#sports injury knee brace

[chronicillnesscaneffoffplease]

Chanting softly to myself: visible braces are not bad. It is good to use them when you need them. Visible braces are not bad. It is good to use them when you need them. Visible braces are not bad. It is good to use them when you need them.

[voltrons]

i know that a majority of the characters in aftg with visible scars and injuries don’t necessarily have permanent or chronic injuries but it’s a nice change of pace to see fan art depict injuries and scars across the board. comics really shy away from characters being visibly hurt for longer than the story “requires” or showing past physical trauma outside of one off moments and it’s especially wild that characters so reliant on physical fitness aren’t regularly depicted with tools to aid in the upkeep of that. both in canon and in fanon??? for something with a plot as outlandish as cape comics it’s so refreshing to see scars and kt tape and braces be a mainstay in aftg fanwork. love u recovery devices. love u body maintenance tools. love u sports medicine

[outdoorovernights]

ACL Knee Brace Review

What if you could find a solution that helps alleviate knee pain while keeping you active in sports and everyday life? That’s where the Komzer ACL Knee Brace comes in. It’s not just about support; it’s about reclaiming your life. Let’s break down everything you need to know about this remarkable knee brace designed for both men and women. Understanding the Anatomy of Your Knee Your knee is a…

[t1red-twilight]

physio alternatives

summary: art gets injured during a game. you provide aid in helping him feel better.

warnings/content: gn! reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, pretty much no plot, just fluff, athletic injury, no use of y/n (it’s too much effort to type lol), inaccurate sports injury (don’t come for me, i was a theatre kid), art is whiny, pet names cause i’m corny, art history mention, food content discussed briefly, lmk if i missed anything

word count: 1.1k

masterlist a. d. masterlist

you were laying on the couch in the hotel when you heard him come in. even though you were nearly asleep, you immediately sat up when you heard him huff. using the palms of your hands to rub your eyes, you call out, “hey, art. how was practice?”

when you don’t hear a response, you swing your legs over the edge of the couch and walk to the entryway. you see art, his coach, and his physical therapist. seeing as no response was given, you ask another question: “everything alright?”

“no,” he nearly whines out. “we had to end early today.” he’s mumbling, just about whispering. after some semi-awkward silence, his coach speaks.

his physical therapist spoke. “art lightly sprained a muscle in his left leg. he’ll have to tread lightly for about two weeks.” art sighs again. his hands are in fists on his cheeks, pushing them up as his sits on the stool in the entryway. you walk over to him and rub his back.

“are you going to stretch him out at all?” art proceeds to lean against your touch.

“we were just about to-“ his couch says before getting cut off.

“can’t we just do it tomorrow?” art interrupts. his expression is a mix of pleading and petty anger.

you crouch down to meet his gaze. “darling, i’m sorry. but you should really listen to your coach.” he sighs out in disapproval. you hold his hand and trace over the lines on his face with your eyes.

and that’s how you ended up sitting in the background watching art’s physical therapist extend and retract his leg muscles. he followed every command, albeit reluctantly and with an air of annoyance. before leaving, his physical therapist gave art a knee brace. you’re not going to pretend like you had any idea of what was going on.

you walk his coach and physical therapist out. you’re glad that tashi, his assistant coach, didn’t tag along. but you’d never admit that. when you come back, art has made his way to the couch. he looks like a rendering of the death of marat, the way he’s dramatically sprawled about.

“i’m sorry, honey.” he grunts. “can i sit on the couch with you?” upon hearing your request, he sits up long enough for you to sit down. when you sit, he turns onto his side and lays his cheek on your thigh. you bring your hand to his head and trace over his ear and the curls on the side of his face.

his eyes crack open. “i feel like shit.” he looks like shit, just a little. but you’re not going to tell him that. you give him a crooked smile instead.

“any way i can help?”

“just stay here, i think. i’ve enough of people trying to fix me for the evening.” he places his hand that isn’t pinned under his body on your leg and traces his thumb in circles over it. it’s an awkward position, but art just likes being as close to you as possible.

you silently reach for the tv remote, and play some random game show. at first, you don’t notice him falling asleep; but soon you hear very soft snores coming from him. you exhale out of your nose in loving amusement.

you switch between watching him sleep and watching the crappy game show. the hum of the ac provides a cozy ambiance.

art sleeps for about two episodes of the game show. the show is weird, and has some old actor you can’t recall the name of hosting it. you have to use the restroom, but you’re not going to risk waking up art to go pee.

after some time, he stirs and wakes up.

“hey sleeping beauty,” you mumble out. he turns and looks up at you, and smiles. you smile back.

“how long did i sleep for?” he shuts his eyes again for just a moment.

you check the clock, “a little over an hour. you look uncomfortable in that position, though.” he hums. “did you eat after practice, or did you come straight here?” you can see his brain lagging, gummed up from sleep.

after a bit, he replies. “uhm, no i didn’t. do we have anything in the fridge?” you sit in thought for a moment.

“uh, i don’t know. i’ll go check.” you move to get up, but art wraps his one free arm around your thighs to try and keep you in place. “i have to get up to check. why are you being so clingy?” it sounds harsh, but the tone in which you say it is playful and not at all condescending.

“you’re evil,” he toys back.

you stand up and go to the kitchen. while looking into the fridge, you roll your ankles to pop them. the cool air from the fridge is minutely uncomfortable. “there’s ketchup and like two eggs,” you call back over to the couch. he peaks his head over the top of the couch, so that you only see his messy hair and his eyes.

“damn.”

“do you want takeout?” he stops, he’s thinking, you realize. he’s thinking about how this is going to affect his performance in tennis; unhealthy carbs and all that. “you’re supposed to be resting. some chinese food isn’t going to ruin your mad tennis skills.”

he shrugs and lays back down. “only if we can get orange chicken.” you look in the info booklet the hotel gave you when you checked in, and found a nice looking restaurant to order from. after you ordered, you sit back down on the couch. art returns to reclining on top of you.

soon, the smell of chinese takeaway fills the hotel room, and you sit and eat together. it’s a domestic scene, despite being in a hotel room a few states over from where you both live.

after dinner, you help him wash up and get ready for bed. you insist that he at least take a quick shower. going to bed covered in dried sweat is not the most pleasing thing to think of. you sit outside the shower and speak to him while he cleans himself.

he talks about everything and nothing all at once. he talks about practice, his parents, something shitty that he heard another player say while he was at the court earlier. the vibrations of his voice carry throughout the bathroom, and it’s silly, but it makes you feel nice. you’d let him talk about anything, really.

when you get in bed, art holds you tight. he keeps you in his arms, and lies his head upon your chest.

as you’re both nodding off, you feel art mumble something into your neck as you hold each other. “hm?”

“love you,” he recites.

you kiss him on the top of his head. “love you too.”

[strangerstilinski]

𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙝𝙤𝙬, 𝙬𝙚'𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚

𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary; it’s been a long couple of months, and after a particularly rough night, your ex boyfriend finds his way straight back to you.

warnings; no use of y/n, post s4, exes-to-lovers, description of injury and blood, hurt/comfort, emotional sex, unprotected vaginal sex, a lil bit of cockwarming

word count; ~5k

a/n; i meant for this to be a quick little hurt/comfort thing but then my mind kind of ran wild and it turned into.. this. but i think i really like how it turned out sooo, y'know.. leave a comment/tag/reblog if you enjoy!

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+

You're not entirely certain who you were expecting to find on the other side of your door at two in the morning, and maybe you should've given the possibilities a bit more thought before unlocking the door and swinging it open wide, effectively exposing yourself to whatever may be waiting on the other side — but you don't. And it's with a sleep-slowed brain, a baggy tshirt resting high on your naked thighs, and bare feet that drag lazy across cold floorboards, that you find yourself staring at your ex boyfriend.

Steve Harrington.

He's standing in front of you looking a little nervous, a little lost, and a whole lot like he's just come from some sort of brawl. The sudden brightness of the hallway lights outside of your apartment makes your eyes ache and you're squinting, one hand coming up to block a bit of the light just as your heart drops as you take him in.

His hair is a little longer than when you last saw him, impossible for him to keep from flopping down over his forehead while the ends curl at the nape of his neck, light shining down on the strands and streaking golden through the locks that you'd run your hands through once upon a time. But you're hardly able to process or file away those small changes when your gaze begins frantically to absorb the more important and wildly more alarming details in his appearance.

The light wash of his jeans is covered in splotches of denim slightly darker than the rest where something's been spilled down his leg, streaks of dirt rubbed into the knees like he'd fallen down, and blood — there are crimson drops of it splattered along the fabric at his thigh, likely his, likely from the split lip he's sporting, or perhaps from his bruising nose.. When those red smears crusted beneath his nostrils had been fresh and wet and had clearly dripped down past his chin and onto the collar of his shirt, which also seems to be stained in an array of red-splotched fabric.

“Fuck. Steve, what-” Your voice shakes through the sleepy rasp in your throat, blood roaring in your ears at the familiarity of it all — the scene in front of you sending that achingly familiar trickle of fear and worry and panic all racing down your spine.

“I- Hey, sweetheart.” His own voice cracks a little like his throat's been scraped raw from shouting. He's got his hands tucked away in his back pockets like he might be able to make himself small enough that you won't start yelling, his eyes sad and a little pleading as he gives you a weak smile. He lets out a small hiss of a wince when the motion pulls at the slow drying scab on his lower lip.

“Stevie..” The nickname slips out before you can swallow it down.

You think that you might be in shock, if the adrenaline shooting through your veins is anything to go by. It's making it a little difficult to think clearly as you stumble through the doorway, hands coming into contact with his chest as you brace yourself. Your thumbs find those drops of blood that are still drying into the fabric of his shirt, shaking fingers dragging over the freckles on the side of his throat on their way to his jaw.

You have to fight the instinct to linger on those faded scars encircling his neck, have to fight to push back the memories of the night that things between you had finally fallen apart — when all of Steve's half-truths and secrets and outright lies had finally pushed you to your breaking point. The night of the earthquake. When he'd shown up on your doorstep in the early hours of the morning, just like this, looking like he'd been to hell and back, in search of comfort and someone to patch him up but apparently not looking to give out any explanations for the state he'd come to you in. Not for the marks on his neck, and certainly not for the horrifying chunks of flesh that had been torn from his stomach and sides.

The fear you'd felt that night coils in your gut again. It's the very same fear that you'd endured eight months before the end, when Steve had gone awol for forty-eight hours only to find you the evening of the mall fire. That time, his left eye had been nearly swollen shut, body littered in bruises in varying shades of black and purple. You'd sat with him in the bathtub with your limbs carefully wrapped around him for hours, until the water had gone ice cold, and even after that he'd been glued to your side until morning. You'd both burrowed beneath a pile of blankets despite the summer heat, legs tangled and sweaty bodies clinging to one another. Even though you couldn't begin to understand how the fire could have been the cause of his turmoil, of his injuries, you'd still held him tight, one hand tangled in his damp hair at all times while he'd clutched onto you like you were his lifeline. The hours it had taken for the tremble in his hands to fade had nearly broken your heart.

It's all a little too much, the position that you've suddenly been thrust back into.

“Wh-? What the hell happened?” You question hoarsely.

Why you bother to ask now, you're not entirely sure. You're certainly not expecting him to give you any answers, but as your thumb pushes gently into the swelling softness of his busted lip, the fingers of your opposite hand brushing the hair back from his blood-spattered forehead, Steve sighs.

“It's not.. I was at the bar. Got into a fight.” He admits with another wince as your thumb skates up the bridge of his nose.

“Got into a fight or started a fight?” You ask quietly, eyes flicking slow between his; they're tired and bloodshot, his lashes clumped together like maybe he'd been crying, caramel swirling in the pretty brown depths that you'd been steadfastly avoiding thinking about these last few months.

A huff crackles as he tries to push a sigh from his blood-clogged nose, his hands finally leaving his pockets to hang awkwardly at his sides while he gives a small shrug, “..’was stupid.” He says in lue of a direct answer.

“I'm sure it was,” You grumble under your breath, swallowing your instincts and forcing yourself to take a small step back, your hands falling away so you can hug your arms across your own chest with a sigh, “What're you doing here, Steve?”

“I didn't know where to.. I..” The words don't seem to come and he falters, shrinking in on himself further, “I don't know.” He admits after a moment.

Your eyes close as your emotions threaten to overwhelm you, “I can't-”

“Please,” Steve nearly whispers the word and when you meet his eyes again, his gaze is a little watery, “I know you don't want to see me. I know you're still mad. And.. You have every right to be, okay? But-”

“But what?” You plead weakly, fingers digging a little meanly into your own arms.

“I just..” He struggles for a moment, hands raking through his hair and ruffling it into further disarray, “I just needed.. I..”

The fissure in your heart cracks wide, the slow healing wound tearing open to expose this gaping thing that feels a little like it might be enough to shatter your soul. Even while the more sensible parts of your brain scream at you to shut the door in his face, you find yourself taking his hand in yours, swollen and blood crusted knuckles under your thumb as you pull him into the dark apartment and close the door behind you.

You push him to sit down on the couch, a wordless order for him to stay put implied in the sidelong glance that you shoot him before turning away to move down the hall and grab your first aid kit and a wet cloth from the bathroom. When you return, Steve hasn't moved an inch, just as miserable and small-looking as you'd left him a few moments before. He's got his fingers tucked into the crook of space behind his knees, the tall streetlight across the road allowing stripes of light to cut across his hunched form, late night shadows eating up everything else.

The coffee table is nudged closer to the sofa with your foot as you sit down in front of him, your bare knees brushing filthy denim when you scoot to the edge of the table and bring the cloth up to his blood-spattered cheek. You're gentle with it, wiping at same spots a few times with the lightest pressure you can manage as the mess proceeds to smear, red-tinged streaks of water against his skin lessening with each careful swipe. Once his face is clean, you move on to the knuckles of his right hand, pulling it from where he has it tucked beneath his thigh to softly wash away the crusted blood from his split and bruising skin.

You work silently for a few minutes. The soiled cloth is dropped against the coffee table with a wet slap and you immediately turn to find the alcohol and cotton balls in the messy basket you keep stored beneath your bathroom sink.

You've just begun to open the package of cotton when Steve says your name, nothing more than a hoarse whisper to break the heavy silence.

When you meet his eyes, the desperation you find there has you faltering for a moment. The warmth that seeps into your skin from each point of contact between you suddenly seems so much stronger. Heat and nerves creep up the back of your neck as you blink at him in question.

The backs of his damp knuckles drag up over your calf before pushing into the smooth skin on the outside of your thigh, his thumb pinching lightly at the doughy flesh there, “I.. Can you..” His hand unfurls and he lets his palm settle against you, his fingertips high enough to slip beneath the hem of your oversized shirt and brush the crook where your thigh meets your hip, “I just.. want..”

He seems incapable of finishing his thoughts, but he doesn't really need to because you know. With the way his free hand comes up to push a lock of hair behind your ear, thumb tracing the line of your jaw to your chin before catching against your lower lip in that all too familiar way, you know what it is that he's asking for.

“Steve..” Your accompanying sigh comes out a little shaky as you exhale it over the pad of his finger, your lashes fluttering as something stirs in your gut in response to his soft touch, “I don't think that's a good-”

“Please.” He whispers again — and, how could you possibly deny him when he sounds so pitiful that it wrenches at your broken heart? While his brows are drawing together like he's already bracing himself for your rejection even as his eyes remain soft and pleading?

And when the hand on your thigh pushes up to slide over the bare skin at the base of your spine, when he applies the barest pressure to urge you toward him, when the fingers on your face slip behind your neck — you're climbing into his lap with little encouragement. Your shins push into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs, hands finding the hem of his ruined shirt and guiding it up over his head in an easy movement that has his hair flopping down over his forehead again.

When your gaze drops, you allow yourself all of ten seconds to trail your fingers over the rough scars across his abdomen. The skin is a little puckered and pink, mottled in a way that it probably wouldn't be if he'd found himself at the hospital that night in late March instead of on your doorstep, but they've healed. It's a far cry from the jagged wounds that you'd tried to clean with blood-stained hands, through quiet sobs and glassy eyes. They'd been so deep, as if something had tried to carve out little bits and pieces of him over and over, like something had torn into him, like something had feasted on his flesh then and left behind nothing but the evidence of small, frighteningly sharp teeth.

Your choked questions ring in your ears even now, the way you'd begged for him to tell you what was going on, who kept hurting him like this — but as easily as your own voice echos in your memories, so does Steve's. You can still hear his agonized groans and cries of pain as you'd tended to his injuries, can still remember the sound of his desperate pleas for you to drop it, to just accept that he couldn't explain-

And you'd asked him then, if it was that he couldn't or that he wouldn't. The resulting silence from him had been answer enough.

Now, Steve seems to know exactly where your mind has gone and he covers your hands with his own, pressing your palms flat against the lingering marks on his skin.

“They're healed.” You state quietly through the emotion clogging your throat. The obviousness of the statement rings stupidly in your ears but you're not sure what else to say in the heavy silence.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, voice hoarse, “I had a pretty good nurse.. Cleaned me up real nice so that I didn't, I dunno, die from an infection or somethin'.”

A laugh pushes up from your throat that borders on a sob, “She sounds cool.” You manage, your thumbnail scraping lightly into the healed patch of skin under your hand.

“Oh, yeah, the coolest.” Steve tells you with the barest hint of a smile pulling at the unbruised side of his mouth. “You okay?” He asks quietly after another moment of silence.

“Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine.” You tell him with a shake of your head.

“Sweetheart..” Steve starts slowly, “I want.. Shit, I- I want you so bad right now, but if you don't want this-” When his hands move to the hem of your sleep shirt, his eyes meet yours in silent question, and your head is nodding a little wildly in approval before you can begin to think too hard about it.

His hands nearly burn with every brush against your bare skin as you strip one another down to nothing, his touch leaving behind invisible streaks of something heavy and terrifyingly melancholy, something that you're sure will linger painfully in your chest long after he's gone and left you with a broken heart and an ever growing list of unanswered questions.

“I still have to clean your cuts.” You tell him quietly.

Steve's eyes only rake over your naked body for a moment before his gaze settles back on yours, “Okay.”

You settle over his lap again and wet a cotton ball with alcohol, “It's gonna hurt.” You warn in a whisper.

“I know.” Steve returns just as softly.

Bracing one hand on the side of his neck, you dab featherlight over his split lip. Steve's jaw clenches at the sting as it seeps into the cut and you murmur a soft apology while you continue to clean the area with careful fingers.

Steve's hands settle on your hips and his eyes flick between yours as he waits for you to meet his gaze. When you look up from his swollen lower lip, he gulps, adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

“Is this okay?” He asks, fingers digging into your flesh a little as he pulls your hips until your groins align nicely.

“Yeah.” You murmur, dabbing at the cut on his lip again just so that you have an excuse to look away from his eyes.

Your heartbeat ricochets against your ribs sharply as Steve guides you to grind slow over his lap, the warmth of him wedged between your spread folds. The way he manhandles you isn't rushed, the movement not nearly as desperate as you'd been expecting from his plea for intimacy. It's slow and quiet and filled with a weight that you wouldn't quite be able to explain if you tried.

It doesn't take long for his cock fatten up and grow stiff underneath you, his length and the patch of hair surrounding it both streaked with slick where your wet cunt has been dragging back and forth. You're both breathing a little heavy as you finish cleaning the cuts on his lip and the bridge of his nose, your faces close though neither one of you make any move to close the distance.

Steve curls an arm around the back of your thigh as he reaches around to guide himself toward your entrance. A breathy sound falls from your lips when you roll your hips back and feel his tip catch, just barely pushing in. He's as thick and warm and perfect as he's always been, and that hunger to have all of him spreads down the back of your tongue like warm honey, but the moment you spread your thighs a little farther to take more, Steve is stopping you.

“Wait, wait, wait. You.. Are you sure you're okay with this?” He asks suddenly. His fingers are digging into your hips, holding you in place to keep you from sinking farther down onto him as he awaits your response.

“Wh-?” Your jaw trembles with something like petulance, a little desperate yourself now that you can feel the fat head of his cock inside you, stretching you wide despite barely breaching your entrance, “You said that you-”

“I do. Fuck, I do, I just want to make sure you're sure.” He says it so soft, so earnest, and his concern has you feeling something resembling whiplash. The two of you haven't spoken in months, but he'd shown up at your front door in the middle of the night and practically begged for you; for your presence and your care and your body.

You want to feel angry with him. For looking out for your well-being now, for being Steve, for bringing up so many feelings that you'd tried so hard to bury, but he's looking up at you with imploring eyes — a gaze that says if you climbed off of his lap now, he wouldn't be upset with you, if anything, he'd be upset with himself and..

It has you reeling a little bit, that blooming affection crawling like rapidly expanding ivy inside your chest.

You brush that stubborn chunk of hair back and off of his forehead again, your fingers combing through to the back of his head until they can toy with the bits curling at the nape of his neck. Your mouth finds its way to the space between his brows, a shaky exhale masked by the kiss you press to his skin before dropping your foreheads together.

“I am. I'm sure.” You promise in a whisper.

When you sink down, both of you groan in synchrony, breathy and guttural. The stretch hurts more than you were expecting, but it's been months since you've done this, so you suppose that the sting from him filling you up is warranted. Your hips settle against his and his arms curl around your back to hold you in place, to hold you close. His chest is flush to yours, scattered hairs on his pecs pressed to your breasts, the tip of your nose still barely avoiding brushing against the bruised bridge of his own.

The sensation of being so full leaves you feeling a little overwhelmed, the intimacy of the moment suddenly too heavy. His breath mingling with your own and his soft hair tangled up around your fingers brings pinpricks of heat to your eyes that you stubbornly attempt to blink back.

“Hey.. Hey, honey,” Steve murmurs softly, one hand coming up to swipe a thumb along your watery lashline, “What's wrong? You okay? You hurting?”

Another strangled sounding scoff of a laugh tumbles from your lips, a weak sniffle as your fingers find their way to those smooth, faded lines along the front of his throat again, “I should be asking you that. You're the one who's had the shit beaten out of him tonight.”

“I'm fine. Two weeks n' I'll be good as new,” Steve assures you with carefully crafted nonchalance, his tear-stained thumb dragging back and forth along the apple of your cheek, “Now what's goin' on in that beautiful head of yours, huh?”

“I just..” You huff out a sigh, rolling your hips experimentally to test the ache between your thighs, “I missed you. Fuck, I- I miss you so much, Steve.”

A few tears do manage to break through then, something about the way the patchy light coming in through the windows casts a glow over his battered face, the browns in his eyes shining golden in the dark.

“Me too, I miss you too,” He rasps desperately, “Shit, honey. If you think I don't miss you every goddamn second- You're everything. You're my everything.”

He's holding your face in both hands now, palms cradling your jaw so gently, arms trembling like he's trying to fight the urge to hold onto you tighter. His restraint and his words twist sharply in your gut, something akin to dread weaving its way inside of you.

“I'm scared,” You admit, voice quiet and buried beneath tears, “I'm so scared-”

“Scared?” Steve repeats, concern flashing in his eyes, “What're you afraid of?”

“Losing you.” You gasp.

“Sweetheart-”

Your chest is heaving a little with the labored breaths beginning to tumble past your lips, “I'm gonna lose you all over again, because I can't.. It- It is terrifying. To see you hurt and bleeding and not know why. To worry that the next time might be even worse than the last and have you keep skirting around the truth or outright lying-”

“Hey, hey. Honey, hey,” Steve gives your cheeks a soft shake under his hands and your gaze falls back to his, “I'm sorry-”

“Jesus christ.” You bemoan quietly as another tear falls, halfheartedly pushing at his arms to dislodge his hands.

“No, no, I mean it,” Steve pleads softly, “I'm so sorry I kept you in the dark, I just- Shit, it's so complicated, I-”

“Asshole.” The interruption comes out a grumble under your breath, and you're gearing up to climb off of his lap entirely when his weak chuckle meets your ears.

“I am,” He nods, brushing your hair back from your tear streaked face, “I'm an asshole and I'm sorry. I- I'll tell you everything, alright? I will. I will.”

“Promise?” You hate yourself for how small you sound, how unsure and broken.

“I promise.”

You crane your neck and tilt your head to brush your lips featherlight over his, carefully avoiding putting any pressure on the mess of purple and black and red along the bridge of his nose, your thumbs gravitating yet again to drag over those smooth, barely visible scars around his neck.

“Does your mouth hurt too much, or can I-?” You ask quietly, eyes flicking between his.

“'course you can,” His hand pushes into your hair behind your ear, cupping your head to guide you forward carefully, “C'mere.”

Your mouths come together with all of the gentleness you can manage and you leave one soft peck, then two, then three. You begin to work your hips over his all the while, and neither of you can hold back a keening noise of pleasure at the slow drag of his cock inside your warm walls.

You ease back from his mouth to drag the pads of your index and middle finger lightly over the bruises coloring his skin.

“Did.. Did you really get into a bar fight?” You can't help but ask, even as you're lifting up and dropping back down hard enough to have you both letting out a breathy whimper.

“Yeah,” Steve nods, his fingers trailing along your ribs and stomach like he's trying to re-familiarize himself with every inch of your skin, “I.. It's possible I have some unresolved anger or something from- After everything that happened. Sometimes it kinda takes over, like tonight, and then I pick a fight I know I can't win, but.. 'm not lying to you anymore. I mean that.”

You nod and his arms curl around your back to pull you impossibly closer. Trapped in his embrace, you can't do much more than grind on him with slow swivels of your hips, the head of his cock rubbing at that spot on your inner wall that has your brows pulling together in pleasure.

He's so close like this. His chest hair drags against your bare breasts and your tummies are pressed together and the sweat on his forehead mingles with your own. You feel warm — in the physical sense, yes, but also in your stomach, in your bones, in your heart.

“I love you.” Steve says with emotion, like he's feels that warmth too.

Your eyes prickle a little traitorously, fingers toying with the soft ends of his hair, “I love you,” You manage in a choked gasp, “I love you.”

“Ho- Shit..” Steve groans, chin tipping up toward the ceiling for a moment as he throws his head back, “You feel so fuckin' good, honey.”

“Y'r cock feels good,” You pant in response, “So good. So big. I- Fuck.”

“So tight,” He mutters, sitting up a little straighter to meet every roll of your hips, “So perfect. 's like you were fucking made for me, you know that? Take me so well. You were made for this, for me-”

The way that your clit is rubbing against the thatch of hair on his pelvis has you a little dumb already, and his lust-fueled rambling only intensifies your budding orgasm, both of your thighs slick with how fucking good it feels to have him inside of you again. You nod in agreement to his words and manage to give a small whimper, but it seems that he's not done yet.

“-Missed this so much. Missed you, missed this.. Fuck. Honey, I love you. I love you. I-”

“Steve,” You whine, “Love you too.”

His tanned cheeks have gone a little pink beneath the dusting of bruises on his face, breathy groans fanning out past his busted lip. The pretty little noises of pleasure that he can't seem to hold back have you reeling, your gut twisting with heat at the sight of him, the sound of him.

“So goddamn wet for me, honey,” Steve grumbles, his voice catching in a way that has your cunt clenching down on him, “Listen to her. You hear that?”

You do. There's a lewd squelch emitting from the place where you're joined, the sound filling the otherwise quiet apartment every time that your hips roll at just the right angle. It happens again just then, his cock stretching your hole wide enough for the drag of slick and air to create a mildly embarrassing noise that has Steve giving another needy groan, his hips bucking up into yours.

“God, fuck, please tell me you're getting close,” He nearly whimpers, lifting up off of the couch to drive up into you again, “Please, I'm getting so close, babe. Need you to come.”

Euphoria licks up your spine in a white-hot flame, your weight bearing down that much harder to apply more pressure on your puffy clit. Sweat trickles down your spine, disappearing beneath Steve's forearms where they're looped tight around you.

“Mhm,” You hum, the sound catching in the back of your throat, “M'gonna come, Stevie. Y'r gonna make me come.”

Your hips roll a little faster and Steve continues to buck up into you, his cock pressing so, so nicely against the spot that has your brain whiting out a bit at the edges.

“Come on, sweet girl. Come for me,” Steve moans, warm breath fanning out over your lips, “Please, honey. Please come on my cock. Shit, I need it. Need you t' come, please.”

“I am, I am, I am,” You babble desperately, “M'gonna, fuck, fuck, 'm-”

The knot of pleasure in your gut twists sharply and you cry out, face burying in his neck with a whiny gasp as your orgasm crashes over you. Your cunt tightens and trembles around him and a deliciously choked sounding moan tears past Steve's lips as he finally lets his own release wash over him.

The warmth of his come coating your insides has you fluttering around him further, your hands grappling restlessly for any part of him to hold on to, his hair, the back of his neck, his shoulders, his biceps. Breathy little whines and gasps and groans tumble from both of you as you ride it out, the trembling tenseness in your muscles releasing all at once as you go limp in his arms.

It takes a minute, but you eventually come back to yourself a little, peppering a delicate kiss to that infuriating strip of scar tissue along his throat before you're pushing up with weak limbs to look at the man underneath you.

“Hey.” It comes out in a murmur, a breathless little thing that leaves you feeling kind of silly, but your brain hasn't yet recovered enough to work at its full-capacity.

Steve only grins, his lips curling to reveal perfect teeth, a pretty smile pulling at his busted and bruising lips. His eyes twinkle in the patchy darkness of your living room, a pretty mosaic of brown and gold and speckles of green catching in the light and forcing your heart rate to tick up in adoration.

“Hey, honey.” He returns sweetly, one arm uplooping from around your spine so he can reach up to push the sweaty flyaways back from your face.

You can't help but shift over him, sore legs flexing where they're spread over his hairy thighs, a trickle of warmth leaking out from where you're still joined and dripping down into the thick hair at the base of his cock. It feels dirty and intimate in the best way — his come mingled with your own, your fingers in his sweat-dampened hair, his wide palms rubbing softly from your hips to your spine and then back again.

“I kinda want to stay like this forever.”

Your whispered admission has his eyes crinkling softly and he drops his forehead to your chest, his breath fanning out over your breasts as he lets out a breathy chuckle.

“You won't hear any complaints from me.” Steve mumbles into your skin.

You never want to leave this moment. Your nose pushes into his hair and you pull in the familiar melding of scents, of expensive shampoo and hairspray and an underlying smell that's just Steve. You want to stay right here, in this perfectly imperfect bubble, but you feel Steve wince when he burrows his face into your chest just a little too hard and the serenity cracks.

“Steve?” You murmur softly, fingertips scraping gently against his scalp despite the nerves in your stomach.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You steel yourself with a deep breath, “You know I'd do anything to protect you, right? You.. You know that I'll do anything for you.. Know that.. That you can trust me?” It comes out in a rush, and your nerves increase tenfold when Steve pulls back to look at you, “..Right?”

“Honey,” The endearment comes out laced with something sweet and sticky that makes it sound an awful lot like an apology, “Of course I do.”

His eyes are so soft as they flick between your own, his hands smoothing up the length of your spine in a soothing drag of skin on skin. One hand leaves his hair only so that you can trace your thumb over those two wide freckles on the apple of his cheek, a self-deprecating sort of smile pulling at your lips.

“And.. And you're gonna tell me what's been going on with you?” You nearly whisper.

His mouth finds yours to press a featherlight kiss to your lips, “Yeah, honey. No more secrets. No more lies.”

“Promise?” You ask again, lips pulling into a smile where they're still brushing his own. Your faces are so close it's hard to focus on the way his eyes shine with adoration when he looks up at you, the bruises on the bridge of his nose blurring in the darkness.

“Promise.”

[meazalykov]

redirection XIII

esmee brugts x reader

last chapter - next chapter

summary: fomo was the least of your worries

you found out that you will be seated for four weeks. 

not longer, not shorter—four weeks exactly. the team doctor told you with a smile, clearly trying to cheer you up, but it felt like salt on a wound. just a month, but in your world, a month is an eternity. matches will be played, goals scored, chemistry built—and you’ll be stuck on the sidelines watching it all happen without you. 

“it could’ve been worse,” she said, trying to soften the blow. 

you nodded, swallowing your disappointment. “yeah, i guess so.” 

on the flight back to barcelona, your mind raced. your ankle throbbed dully under the brace, but the real pain was in your chest. football wasn’t just what you did; it was who you were. being forced to stop felt unnatural. 

you thought about the benfica match, replaying the moment over and over in your head where kika gave you that lazy tackle—the awkward step, the sharp pain, the immediate knowledge that something was wrong. 

you hated how vividly it replayed, like a loop you couldn’t turn off.

when you returned to camp nou, mapi was the first person waiting for you. “heard we’re gonna be cheerleaders together,” she joked, offering a light hug as you stepped off the team bus. her smile was easy, her tone playful, but there was a knowing in her eyes. she understood what it felt like to be stuck on the sidelines. 

“guess so,” you muttered, managing a small smile. 

“we should start making pom-poms.”

mapi laughed, clapping you on the shoulder. 

“maybe matching outfits too. we’ll be the most fashionable injured pair in la liga.” 

that was mapi—a natural at making people feel a little less miserable, even when she was dealing with her own challenges. her knee injury had taken her out months ago, and she wasn’t close to returning yet. now, with your ankle out of commission, you were joining her in the stands. 

the next game day arrived too quickly. you hated being here, on the sidelines, instead of warming up on the pitch with the team. at least mapi was beside you, her knee brace peeking out from under her wide-legged jeans. 

the two of you sat in the players' section, bundled against the crisp evening air. the roar of the crowd swirled around you as the game against sporting huelva kicked off.

“nice sweater,” mapi said, breaking the silence between you. she leaned over slightly, her eyes taking in the green-and-cream stripes of your knit sweater, the way it paired with your black bomber jacket and blue levi’s. 

“looking very good.”

you smirked, glancing at her. 

“thanks. you’re not looking too bad yourself.” 

mapi grinned, stretching out her legs. her beige trench coat framed her casually, a graphic tee peeking out beneath. 

“we’re really nailing the off-duty athlete look. injured but fashionable.”

“injured but fashionable,” you repeated with a laugh. “put that on a shirt.” 

as the game unfolded, you tried to focus on the play. alexia was everywhere, commanding the midfield as she always did, her movements fluid and precise. salma was a whirlwind up the wing, creating chances with her speed and creativity. 

you should’ve been absorbed in the action, but your mind kept wandering. you missed the feeling of the ball at your feet, the adrenaline of a perfectly timed pass. sitting here felt like punishment. 

mapi must have sensed your restlessness. “so,” she said, tilting her head toward you. “how’s esmee? you two still in the honeymoon phase?” 

you felt the warmth rise to your cheeks. “it’s going great,” you said, a bit more brightly than you intended. 

“good.” mapi’s smile was genuine. “she’s good for you, you know. you both seem happier these days.” 

you nodded, letting the thought sink in. esmee did make you happy—her laugh, her steady presence, the way she always seemed to know exactly what to say. as mapi turned her attention back to the match, a tiny voice in the back of your head whispered that happiness doesn’t mean invincibility. 

you weren’t aware, not yet, that a storm was brewing just beneath the surface.

“and you?” you asked, nudging mapi lightly. “how’s ingrid?”

mapi’s face softened instantly, her love for ingrid obvious in the way her expression warmed. 

“she’s good. carrying the back while i’m stuck here looking pretty.” 

“you’re so proud of her,” you teased.

“always,” mapi replied, her grin widening. 

“but she’s probably sick of me complaining about not playing.”

you snorted. “you? complaining? never.”

mapi laughed, the sound light and easy. “okay, maybe a little.” 

the two of you settled back into the rhythm of the game, watching as the team worked together to hold off huelva. after a while, mapi leaned closer, her voice low. 

“you know, we’re kind of like the injured girlfriends cheering on our healthy ones.”

you laughed, but it felt hollow. “yeah,” you said, glancing toward the pitch. “except i don’t feel much like cheering.” 

mapi frowned, her gaze shifting to you. “hey. you’ll be back soon. four weeks is nothing.”

you shrugged, trying to shake off the weight in your chest. 

“it feels like forever. and you’re out for way longer. i feel bad even complaining about it.” 

“don’t,” mapi said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. 

“injuries suck for everyone. just focus on healing, okay?”

you nodded, grateful for her words even if they didn’t fully ease the ache of being sidelined. 

in the second half, the energy on the pitch ramped up. the team was pressing hard, controlling the game, but then a scuffle broke out near the box. esmee was in the thick of it, challenging an opposing player for the ball. 

the ref’s whistle cut through the air, and both esmee and the other player were shown yellow cards.

you sat up straighter, watching as esmee stood there, her jaw tight, her unusual irritation clear. it only lasted a moment—she shook her head and jogged back into position—but you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of concern. 

“spicy,” mapi commented, raising an eyebrow. 

you smiled faintly, your eyes still on esmee. “she doesn’t usually get cards.” 

“she’s got fire in her, even if she tries to hide it,” mapi said with a shrug. 

“it’s part of why she’s so good.”

you nodded, but the image of esmee’s frustration lingered in your mind. 

after the final whistle blew, the team celebrated their victory, the energy on the pitch electric. you and mapi were allowed down to join them, weaving through the chaos of hugs and high-fives. 

alexia found you first, pulling you into a tight embrace.

“missed you out there,” she said, her voice muffled against your shoulder. 

“missed you too,” you replied, holding her just as tightly. 

“you played amazing.”

alexia pulled back slightly, her hands still on your shoulders. 

“it’s not the same without you.” 

you smiled, the sincerity in her words easing some of the tension in your chest. 

“i’ll be back soon. promise.”

“you better!” alexia points at you with a giggle.

salma appeared next, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “we need you back,” she said dramatically. “the pitch is boring without you.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “don’t worry. four weeks. i’ll be back.”

the celebrations swirled around you, but your attention drifted to esmee. she was near the coach, talking animatedly with jana. you started toward her, wanting to check in, but before you could get close, she looked at you before she turned and walked over to bruna instead.

the sting of being ignored was sharp, but you tried to push it down. vicky caught you before you could dwell on it too long, teasing you about your ankle boot. “looking stylish,” she said, smirking as she tapped your boot that definitely didn’t go with your dr.marten 8053s on your other foot. 

��jealous?” you shot back. 

“i can let you borrow it.”

“tempting,” she replied with a laugh. “but i think i’ll pass.”

the banter lifted your mood for a moment, but it didn’t last. esmee’s avoidance lingered in the back of your mind, a nagging ache you couldn’t ignore. 

you caught ingrid watching you from across the pitch, her expression thoughtful. she walked over, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. 

“es is upset about the yellow card,” ingrid said softly. 

“she’ll open up soon.”

you shook your head, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. 

“she seems fine with bruna and jana, but she won’t even look at me.”

ingrid opened her mouth to respond, but you didn’t wait to hear it. “i’m just gonna go,” you muttered, brushing past her and heading toward the tunnel. 

back in the lounge, you grabbed a bottle of water and sank into a chair, your thoughts swirling. the celebrations felt distant now, overshadowed by the uncertainty gnawing at your chest. 

you hated feeling this way—unsure, disconnected, like something was wrong but you couldn’t fix it. why is my girlfriend pushing me away? you overanalyzed. 

after a while, you decided to head to the locker room. the team was already inside, changing and chatting as the post-game energy began to fade. you didn’t bother changing, still comfortable in your outfit. instead, you stood by your locker, watching the others with a quiet sort of detachment. 

“i’m heading home,” you announced, your voice cutting through the chatter. 

“already?” vicky asked, frowning. 

you nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah. i’m tired. see you guys later.” 

you didn’t look at esmee as you left, but you felt her eyes on you, a confused sort of weight that followed you out the door. 

the night air was cool as you stepped outside, the streets of barcelona quieting as the city settled into the late hours. as you walked to your car, your thoughts drifted back to esmee—her avoidance, the tension you couldn’t quite name. 

you told yourself to give her space, to let her come to you when she was ready. as you drove home, the ache in your chest lingered, heavier than before. 

before you were able to park outside of your apartment complex, you got a text on your phone. 

esmee: can i come over? 

you look at it, yearning for your girlfriend who ignored you earlier. maybe she might explain herself if she came over, you knew that communication was important, even if esmee forgot earlier. 

y/n: yes. 

next chapter

[silksufjan]

ik aftg is fictional but with a sport as violent as exy i feel like you’d see a lot more non mafia related injuries. where are the foxes’ physical therapist(s)? knee and ankle braces? concussion testing? kt tape? ice baths? mouth guards?

if i was the erc i would be pissed at wymack for only having 10 players too like even without riko moriyama killing & maiming them they’d probably have at least a few injuries throughout the season…. like lets be real david we know u have strict recruitment standards but realistically u need more subs

[webslinger-holland]

The Countdown | Hunter from The Bad Batch

Summary: When Hunter faces Hemlock for the first time, he gets put into a situation that he can't get out of.

Warning: mentions of death and injuries, medical assistance given in the form of painkillers, needles mentioned, gunshot wound and blood, traumatic read (be warned)

Pairing: Hunter x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3k words

Type: Oneshot

Nothing had gone to plan. In an attempted rescue mission on Eriadu, Tech bravely sacrificed himself for the safety of the rest of the group with Plan 99. Now, back on Ord Mantell, the remaining members were left to deal with the aftermath.

Each of them sporting their own injuries after the railway car crash. All of them left to bear the weight of grief that consumed their every waking thought. None of them strong enough to push on any longer, especially being down a member.

In one of the booths, AZ was given the task of tending to some of Y/n's wounds. He injected a shot of a fast acting painkiller into the meat of her thigh, ignoring the way she winced at the feeling of a needle piercing her skin. He proceeded to wrap some gauze around an open wound which had already been disinfected.

In the background, Wrecker was perched on one of the stools at the bar. He kept his movements to a minimal given the extent of his injuries. He wore a brace around his neck which he managed to sprain in the crash.

"Here. This one's on the house," Cid spoke quietly. She slid him a drink.

"It won't help," Wrecker sighed, sparing a brief glance down into the cup.

"I'm sorry about Goggles," Cid confessed. "I always liked him."

"Yeah," Wrecker agreed. "Me too."

What drew Y/n back to her own reality was the feeling of AZ swiftly tugging and tying the gauze around her bicep. He swiveled back to glance over his work, coming to the conclusion that she was now fully attended to.

"You will need to rest if you are to recover quickly. That being said: all of your injuries are now accounted for and tended to," AZ said rather factually.

"Thanks," Y/n mumbled almost too quiet to hear.

The droid left her alone in the booth, heading into the backroom to check up on his other patients. Now, the three of them were all that remained in the front of the house.

In the midst of the grief stricken silence, Cid seemed to appear on edge. Her arms were crossed over her chest, but her claw like finger was tapping rapidly on her arm. It was like she was anxious about something. And Wrecker noticed it.

"What's with you?" Wrecker questioned.

"You know, I tried to look out for you boys. But you got too much heat on you. And you brought it here to my place of business," Cid tried to explain herself. "I had to make the best of a bad situation," Cid claimed.

Wrecker sat up a little straighter. "What did you do?" He growled.

"Sorry Muscles," Cid apologized in advance.

At this point, it was too late to do anything in retaliation. The front door opened to reveal a group of clone commandos with their blasters drawn. They tried to stun him, but he was able to put up a fight before being taken down.

By the time Wrecker's knees hit the ground, Y/n jumped out of her seat and yanked her own blaster out. She raised it to fire two shots at the troopers, striking one of them directly in the chest. Only problem was that it wasn't enough to take them down. They quickly stunned her too, but not before she was able to call out:

"Hunter!"

In the back office, Hunter had heard the fight his brother was putting up. He moved quickly in an attempt to get Omega to safety. He instructed her to leave the establishment through the tunnel system and to find Echo as soon as she could.

It was only when he heard his name being called that he felt his blood run cold and a chilled shiver dropped down his spine. He drew his own blaster, ready to put up the fight of his life despite his injuries.

With great caution, Hunter exited the back office with his blaster raised. He rounded the corner half expecting there to be more clone troopers headed his way. His steps were silent.

Upon rounding the last corner, Hunter caught sight of the scene laid out before him. There were ten clone commandoes standing behind Wrecker and Y/n with their blasters pointed directly at their heads. They were both kneeling on the floor in handcuffs. And Dr Hemlock took center stage.

"That's not very strategic, Hunter. You don't need to use your enhanced senses to know you're outnumbered," Dr Hemlock commented calmly.

The enhanced clone took a couple steps further in the room with his blaster still targeted. The surroundings clones kept their own blasters raised in defense, waiting for one wrong move for permission to fire.

"The Empire thanks you for your assistance," Dr Hemlock spoke to the trandoshan beside him whilst handing her a case of credits.

She took the case from him, but she avoided the glares coming from the two clones. She kept her head low and felt the strong sense of guilt weighing heavy on her shoulders.

"Our business is done. Leave," Dr Hemlock ordered. She obeyed immediately.

Hunter could only glare at her retreating figure before directing his gaze back towards the man in front of him. He refused to lower his blaster.

"Please. Consider your next move very carefully," Dr Hemlock directed. He threw a brief glance over his shoulder. "I would hate for this to end poorly for both of you."

"Hunter," Y/n spoke up in a tone of desperation. His ears perked up and his gaze shifted down to her. "Whatever he says, don't listen to--"

She was quickly silenced as a mechanical device was placed over her mouth by one of the clone commandos. She tried to protest in the process, but it muffled her words. It locked around the backside of her head, silencing her completely.

Now Hunter could practically hear the blood beginning to boil in his veins. His jaw tightened at the sight of those other clones putting their hands on her and he readjusted the grip he held on his blaster.

"Here is how this is going to go: You will lower your blaster and hand over Omega. And I will allow you to keep breathing," Dr Hemlock explained rather calmly.

"Omega's not going anywhere with you," Hunter claimed.

"Oh," Dr Hemlock sighed. He tipped his head to the side as if observing something odd. "Well, who knew clones were so paternal?"

Hunter's demeanor seemed to soften slightly.

"Fascinating," Dr Hemlock commented to himself.

Despite Hunter's orders to leave, Omega crawled through the vent system above the establishment with the droid trailing directly behind her. She came to the open vent, peering through the metal slats to watch everything unfold in front of her.

"I was saddened to learn of your friend's demise," Omega overheard Dr Hemlock. "What was his name? Oh yes...Tech," Dr Hemlock smirked.

Hearing that name only caused Wrecker to growl in pure anger. He struggled against the bonds around his wrists, but the clone commandos pressed the tips of their blasters into his sides. He ultimately forced himself to remain composed.

Dr Hemlock lifted his hand. One of the commandos proceeded to hand him a pair of broken goggles that unmistakably belonged to their beloved deceased brother.

"I'm afraid this was all I could salvage," Dr Hemlock ran his thumb over the broken lens. "Consider it a gift," he added.

Rather recklessly, Dr Hemlock tossed the pair of damaged goggles and the goggles clattered across the floor. They landed right in front of their leader's feet to which he only briefly glanced down at them.

"To lose one of your own, it must weigh heavily on you as their leader," Dr Hemlock was able to read him like a book. He knew exactly what his weakness was and he was going to keep pressing it until it broke him.

The clone commandoes roughly shoved their pointed blasters into the sides of the two kneeling on the floor. While Wrecker grumbled and growled at them, Y/n let out a soft whimper of pain since they pressed against the wound on her arm. The little sound she made was enough for Hunter's heart to clench.

"And if you don't lower the blaster now, you will lose yet another," Dr Hemlock gave him no other choice.

When Hunter directed their gaze towards them, Wrecker tried to shake his head as if to say 'no.' She glanced up at him with tears gathering in her eyes.

With some hesitation, Hunter began to lower his blaster in a slow manner. He raised his other hand in defense, lowering himself to the kneel on the ground. He placed the blaster down and reached for his brother's goggles, overridden with grief over his loss.

"Wise decision," Dr Hemlock complimented.

Now, two clone commandoes came around the two sides of him. They quickly brought his two hands in front of him, placing a secure pair of handcuffs around his wrists. The commandoes pulled him to his feet and kept him stationed there.

Another clone commando had gone into the back office in search of the young clone. He would return momentarily to report his findings to the doctor in charge. He stood at attention.

"Sir, the girl's not in the office."

"She's long gone," Hunter finally spoke up. "Like I said, Omega's not going anywhere with you."

"We'll see," Dr Hemlock said calmly and with a slight crooked smile on his face.

When Hemlock lifted his hand, a clone commando swiftly placed a small hand blaster into his grasp. He lowered his gaze to observe the weapon with care, tilting it from one side to the other. He clicked the safety on the side, removing the stun which caused Hunter to tense under the commandoes hold.

"You are going to tell me where Omega has gone or..." Hemlock's voice trailed off.

As if on cue, two more clone commandos quickly dragged the muffled hostage into the center of the room. They stepped back into line. The doctor pressed the tip of the blaster into the side of her head, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut in fear.

In that exact moment, Hunter felt his whole world come to a screeching halt. The cold hand of fear began to grip at his chest, squeezing at his heart until it felt like he couldn't breath anymore. It made him seize up because there was nothing he could do to stop him right now.

"She dies," Hemlock explained plainly. "You have ten seconds."

He heard his own blood pumping through his veins, muffling any sound coming through his ears and leaving a sharp ringing sound in place. His gaze drifted down to stare into those helpless eyes, which were begging him to save her and also begging him to not say anything.

"One," Hemlock began. He refused to lower his blaster.

In response, Hunter forced himself to swallow the heavy lump lingering at the back of his throat. He didn't know what to do and he didn't know what to say. He ran through the possible outcomes if he played his cards right.

All the while, Hemlock only seemed to study his posture under a watchful eye. He could tell by his stance alone that he was trying to come up with a solution. From the way his throat bobbed, to how a single bead of sweat slid down his face, to how his hands shook slightly. All of that told him he was panicking on the inside.

"Two," Hemlock pressed. He enjoyed watching him squirm.

When Hunter glanced down at his blaster on the ground, one of the clone commandos took initiative to kick it far away from him. He was running out of options and he was running out of time.

"Hey," Hunter spoke to get her attention. He looked directly into her worried gaze. "It's gonna be okay. I'm going to get you out of this, do you understand?"

Despite her soft whimpers and tears running down her cheeks, she nodded her head understandingly. It pained him even more to hear how rapidly her heart was beating and how shallow her breathing had become. He sent her a weak smile.

"Three," Dr Hemlock was growing impatient.

"Listen," Hunter addressed him by shifting his gaze. "Talk to me. We can talk. Just put the blaster down. I won't negotiate like this," Hunter explained with a shake of the head.

"That's your choice," Dr Hemlock shrugged. He wouldn't relent. "Four."

A brief flash of fear overtook his senses. His mouth parted ever so slightly. He came to another solution. "Listen. S--She's already gone. I told her to go to Coruscant. It's a big enough city for her to hide in. You'll never find her ther--"

"She's not headed to Coruscant. Five," Hemlock easily called his bluff.

In response, Hunter jolted forward in his place in an attempt to lash out. The commandoes beside him were quick to retain him, holding onto his arms tightly. He glared at the man standing in front of him, feeling that strong sense of anger rising.

Now Y/n had to close her eyes because she couldn't stand to see him acting to reckless. She wasn't sure how this was all going to play out and she cursed to herself for feeling even the smallest amount of fear. The blaster pressed against the side of her head remained there.

"If you do this--" Hunter's voice trailed off. He was seething at this point. He clenched his hands into tight fists. "If kill her, you get nothing from me--"

"Six," Hemlock interrupted him.

"Listen to me," Hunter ordered roughly. He started to threaten him, which was another mistake. "The only way you're going to get what you want is if you listen to--"

But Hunter was unable to finish his sentence. The doctor quickly lowered his blaster to point it at her leg. He fired a single shot that went directly through the meat of her thigh. She let out a muffled scream and keened over slightly in her place, feeling the pain streaming through her leg almost instantly.

"No!" Hunter screamed and flinched upon hearing the loud blaster shot ring out. He jolted forward again, but was held back by the commandoes.

In the vents, Omega had to slap her hands over her mouth to stop herself from gasping too loudly. She didn't realize how she'd been shaking too, fearful of how this was going to play out.

"Seven," Hemlock counted calmly. He repeated it. "Seven."

The doctor knew exactly what he wanted and he wasn't going to change his mind about how he was going to attain that information anytime soon.

The room fell silent once again. The only thing that could be heard was the soft muffled sobs coming from her. She squeezed her eyes shut in hopes of blocking out the pulsing pain in her leg. A few loose tears slipped down the sides of her face. She tried to keep her breathing steadily, but it was becoming harder and harder with each second.

"Honey?" Hunter called out to her softly. "Honey, look at me."

She weakly lifted her head up to look at him. The loose strands of hair fell to frame her pained face. Her eyes were puffy and red from the crying. Her weakened state shown in her expression. She was loosing blood and would likely pass out soon if she didn't get help.

He blatantly ignored the doctor, which only seemed to irritate him more. Right now, Hunter tried to make it clear to her that it was just the two of them.

"That's my girl," Hunter sighed with a weak smile. He stared deeply into her eyes as if trying to communicate something silently. "You're going to be okay. I know it hurts. But I'm going to get you out of this."

"That's a bold promise to make, Hunter. I hope you can keep it for her sake. Eight," Hemlock reminded him of what little time he had left. He kept his blaster trained to the side of her head.

Realizing he was nearly out of options, Hunter squeezed his eyes shut as if he was trying to wake up from this horrible nightmare. He swallowed thickly, opening his eyes once again. He looked towards the doctor, silently pleading with him.

"Please," Hunter began to beg. "Don't do this. Let her go."

"Nine," Hemlock stood his ground.

Hearing this only made her start panicking. She could no longer control her breathing, beginning the initial stages of hyperventilating. Her heart was beating so loud that it blocked the noises coming from the room. The fear that she felt overtook her senses and bled directly into her thoughts.

And Hunter could tell she was panicking. So he had no other choice but to cave in.

"She's gone," Hunter confessed. "She's long gone. I told her to get out of here. I--I don't know where she went, but I am telling you the truth."

There was a beat of silence between them. The doctor studied him carefully as if trying to determine if he was telling the truth or not.

"Please," Hunter's voice cracked which showed his desperation and brokenness. His hands lifted in defense. "Don't hurt her. She's everything to me."

She smiled weakly upon hearing his words.

For a brief moment, Dr Hemlock contemplated his words carefully. He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes to study him further. He slowly began to lower his blaster, which sent a wave of relief through the sergeant.

Hemlock lifted the blaster once again. "Ten."

The fatal shot rang through the entire establishment.

"NO!" Hunter's scream was louder than the sound of the body hitting the floor. He collapsed to his knees, keeping his eyes trained on the lifeless form in front of him.

In the vents, Omega had jumped back from the opening she had been peering through. Her hands shot up to cover her mouth once again. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the sight she had just witnessed. The tears flowed freely from her as the reality began to settle in. She'd lost another member of her squad.

[ottawa-physiotherapy-sport]

Physiotherapist Jobs and the Role of Knee Braces in Sports Injury Recovery

Sports injuries, especially to the knee, are a common challenge athletes face, and the road to recovery can be complex. Physiotherapists play a pivotal role in guiding athletes back to their peak condition through evidence-based techniques and tools, such as sports injury knee braces. In Ottawa, physiotherapists are in high demand, given the rise in athletic programs, recreational sports, and fitness trends. As a trusted brand in sports recovery, OPTSC is committed to supporting physiotherapists and athletes with quality products and expert guidance.

Physiotherapist Jobs in Ottawa: A Booming Field

In Ottawa, the demand for physiotherapists specializing in sports injury recovery has surged. Athletes, whether amateur or professional, often require comprehensive rehabilitation, and physiotherapy provides the framework for restoring mobility and strength. This demand has resulted in numerous physiotherapist job opportunities across clinics, hospitals, and athletic centers in Ottawa.

Why Ottawa Is Ideal for Physiotherapists

Ottawa is a growing hub for sports and fitness, with facilities for hockey, soccer, running, and recreational fitness widely available. Sports injuries, particularly to the knee, occur frequently, leading to a high demand for physiotherapists with specialized skills. In fact, Physiotherapist Jobs Ottawa has become a popular search, as practitioners and graduates are drawn to the diverse opportunities and resources the city offers for career growth. For physiotherapists in Ottawa, a deep understanding of the tools and techniques involved in injury recovery—like Sports Injury Knee Brace—enhances their ability to help patients recover effectively and efficiently.

Understanding Knee Injuries and the Role of Physiotherapists

Knee injuries are among the most common sports injuries, often caused by sudden twisting movements, falls, or overuse. The knee’s complex structure makes it susceptible to ligament tears, sprains, and strains. Recovery can be lengthy, requiring targeted rehabilitation to avoid future complications.

Physiotherapists help athletes regain full function by designing individualized treatment plans focusing on strengthening, balance, and mobility. Often, knee braces are integrated into these plans as an essential aid for recovery.

Key Responsibilities of Physiotherapists in Knee Injury Rehabilitation

Physiotherapists are trained to assess the type and severity of knee injuries and prescribe tailored exercises for gradual recovery. Some of the critical aspects of a physiotherapist's role in knee injury recovery include:

Initial Assessment and Diagnosis: Physiotherapists begin by understanding the injury's mechanics and pinpointing any damaged ligaments, tendons, or muscles around the knee.

Customized Treatment Plans: Based on the diagnosis, they develop exercise regimens that gradually improve strength, stability, and flexibility.

Incorporating Knee Braces: Sports injury knee braces are often used to stabilize the knee, providing additional support and preventing unnecessary strain during physical activity.

Monitoring and Adjusting: Throughout the recovery process, physiotherapists adjust treatment plans based on the patient’s progress, ensuring that all exercises align with the goal of full recovery.

How Knee Braces Aid in Sports Injury Recovery

A sports injury knee brace is a commonly prescribed tool in the physiotherapy field for supporting and stabilizing the knee joint during recovery. These braces serve multiple functions, from limiting harmful movement to providing external stability.

Types of Knee Braces for Sports Injuries

Physiotherapists often recommend specific types of knee braces based on the nature of the injury:

Prophylactic Braces: Designed to protect the knee from injuries, these braces are often worn in sports where knee injuries are common. While not for injury treatment, they play a role in preventing further damage, especially during recovery.

Functional Braces: Used post-injury, functional braces offer support for patients with ligament instability, particularly after ACL injuries. These braces stabilize the knee, helping athletes regain confidence and balance as they return to their activities.

Rehabilitative Braces: These braces restrict knee movement after surgeries or severe injuries. They are essential in the initial phases of recovery, allowing the knee to heal without risking further damage.

Unloader Braces: Typically used for arthritis-related pain, unloader braces can relieve pressure on specific areas of the knee, promoting more comfortable movement.

Benefits of Using Knee Braces for Sports Injury Recovery

Stabilization and Support: Knee braces provide stability, helping patients regain control over their movements. This can be especially helpful for athletes who may fear returning to sports after injury.

Pain Reduction: By limiting unnecessary movement, knee braces can reduce pain and prevent aggravation of the injury, making exercises more manageable.

Confidence in Recovery: Many athletes struggle with the fear of re-injury. A well-fitted knee brace provides reassurance, helping them return to sports with confidence.

Promoting Proper Movement: Knee braces support correct posture and movement patterns, minimizing the risk of compensation injuries as patients work to regain full knee function.

Physiotherapist's Approach to Using Knee Braces in Ottawa

In Ottawa, physiotherapists are trained to assess when a knee brace is necessary and how it should be integrated into an athlete's recovery plan. As part of the OPTSC team, physiotherapists are dedicated to utilizing the best tools and techniques for optimal recovery outcomes.

Initial Consultation and Assessment

During the first consultation, physiotherapists evaluate the injury and determine the need for a knee brace. Key factors include the injury’s type, severity, and the patient’s activity level. They may also consider whether the patient plans to return to sports or engage in daily physical activity that stresses the knee joint.

Choosing the Right Knee Brace

OPTSC supplies a range of knee braces tailored to various recovery needs, making it easier for physiotherapists to recommend the most suitable brace. A professional assessment allows the physiotherapist to determine the appropriate brace based on the injury type and recovery goals, ensuring that the patient benefits from optimal support.

Integrating the Knee Brace into Recovery Plans

Once the knee brace is chosen, physiotherapists incorporate it into the patient’s treatment regimen. The goal is to aid recovery without creating a reliance on the brace. Physiotherapists will often use the brace in the initial stages and gradually reduce its use as the patient regains strength and stability.

Monitoring Progress and Adjusting as Needed

Throughout the recovery, physiotherapists closely monitor progress and make necessary adjustments to the treatment plan. As knee strength improves, the use of the brace may be minimized, eventually leading to brace-free movement as the patient approaches full recovery.

Career Path for Physiotherapists in Ottawa

The field of physiotherapy offers rewarding career opportunities, especially for those passionate about sports injury recovery. Physiotherapists in Ottawa can work in various settings, including sports clinics, hospitals, private practices, and rehabilitation centers. Many pursue further specialization in orthopedics or sports rehabilitation, where they can make a meaningful impact on athletes' lives.

Skills and Qualifications for Physiotherapists

To succeed in the role, physiotherapists need a blend of technical skills and a deep understanding of injury mechanisms. A solid foundation in anatomy, physiology, and biomechanics is crucial, as is expertise in modern recovery tools such as knee braces. For those interested in physiotherapist jobs in Ottawa, OPTSC recommends exploring opportunities with reputable clinics and staying updated on the latest advancements in sports rehabilitation.

The Role of OPTSC in Supporting Ottawa’s Physiotherapists

OPTSC is committed to equipping physiotherapists with top-quality knee braces and other rehabilitation products to enhance recovery outcomes. We understand the challenges that sports injuries pose to athletes and the essential role physiotherapists play in restoring function and confidence. Our products are designed to meet the needs of Ottawa’s growing community of physiotherapists, supporting them in delivering high-standard care and enabling athletes to return to their passions.

Conclusion

Physiotherapists specializing in sports injury recovery play a vital role in helping athletes overcome knee injuries. In Ottawa, where the demand for physiotherapists is growing, career opportunities are vast and varied. Knee braces are a valuable tool in physiotherapy, providing stability, reducing pain, and building confidence during the recovery journey.

For athletes recovering from knee injuries, working with a skilled physiotherapist and utilizing high-quality tools like those from OPTSC can make a significant difference in their recovery outcomes. Whether you’re a patient seeking support or a physiotherapist exploring job opportunities in Ottawa, the combined expertise of OPTSC and local physiotherapy professionals can make a meaningful impact in the world of sports rehabilitation.

[octuscle]

New year but old life. Working every day and wondering 'what if'. Chronivac Support do you have an offer for transforming everything? I look for an athlete-life like a soccer, an icehockey or a football player.

Dude, a new year, a new life…. Who wouldn't want that…? What if you could start all over again? A life in which you don't have to regret any of your previous decisions. A life in which you don't have to make any life-or-death decisions. A life in which you have every opportunity!

You sit at your desk and go through documents. One of your clients wants to take over a competitor. And now there are a million details to be clarified. The fact that you'll hardly get any sleep over the next few days is as certain as the Amen in church. Suddenly the screen blurs before your eyes. What on earth is that? Shit, it's been a long time… Linear algebra? That's math homework! You look up from the screen. This is not your office. This is a child's room… Or more a teenager's room. It looks a bit like what you imagine a boarding school to look like. Plastic furniture, everything a bit sterile. Posters of footballers on the walls. Shit, how did you get here? You stand up and almost trip over your suit trousers, which slip down to the back of your knees. You literally sink into your jacket, which is far too big. You get out of your clothes, which turn into a tracksuit on the floor behind you. Your underpants become sports shorts, your shirt a mesh tank top. Your tie becomes a solid silver chain. By the time you reach the mirror, your feet are wearing size 13 white, no longer quite clean soccer socks. You look in the mirror and freeze. A slim, well-trained young man, perhaps only 18 years old, is looking back at you. Your hair is styled in a radical fashionable undercut. And invisible braces on your bleached teeth. Shit, yes, you have pimples. And hardly any hair on your balls. But damn, you look good.

There are newspaper articles glued to the frame of the mirror. They write about "exceptional talent". About your injury break. About your selection for the DFB U19 squad. And there's a card from your parents saying how proud they are of their big boy. Shit, sometimes you get really homesick here at the sports boarding school. But you've already got your first contract as a professional footballer. The future is open to you. And believe me, your life is changing so dynamically that "new year, but old life" will certainly no longer apply next year.

[thesilliestrovingalive]

Updated: December 15, 2024

Reworked Character #4: Fio Germi

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to death, alcoholism, and SA.

Real name: Fiolina Hortensia Germi

Alias: Teatime in the Battlefield

Occupation: Master Sergeant of the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. and the lead medical technician of the Regular Army’s special forces

Retirement plans: Become a sports doctor and astrophysicist, open up a bakery, and start a family

Special skills: Chiropractic and massage therapy, knowledge in military medicine, housework, acupuncture, and astronomy

Hobbies: All types of sewing (hand sewing, machine sewing, embroidery, and quilting), ballroom dancing, giving her friends massages, cooking delicious meals and enjoying it on a picnic outside, and frequenting petting zoos, nature reserves, and art and outer space museums

Likes: Peppino, being in Tarma’s arms, the beauty of nature, baking cakes and other sweet treats, and reading books on the stars and constellations

Dislikes: Scolding hot and freezing cold baths, the time she had to wear orthodontic braces, insects and creepy crawlies, sneezing on the battlefield, and thunder

Favourite food: Homemade sandwiches and gelato

Favourite drink: Iced tea (preferably Queen Mary)

Sexuality: Heteroromantic demisexual

Gender: Female

Age: 15 (in 2022), 21 (in 2028), 23 (in 2030), 25 (in 2032), 27 (in 2034), 34 (in 2041), 36 (in 2043), 37 (in 2044), and 40 (in 2047)

Blood type: O+

Weight: 145 lbs. (66 kg)

Design: She’s a 5’ 2” (157.48 cm) Italian mesomorph with sloping shoulders, upper arms that carry some of her weight, a bit of belly fat, voluptuous breasts and hips, and prominent thighs. She has olive skin, droopy blue-grey eyes, and brownish freckles scattered across her face and neck. Fio has straight, slightly messy orangish-brown hair that falls just above the middle of her upper back, framed by blunt bangs and chin-length, layered sides. However, she typically wears it tied up in a ponytail. Her fingernails are painted an English lavender hue, and she wears thick, winged dark brown eyeliner, a soft rosy red blush on her cheeks and nose, and cherry blossom pink lip gloss. As a result of battle injuries and her own clumsiness, she bears a bullet wound near the centre of her left calf and numerous cut marks, stab scars, and scrapes on her arms and legs.

Her military gear consists of polarised, silver-plated transition lens eyeglasses, a metal dog tag necklace with her name, and a cordovan Eisenhower jacket. She wears a pink lavender T-shirt with a dogwood rose stripe running along the front and a carmine bra underneath. She wears carmine gloves and a gold-buckled leather belt to secure her ebony army cargo shorts, which fall just above her knees. She also wears ebony paratrooper boots, dogwood rose knee and elbow pads, and over-the-calf bittersweet shimmer socks. She has a khaki waist pack attached to the back of her belt, which carries her nail polish, lip gloss, eyeliner, two makeup brushes (a large one and a small one), a makeup sponge, and a powder blush palette. She wears a leather sheath for her hatchet, a gun holster for her handgun, and a holder for her tonfa.

The pockets of Fio's Eisenhower jacket carry around an embroidered cockade of Italy pin and a Ventolin inhaler. It carries a wooden calico Japanese Bobtail maneki-neko figurine, which is a gift from Eri. The figurine wears a metallic green collar with a red stripe and a gilt-brass bell. Its right arm is raised, and its left paw holds a koban coin. It also carries a metallic green mystery watch with a transparent crystal dial that showcases black hands in the centre of a crimson inverted triangle. Shimmering saffron-yellow Roman numerals, ranging from I to XII, are positioned around the dial, separated by three dots each. The pockets of her army cargo shorts carry a canister of pepper spray, a bottle of azithromycin pills, and a bottle of specialised prescription supplements specifically designed to manage her cystic fibrosis.

Over her T-shirt, she dons a Soldier Plate Carrier System (SPCS) with a MultiCam pattern, which carries her walkie-talkie and ammo for other firearms. Her black ammunition bandolier is slung over her right shoulder, and the back of her Eisenhower jacket features an embroidered S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. logo. Fio carries an ebony load-bearing backpack containing camping equipment, fire bombs, stones, portable ammo boxes, a canteen full of water, and a picnic basket filled with prepared sandwiches. She also carries her latest sewing project and its accompanying supplies, a Hexagon Arms M-3685, a cat o' nine tails whip, medical supplies, a scientific telescope, and Peppino, her greyish-brown teddy bear with purple eyes and a pearlescent blue bowtie.

She always wears a pair of teardrop-shaped pink opal earrings and a gold chain necklace featuring a red coral cornicello amulet, believed to ward off bad luck and bring good fortune. She wears a khaki army cap, once worn by her father during his military service, with the Regular Army insignia emblazoned on the front. Additionally, she wears a rosy pink armband on her left arm, featuring an European bee-eater perched on an olive branch at its centre.

Character summary: She's initially reserved and timid around strangers but warms up and opens up once she becomes familiar with new people. She's a compassionate, considerate, and overly cautious listener who's really good with children and lends everyone a generous helping hand. She's sensitive and unafraid to show her true emotions, often engaging in introspective thought. She possesses a steadfast commitment to justice, having no tolerance for individuals who seek to stir up strife, and is slow to forgive those who inflict harm on others for their own selfish purposes. Despite her quiet and calm demeanour, she's surprisingly prone to stress and anxiety, particularly when confronted with obnoxious noises, unwanted physical contact or situations where she can't escape. Even though she's a seasoned warrior, she harbours an intense fear of insects and creepy crawlies, often resorting to hiding behind Tarma, Marco or Eri and insisting they handle the situation. On occasion, she displays an almost childlike naivety and exuberance, typically after completing a mission or while off duty.

She's a very friendly and gentle clean freak who'll do anything to help out her family, friends, comrades, and those in need. She prepares all her meals with love and dedication, considering others' likes and dislikes, hoping they'll enjoy what she's made. When talking to others, she often uses lively hand gestures and animated facial expressions to emphasise certain ideas. She gets easily flustered by compliments and flirtatious advances, blushing deeply and becoming nearly speechless. She's a somewhat superstitious person, believing in things like placing one's hat on a bed being a sign of bad luck for homeowners and spilling salt being a harbinger of financial troubles. She's a nature-loving girl who's incredibly clever and always thinks optimistically. She's a great strategist who excels in keep-away tactics. However, she often pushes people away due to fear and isn't the most skilled fighter, but can fight when necessary.

Whenever she's faced with the death of a child, a comrade or friend being severely injured, being touched inappropriately or being rudely insulted, her face darkens. She becomes cold-hearted and deadly serious, and her tactical prowess shines through most. She's quite curious around strangers, nervously trailing them and asking a few questions to get to know them. Despite cherishing the importance of friendship, she sometimes feels isolated by her exceptional intelligence, privileged upbringing, and cystic fibrosis. She values maintaining a healthy work-life balance and prioritising her time with loved ones, holding both in higher regard than success. She believes that living in or exploring beautiful places helps her become a better person by gaining a deeper appreciation of the world around her.

She originally harboured romantic feelings for Marco, but they dissipated after he disclosed that he isn't interested in romantic and sexual relationships. Her affections eventually shifted to Tarma, whom she found charming due to his silliness, emotional intelligence, Hokkaido dialect, the soothing sound of his voice, pleasant smile, and knack for building professional motorcycles. She finds immense comfort in Tarma's presence and often offers him solace when he's having a rough day or struggling with self-doubt.

After her romantic relationship with him fully blossoms, she forms an exceptionally close physical and emotional bond with him. However, her tendency to become overly attached manifests at times, especially when feelings of fear or loneliness arise. Despite being in a romantic relationship with Tarma, she maintains a non-possessive attitude, unconcerned if he flirts or sleeps with other women and men, considering it his personal freedom. However, she does prefer openness and honesty, ensuring that he communicates with her about his actions. She sometimes gets into debates with Tarma about what they should or shouldn't do, but she usually remains polite and calm, focusing on finding a solution that benefits both of them rather than worrying about negative consequences. After a debate, she often apologises to Tarma and follows up with a hug.

She eventually enters into a polyamorous queerplatonic relationship with Marco and Tarma, which she deeply cherishes and further satisfies her craving for emotional intimacy. She's displeased when Nadia takes advantage of her kindness to avoid responsibilities. However, she appreciates Nadia's help with dessert-making, although Fio often has to bribe her by offering something equally sweet or letting her have the largest share of a batch to persuade her to lend a hand. She's frustrated by Eri's overprotectiveness, especially when it comes to Tarma, as it reminds her of her father's behaviour and makes her feel like she's being treated like a child. She finds Red Eye to be an incredibly intimidating person, despite their relatively friendly relationship, which occasionally involves sharing a cup of tea together.

When she's reached her limit, feels threatened or needs to express her authentic feelings about something that gets under her skin, she's capable of standing up for herself and making her voice heard. She rarely swears, but when someone's pushed her too far, she'll unleash a stern reprimand, peppered with profanities in Italian. She's unconcerned by Marco's and others' opinions that carrying Peppino is childish because the teddy bear provides her with personal comfort and solace, particularly when she's anxious or sad. Ever since meeting Ralf, who encouraged her to try new things, she has mustered the courage to pursue thrilling experiences and enjoy them to the fullest, even if they carry some risk.

She's not fond of drinking alcohol due to its bitter taste and intoxicating effects, which make her feel nauseous and slightly nervous. However, on rare occasions, she’ll let loose and indulge in alcohol with her friends, especially after a challenging mission. When intoxicated, she starts to act playful, flirtatious and sexually teasing towards Tarma, obnoxiously loud, agitated, and bluntly honest.

She harbours private reservations about the Regular Army's methods, particularly when it comes to neutralising perceived threats, including journalists and enemy-affiliated personnel. She acknowledges that not everyone in these groups is malicious, but rather, many are innocent individuals caught in complex circumstances. Moreover, she struggles with the nagging feeling that those closest to her have been conditioned to uncritically accept the Regular Army's moral stance, never questioning its motivations or ethics. However, she's deeply afraid to express these thoughts aloud, fearing deadly repercussions and unwilling to risk stirring up trouble or jeopardising the relationships she values. She often pushes these thoughts aside by focusing on becoming a better fighter and drawing inspiration from high-ranking individuals like Marco and Clark, whom she greatly admires.

She has a tendency to fall asleep extremely quickly at bedtime or naptime, and her loud snoring can be disruptive to others who are trying to rest or focus on important tasks in the same room. She would be heartbroken if Peppino were lost, destroyed or stolen forever, as the teddy bear has been her constant companion since birth. However, she would be overjoyed to be reunited with the original Peppino or receive a new teddy bear that's an exact replica. During warmer weather, she has a habit of lifting up her T-shirt to cool herself off, but tries to be discreet about it.

She believes that war serves no purpose other than destruction, resulting from conflicts that escalate beyond the control of free will. In her view, war profoundly alters the moral fabric of society, accelerating the advancement of weaponry and technology used in conflict. As a firm believer in virtue ethics, she thinks morality is about becoming the kind of person we truly want to be. To become a better person, people must cultivate values like honesty, bravery, justice, and generosity, leading to a morally righteous life and self-improvement. By practicing fundamental moral values, people develop the ability to make tough choices when faced with ethical dilemmas, learning to trust their instincts, listen to their conscience, and stand firm in their convictions. She holds that life is more powerful than death, continually finding innovative ways to adapt and flourish.

Backstory: Fiolina Hortensia Germi was born on October 2, 2007 in Genoa, Italy. The Germi family is renowned for their vast wealth, military service, and philanthropic endeavours. Originally merchants and nobles, they amassed their fortune in the Mediterranean region during the Age of Exploration and have since maintained their wealth, now managing various corporations and philanthropic organisations. True to their militaristic heritage, the Germis have participated in numerous conflicts, including the Napoleonic Wars of the 1800s, the Italian Unification Wars of the 19th century, and modern-day wars against terrorism worldwide. Sadly, many Germi warriors lost their lives, leading to an important family custom where the chosen heir of the Germi family must serve in the military.

Alessandro Germi, Fio's father, was a fearsome soldier in the Regular Army in his earlier years, serving alongside Fabriclus Roving. However, he was forced to leave military service after being severely injured during a shootout, which left him crippled and suffering from debilitating post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). His body bore the scars of countless battles, a testament to the wounds he had endured and the bloodshed he had witnessed on the front lines. After returning to civilian life and receiving proper support, Alessandro successfully restored his family's struggling business. He also started a family with his beloved wife, Giulietta, a talented seamstress and manager of a luxurious art museum.

Alessandro's wish was to have a healthy son as he feared that sending a daughter onto the battlefield would be a perilous ordeal. To his surprise and dismay, Giulietta gave birth to a daughter, and due to health complications, she couldn't bear any more children. Fio's mother would also experience postpartum depression after childbirth and passed down a disease that runs deep within her heritage: cystic fibrosis. Alessandro's deep-seated fears for Fio's safety often led him to become overly protective, causing tension with Giulietta, who found his helicopter parenting suffocating.

Despite her parents' mental health struggles, they went above and beyond to care for her, providing unwavering love and support. For half of her elementary school years, she was homeschooled and her parents taught her a diverse range of subjects, including mathematics. They encouraged Fio’s appreciation for friendships, the outdoors, and the finer things in life. They even fostered her love of astronomy, gifting her a scientific telescope on her 10th birthday, which she still has to this day.

Giulietta often took her on enriching outings to nature reserves and art museums, where she learned about biology and art history. Her mother also taught her the importance of domestic duties, showing her how to do her chores and clean the house. On special occasions, her mother would dress her up in pretty dresses and give her adorable animal plushies, which she still keeps.

She was bullied and exploited by the other children because of her wealthy status and overt politeness, but her father and teachers consistently intervened. As she grew, she discovered her own voice, learning to assert herself with courage and conviction. Standing up to her bullies with firm yet gentle confidence, she effectively silenced their taunts and earned respect. Like Marco, Fio excelled in all her classes, demonstrating exceptional academic prowess and a deep appreciation for effort and lifelong learning.

However, her life took a devastating turn near the end of her secondary school days. A sudden and tragic terrorist airstrike, attributed to the Ptolemaic Army, struck Genoa, Italy, claiming Giulietta among its many victims. Her father was the most affected by this loss, turning to a life of alcoholism and self-isolation. Although Alessandro still cared about Fio and tried his best to support her, his alcoholism and newfound self-isolating behaviour made it challenging for him to do so. As a result, the butler and maids who worked in the mansion frequently took care of her.

It took time for Fio and Alessandro to heal from this loss, but they remained resilient. To cope with the loss of her mother, she turned to sewing, baking, and reading books on ancient and modern medical practices. Eventually, Alessandro sought help and went to rehab and therapy to address his issues with Fio's support and encouragement. After graduation, Fio was awarded multiple awards and scholarships, which enabled her to attend university. There, she pursued an interdisciplinary course of study, exploring chiropractics, acupuncture, physics, and astronomy.

Fio would eventually express her interest in joining the military after coming across a persuasive flyer to serve in the Regular Army. This revelation horrified Alessandro, as he didn't want to send his only child off to the battlefield, risking her life. He wanted to disregard the Germi's military traditions, believing that war is repugnant and a never-ending cycle of hate and violence. Alessandro tried to deter Fio from joining, but she persisted, driven by her desire to join the fight against terrorism and protect the lives of innocent people. He reluctantly agreed and sent her off to the military at the age of 19, but attempted to minimise her risk by using his connections and friends from his own military days to secure her a desk job, hoping to keep her out of harm's way and away from the front lines.

However, everything changed when a paperwork mistake caused by militant bureaucracy resulted in Fio's transfer to the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S., a special operations branch of the Regular Army's Intelligence Agency known for carrying out high-risk missions. Surprisingly, Fio was ecstatic to hear the news as she had been eager to be deployed on the battlefield and make a real difference. In contrast, her father was furious and stormed into military headquarters, threatening officers in an attempt to prevent his daughter from being shipped to the front lines.

He would often try to extract Fio from the battlefield via a private jet, but she consistently resisted. Eventually, she had enough of his overprotectiveness and bravely told him that this was what she wanted—to fight on the battlefield and provide medical aid. She assured him that she was capable of handling herself. Alessandro finally understood and let her pursue her life as a military woman. In return, she promised to keep in touch with him after each mission, providing him with reassurance and comfort.

Like Eri, she played a crucial role in the Great Morden War by providing Marco's team with useful intel on Rebel Army positions. She even went so far as to provide them with sustenance, mainly in the form of homemade sandwiches. She also dedicated herself to providing medical support for Marco's team, which led to her being recognized as the lead medical technician of the Regular Army’s special forces.

During the Extraterrestrial Alliance Clash in Hong Kong, she was seized by a ruthless group of fanatic land troops and bikers who intended to exploit her for their twisted desires. One of the deranged fanatic land troops subjected her to unwanted physical contact, leaving her severely traumatised and more prone to anxiety. This horrific experience intensified her resentment towards the Rebel Army and those who seek to spread chaos and harm. Fortunately, Tarma intervened just in time, eliminating the Rebel Infantrymen with the SV-001. Eri quickly freed her from the ropes that bound her arms and ankles.

Her countless battles against worldwide criminality, terrorism, and corruption enabled her to rapidly rise through the ranks, becoming the Master Sergeant of the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. special forces unit. However, her time in the military has taught her a harsh reality: even the good guys can't always protect the innocent or save their friends and comrades. She has witnessed many deaths and severe injuries that left people crippled and traumatised in each battle. Nevertheless, with the emotional support of friends like Eri and Tarma, she has persevered and continues fighting to this day.

[outdoorovernights]

DonJoy Performance BIONIC FULLSTOP ACL Knee Brace Review

What if you could put on a knee brace that not only supports you but also teaches your body to move more safely? The DonJoy Performance Bionic Fullstop ACL Knee Brace claims to do just that. Let’s unpack all the details, features, and benefits of this knee brace that aims to offer not just support but also a strategic advantage in preventing injury. Understanding the DonJoy Performance Bionic…

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 1

Brainwashing

CW: brainwashing (pre-brainwashing technically, these are early stages), referenced child abuse, sports injury

Summary:

When Jamie's career is still in its early stages, one of his teammates witnesses his dad's abuse. Unfortunately that teammate is Zava.

Here on ao3

“You do not need to put up with this.”

Jamie righted himself quickly, trying to hide his wince. With a quick swipe of his eyes, he turned to defend himself, discarded shoe at the ready, only to realise it wasn’t his father who stood behind him this time.

Cold horror filled his chest.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snapped. His eyes darted around the treatment room, but if there were somewhere to hide, he would’ve found it ten minutes ago. The corner of his lip throbbed from what had been a quick but brutal slap. He wasn’t sure yet if it’d bruise, but the residual heat felt like a neon sign to anyone who looked.

Zava, the Zava, stood in the doorway watching him, his head cocked as he studied Jamie like one of those evil Australian birds with the necks.

“That man, he is your father?”

Shame curled under his skin; an ugly flush sprung up to his cheeks.

“None of your business, is it?” he spat. He leaned down to fetch the other shoe from where it’d missed his face and smacked against the far wall. Even that small movement made his knee sing in agony, fingers shaking as he snagged the laces. “Don’t you have post-match incense to light or something? Or a shower? Your man bun’s looking a bit flaccid there.”

Zava ignored him the same way he’d ignored Jamie ever since the man arrived at City four months ago. “You are ashamed.”

“Fuck off.”

“He is upset because you did not play long enough for his liking.”

“Are you fucking deaf or something?” Jamie choked; even to his own ears he sounded screechy and overemotional. He dug his nails into palms, trying to ignore the heat where it sprung behind his eyes. This was exactly the kind of behaviour his dad wouldn't tolerate. Zava was far from the first dick to catch him vulnerable and decide to poke at the bruise. This should be nothing.

The knee brace was still right on the counter where his dad had tossed it after demanding Jamie show him what was so bad that they’d had to pull him fifteen minutes into play. Only his third time starting this season too. His dad hadn’t been impressed.

“Zava agrees.”

It took Jamie a moment to catch up. When he did, he paused, knee brace forgotten in his hand. “What?”

“Zava agrees. If not for the unfortunate tackle, Zava would have preferred you to play longer. You are not unskilled.”

“Oh. Uh-,” he choked, his throat gone inexplicably dry. After months of his dad riding him, even a backhanded compliment like ‘not-unskilled’ sounded like a choir to his ears. “Thanks?”

Zava nodded in approval. For a dizzying moment, Jamie found himself struck with the need to make it happen again – only to remember that he couldn’t do shit until his knee healed.

Just his fucking luck.

Shaking himself out of his stupid, short-lived daydream, he sat down on the bench. He needed to get the brace back on. Already, the swollen joint had started to turn black around the edges, an unnerving ink blot into how long it would take to recover-

“Stretch your leg out.”

Jamie glanced up. Even disregarding the fact that Jamie still hadn’t hit his growth spurt, Zava was tall. Standing this close while he was still seated, he loomed over Jamie like a god.

Hesitant, Jamie slowly slid his leg out. He watched dumbfounded as Zava — Zava — knelt down in front of him to redo the straps. He worked quickly, professionally, the exact opposite of the irritated rage with which his dad had ripped it off.

Once it was secured, Zava worked his finger under the sides, testing and readjusting the straps.

“You are on contract with City,” he said. “Do you intend to stay after next season?”

Jamie nodded. Zava didn’t spare him a look; he appeared focused on efficiently tightening the straps. When the silence grew awkward, Jamie finally said out loud, “Yes.”

“You should not. During the summer transfer window, you should come with Zava.”

Zava did something to the brace, and Jamie hissed through his teeth as a sharp pain shot up his leg. Biting his lip was one of his habits that needed breaking, and the hot swell at the corner of his lip was the price he paid for forgetting. Jamie was certain now that it’d bloom into a bruise. His dad always got a bit heavy handed towards the end of the season – and this was the end of the season for Jamie.

Regret settling thick in his stomach, Jamie shook his head. “My knee’s fucked. Physios said I won’t even be able to train for another three months.”

Zava disregarded this. “It does not matter. Come play for Zava.”

“Mate, even if another club wanted me like this, my contract ain’t up for another year.”

“Irrelevant. Come play for Zava.”

“The fuck does that even mean?” Jamie demanded, overwhelmed and lightheaded as Zava gave one final, businesslike tug on the straps.

The hands that settled on Jamie’s knee were gentle; the stare that was levelled at him was heavy as granite and pinned him to the bench.

“It means you come with me. You leave behind the sad man with the bad aim. You come with me; you play for me. You give your life to Zava.”

The magic spray had worn off over an hour ago, and the physios still hadn’t returned with any pills. His face hurt. His eyes stung. He’d limped off the field with only two touches and a bad tackle to his name, and his teammates — the senior team he’d envied from a distance, the ones who hardly tolerated having a younger kid about anymore than his dad did — had barely clapped him off the pitch. He didn’t play enough to matter to them anyway. An entire season, and he’d only started three matches – and he’s been made to regret every one of them.

He didn’t play enough to matter to anyone. Yet.

Jamie swallowed. Out of curiosity, he asked, “Where are we going?”

Zava raised his hand. Jamie couldn’t hide his flinch in time, but the older man ignored it. With no regard for personal space, he settled his palm on Jamie’s face, right over the impression his dad had left behind.

“You do not need to know. You need only to say ‘yes’ to Zava.”

Something tilted in his head then. 

For years, Jamie had existed with a soul that felt too heavy for the skin it was supposed to ride around in. The pressure of it weighed him down, the bones in his chest squeezing and buckling under the pressure until he feared that one day it’d crush him dead in his sleep.

Whatever that weight was, wherever it had come from, it abruptly sprung loose, and for the first time in years the world felt… lighter.

Easier.

A shiver ran down his spine.

“Okay,” he said carefully, a bit scared that saying he wanted it might make the offer vanish. “Yes.”

The intensity of Zava’s stare made him feel as if he was being weighed, tested for that ugly stone inside him.

He bore the scrutiny with all the feigned strength his bony shoulders could muster up and tried to make himself a feather.

“Three more times,” said Zava. “Three more yeses. One for every time you made Zava ask. And one more for making him explain.”

That seemed fair.

“Yes,” said Jamie Tartt, eighteen and bruised, with hope flapping in his chest. “Yes, yes, yes.”

It would be the hope that killed him.

[my-castles-crumbling]

do you think i’m like justified in being a bit triggered by this okay so basically

7 months ago i dislocated my knee which caused cartilage to break off so i had to have surgery (there’s more to it but it was one of the most traumatic things i’ve ever endured)

and at college there’s like this mandatory sports thing you have to do unless ur injured and my friend has decided to fake dislocating her knee and has went out of her way to get the same brace i had and she also went to me ‘your so experienced in this teach me!!’ and it really triggered me so i asked her to maybe not do that and do smth else and she went ‘oh my god ur so dramatic it was months ago’

Hi!!

First, I'm so sorry that happened to you!

As for your friend....ngl, I've definitely faked an injury to get out of sports. I don't blame your friend for that part of it. But when you expressed your discomfort and asked her to not talk about your injury, and she invalidated your feelings, that is the part that's not okay. Because of that, I'd say she's in the wrong. She should respect your boundaries.

Naming you pizza anon!