HEALTHY????????

Ika-chan ARE *YOU* HEALTHY?????????????

Shachiiii Still cant believe those things came out of you whatthefuck

Shachiiii Must have hurt like a mf

PenPen Shachi’s next to me sobbing his eyes out

PenPen I’m crying too. But I’m stronger than him

PenPen Fuck no im not. Im soaked over here.

It was then that his pager beeped. He forgot he still had it on him. Technically, he was still on the clock. He gently placed your phone on the small table beside you to not wake you up before reaching into his coat pocket and procuring his pager, stepping out into the hallway to not disturb his three sleeping beauties.

“This is Dr. Trafalgar,” he said into the small device.

Some slight static came through the speaker. [Hey, this is Operation Triple Organ Replacement calling in from the OR! How’s our best doctor doing?]

Law couldn’t fight the smile that formed on his lips. “Before I answer, how was the rest of the procedure?”

Some small chuckles and a few mildly annoyed groans were heard. [Patient did absolutely amazing. He’s in recovery, stable, and is slowly being woken from anesthesia. They’ll be able to take his intubation tube out in a few more hours, but that’s out of our hands. Soooo…?]

Law felt relief fill his lungs. A successful operation was everything he was hoping for, and now he felt he could finally rest easy. “I have two daughters, Cora and Rose. Everyone is happy, healthy, and resting.”

He needed to pull the pager away from his face as a cacophony of garbled cheering was heard. A distorted [FUCK YEAH] echoed through the speaker.

“Are you guys still in the pre-op room?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

[Yeah, we’re all cleaned up and everything, but we were waiting for the right time to page you. We’re abusing hospital equipment, we know, but this is CRUCIAL.]

Law couldn’t blame his team in the slightest. It was past midnight on May 13th, and they had just completed the biggest surgical procedure of their lives, probably the most daunting surgery their hospital would ever see. They deserved to rest and relax, and yet here they were, still in the pre-op theater, celebrating their lead doctor.

The black-haired surgeon smiled, pressing down on the transmission button with his thumb. “You guys go clean up, alright? Treat yourselves. Everyone did absolutely amazing today.”

[Copy that, Doctor. Tell your wife we said congrats!]

Law slipped the pager back into his pocket before reentering the NICU room. His stern, golden eyes softened instantly upon seeing you awake, leaning over the side of Rose’s bed and idly trailing your thumb softly over her chubby cheek. Beside Rose, Cora’s arms were already outstretched far enough that she was almost encroaching on her sister’s space. Soon enough, the small oxygen tubes taped to their fresh faces would be gently removed, and they’d be able to go home and sleep in their cribs, in your apartment. Law leaned over you and kissed the crown of your head, rubbing his inked hand between your shoulder blades.

“Hey, baby?” he whispered, gazing down at you.

You leaned into his side, melting at his touch. “Yeah?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

#x reader #reader insert #fem reader #one piece x reader #law x reader #op x reader #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar d water law x reader #trafalgar law #trafalgar d water law #i'm losing you

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heliads · 3 months

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this city reeks of driving myself crazy

Jack Hughes misses his captain. Nico Hischier isn't acting like he misses Jack. Obviously, there are going to be problems.

masterlist

Nico is coming back from the mens’ world championships. Jack is trying not to act as if he has been waiting for this since the moment Nico left.

The thought occurs to him halfway through physical therapy. Jack is in the middle of fifteen reps of some bullshit exercise involving resistance bands and a great deal of relief that no one can see him like this when he realizes that, soon, a plane will touch down and a man will get off, and that man will be Nico, and maybe everything will be okay again after all.

Not everything, obviously. Nico coming back does not remove Jack’s shoulder surgery from this plane of existence, though, trusting his captain, it’ll probably make him feel a little better about it. Jack has already heard far too many whispers taking great delight in his absence— all it takes is one injury, and people are throwing words out there like career-ending and out for good. Nico would never say that. He would look at Jack thoughtfully, carefully, and tell him he expects to see Jack out on the ice again as soon as he can. Jack would do it, too. Anything if asked. He is a dog left at home too long, scratching at the door, waiting for the footsteps approaching down the hall to tell him he is not alone anymore. Someone will come for him, and then he will be alright.

Jack will not tolerate the idea of a career-ending anything. The idea makes him sick to his stomach. He could never do anything but play. Being a spectator just might make Jack lose it once and for all. Imagining his team, his Devils, shooting back and forth across the ice, hearing the clash of the puck against their sticks, and then being separated from it all on the other side of the plastic dividers— it would drive him mad. Watching them win or lose and being unable to do a thing. Knowing he was no better than any of the other fans in the audience. He could wear a cheap copy of Nico’s jersey and jump up in his seat whenever the Devils scored and it would kill him more decisively than a gun to the head.

So Jack does the stupid PT and he takes his pain meds and he goes to bed early, doesn’t drink, watches himself and his temper. And the door, mainly. Wondering if Nico will take him up on the offer he made a few days before the plane takes off: Congrats man! U can come by my place to catch up if u want btw.

He’d sent the text, bit back a scream, hurled his phone across the room to land on the sofa, immediately scurried over to check if Nico had responded (he had not), screamed for real this time, then taken more pills and stared at the ceiling for a while. All in a day’s work.

And, when he checked back in the next morning, there was no return message. Nor the next day, either. It pisses Jack off to no end. Everyone’s always on their phones. There’s no way Nico hasn’t seen the text, so he simply isn’t responding because he doesn’t feel like it, which is just mean to such a good team player as Jack Hughes.

Stewing in his own self-righteous irritation, Jack intentionally ignores Nico’s text when it comes three days late. He glares at the notification bitterly, hoping that Nico can somehow sense it on the other end. Jack goes on Instagram in the hopes of distracting himself, but ends up seeing a post on how Nico’s plane has landed back in the States.

He’s back, then. Against his best intentions, Jack checks the text. Nico, 3 AM, Yeah, for sure. No date, no time for a meet-up. A pacifying answer that has absolutely no pacifying effect. Jack rages and rambles for two hours before he caves and texts back, was the flight good?

Twenty minutes later, the phone dings. Jack dives for it, immediately cursing his bad shoulder when it starts to twinge, and holds up the phone in trembling fingers only to register that Nico has replied with a thumbs up.

He’s going to slaughter the captain. He’s going to slaughter the captain and become the new captain and never do this to anyone ever again, ever. This is so stupid. Nico is capable of texting. Jack is capable of responding normally to a friendship disrupted by frequent flights and international games and only one of them having a fucked up shoulder. Right now, though, neither of them are acting like it.

He is proud of Nico, of course. Glad for him to have that opportunity and all that. But the ice seems extra cold when it’s quiet, and Jack hasn’t been able to feel his fingers in weeks, too many days below zero. He wants Nico back. Of course he does. He just hadn’t expected the wanting to take over him like this, wrapping brittle bones and surgery scars in a dense web of hurt that not even the painkillers can dull.

Jack tries not to let the silence bother him, but, of course, it does. He goes to PT again. He calls his brothers one by one and hears them talk. He cleans up his apartment in case he gets a visitor, and maybe karma truly is real, because after several days of being a Good Person, Nico finally texts back and says, I can drop by Thurs evening if that’s cool?

Immediately, a jealous demon in his chest tells Jack that he should ignore Nico, just to get him back. Let Nico be the one waiting on the other line, wondering what he did to deserve the silence. Jack’s super good at being bitter if he wants it, and he feels mistreated enough to lash out.

Yeah. Sounds good.

He sends the text with his eyes closed, as if that makes it better. Like it isn’t Jack who caves but someone else, a doppelganger in Devils sweatpants slumped on the sofa in his apartment. Not his fault. Another thumbs up in response, which brings the anger back in force. Nico, of course, has the time to be casual in his responses. He’s the one who gets to swing by out of the blue. He can do anything he wants to, and Jack simply has to respect that.

When Thursday comes around, Jack finds himself mad enough to bite. It isn’t a good way to greet his captain. It isn’t a good way to meet with his friend. But Jack has been ignored for so long– calls unanswered, texts left on read– and he’s always devoured Nico’s attention far more greedily than anyone else. It’s not his fault that the crushing isolation left him sharp and smarting.

A knock on the door echoes around the problem, temporarily startling Jack out of the acidic monotony of his thoughts. He doesn’t need to check the door to know who it is. Only Nico would drop by like this, unannounced. Only Nico would assume Jack would be there to meet him with the bare minimum of text messages.

He could make Nico wait, and Jack certainly takes his time getting to the door, but then he’s hovering in front of the peephole and he can see a silhouette idling there for him, and it’s been so long since he saw Nico at all that Jack knows he doesn’t have it in him to keep Nico lingering any longer. Whatever happens, happens. But at least he’ll have a good face to look at in the meantime.

Jack’s hand jerks out, heavy on the knob, and then he swings the door open to reveal Nico standing there, hanging back from the threshold. His dark hair has crept out over his eyes, and it hides his face even more than the shadows of the poor high lighting. The contrast from the gasping fluorescents overhead paints dark hollows under his eyes, dramatic on his cheekbones.

It reminds Jack of the Baroque portraits from the art museum the Devils had visited a while back. The PR agents wanted the players to seem more well-rounded or something. Bullshit. Jack had hated the trip, bored almost to tears with the slow pace of their guide, and he hates it now. Jack doesn’t want perfect art. He wants something real for the first time in months, and seeing his flawlessly posed captain makes him want to dirty that good bone structure with blood or his knuckles. Or both.

Nico raises his tragically beautiful eyes to Jack, waiting for something. Still brimming with bitterness, Jack says roughly, “Good to see you again,” and jerks his chin towards the inside of his apartment.

Nico takes the hint and slides past Jack, somehow able to go without touching him even though Jack had barely left him a few inches of room. Smooth on and off the ice. It’s so fucking unfair.

“Nice place,” Nico says, tugging off his coat and depositing it on a nearby kitchen chair.

“You’ve been here before,” Jack mutters.

Nico glances back towards him, arching a thick brow. “Does that mean I should say it looks like shit, then? It’s still nice even if this isn’t my first time seeing it.”

Jack laughs before he can choke it out. Although Nico hadn’t given any indication of being worried, his face relaxes microscopically. There’s no change Jack can name, nothing obvious like falling brows or slackening cheeks, but he knows the shift in feeling like it happened to himself.

“How’s the injury?” Nico asks, walking back to him.

“How do you think?” Jack spits, looking at the ground.

Nico tsks under his breath. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Jack says out of impulse. “The guys at PT say I’ll be back on ice soon. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not just worried about what happens to you on the ice,” Nico says, voice low. “Off the ice matters too.”

Jack wants to laugh. He doesn’t, this time. Nothing’s funny. “You have some way of showing it.”

Nico does manage to look distinctly embarrassed this time. “I was busy,” he says simply.

It’s a bullshit excuse and Nico knows it too, so he covers for it by tugging impatiently at the thick material of Jack’s shirt. “Show me.”

“What?” Jack asks, tough demeanor seriously slipping for the first time all night.

“The shoulder,” Nico says, as if this is a normal thing to ask after being alone in Jack’s apartment with no one except Jack to ask what the fuck is going on. “Show me. I want to see how bad it looks.”

“It’s a shoulder,” Jack mumbles. “Imagine it.”

Nico fixes him with a look, one brow half cocked. Jack knows this look from practices, from games. It means, do you really want to fight me on this one? Jack usually does, but even this is too stupid a battle for him to pick, so he shuts up long enough to bat Nico’s hand off his shirt like a fleck of dust and do as told. He had meant to pull the top off in one smooth movement, but his shoulder disagrees midway through and the motion ends up being a little more awkward than he’d hoped.

Then he’s standing in front of Nico, shirt off, and under the overhead light of his kitchen, he feels far more on display than he likes. Jack has shown far more bruised and battered skin than this, of course, years’ worth of locker rooms have long since stripped him of any shame around teammates, but it’s different like this. Like this– with no other eyes than Nico’s, which swoop over him with such obvious care that hot embarrassment starts to churn deep in Jack’s stomach. He doesn’t like the feeling, but he doesn’t put the shirt back on, either. Or tell Nico to stop looking.

Nico’s hand darts out again, like he can’t stop himself. The fingers rise to Jack’s shoulder, ghosting over the skin. At first, Nico’s touch is gentle, and then he finds a slow-blossoming bruise and presses, not sharply enough to hurt but enough to make the dull ache bloom again in the precise shape of Nico’s thumb. Caught in the force of it, the air leaves Jack’s lungs in a low groan that seems to catch in his chest, deep in his throat.

He expects Nico to snatch his hand away and start making apologies like everyone else when they find out what a broken little thing he really is, but instead, Nico leans forward, into the sound. He doesn’t press any harder, but he looks like he wants to. And Jack– Jack might want that, too.

Nico’s tongue appears at the corner of his mouth, licking his lips before he continues. Jack watches with the hunger of a famine. “You should be careful,” Nico says huskily.

“Why?” Jack asks, fighting to keep his voice casual. “Going to bench me, cap?”

Nico’s hand spasms slightly, thumb curling further into the dark flower of the bruise before he stops himself. Jack can’t remember if he’s ever seen Nico react to the title like that, but Nico hasn’t had his hands on Jack like this before, either.

“I could do anything,” Nico whispers. Jack isn’t sure if they’re talking about hockey anymore. He isn’t sure that they ever were.

He snickers. “You can’t keep me off forever.”

Nico drags his gaze from the bruise to Jack’s eyes. “You always were the troublemaker, weren’t you? Not even Dawson’s as bad. Not even Luke. Always mouthing off.”

Something shifts indignantly in the pit of Jack’s stomach at the mention of his brother. He’d do anything to get Nico’s focus off Luke and back on him, where it belongs, so he says, “What’re you going to do? Shut me up?”

“Maybe,” Nico hesitates over the word, drawing out the syllables as he trails his hand away from the bruise and onto the thin, puckered line of a scar along Jack’s shoulder. He grazes his nails over the hardened skin, making Jack hiss, not from hurt but something else, something worse and better at the same time.

With Nico focused on the scar and not Jack anymore, he’s free to say something stupid again, no longer pinned under the weight of two dark eyes. So he grins, wide and bold and goddamn brainless, and says, “Make me.”

Nico’s eyes snap up to his again. There is an unwritten rule in hockey, practically a mandate, that the captain is the captain for a reason, and if anyone tries to fight that, it is the captain’s moral obligation to prove why he’s wearing the C and not anyone else. Even if the one causing trouble is an alternate. Even if it’s Jack.

Nico’s mouth is hot and assertive when it collides with Jack’s. Jack was ready for something but not for this, and he stumbles back from the force of the kiss. Nico’s arm whips behind him, catching Jack by the hip and bringing him back in, stopping him from a fall. Jack is reminded vividly of all the times they’re on the ice, one of them crashing into the other; the natural, instinctive urge to latch on and never let go.

Nico’s eyes are closed and then Jack’s are, too. He lets the kiss swallow him whole, blocking out the shoulder and the games and everything else. Jack thinks he could stay there forever, hooked on Nico like his first drink, but then the older boy breaks away, even when Jack tries to chase his lips, needy as ever. Nico leans his forehead on Jack’s, both of them breathing hard like they’ve run a mile.

“See? I like you quiet,” Nico says, breath gusting onto Jack’s face with every word.

“Shut up,” Jack says, and kisses him again, biting Nico’s lip petulantly to get him back.

Nico just chuckles, curling his free hand into the back of Jack’s head. Jack actually gasps when Nico tugs his hair, giving Nico more of his mouth, letting the kiss take him apart again and again.

This time, Jack is the one to pull away first, and in the sliver of space between their lips Nico whispers, “I missed you.”

“You haven’t been acting like it,” Jack mutters, and squirms when Nico knots his fingers in Jack’s hair again.

“That’s what the attitude is about? I forgot to respond to a few texts and you get all stubborn?” Nico asks incredulously.

“It wasn’t just a few texts,” Jack pouts, “You keep ditching me. Thought you didn’t want to talk to me at all.”

Nico pulls away for real this time, leans back far enough that Jack can see his entire face instead of snatches of lips and eyes and red cheeks. The look on his face, it isn’t angry or annoyed– it’s fond. Satisfied. “I always want to talk to you, Jack. Don’t you know that?”

“I didn’t when you were ignoring me,” Jack murmurs.

The hand in his hair relaxes, combing gently through the locks instead of twisting them. “Alright,” Nico says, still painfully enamored, “That’s my mistake, then. Let me apologize.”

Jack lets him. Happily. The offseason is long. If he tries, he can drag this out for a long time, make Nico make it up to him for months. Jack isn’t ashamed to admit that he’ll do it as long as he can. Better yet, Nico will let him, and know what he’s up to the whole time anyway.

That’s the best part about them, Jack supposes. They know each other. On and off the ice. On and off each other. Maybe it’ll be a long summer, but God, it’s going to be a good one.

hockey tag list: empty for now!

talked about this to @faerieroyal ily

all tags list: @wordsarelife

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exeggcute · 9 months

Text

well it's been almost six months which I think is long enough to break my posting embargo, so, uh: guess what! I got liposuction lol. specifically hip/thigh lipo to quell some pretty wicked dysphoria that stemmed from having such a feminine silhouette… and I have to say I'm really, really pleased with the results.

tbh my initial plan was to keep things under wraps for good which is why I haven't said anything about it yet (and even as I'm typing this up I keep debating whether to post it or trash it)—partly because I was/am worried people might Act Weird about it and partly because I get a little embarrassed talking about bodygendershit in general. but here we are. one reason I do feel compelled to finally share, other than being super happy about how everything went, is that I haven't encountered a lot of discussions about body sculpting as a possible avenue of gender-affirming care (although, to be fair, maybe I just haven't been looking in the right places) and I figured at least one person out there would be interested to learn about what I did and where I've ended up so far.

anyway. pics/details under the cut—nothing even remotely risqué (or yucky), I just know that body image stuff is fraught + not everyone is eager to hear surgery talk.

to be precise: I got tumescent liposuction of the inner and outer thigh, plus this ultrasound thing to help the skin shrink. a different surgeon who I consulted (but ultimately did not go with for a number of reasons) said that even if I got the results I wanted from lipo, which he claimed was unlikely, the affected skin would look loose/baggy/weird forever... and that surgeon was wrong on both counts lol. my elasticity was great bitch!!!!

they didn't take out that much fat overall, only eight pounds or so, but it's way more about the Where than the How Much. my actual surgeon (who kicks ass btw) said lipo isn't that great for weight loss per se, and what it's really good for is sculpting targeted areas—so basically exactly what I did. six months post-op I actually weigh about the same as what I did pre-op, but the distribution has held steady; more weight goes to my stomach now and less, proportionally, goes to my hips since there are fewer fat cells in that area now. so my silhouette retains its new shape!

the overall change is admittedly on the subtle side, since I'm pretty short and have wide hip bones (and you can't change your literal skeleton) but it's still gone a looooooong way. the main thing I requested from my surgeon was "I want to fit in men's pants" and boy did he deliver.

also a good place to note that if you're in the las vegas area looking for a plastic and/or cosmetic surgeon—this guy is board-certified in both btw—then I absolutely have the guy for you. feel free to DM me for details. lipo is clearly his specialty (and it shows!) but he also does a lot of breast revisions/mastopexy (i.e., fixing implants that other surgeons did a bad job putting in), regular implants, and face work (particularly facial feminization surgery). one thing that sold me on this guy was an enthusiastic yelp review from a local stripper who said he hid the incisions for her breast lift in her armpits so none of her clients would notice that she'd had work done... a true master of his craft

okay you've scrolled enough so I'll give you what you're here for lol. I don't have many pre-op pics because I was obviously unhappy with how I looked and was not taking full-body selfies on a regular basis, but here's a few I took ~2 weeks beforehand:

these super thin men's joggers were my go-to dysphoria pants, to the point where I bought five pairs in different colors, but now they're so baggy on me that they have the opposite effect and make it look like I have wider hips than I do. so I retired them from my wardrobe...

...except not immediately because I had to wear compression garments 24/7 for the first three months post-op and these joggers were just loose enough to comfortably wear a medical girdle underneath them at all times, 110° degree temperatures be damned. (not that I was going out much for the first month since I was soooooooooooo fucking bruised and sore lol.) here's a few post-op pics in the same style pants:

(first pic is less than 24 hours post-op, about to go to my follow-up appointment, looking greasy as fuck because I wasn't allowed to shower yet; second pic two days post-op and also post-shower, thankfully; third pic is about a month post-op.)

so, like, CLEAR improvement already. I will not be posting pictures of my black-and-blue-and-swollen-all-over legs but considering how puffy I was from getting internally pummeled with a cannula it's wild that I still saw improvement literally as soon as I came home.

recovery was obviously not a blast in the moment but I got off easy, all things considered. I was supposed to get drains put in and was Not looking forward to that at all lol. the first thing I asked when I woke up after surgery was "how many drains?" because they weren't sure if I'd end up needing two or four, but it turned out the answer was zero. no drains!!!

I did have to lie with my feet elevated for the first two weeks straight, and had major bruising that receded over the first month (you could barely see my regular skin underneath all the mottled spots), but little to no nerve pain, no weird complications, and I was more or less back to normal after six weeks. also noelle took very very good care of me and was brave about injecting me with blood thinners so I wouldn't get clots and die :)

when I went into it I was fully expecting to get huge vertical scars up and down the sides of my legs (and had made peace with it!) but instead I wound up with four tiny incisions like this, each less than two inches long:

what's totally crazy is that the scars are basically Gone now. like even when I'm trying to find them I struggle to locate the ones in the front. I joked to noelle that if someone did an autopsy on me they might not figure out that I'd had cosmetic surgery, especially since the skin on my thighs is back to its normal color and texture. (in this scenario I like to imagine that it's dana scully giving me the autopsy and I'm in an x-files plot where instead of regular lipo I got alien lipo and mulder figures it out purely by accident.)

with lipo it can take up to a year to see the full results but I already feel so much fucking better in my body that seeing old pre-op pics throws me for a loop. and I can absolutely wear men's pants now—pants for short and stocky men, to be fair, but actual regular men's pants and not exclusively Pants For Men With Huge Butts And Legs. which is the only style I could even hope to fit in before. and even then it was a stretch.

big pic dump of shitty mirror selfies taken over the last few months:

(also I really debated sharing this one but I already included it in the yelp review I left my surgeon so fuck it: here's a tasteful before-and-after in my undies where you can see my bare legs for easier comparison. left pic is one week pre-op, right pic is about five months post-op. including it as a link instead of embedding it in the post in case your boss happens to be reading over your shoulder at this very moment. also this is the one and only time you will ever see me stripped down on tumblr dot com so don't get used to it lol.)

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alienssstufff · 1 year

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If we’re going off of the “All genloss deaths were real and shot through a silly filter”:

-CHARLIE: Survives DAY1. The death as the Slime Demon was staged and he was taken away offscreen through special effects. His real death however happens on DAY2 when Ranboo performs surgery on him in the Second Puzzle Room (Surgeon Simulator) this is also the first time we see the red camera (the set without the silly) for the first time. The ‘Charlie’ Ranboo was talking to in the second room was his dead body with the SFX put in. I also think his voice was pre-recorded (like the cutaways on DAY1) before that -which makes everything even more fucked up knowing he was recording lines to replace himself in case he died. This ALSO also implies that Snowfall made Charlie eat ?? A bunch of micro plastics back when he was made the protagonist which I think is very funny cuz why??? He got a whole mouse trap and hotwheels car in him dude 😭

-SNEEG: Survives DAY1. Like Charlie we see him get taken away offscreen for DAY2. We see that red camera again as he tries to get away during the second room through a bathroom break but Snowfall brainwashes him. The original plan was supposed to be one person would survive the second room but by what happened. A second person (Sneeg) would be picked to survive and essentially act as an enforcer to make sure the other actors stay in line. He ultimately dies keeping himself and Austin at the other side of the wall, crushing them to death in Seventh Puzzle Room (Hole in the Wall).

-NIKI: Is shot twice offscreen by Jerma in the Fourth Puzzle Room (Candy Crush) DAY2. Theorise the game masters (Charlie DAY1, Jerma DAY2) like Sneeg were there to supervise the actors. Theorise the first shot at Niki was a deliberate mercy shot to keep her quiet but alive. It’s implied through watching Sneeg get brainwashed that Jerma was terrified that the same would happen to him if he failed - the second shot was reluctant but fatal.

-VINNY: Burnt by lasers and blunt head trauma in the Fifth Puzzle Room (Oceans 11 Heist) DAY2. Kinda a weird one I think they actually did try to throw Vinny over the lasers but it both wasn’t far enough and too high. He’s burnt by lasers but we also see him hit his head on the ceiling which might have been the final blow rather than a comically small anvil.

-ETHAN: murdered offscreen in the Sixth Puzzle Room (Top Model) DAY2. Similar case to Niki he went backstage where he wasn’t supposed to go (the blacklight signs just extra warning to the actors NOT to use that way in)

-AUSTIN: Crushed to death by a wall in the Seventh Puzzle Room (Hole in the Wall) while being held back by Sneeg on DAY2.

-JERMA: Murdered offscreen in the final room (Mall of America entrance) DAY2. Snowfall found out about the recording Jerma was going to use to help Ranboo find the truth after witnessing the deaths and they killed him.

-FRANK (bonus): Unknown if he was an actual person or a prop (hard to tell atp). If he was he’d be long dead before DAY1. He could have been Sneeg’s friend, he could have been a staff member at Snowfall who rebelled and tried to escape. Those ‘slime’ parts on Charlie’s set on DAY1 might have even been Frank’s body parts.

#stufff rambles #genloss spoilers #generation loss #tw graphic description #long post #idk why I did this - I wanted to put pieces together

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forwhump · 3 months

Text

Worry

a/n; im posting again im so sorry !!!!!!!!! lmfao somebody stop me

tw/cw: self harm, mentions of grievous bodily harm, traumatic brain injuries, medical torture

human weapon whumpee

With a snarl, Silas crushes the pen in his hand into sharp bits of plastic shrapnel that bite right through his palm.

He makes to throw the wreckage at the wall, but Wren is quick to catch him by the fist. He uncurls his fingers to carefully pick the chunks of plastic out of his shredded palm. He places them onto a bloody cloth he has spread across his bed beside him, keeping collected the other bloody pieces of plastic from the other pens Silas has so far destroyed.

He just can’t fuckin’ do it.

Wren gently wipes down his palm with a damp washcloth and isopropyl alcohol, whatever the hell that is. It stings, but a stinging pain is one of the more preferable kinds. He prefers a stinging pain to this whole thing, in fact. “It’s okay,” Wren tells him softly.

It isn’t.

“I can’t fuckin’ do it,” Silas snaps. His hand shakes in Wren’s. His hands are always shaking, and nothing helps, nothing stops it. Tremors, the unit’s doctor, Medic, had called them. A lingering effect from a traumatic brain injury that he might never recover from.

“You’re learning,” Wren reminds him softly. “It’s okay.”

It’s pathetic.

Silas the machine, Silas the weapon, and he can’t even hold a fuckin’ pen. He can’t write his own fuckin’ name. He can’t fuckin’ read, even, not anymore.

“I’m too fuckin’ stupid,” he spits.

Wren looks up quickly. “Silas,” he chastises. “You are not stupid.”

Silas grunts and cracks his other palm against the side of his head. He drives the heel of his hand against the layers of bandages, against the spot where his skull had been crushed most significantly, pieces of bone picked from his brain to be puzzled back together. The pain makes him nauseous, but it distracts him, for a second, from that writhing helplessness under his skin that makes him want to rip his hair out by the handful.

“Hey!” Wren snaps at him.

Silas is going to crack his own skull again but Wren is quick. Wren’s a lot quicker than Silas. He pushes himself to his feet and catches Silas’ hand before he can do any more damage to the side of his head.

And Silas —

In the same way his hands shake, his brain now fires wrong. His temper is unrestrained, and it fires up and out of control quicker than it ever has, too quick for him to stop it. He doesn’t mean to snarl at Wren, at patient, kind Wren, who’s sitting on the floor of his room trying to teach Silas how to write his own name, but he just wants to hit his head so he doesn’t have to feel this fuckin’ stupid anymore and —

And he snarls at Wren, pulling his hand free, but Wren is just as quick to grab it again and he leans in closer to Silas, unintimidated. “Stop it,” he says.

Belatedly, Silas thinks it might be one of the things he likes best about Wren. He’s Silas’ opposite in a lot of ways, in almost every way, this silvery, holy thing to Silas’ red misted violence. He’s the smallest in the unit, the most breakable, the most helpless. And he’s never been afraid of Silas, not once.

Not when he was first dragged into the unit, scared and confused, after weeks of introductory surgeries and mutilation. He didn’t know exactly what he was, but he knew he was some kind of monster. He could see it in the way the soldiers, the surgeons had looked at him. He could see it in the distance between them, in how far below he had to look at them. He could see it in the unit, the way those people, not human, either, but super soldiers, had each flinched away from him the first time they had bared witness to his horror.

Except Wren. Wren has never been afraid of him.

Generally kind, soft spoken Wren is the only one of them that isn’t afraid to stand up to him. To raise his voice at him. To tell him no.

Silas bares his teeth and Wren raises his eyebrows. “Stop it.” He pulls his hand free again and Wren catches him quickly around the wrist. “Silas.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Silas seethes through his teeth.

Wren snorts and tips Silas’ face up by his chin. He’s taller than Silas like this. He blows air really hard into his face.

It’s so far from anything Silas was expecting to happen that he recoils, startled. “What —“ he starts, but Wren just does it again. His breath always smells like something Hal calls bubblemint, and it isn’t unpleasant but it’s absolutely weird.

Silas blinks up at him. “What?” He repeats.

Wren raises an eyebrow. “Are you done?”

“What?” Silas says. His hand still shakes in Wren’s grasp but his hands might always shake. The heat had subsided, his temper fleeing, apparently, from Wren’s cool, sweet breath.

“Hands in your lap,” he tells him.

“I —“

“Hands in your lap,” Wren repeats, releasing Silas’ wrist.

Obediently, Silas lowers his hands into his lap.

Gently, Wren angles his head, and the touch of his fingertips is featherlight as he inspects the side of Silas’ skull for any severe damage.

“I’m sorry,” Silas says finally.

“Good,” Wren agrees, which isn’t the answer Silas wanted or expected.

He frowns. His hands twitch in his lap, unrelated to the tremors. He rubs his chest with one hand, trying to quell it, and Wren says, stern, “still.”

Silas drops his hand back into his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Wren clicks his tongue. The side of Silas’ head starts to sting as he dabs at it with isopropyl alcohol.

“I’m trying, Wren,” Silas tells him softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Silas,” Wren says, almost flat. “Do you remember when your skull was crushed?”

“No,” Silas says, because he doesn’t. His skull was crushed. He doesn’t remember a lot before the incident or a long time after, as a matter of fact.

“I know,” Wren agrees. “I do.”

Silas stops. He hadn’t, for a second, considered that. Maybe he just doesn’t have the disposable brainpower for critical thinking anymore, but he hadn’t ever stopped to consider that, yeah, of course Wren would remember. He didn’t have the fortune of having that memory wiped with a brain injury. “Oh,” he says.

“Mm,” Wren agrees.

“Sorry,” he says.

Wren snorts, but his voice is kind of distant, a little less prickly when he says, “it was bad, Silas, and they told us you had died. They didn’t think they were going to be able to fix you.”

He frowns again. “I wouldn’t die, Wren,” he says, “not while you’re still here. I wouldn’t leave you.”

“No?” Wren asks, and the thorns are back in his voice. “You’re not going to try to crush your own skull in front of me because you’re frustrated?”

It chastises Silas so thoroughly that he thinks he actually might blush. It also makes him feel even more stupid, but this time he doesn’t fight it. He’s earned it. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Good,” Wren says again. He gently smooths his hand across the side of Silas’ head, sealing his bandages, before he tips Silas’ face up again so he can look at him properly. “Knock it off.”

Silas turns his face to press his cheek into Wren’s palm. “I’m sorry,” he tells him softly.

Sighing softly, Wren thumbs over his cheek.

“But you don’t have to worry about me, Wren,” he continues, just as soft. “I won’t die. I’ll crawl out of the ground if I have to and I’ll find my way back here to you. I’d never leave you,” he murmurs, and he knows it’s true, he’d thought it to himself a million times, but it almost knocks the wind out of him as he says it, how much he means it.

Sometimes, at his worst, Silas doesn’t think there’s anything human left in him. He doesn’t think he’s capable of anything more than violence. He doesn’t think himself capable of feeling.

Wren makes him feel, and everything Wren makes him feel is human. It’s kind of warm, the way he feels now, head in Wren’s hand, but he also feels like he might drown it. He doesn’t think he’d mind.

“There is nothing in the world this place could do to me that would keep me from you,” Silas says, and he doesn’t think he’s ever meant anything more. “Ever. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Slowly, Wren shakes his head. “I worry about you every day.”

Silas turns his head again to kiss his palm. “You don’t need to.”

He leans down to kiss his hairline in turn. “Stop giving me reason to.”

Silas hums softly, pleased. “I’ll be good.”

Wren laughs quietly. He kisses Silas’ hair again before he pulls away, settling onto the floor across from him again, settled next to Wren’s bed. He holds another pen out to Silas, this one unbroken. “Good,” he agrees. “Then let’s try again.”

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baby-alien11 · 1 year

Text

Needles and Stitches

Chad Meeks-Martin x Fem reader

A/N: I had appendicitis two years ago, and I can't forget that experience so I'm putting it in some of my fics (wattpad and here)

warnings: hospital and all things related, fluff, reader being under the effects of anesthesia and meds

After everything that happened months ago in Woodsboro, Chad didn't want to step into a hospital ever again

But here he is, by your side while they were prepparing you for appendicitis surgery

It all started three days ago when in the middle of a study session in the library when you started to get strong headaches which made Chad worried, but you minimized the situation saying it was because of stress

The next day, while you and Chad were in the middle of a make out ssession in his dorm, you stopped the kiss the moment you felt a pain in your right side of the abdomen

"What's wrong baby?", Chad asked with concern, "Are you okay?"

"I think I ate something in bad state", you responded with your face hidden in Chad's bare shoulder holding your right side

"Hey, what if we just lay down and I bring you some medicine?", Chad suggested circling your waist with his arms, "Does it sounds good?"

"Yeah", you answered in a low voice

Carefully, Chad lift you from his lap to left you in the bed covering you with the bedsheets before standing and searching for the medicine

The next symptomes were the lack of hunger and fever, along with the pain in the abdomen that didn't stop with meds

So, tricking you into thinking that you were going on a breakfast date, Chad took you to the infirmary campus were after several tests they took you to the hospital to get appendicitis surgery

"I still want my breakfast date", you said getting out of the bathroom with the hospital gown on

"First we need to get your appendix out", Chad responded helping you get to the hospital bed, "I already told the group, Sam said she is coming right now and the others are coming after classes"

"I can't believe I'm having appendicitis at 19 years old"

"Well, the doctor said this was the limit age, and if you think about it, this organ doesn't have an utility at this point"

"Since when do you know all about this stuff?", you joked

"I read everything about the appendix on the way here", he answered making you laugh, "Hey, everything is going to be fine, okay?"

"I know, it's just that I don't like needles"

"Hey, if I survived being stabbed last year, you can survive an appendix about to explode"

"I can't belive you actually compare both situations", you laughed in disbelief

In that moment, the nurse returned with the things to prepare you for the surgery; during the IV placement, Chad held your other hand and covered your eyes so you don't see the needle in your hand

During the whole way to the surgery room, Chad didn't let go your hand giving you assurasing words, leaving kisses in your forehead and lips before getting separated

Openning your eyes after what felt like the longest nap you've ever taken, you noticed that you were back in your hospital room, and the whole friend group was there too

"I'm back", you said in low and raspy voice

That phrase made everyone get closer to you bed with concern

"I'll call the doctor", Sam said pressing the button next to the bed

"How you feeling?", Chad asked sitting in the bord of the bed

"Sleepy and empty", you answered

"Yeah, they took a whole organ out of you", Quinn joked, "Actually is in here"

"What?", you asked in confussion

In response, Tara showed you a small plastic cup with you appendix floating in liquid making you frown with disgust

"Who would think that this small organ could kill anyone", Tara commented

"It looks like a cheeto", Ethan pointed

"I would say a shrimp", Anika continued

"Looks more like the parasite of REC", Mindy followed, "Like the one in the original movies, not the remakes"

"I can't believe you are making fun of my appendix", you scoffed

"Well, it's out so is no longer part of you", Chad said, "But you are going to feel well from now on"

Interrupting the conversation, the doctor and a nurse entered to the room, which made the whole group get apart from the bed except for Chad who stayed by your side holding your needleless hand

"Hi, Y/N, how are you feeling?", the doctor asked while the nurse checked your vitals, "Any pain?"

"From the inside no, but my stitches hurt a bit"

"That's normal, but we still going to give you some medication for the pain, you are going to stay for the night and tomorrow you can leave, liquid diet for the next week, complete rest for three weeks or a month until the scar is completely cured, I will remove the stitches in a week from now", the doctor instructed

"What do you mean by liquid diet?", Chad asked with a notebook and pen in hand

"Juice, water, tea, fruit, soup, jelly, things like that", the doctor answered, "Nothing to strong for her stomach, and be careful while taking showers because of the stitches, if someone could help you, the better"

"We would take care of her", Sam spoke

After a few moments, the doctor and the nurse left, leaving the friend group alone

"I really wanted a burger", you comented making everyone laugh

#scream #baby alien creations #chad meeks martin x reader #chad meeks martin #chad meeks martin x fem reader #chad meeks martin x you #chad meeks x reader #chad meeks martin imagine #chad meeks martin fic #chad meeks martin fluff #scream 6 #scream vi #scream 2023 #mason gooding

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korea-medical-news · 1 year

Text

If You're Considering Facial Contour Surgery, You Must Read This

The patient experienced the disappearance of their jawline and noticeable fat under the chin due to excessive orthognathic and contour surgeries. Additionally, the jawbone behind the ear receded too far inward, causing the jawline to be completely invisible.

Although I recommended elasticum lifting, chin fat liposuction, and salivary gland Botox, the hospital responsible for the revision surgery insisted that liposuction was not necessary. Below, I will explain why elasticum lifting and liposuction should be performed together.

Elasticum lifting is a procedure that restores skin elasticity and uses highly durable threads to provide natural results in areas with a lot of movement. Chin fat removal is often performed alongside elasticum lifting. By removing fat and then securing the muscles and surrounding tissues, the procedure becomes more effective. The difference between pulling the jawline toward the ear with a lot of fat and removing the chin fat before lifting is easy to understand, even for those unfamiliar with plastic surgery. Salivary gland Botox is a treatment for the muscles that protrude when swallowing saliva. In this patient's case, the salivary gland muscles have fallen even further after orthognathic surgery, so the effect is expected to be greater than in the average person.

The priority is to observe how the jawline changes after these three procedures. Although immediately resorting to liposuction is not a fundamental solution for the lack of a jawline, the patient followed my advice and declined the hospital's recommendation. The hospital eventually decided not to perform liposuction, and I recommended the patient undergo elasticum lifting followed by V-olet injection at another hospital at her own expense.

In the next article, I will explain the patient's surgical results and satisfaction level.

Please note that we cannot disclose patient and hospital information due to legal issues.

#side effects #plastic surgery info #plastic surgery

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peachy-panic · 6 months

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A prompt: Myles has Elijah strung up and is doing something unpleasant to him

This is a good excuse to insert a piece of canon I've been meaning to write.

WARNINGS: Captivity whump, scars, branding, knives, referenced noncon, self harm

When the shower shut off, the first thing Elijah reached for—the first thing he always reached for—was the tube of scar gel on the bathroom counter.

He stuck his hand out from behind the curtain, groping blindly in the dark. No matter how much time passed, he still couldn’t bring himself to take a shower with the lights on, leaving him dependent on the sliver of sunlight that came through the small frosted window above the toilet. It was enough to get by, and just enough to leave his body a shadowed blur in his vision.

When his fingers found the familiar plastic, he grabbed it and flipped the cap with his thumb. He dispensed a dime-sized circle onto his palm, careful not to use too much at once. This shit was expensive, and definitely more than he and his mom should be spending with limited funds, but she knew how important it was to Elijah, so she never mentioned it. But every few weeks, a new tube would appear on the bathroom counter like clockwork.

She just didn’t know the real reason why he needed it so badly. Not entirely.

There was no shortage of physical reminders of Elijah’s captivity etched into his body, and none of them were easy to cope with. Some of them were easier to cover, and some of them never saw the light of day. But only one instilled such a burning revulsion, one that went beyond skin deep, to the point that on several occasions, Elijah found himself on the bathroom floor next to a shattered razor, fighting the urge to filet the entire ugly fucking patch of skin from his body. Instead, he settled for thin, violent slashes across the existing scar, like he was crossing out words on a page. Just to alter it in some way. To take ownership of something that so inherently robbed it from him.

Today, he bypassed the superficial scars altogether, ignoring the sharp lines of raised skin that had split apart under Myles Voss’s blades and belts, on his arms and shoulders and chest and stomach. Instead, he took the full amount of gel and smeared it across his inner thigh, rubbing until it covered every inch of scar tissue.

It was overkill to close his eyes so tight, but he did it on instinct, keeping his chin tilted up so there was no chance of seeing the lines on his thigh. He wished there was a way to detach his brain from his nerve endings, so he didn’t have to feel the ridges of lettering under his fingertips like braille, reading it out over and over and over and—

The handcuffs were nothing new, but Elijah knew something was off when Myles didn’t unlock them immediately after he rolled off of him.

Myles stood from the bed, stretching his arms over his head, and walked to the dresser on the far side of the room. Elijah stared after him blankly, slowly coming back to himself. He blinked hard a couple of times before Myles turned back to him. A golden knife gleaming in his hands.

He was pretty sure this fucking scar cream didn’t work. He had spent countless hours online looking up his options: creams, lotions, surgeries. Most of which were too expensive to even consider, and none of which would be one hundred percent effective. No matter which route he went, even in a fantasy world where he could afford a real procedure, there would always, always be evidence of the marks Myles left on his skin.

Elijah’s wrists tugged against the restraints before he could even fully process what he was seeing. “W-what are you…?” He couldn’t even form the whole thought. This was normally the part where Myles would force him into some sick semblance of an embrace, followed by a hellish shared bath that always led to the probability of another round. He almost never brought out the knives after they had sex.

Myles’s expression gave no leniency when he said, “We’ll keep the cuffs on for this, baby. You don’t want to fight me.”

He yanked his sweatpants up to his hips before the towel even hit the ground, like leaving the scar exposed for one more second would reveal him to the world. He could still feel it, though. There were days where the scar tissue was bad, and days where it was worse, but he could almost always feel it; if he stretched just the wrong way, if the jeans he wore were tight enough for the seam to rub just the wrong way against his inner thigh.

Half of his wardrobe was eliminated when Elijah returned home, and not just because all of his clothes hung loose on his malnourished frame. Any pair of pants that had rips along the thighs—which, given Elijah’s fashion choices through high school, were most of them—posed the risk of showing it.

Elijah would never be able to forget it was there. Myles had made sure of that.

He heated the knife first, dipping the blade into the burning fireplace for a few long seconds. Elijah’s first panicked, incoherent thought was that maybe he was sterilizing it. Maybe creating a way to cauterize as he cut. In hindsight, he wondered if it had more to do with making sure the it scarred.

The moments between seeing the blade glowing in the fire and the knife making contact with his skin were chopped into a motion blur. He recalled pieces: Myles’s weight dipping the mattress. Hands prying his legs apart. He remembered screaming, and even if he didn’t, he would have remembered the dry ache in his throat rendering him unable to talk for the entire next day, leaving Grayson to a silent cellar and a nearly catatonic companion for company.

The heat itself, the slice of the blade through the delicate skin of his inner thigh, was a blare of white, hot pain that blew out any conscious thought. He passed out. Several times, he knew, because he recalled waking up over and over to the realization that it was still happening.

It could have lasted seconds or hours.

When he woke up, he was on the floor of the empty bathtub, alone. The excess blood had been washed away, a bandage fastened over the wound. Through the white of the gauze, he had already begun to bleed through; patches of red in the neat shape of two letters.

MV.

He never told anyone about the brand on his thigh, but that didn’t mean it was a secret. There were the agents and paramedics who found them, naked and terrified in the master bedroom, leaving nothing to the imagination. Then there were the people at the hospital, both doctors and police, who poked and prodded and splayed him open for photos and inspections and bandage changes and—

And of course, there was Grayson. There was very little Elijah could ever hide from him. This was only one more thing they never spoke about.

Elijah shut off his bedroom light and crawled under the blankets. When he stretched out onto his stomach, the position tugged at the scar tissue unevenly, like a thread pulled too tightly under his skin. He flipped onto his back and scrubbed both hands over his face and into his hair, pulling tightly enough on the damp curls to sting.

“Now you won’t forget, baby,” Myles crooned, running a calloused finger over his initials. “You won’t ever forget who you belong to.”

***

TAG LIST: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @distinctlywhumpthing @diyalogues @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup @wicked-whump @scp-1296 @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @whumpcereal @reflected-pain @pigeonwhumps @canislycaon24 @flowersarefreetherapy @there-will-always-be-blood @whatwhumpcomments

#fifty-eight days: grayson & elijah #captivity whump #whumplr #whump writing

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preservationofnormalcy · 6 months

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Hey, so, I think my senses got scrambled?

I think I'm hearing with my eyes, seeing with my skin, feeling with my ears, tasting with my nose (isn't that how it works anyways?), and feeling with my mouth. I'm not sure if it's just a side effect of...that, but everything feels like it has (several????) extra edges and doesn't quite have the dimensions they should?

You have no idea how hard it was to type this out, being able to see from everywhere on your skin makes things real difficult.

Oooh, a fun one. Well, not fun. You know what I mean.

I’ve only heard of this once before. Turned out the guy tried to metamorphose into a butterfly. You know the whole “turning into soup” thing caterpillars do? Yeah. He just did it….wrong. Put everything back together wrong.

I’m not saying that’s the case here of course, I would never claim someone attempted to metamorphose into a butterfly without evidence. But this may be something that requires a lot of time and effort to ameliorate. The human mind is pretty plastic. You’ll be surprised what we can get used to, including feel-seeing the world.

Did you read a book with noneuclidean geometry at any point? No judgement. Been there.

Take a feel-look at your end of this form. I’ll send you some links on who to talk to for that kind of thing - AbSci University will be very interested in your case. You’ll want to talk to Professor Stitcher, head of Abnormal Anatomy. I’m sure he can figure something out, but be warned it’ll probably involve extremely experimental (and probably really goofy) surgery.

#office for the preservation of normalcy #ask #advice #AbSci University

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imustbenuts · 8 months

Text

Seadall, localization, food, EABS culture, and discussion of Eating Disorder. Trigger Warning.

tl;dr: Seadall is pandering to an East Asian Beauty Standard, technically does not have eating disorder, but is bordering on Disordered Eating, and both the writers and localizers know it.

Our first official male dancer of FE has a bit of a obsession over controlling his diet to a concerning degree. But is it actually an Eating Disorder? No, I don't think so. From my pov, this has everything to do with his job, a Dancer and the dreaded East Asian Beauty Standard (EABS).

EABS idealizes the fair skinned (asian colorism rAAAAGH), the lean and thin. Any level of fats or flaps are no good and is considered undesirable, or worse, a sign of one's gluttonous and even slothful character. IRL, that sentiment has become less pervasive, less judgemental and less awful than 10 years ago, but it's still around. Hell, it's in our Fire Emblems! Average out the body shapes of all dancers or even characters in FE and you'll see what I mean.

(are you in hell yet.)

This EABS is especially prevalent in 1 genre of media that comes pouring out of Japan and Korea... The Pop Idol scene. In Japan, the idol industry can be traced back to the 1960s, and though it has propped up the EABS, this standard's roots goes FURTHER back to even pre-colonialism era, to China and the Tang Dynasty where willowy female bodies were ideal. (That's 618-907AD.)

And when I say EABS, I will include the surrounding countries outside of Japan too. Similarities in culture and all that. Hence East Asian. (Don't be mistaken though. South East and South Asia also has to deal with this shit.)

But hey. I'm still talking about female EABS, right? Where does Seadall fall into this?

Uhhhh. Jumpscare. Surprise K-pop.

(ps i dont know k-pop as well so idk who these ppl are im sorry waaaaug)

Dancers and the Idol Industry

It's easier to see on the female side, but uh, that specific body shape is often achieved through extreme dieting. The body fat % is so low that the dancer's lower ribcage can be seen. Before shooting the dance or a performance, these idol's agencies will notify them to slim down to a certain goal, like say drop 2kg (4.4 lbs) or 4kg (8.8 lbs) in x time, and this is typical. Guys here are no exception.

Weight is manufactured. Looks to some extent (plastic... surgery....). The clothes too, are intentionally picked. Exposing the belly is common since it's the quickest indicator of skinniness.

But hey, I actually lied about the dieting part. It's not really dieting as it's actually straight up starvation, tbh. To lose that weight, the dancers/idols will often eat as little as some protein shake, a few fruits and maybe potato for fiber. Yes, it's as hellish as it sounds, and no, these people are unable to fully function with a calorie intake like this. Source for this claim will be in a video at the bottom of the post by youtuber chaebin n out, titled "How K-POP Destroys Your Body". So.

W̵͓͍̏͝e̴͉̾ḽ̷͈͐ĉ̶̠̝͋ö̶̤́m̷̲̒ê̶̬ ̶̧̅ṭ̷̘͑͑ö̵͇́ ̸̛͖̑h̵̳̿͝ė̶͕͉l̵̜͖̇͗ḻ̶̑!̴̪͊̉

Ok, but that's K-pop. What about J-pop?

Japan, where FE rolls out from, have J-pop, which is slightly different. J-pop idols also suffer from EABS but afaik it's not as extreme. Many contemporary J-pop idol groups like Atarashii Gakko!(left) and Babymetal(right) also Do Not make thinness a major selling point with their costuming. This is usually done through hiding the midriff, where belly fat most easily forms. (EABS is still in effect though, don't be mistaken! There could be just as extreme cases out there I'm not aware of ;_;)

So it seems like people kind of agree that obsessing about weight and developing body image issue is messed up.

Hopefully now I've established what is going on irl for Seadall's influences, and what is considered normal or extreme. Relatively anyway. (I hate EABS so much hhggr)

Let's detour to...

Food! Staples! What's normal?

An average meal in Japan consists of a variety of veggies, tofu and a serving of protein, which results in lower fat intake. Also, RICE is a major staple in these meals, so assuming the writers are approaching it with the best intentions, and how Engage's normal might appear to native Japanese audiences, JP Seadall's worry only seems to be on oily food intake and is not overly concerning to me.

In fact, here is an example of a staple set meal (teishoku) I ate over there last December. Yum yum:

Overall a very lean meal. So it's likely Seadall eats something similar-ish and not just greens.

Another important point is that in (East) Asia/Japan, oily food is seen as unhealthy and contributes greatly to cholesterol. This aversion to oily food is driven somewhat by EABS and... Health. I also promise most people are actually chill about this. ...Most people! Meat is yummy! Gyukaku and Ikinari Steak is popular and popping! That's why Seadall likes it after all.

So this is where Seadall's writing starts to contrast. For the most part in the EN version, he only worries about meat. In JP, it's technically oily food, which meat falls under, and he's worried about putting on weight.

Why the extreme worry tho...?

The logic for why all these matters so much to him is this: if a dancer is surrounded by other dancers who are reinforcing this EABS (mirroring the standards of the real world), then their only choice to stay relevant and keep their job is to commit to the same dietary choice and uphold the same EABS, or even have a EABS outperforming the standard.

Because a Dancer's job, or rather, Seadall's job is to pander to people's ideals of beauty. Hence his supports where hair and skin and food becomes a topic.

If he fails the standard, according to the J-pop and K-pop industry, he kind of fails at his job. Is it fair? Fuck no, but no matter what opinion we may think of the standard as outsiders, it remains that there is a LOT of social conditioning and manufacturing going on leading to... all of that. I scream too. I scream a lot, internally.

So what does Seadall look like to someone in this East Asian sphere...?

To the writers credit, they do push for Seadall to indulge more food that makes him happy for at least his mental well-being through the other characters.

This also happens to fall in line with Engage's low key theme of cherishing the moment.

With all I've explained, Seadall might come across as warning to those who over-worry about oily food consumption and trying to pander to an EABS to... chill the fuck out. That it's ok to just go eat some delicious yakiniku if you want to! Go off! If a female character who is concerned with this comes across as too vain, then let's have a guy do it and hope the point lands for the (potentially female) players.

And with all these missing context, it's very easy for one who isn't clued into this sphere assume that Seadall has some eating disorder or that the writers are advocating it. I don't think that's happening here at all. The localizers likely are aware of this missing context and have toned it down several levels for EN release. Wise move, tbh.

(progressiveness can be relative btw. something to keep in mind @_@)

So, is Seadall coming close to some kind of Disordered Eating? Possible. From what I see I think the writers are trying to push Seadall away from it, and trying to stop it from becoming a full blown Eating Disorder. Personally, again, I don't think he has an Eating Disorder.

However! Your Mileage May Vary. I only hope for my opinion and understanding to help inform others, not override it. What's normal for me isn't for everyone, and vice versa, but it's important to remember where Fire Emblem originates from.

And here's the last thing I promised: the video essay if you really want to dive into it:

youtube

And that's about it.

Hope this was interesting! Thanks for reading. 😄

EDIT: the Chinese net sphere is the exception to all of this, EABS is especially bad there

#seadall fire emblem #fire emblem engage #seadall #localization discourse #eating disorder #culture #seadall fire emblem engage #trigger warning

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