#surgical hip replacement

[beecroft]

Orthopedic veterinary surgeons in Singapore specializing in fracture repair, TPLO surgery, spinal surgery, hip replacement, and orthopedic procedures for dogs and cats.

Web Page: https://beecroft.com.sg/beecroftsg/project-two-3amwl

[siorasurgical-post]

A Quick Guide to Myths Related to Joint Replacement | Siora Surgical

Joint replacement surgery has been a life-changing procedure for millions of people suffering from chronic joint pain and mobility issues. While medical advancements have made joint replacement surgery safer and more effective than ever before, several misconceptions still surround this procedure. These misconceptions can cause unnecessary fear and hesitation among those who could benefit from joint replacement surgery. In this blog, we aim to debunk some of the most common misconceptions associated with joint replacement surgery. To get an international standard quality range of trauma implants like Locking Plates and screws, find Experienced orthopedic manufacturers.

[ebodebo]

Hot For Teacher!

—professor!simon riley teaching anatomy… MDNI

(DISCLAIMER: in this fic, the reader is getting their master's, so reader is an adult! that said, this is still a student-professor relationship, so beware!)

"I heard he was from Germany….or somewhere."

"He's probably sooo old."

"I can't find his rate my professor anywhere!"

"I heard he only has one leg!"

Murmurs can be heard spread around the room; your fellow graduates flooded the lecture hall seats, not an empty seat out of fifty in site. They were itching with anticipation and anxiously awaiting the arrival of your new gross anatomy professor, including yourself.

You were even more nervous than when you had to present your senior thesis for your bachelor's to four of the most knowledgeable, bright minds you had ever come into contact with.

That was intimidating, but this somehow feels worse. You find yourself sinking into the squeaky plastic chair, praying that whoever walks through that door is as gracious and kind as your last professor.

Heavy steps echoed down the hallway, slowly and steadily etching closer and closer to the room you sat in. Your eyes nervously shifted up to look at the wide open front door, and you tapped your foot, restlessly, to a non-existent beat in your head.

The footsteps became louder and louder until the man finally stood in the doorway, sparing the class not even a singular glance. He steadily turned to the right and walked up to the chalkboard, back towards the class, carefully etching something onto the board with a small piece of chalk.

The murmurs around the room seized as the screeching noise of the chalk against the board bounced off the walls and went straight into everyone's eardrums.

It was a quick, illegible scribble.

He set the piece of chalk down and turned to face the class, eyes roaming around the room, allowing you to get a better look at him.

He wore a black surgical mask just below his nose, covering his lips and jaw. And, God, was he tall. He had to be at least six-two, maybe even six-four. He wore a charcoal gray button-up tight enough to display his broad shoulders and buff biceps, with kaki cargo pants that did nothing to hide his thick thighs. 

Fuck, he was hot.

"Your last professor was quite lenient," his gravelly voice echoes around the room as he begins, leaning his hip on the table before him. "Don't expect that from me."

His eyes roamed some more, and the murmurs you heard about how hot he was seized as he spoke again. "If you think this class will be easy, you're sorely mistaken. Excellence is the bare minimum I expect from each of you," he sternly says. "I don't tolerate excuses. You're in the wrong place if you can't meet the deadlines."

You didn't know the first time meeting your professor would just end up with him lecturing you about his obscure conditions and rules like this was a damn military base.

You try to remember if this course was even required for your degree: it is.

"If you miss class, don't bother returning," he continues. The mood in the room had shifted entirely. There was no excitement left; it had been completely sucked out and replaced by regret and anguish. You swore you even saw some people with their computers quickly going to your university's directory, hoping they could still withdraw from a course.

"Lastly, mediocrity has no place in here. Push yourselves or find another course," he gruffed, pushing himself off the desk he leaned on and maneuvering back over to the chalkboard.

"What are the instructions on the board?" Your eyes snapped to a random girl raising her hand adjacent to you, and you were surprised by her bravery in speaking.

The professor glanced at the girl.

“Ah, yes. These are instructions on how to withdraw from this course if you so choose," he said. "Save me the headache and you, your dignity, and withdraw now if you cannot abide by my terms," he almost seemed disinterested. "Also, you will call me Dr. Riley."

He picked up the chalk, quickly etching a strand of words onto it. "These are my office hours," he says, setting the chalk back down. "Any questions?" He asked, turning to face the class.

Not a single peep can be heard. There was only a tiny squeak from one of the chairs. He crosses his arms. "Alright. Quiz tomorrow. Class dismissed," he concludes. You freeze up in your chair as everyone around you starts moving as quickly as possible to get out of there.

You're wondering what you learned today that could be material for a quiz. Instead of waiting behind to ask, you shuffle your things in a bag and speed walk out of there.

This was going to be a long semester.

It was three months in, and this class was kicking your ass. 

No, that's not right. The class was outwardly blistering your entire existence. You pulled countless all-nighters to try and keep up with the material, but it was too much. There weren't enough hours in the day to study the copious amount of material.

It didn't help that Dr. Riley was a bit of a dick. He gave no leniency. Can't make the exam? Too bad. F. Didn't make class? Yikes. Get ready to recite the last lecture in front of the class when you return! Can't answer a question he asks? Well, well, it looks like we have a slacker on our hands. Have a lovely time writing an entire essay on the topic question you failed to answer!

"Can anyone explain the process of bone repair following a fracture?" Dr. Riley questions, taking his eyes off the chalkboard and turning towards the now half-full class. You snap out of your daydream, carefully looking back to your computer to continue typing what he writes.

Everyone averts their eyes from him to avoid getting called on. "No takers?" He asks once more, eyes narrowing slightly. You look over the top of your computer, eyes wondering over the messy array of notes he wrote to try and decipher them. "You," he says, flicking a finger towards you. "Give it a go."

Your eyes flick to his before widening in horror. Shit. You hadn't even gone over this week's slides because you were still working on the hundreds of slides from last week. 

"Preferably today," he raises a brow, impatience written all over his face, crossing his arm over his chest. You take a deep breath, quickly scan your notes, and sublimely thank God you found what you needed.

"Well, first the bone goes through clot formation, then callus formation, then new bone tissue forms, then finally the bone remodels," you explain, issuing a polite smile after you finish, breathing out a sigh of relief as he nods.

"Uh-huh. It's a very interesting process. And do you know which of those processes has the longest duration?" He says blandly. You tilt your head a little, surprised to see he has another question.

"Well, I think that would be the bone remodeling," you affirm, shifting in your seat a little.

"And the shortest?" He quickly supplements. 

"Clot formation?" You say unsurely. 

"You seem unsure of your answer. Do you truly think it is clot formation?" He crosses his arms over his chest. 

You were sure of it, but then again, why would he ask you if you thought it was wrong if it was right? You open your eyes wider, almost like you have just had an epiphany. "I—no. It's callus formation," you say matter-of-factly.

"Incorrect," he says, uncrossing his arms and turning his back to you. "I suggest trusting your instincts next time." You sink deeper into your chair, hoping that somehow it will shield you from his scrutiny. 

"On that note, class dismissed." You quickly gather your belongings, but not before Dr. Riley pulls you aside to assign you a three-page, single-spaced essay about the formation of a bone after having a fracture due in two days.

"Also, be sure to discuss clot formation heavily," his voice carries a condescending tone. "So that when you present to the class, they understand the concept better than you did." 

Your brows furrow a little. "Wait, I do understand—" You begin, though he interrupts.

"That's all," he cooly says, turning to grab his things from the desk in the front before switching the light switch off and stepping around you to leave the room. "See you and your paper Wednesday." You scowled as he turned away from you to go to his office.

This was such bullshit. You answered all his question, but God forbid you answer one incorrectly—well, not even incorrectly; he just made you feel it was wrong.

This was far from over.

"Dr. Riley. I, um, I don't understand why I have to write an essay," you found yourself saying later that day in his office, around six p.m. or so, when most of the faculty had already called it a night and left. His eyes stayed laser-focused on some papers he was going over.

"You didn't answer my question," he says, scribbling something on the paper. 

You find yourself coming in, shutting the door behind you, and sitting on the chair before his desk. "Yes, I did. I answered all one hundred of them," you say matter-of-factly. The corners of his eyes crinkle as they finally flick to yours, clearly amused by your exaggeration. 

"One hundred, huh?" He sets the pen down, leaning back in his chair, threading his fingers together. Your eyes wander to his arms. He had rolled up his sleeves to reveal his veiny forearms covered in tattoos. 

You flick your eyes back to eyes in a panic, praying he didn't notice you essentially checking him out. "Yes, sir," you tried to keep your voice even.

"So, you want out of an essay I assigned to you? 

"I—well. I was hoping…" You trail off, eyes averting his.

"No," his tone is authoritative, final. You release a small breath, sagging into the chair, feeling defeated. However, you caught your eyes wandering back to his forearms before moving up to his biceps. Fuck. They would have busted out of his button-down if they were any bigger.

He was a massive asshole. But, so fucking hot nonetheless. Had the most enormous thighs and arms you'd ever seen. Taller than anyone you'd ever met. Had a gruff, thick English accent you drooled over. Not to mention his raging ego, which did something for you.

"What is it?" Your eyes snap to his. Oh, God. Not again. 

"Nothing," you said quickly. He looked puzzled. You sat back in the chair, smiling awkwardly. He followed, leaning back in his seat and spreading his legs wider to get more comfortable.

You find your eyes drifting down, observing his clothed cock in his pants. "Nothing? Huh?" The corner of his lip quirks. You stare back at him; your face is hot, and your hands are clammy.

This time, there was no denying what it was you were ogling so intently. 

"Listen," he sits up a bit, placing his elbows on his desk and threading his fingers together. "I sympathize with your situation." You raise a brow because there is no way in hell he was sympathetic. His lip quips at your expression. "So, I believe I have a solution to your dilemma." That has you perking up in your seat, feeling a sense of hope.

"It's a bit...unorthodox," he mumbles, eyes boring into yours.

You squint your eyes in confusion. "Okay..." You trail off uneasily, sitting up a little straighter. "What did you have in mind?" He tilts his head up a little, carefully observing your face, before standing up and gripping the knot of the tie and carefully pulling it down so it rests lazily on his sternum. 

"Tell me," he prompts, easing his way around his desk to lean against the side you sit in front of. "What is it that caught your attention earlier?" You raise a brow, not only at his new position but also at his question.

"Pardon?" You prod. He lets out a small, scruffy, breathy laugh, crossing his arms over his chest and showcasing his huge biceps again. You release a slight breath as your eyes wander back to his arms. He tilts his head back as he examines your facial expression, dragging his eyes down your line of sight. He gives a breathy laugh as he realizes you are shamelessly checking him out. 

"Mhm," he hums. You snap your eyes to him in an instant, though this time you aren't embarrassed at the notion of him catching you. No. You wanted him to notice. Maybe, just maybe, then he'd finally find the courage to fuck you over his desk like you'd wanted since the first day he had arrived. "Your mind seems elsewhere," he observes.

"No, I'm—I'm just thinking," you whir, sitting in your chair.

He tilts his head back slightly. "What about?" His tone dripped with condescendence. He most definitely knew. He could read you like one of those fancy anatomy books he frequented. You lean back in your chair, legs spreading ever so slightly. His eyes glided to leer at your slightly agape legs. 

God, you had on that little fucking skirt you wore every so often. The damned thing was a couple of pieces of denim fabric. Not too short, but, ya, if you opened your legs at just the right angle, you could get a nice shot of your panties underneath. How lucky for your professor, who was at the receiving end of that.

"Oh, I don't know. Just things, you know?" You spread your legs just a little wider, and you swear you hear him release a breath. "It's the first day of fall tomorrow. Did you know that?" You casually say, spreading your legs that much further so he could get a better view of the wet spot already growing in your panties at him watching you. 

"I did." His voice was dry; he was surprised to get a damn word out. 

"Crazy, huh? Also, I'm thinking about our lecture tomorrow. What's it going to be on anyway?" You find yourself dragging your hand up your leg to the buttons of your shirt, carefully unclasping each of them gently. He could feel his cock straining against his jeans seeing you, legs spread, fingers fiddling with your cute little button-up top with frilly sleeves.

"Sexual reproduction," he gruffs, fingers moving to undo the buttons on his shirt. You get the final button of your shirt unclasped, carefully sliding it off and onto the floor, revealing a lacy bra that matches your panties. You honestly thought you'd be more nervous, but with a guy that hot and educated staring at you like you were the sexiest thing alive, how could you be?

"Maybe I should get a head-start, no?" You proposed as he unclasped his final button, slipping his shirt entirely off. Good-God. The man was chiseled and hairy. The scars etched into his skin only made him that much sexier. He reached for his tie next. "No, no. Leave it on," you voice, getting up from your chair to stand before him. 

His greedy hands instantly sought refuge on your waist, dragging his fingertips along the waistband of your panties, giving them a little pull. You release a slight whine as the elastic slaps back onto your skin.

"Like fuckin' music to my ears," he groans, pulling you flush to his body, ripping his mask off to encapsulate your lips with his hungry ones. 

You yelp into his mouth at the sudden sensation, though you find yourself getting into a rough rhythm. His hand's paw at your ass as yours covetously grips his shoulders. Although you were flush against him, you sought more contact. "I need—I need," you whined in his mouth. 

"Need me to what? Say it," he urged, hands slipping to thread through your hair, pulling it gently. Your mouth falls agape at the action, allowing him to slip his tongue in your mouth. You moan into his mouth once more.

"I need you to—to," you stutter, unable to speak from how out of breathe you were.

"Say it," he hissed, pulling your hair harder.

"Fuck me. Please," you finally managed to say. He wasted no time picking you up by the back of the thighs and hastily placing you on his desk, flinging the loose papers and books that dawned it on the floor.

You reached between you to undo his belt and pant button as he slipped your panties down so they dangled loosely around your ankles. 

Your lips never disconnecting once. 

Once you got his pants undown and he your panties, he gripped your waist, hoisting you so he could pound his cock into you. You both moan at the contact, gripping each other tighter.

"Fuck," he groans, "Feel so good." You press your lips back to his as he makes work pummeling into you, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips to get as much friction as he can.

You were sure you'd have purple and blue bruises tomorrow.

He brings his mouth to nip and kiss at the side of your neck, his teeth gently grazing against the sensitive skin. "Drivin' me fuckin' insane," he grits, teeth nipping your skin again. You whined, bringing your hands to thread through his hair.

"I drive you insane?" You breathe out, dumbfounded, his cock still sliding in and out of you at a hurried pace. His tongue brushes your neck until it reaches your lips, quickly bullying itself into the sanctity of your mouth.

"Such a good student. Aren't you?" He gruffs into your lips; your mouth hangs agape at the feeling of him in you. "Always do such good work. Don't you, sweetheart?" You moan at his words; he presses a thumb to stimulate your clit. "Fuck—you, you drive me mad," he grits, moving his thumb faster.

You let a string of incoherent words, too caught up with his cock in you and thumb on you to form any real words.

"Huh? Ya, ya. But you must know that already. Or else you wouldn't have worn this—" he signals to the matching bra and panty set you had worn, "to meet with me," he finishes. You respond with another pathetic whimper, feeling your impending climax.

The moment he whispers into the shell of your ear, "Better come quick, or I may change my mind about that paper," you're a goner. You clamp around him at record speed, gripping his shoulders impossibly tighter, as you loudly moan in his mouth. His fingers dig deeper into the fat of your hips as his orgasm chases yours.

It takes both of you a second to catch your breaths, both heaving and chests rising with much pace. After you have caught your breath, he helps ease you off his desk, deftly reaching for your panties that slipped off your ankles in a frenzy and softly putting them back on you, followed by your skirt resting on the floor nearby.

You slipped your shirt back on, buttoning it as he focused on dressing himself. It didn't feel awkward like you had thought it was going to. Sure, it was quiet, but it was comforting.

You grabbed your bookbag, giving him a slight smile as you walked over to the closed door. "I appreciate you meeting with me. See you tomorrow, Dr. Riley," you kindly say.

He nodded, pulling his tie to rest neatly on his neck. "Don't forget about the paper," he plainly said, moving to pick up some of the loose papers on the floor.

A confused expression overtook your face. "I thought—" you began.

"I don't play favorites, sweetheart," he interrupted. "Write the paper."

Okay, he was still a dick, but oh well, sure, you'd write the damn paper, maybe even put a couple of errors in it so that he could deduct some points off, and you could request to meet with him again.

Ya, that sounded like a fine plan indeed.

a/n: inspired by a lovely who commented on my poll about professor!simon <33 @aiqsa (this took me so long omg)

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[macgyvermedical]

Hospital Lengths of Stay

I think people outside the USA severely overestimate how long hospital stays are here.

Like, appendectomy, right? That's maybe 24-36 hours door-to-door if there's no complications. If the appendix actually burst it might be 3 days, but only because they're giving you IV antibiotics and setting up home care to do that at home would take longer than just keeping you in the hospital.

A scheduled surgery like a hysterectomy, cholecystectomy, mastectomy, or anything else they can do laparoscopically (though small "keyhole" incisions)? You're probably not staying overnight at all.

Planned surgeries that need some kind of after care (like bariatric surgery, knee replacements, hip replacements, total vaginal hysterectomies, bladder lifts, etc...) would be usually 1-3 days.

Minor heart attack? 2-3 days.

Fracture and surgical repair of a large bone (like the femur)? About 2-3 days.

What about the exacerbation of a chronic illness like asthma, COPD, heart failure, or hypertension? IF they admit you (not just stabilize and discharge from the emergency department), it will be generally less than about 3-5 days.

Gunshot wound to the abdomen with surgery to repair things? 3-5 days.

And a stroke, sepsis, gunshot wound to the chest, or major heart attack? That would be somewhere in the 5-7 day range.

Severe trauma with multiple severely broken bones and relatively extensive surgery? This might be somewhat longer, but usually for nursing and pain control reasons rather than the surgery or injuries themselves. 1-3 weeks would be usual.

In the hospital for a mental health reason like decompensated schizophrenia or major depression? A little less than a week is normal, though some people stay several weeks if medications aren't working well.

The people who stay in hospitals for weeks or months typically have whole systems that don't work, or are waiting for a major organ transplant. For example, I had a patient once whose entire abdomen was open and couldn't be closed surgically. She was on TPN (IV nutrition) and IV antibiotics and needed massive amounts of wound care done every hour or so because her intestinal contents were spilling out of her open abdomen. She was there for months and ultimately didn't make it.

Are there people who stay longer than these cases? Of course! These are just averages pulled from medicaid data and personal experiences, based on patients who are coming in relatively healthy. Patients who have other significant health problems usually stay longer than patients who come in with a single problem.

But if you are otherwise healthy except for the reason you came into the hospital, unless you fell off a building or were in a massive car accident you are probably not staying in the hospital very long at all.

[agustdiv1ne]

💨‧₊˚.° 11:58 p.m. (m) — choi yeonjun & kang taehyun

genre: smսt, threesome, doms!fratboys!taejun, sub!fem!reader, friends to ???, high sex + car sex = 😵‍💫

wc: 4.9k (someone sedate me pls)

becoming friends with frat boys was never part of your plan for college. 

alas, here you are, two of them basically surgically attached to your hip. your first semester of junior year has been full of surprises thus far, your blooming friendship with yeonjun and taehyun being the most significant one; what started out as partners for a project has transformed into a close friendship with the two guys, and your new norm now consists of grabbing starbucks together before heading to class, hitting the gym with either one or both of them in tow, and — for better or for worse — attending their frat’s infamous parties every weekend.

and lucky you: you’ve just arrived at one.

as you climb the steps of tau chi tau’s gigantic house, you spot the bright blond hair of one of the pledges on door duty — your favorite pledge, actually. 

“sunoo!” you greet, tackling him into a hug as soon as you reach him. he reciprocates easily, his lips curling into a small smile before he’s pulling away.

“you’re late,” he teases. “your boyfriends are already high off their asses.”

you scoff, nudging his shoulder with a closed fist. “first of all, they’re not my boyfriends. second of all, they knew i wasn’t gonna be here for a while, and i promised i’d be their d.d. tonight, so,” you shrug. he rolls his eyes playfully, but opens the door for you anyway.

“yeah, yeah, whatever. they should be in the basement,” he says, gesturing for you to go inside. “just be careful, it reeks down there.”

you laugh. “thanks, dude.”

as the front door shuts behind you, you take in the state of the house. the air is hot and humid against your skin, your shoes getting stuck on the floor that is covered with liquids you’d rather not identify. some rap song pounds in your ears, and you nod your head along to the beat as you slip between a small space between two groups, finally reaching the door that leads down to the basement. the moment you swing it open, the potent stench of weed bombards your senses. your nose scrunches up — sunoo wasn’t wrong.

in vain, you wave your hand in front of your face as you make your descent. the haze floating in the air grows a bit thicker the further that you go, your only goal now being to get them out of here before you start feeling the effects as well. you eventually have to drive, for christ’s sake, and you’re not looking to get a dui anytime soon. with one last step, you make it to the bottom of the staircase. the music is quieter down here, but the smell is far worse than upstairs. a familiar laugh pulls your attention to the couch facing away from you, two very familiar heads of hair catching your attention. as you sneak up behind them, you press your index finger against your lips, silently telling beomgyu — who sits on the couch opposite to them — to keep quiet. he simply smirks at you.

“y/n’s here,” he calls. annoyed, you flip him the bird and send him a scalding glare before leaning over the back of the couch, your scowl quickly being replaced by a grin. two pairs of red-rimmed eyes find yours, widening in tandem when they register that you are, in fact, there. 

“my baby!” yeonjun cries, his hands reaching up to pull you down towards him. his lips meet your forehead, pressing an aggressive kiss there, palms squishing your cheeks to hold you in place. you struggle to pull away from his grip, ignoring his pout and insistent grabby hands once you do. you sate him by linking your fingers with his. 

“you’re later than usual,” taehyun comments from next to him, a smile permanently etched on his lips, the sight a testament to his inebriated state. unlike yeonjun, he doesn’t move to touch you, perfectly content with watching. 

“i literally told you earlier that i had a paper due at twelve,” you remind him, removing your hands from yeonjun’s as you round the side of the couch, aiming to sit on the arm of it. that is, until yeonjun pulls you between them so that you rest on his left thigh and taehyun’s right. yeonjun wraps an arm around your waist, while taehyun rests a hand on your upper thigh. you try your best not to squirm. they’re your friends, but you’re not fucking blind. 

“you could’ve asked me for help,” taehyun murmurs close to your ear, squeezing the meat of your thigh. his warm breath tickles the side of your neck, and you gulp. directly across from you, beomgyu meets your flustered gaze, an amused eyebrow raised as he sinks further into the couch. you tear your eyes away from him to focus on your fingers twiddling in your lap. 

“i-i didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, and he emits a giggle. the hand not sitting on your thigh reaches over to pinch your cheek.

“you’re so cute,” he coos, and for some reason, the praise goes straight to your center. “i wouldn’t’ve minded.”

okay, time to go. you don’t think you can handle any more of their pda, and you’re starting to feel a bit weird after inhaling all of that smoke. if you want to get to their apartment, you need to leave right now. standing, you stretch your limbs in a poor attempt to rid them of their shakiness. 

“time to go,” you voice, turning to face them. their eyes are dark and hooded as they look up at you. you falter a bit, stumbling when yeonjun rapidly leans forward and gathers you in his arms again. 

“but i don’t wannaaaa!” yeonjun whines, pulling you back onto the couch and straight onto his lap, his grip around your waist tightening enough that you’re pulled against his chest. “ten more minutes!”

sighing, you wiggle in his grasp, to no avail. you look over at taehyun for help, only to find him laughing at the sight. then, an idea pops into your mind, something that you know will appeal to both of them.

you turn your head towards yeonjun. “what if i take you to mcdonald’s?”

that gets them going. after one last odd look and crude gesture from beomgyu, you guide them out of the house and into yeonjun’s car. taehyun rides shotgun, while yeonjun mumbles in the back about how that’s unfair treatment — it’s his car, after all. despite yeonjun’s initial complaints, the drive over to the closest mcdonald’s is filled with loud, off-key singing from yeonjun and hysterical giggles from taehyun. it makes your eyes roll, but a tiny grin pulls at your lips all the while. 

“you’re lucky i love you guys,” you mumble, pulling into a spot in the parking lot after giving the drive-through worker the largest order that they have probably ever received, digging into your mcflurry as they silently inhale their burgers, fries, and their own mcflurrys. the pace at which they eat both impresses and terrifies you.

as soon as all three of you have finished, you begin the drive over to their place. you assume that they will let you stay over given how late it is, and it’s not as if they’ve ever minded before. after a few minutes, you realize how oddly quiet they’re being, and you look over to find taehyun staring at you, eyes unblinking and full of an emotion you can’t quite place. you whip your head back to the road — until you hear a sharp shink from the back. looking through the rearview mirror, you find yeonjun’s lighter poised to a brand new joint that rests between his plush lips, the flame bright and inching closer and closer to the paper.

“dude, you are not about to hotbox this car,” you groan. “put the fucking lighter down.”

“it’s my car. i can do whatever i want,” he mumbles in defiance, the lighter moving precariously closer again and illuminating his face in the dark backseat. you swing an arm between the two front seats in a poor attempt to grab the lighter. a hand moving to your thigh — taehyun’s hand — and squeezing nearly causes you to swerve the car before you gain control again. 

you glance over at the boy next to you as his fingers trail up and down your inner thigh, panic lacing your pupils, but you are distracted once again when the flame in your peripherals returns. “yeonjun, i swear to god—”

“don’t you want some?” taehyun interrupts, his hand stilling on a patch of skin high on your thigh, dangerously close to your center. “you worked hard today, you should let loose.”

you do. you really, really do. the stress built up in your muscles has become almost overbearing, and you’d think that it would be gone after your paper was out of the way, but no. honestly, all you want to do right now is relax, and taehyun’s offer is more than tempting — but you also don’t want to crash yeonjun’s car. at the same time, you are within walking distance to their apartment, so maybe…

“fine. just— just let me park first,” you concede, pulling into the nearest empty parking lot, parking in the dark back corner and subsequently cutting the headlights. twisting in your seat, you find yeonjun already prepared with an old pill bottle full of pre-rolled joints. an insane amount of them, actually. you snatch one and place it between your lips, reaching for the lighter in yeonjun’s other hand, only for him to pull it away. 

“nuh-uh,” he drawls with a lazy smirk. “c’mere.”

in curiosity, you lean forward, wondering what, exactly, his game is. he sets the bottle down, and his fingers reach up to grip your chin, fingertips lightly digging into the skin as he brings the lighter up and lights the joint for you. your stomach flips, your thighs automatically closing around taehyun’s hand. wrenching your face away, you turn towards the front again, heart racing in your chest as you take your first hit. then another. you block out the other two as you allow your high to take over. you don’t notice taehyun’s grip on you slip away.

over the course of what you think is a few minutes, your body begins to relax into the seat, head thrown back against the headrest as your brain fogs up. blurry eyes stare up at the gray ceiling. you eventually register just how hot it is, then notice the sheer amount of smoke that’s floating past your vision. a finger pokes your cheek, and you follow the hand back to taehyun. you smile subconsciously.

“such a lightweight, so cute,” he says, tapping his finger against your cheek again. you notice that he doesn’t have a joint of his own. “gimme a hit.”

“get your own,” you reply with a defiant hum, cheeks warming as you jokingly shield your joint with your body. he sighs. 

“c’mon, i just wanna try something. you trust me, right?” he murmurs. blinking hard, it takes you a moment to send him a lethargic nod. he peels the joint from your fingers with ease. “come closer.”

you obey, leaning over until mere inches separate your faces. he grabs you by the collar of your t-shirt, urging you to come closer. his eyes flit to your lips before they meet your gaze again — as if the weed wasn’t enough, this whole situation is rendering you even dizzier. 

silently, he pushes a thumb against your lips, pressing forward to part them. your mouth immediately accommodates the digit, and it presses against your tongue for a moment before dragging down to your bottom lip, your saliva mixing with your lipgloss. something quiet and pathetic sounds from your throat, your breath stuttering in your chest when he bites down on his own lip, his big, wide eyes far from innocent as he stares at you.

“keep it open,” he quietly orders, voice low and demanding, before he removes his thumb completely. you sit there, mouth agape like a fish out of water while he places your joint to his lips and inhales deeply. the seam of his lips closes immediately. then, he leans in, his lips mere millimeters away from yours. he holds your gaze as he opens his mouth and blows the smoke into your mouth, and you inhale it with a shaky breath. it travels down your throat and deep into your lungs, but the heat that spreads through your body isn’t from the smoke — no, it’s something overwhelmingly feverish. needy, wanton. 

the moment your eyes flutter close, taehyun’s lips are on yours, the taste of him sweet from the ice cream he ate earlier. the smoke you exhale passes between your parted mouths, drifting out into the cabin of the car. he feels around for the cupholder, then for his soda, using a single hand to pop open the lid before he’s dunking the lit blunt into the liquid, the movement of his lips unwavering all the while. he wastes no time in curling his palm around the nape of your neck, pulling you closer as he devours you whole. 

“holy fuck,” you vaguely hear yeonjun gasp, too far gone in the sensation of the languid, saliva-slicked kiss. it feels as if you are floating on top of a cloud, and you move to grab at his bicep to ground yourself. taehyun slips his tongue past your lips, curling the muscle around your own and immediately establishing his power over you. whining into his mouth, you attempt to pull away, only for yeonjun to cup your face and take over the kiss. taehyun’s hand slides down your neck and to one of your covered breasts, groping the soft mound of flesh over the fabric of your t-shirt. you moan into yeonjun’s mouth.

gentle hands pull you over the center console and into the back, yet yeonjun doesn’t break the kiss as he gathers you in his lap, your trembling thighs straddling his hips. you feel his cock press directly into your center when presses you down by your hips. your arms throw themselves around his neck, your lips slotting against his like a matching puzzle piece. the car rocks when taehyun slinks to the back as well, but yeonjun refuses to share you, hips angling upwards to grind his boner harder against your panty-clad core. 

“quit hogging her, you asshole,” taehyun growls from next to you, flipping your skirt up in the process to reveal your lacy panties to their eyes. the man next to you caresses the swell of your ass before landing a light smack. you jolt on top of yeonjun with a pathetic squeak, and his hand comes down again. in stark contrast to his actions, his tone is kind, perhaps a bit condescending, as he addresses you, “ooh, that feels good, doesn’t it? our baby likes to be spanked?”

their baby? something warm fills your veins at that, a quiet whimper muffled by yeonjun’s mouth. with the thin fabric of your panties embarrassingly sticking to your folds, you tear your lips away from yeonjun’s to hide your face in his chest, unable to face either of them. however, the rhythm of your hips does not falter. yeonjun forces you to look at taehyun with a firm grip that squishes your cheeks together, your lip puckering involuntarily. 

“answer him.” his warm breath fans over your ear as he speaks. a shiver racks your body despite the feverish heat surging through your body. knowing your voice will betray you, you opt for a shaky nod. 

taehyun’s gaze burns into your own, the blunt, rounded edges sharpened by lust. his dark pupils are the only thing that you can see in full clarity, the rest a foggy blur. “use your words.”

“yes,” you mumble, eyes screwed shut and your cheeks hotter than they’ve ever felt before. the feeling has spread down to your neck, your chest, the epicenter settling in your lower stomach. it festers there and tears at your insides like a feral beast and all you can think about is them — them using you, them fucking you. your breathing grows heavier before you feel a tap to your cheek, the skin stinging at the contact. 

“open your eyes, baby.”

you’re not sure who says it, but either way, you submit. eyelids fluttering open, you find both of them peering at you like two wolves stalking a soft, wide-eyed little lamb. your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth when they exchange scheming looks, their hands all over you as they maneuver your body as if you’re a doll. when did they plan this? how did you not notice their soft murmurs? 

you end up sitting between them, legs spread wide with one leg thrown over each of their laps. taehyun aims his focus towards your breasts, shoving your t-shirt up and yanking your bra down with little care, a hand tweaking one of your tits as the other curls itself in your hair and yanking your head back against the headrest. you cry at the sensation of his lips mouthing at your neck and his fingers pulling and groping your sensitive flesh. on the other side of you, yeonjun wastes no time in attempting to divert your attention back to him. shifting your panties to the side, he caresses your folds before dipping down to your entrance and groaning. 

“oh my god, you’re fucking soaked,” he groans as he gathers your wetness on his fingertips. “tae, you gotta feel her.”

said man’s hand leaves your breast, reaching down to join yeonjun’s at your center. a light brush over your clit causes your hips to twitch before he’s reaching down to swipe your entrance and—

“shit, you’re right,” taehyun breathes against your neck. “that’s so hot.”

without speaking, they begin to work in tandem as they pick you apart. a quiet, barely there voice in the back of your mind wonders if they’ve done this before, but that thought is quickly shooed away once two of yeonjun’s long fingers slide into your needy hole to the knuckle, the delicious stretch of your walls causing you to keen. your spine arches off of the seat when he begins to slide them in and out, curling up and grinding into that sensitive little spot inside you that you can never quite hit. meanwhile, taehyun ghosts a finger over your clit that aches for stimulation, his free hand digging into your thigh to keep you spread wide for them, your leg twitching in his grasp. he circles the sensitive bud as yeonjun adds a third finger to the mix, his movements growing faster as he feels your walls relax around his digits. taehyun ducks his head down to your breast, wrapping his lips around your nipple, his teeth scraping lightly against it. crying out, you plead for them to keep going. 

“such a tight little pussy,” yeonjun rambles directly into your ear, and you clench around his fingers. he nibbles at your earlobe before he continues, voice deep and growly and too much. fuck, it’s too much. “you look s’sexy right now, y’know that? so fuckin’ pretty. gonna make sure you can’t think about anything but us— gonna fuck you so dumb, baby. haven't even had our cocks ‘n you’re already losing it. s’cute.” 

with how wound up you are already, it doesn’t take long for the heat building in your stomach to bubble over, the overwhelming sensations all over your body coaxing you through your intense orgasm, waves a pleasure wracking your trembling body, your release coating yeonjun’s fingers while taehyun leans up to capture your lips. your whimpers are muffled by his mouth. the pleasure seems to have no beginning nor end, dizzying and causing your mind to drift somewhere far away, barely able to reciprocate the kiss. neither of them stop their ministrations until you’re pawing at their hands with a pitiful whine, your words staccato and incoherent.

you sit there, chest heaving and your clothes disheveled, barely able to comprehend the way the two boys argue over who should have you first. hands fly in front of your vision, a closed fist versus a flat hand, and though you can barely see through the smoke floating through the air and your terribly cloudy vision, you recognize that they’re playing a petty game of rock-paper-scissors. a dopey giggle shakes your body as you throw your head back against the back seat. they share a concerned glance. 

“y/n? can you look at me?” taehyun carefully asks. your empty-headed grin remains on your face while you turn to face him, humming in half-baked acknowledgment. he frowns, a hand coming up to cup your face as he takes in your red-rimmed, glazed over eyes. he peers around you towards yeonjun. “i don’t know if she can take more, jun.”

the words sober you up slightly, your grin dropping. “n-no! wan’ more, wan’ your cocks,” you ramble. “need them, please.”

“you heard her. she needs us,” yeonjun muses, already reaching for your loose limbs. “‘n i won, so c’mere, baby.”

yeonjun gathers you into his lap like earlier. this time, however, you feel his tip pressing at your fluttering entrance, an arm around your waist to hold you up. he looks up at you with a smirk. “ready, baby?”

you nod, and he wastes no time to begin slowly pushing your hips down. the flared, leaky head of his cock breaches your entrance. you whine, walls fluttering around him already as he moans. the rest of him presses into you inch by inch. it seems as if you can feel him everywhere — in your stomach, in your throat, the length of his cock almost too much for you to handle. the tip curves perfectly against your, his shaft grinding against your g-spot as he gently rocks his hips, allowing you to adjust to the overwhelming stretch. your whines grow pitchier as he finds his rhythm, hands on your waist as he bounces you up and down on his cock. he curses under his breath, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. he watches you with his tongue between his teeth, lips curled into something cruel and patronizing.

“feelin’ good, pretty?” he breathes, eyes rolling back into his skull as he begins to snap his hips to meet your own. the slap of skin grows louder, echoing throughout the car along with each of your moans and whines. your eyelids flutter, speechless, a cry tearing from your throat when he swipes a thumb over your slick clit, your walls tightening further around him. he doesn’t seem to mind your lack of response, and with a string of curses, he slams you down harder, lips clashing with yours as both of you chase your highs. desperation coats your tongues as he bites down on your bottom lip, pulling it back as you whine, clinging to him desperately, nails biting his skin and leaving deep half-moons in their wake. the slight sting of pain spurs him on, pulling away to spew filthy words into your ear.

“gonna fuckin’ cum deep inside you— ohh fuck, you seem to want that, hm? t-tightened so much around me. you need my cum, don’t you? say you need it,” he demands, holding your face close to his, dark pupils searing into your skin. a light slap to your cheek wakes you up a little. “c’mon— shit. say it or i won’t give it to you.”

“n-need it!” you unabashedly sob, feeling your high hit you. “please, jjunie, cum in me. pleasepleasepleaseplease—”

a deep groan cuts your pleas off, a warmth that floods your walls following close behind. he paints your insides white as he whimpers against your neck, hips twitching as he fucks it further into your hole. you quiver on top of him, holding him close with your arms slung around his neck, nearly in tears at how amazing it feels, sweat clinging to your skin and sticking to your shirt. it takes you much longer to come down this time, your body twitching erratically as the aftershocks continue to roll through your body. 

“jesus christ,” taehyun mutters next to you, and you remove your face from yeonjun’s violet hair to look over at him. his cock lays heavy in his hand, veins bulging as he strokes up and down, pausing at the top to swipe the bead of precum at the tip and smear it over the angry head. the sight causes your mouth to water. the urge to feel him against your tongue is almost too much for you to bear. sliding off of yeonjun with a whine and sore legs, you go to lean down for a taste — before taehyun stops you with a firm hand.

“what do you think you’re doing?” he asks, jaw set as he leers over you. 

“i-i just wanted to—”

“nuh-uh, baby. you don’t just get to do what you want. jun and i are in charge here,” he says, squeezing your jaw roughly. “now, get on your back. head on jun’s lap.”

silently, you do just that, finding yeonjun’s dick already rock hard again right near your face. your juices mixed with his cum gives his lengthy cock a light sheen in the low light, but your attention is soon pulled back to taehyun when he wraps his legs around his waist. towering above you, he guides his head along your slick folds, smearing the remnants of your and yeonjun’s last orgasm along himself. he taps it against your clit, chuckling when your hips jump.

“such a sensitive little thing,” he coos. taehyun doesn’t warn you as he guides his cock to your entrance and pushes his hips forward in one fluid motion, burying himself to the hilt in seconds. the feeling of his cock inside you is far different than yeonjun’s; taehyun’s is a little shorter, but much thicker, the stretch of your hole borderline painful. 

“h-holy fuck, you’re tight,” he gasps, voice sharp as he tries to hold himself together, resting there for a moment as he allows you to adjust to the sudden intrusion. the moment your hips start to grind against him, his jaw ticks, rolling his hips into you as he watches your brows furrow and mouth fall open into an ‘o.’ hands grip your waist as his thrusts quickly sharpen, harder and deeper and cruel. you blink up at him, whining. smoke hangs around his head like a halo, but the cruel snap of his hips is far from holy. 

diverting your gaze away, yeonjun poises his tip at your lips for you to suckle, breathing shaky as your soft tongue delivers kitten licks to the head. just as he curls a hand in your hair, you slip your tongue into the small slit at the very top as your moans vibrate against him, reveling in how he hisses at the feeling, his thighs flexing beneath your head. your dopey smile returns, eyes rolling back as taehyun continues his hard thrusts, quiet grunts falling from his lips as angles his hips upward in an attempt to get your gaze back on him. it works, your eyes widening adorably as he presses his cock right against your g-spot. his teeth graze his bottom lip, biting down hard when he feels you clench around him, a direct result of yeonjun tweaking one of your puffy nipples. 

taehyun is quiet as he fucks you, only quiet curses coming from him as he uses your body to chase his orgasm. a hand slides up your stomach to wrap loosely around your throat. he barely puts any pressure, but it’s enough to send you reeling, a third high, weaker in magnitude washing over you. after the amount of teasing he put himself through earlier, taehyun isn’t far behind, fingers slightly tightening against your neck as he thrusts into you quicker, coaxing you through your orgasm as his own finally hits him. his moans are high-pitched and whiny as he spills inside you, his cum mixing with yours and yeonjun’s, sticky and hot and satisfying. yeonjun cums against your lips immediately after, forcing you to take his tip into your mouth to taste him. you greedily swallow his release, allowing him to gather the escaped liquid with his fingers and shove it against your tongue. 

pulling out, taehyun watches as the thick, white liquid spills from your hole and onto yeonjun’s leather seats. he gulps, pushing it back into you with thin, lithe fingers as you barely react, brain practically rendered mush. 

“that was…wow,” yeonjun mumbles, caressing your cheek as your eyelids flicker closed. taehyun hums in agreement as he fixes your clothes back into their proper place. lethargic and dumb and feeling so, so warm and full, you drift off into quiet, bleary dreams. their voices seem far away now, their tones faintly worried at your state. a cool feeling washes over your body, causing you to shiver, eyes blinking open for a moment to find the windows now rolled down, airing out the smoke. the cool air feels fresh in your lungs; you’re grateful for it. you close your eyes again, finally passing out for good. 

none of you are sure where this situation will lead when you wake…but you suppose you’ll just have to cross that bridge when you get to it.

masterlist

© to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How to have cancer

THIS WEEKEND (November 8-10), I'll be in TUCSON, AZ: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

I've got cancer but it's probably (almost certainly, really) okay. Within a very short period I will no longer have cancer (at least for now). This is the best kind of cancer to have – the kind that is caught early and treated easily – but I've learned a few things on the way that I want to share with you.

Last spring, my wife put her arm around my waist and said, "Hey, what's this on your rib?" She's a lot more observant than I am, and honestly, when was the last time you palpated your back over your left floating rib? Sure enough, there was a lump there, a kind of squishy, fatty raised thing, half a centimeter wide and about four centimeters long.

I'm a 53 year old man with a family history of cancer. My father was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer at 55. So I called my doctor and asked for an appointment to have the lump checked over.

I'm signed up with Southern California Kaiser Permanente, which is as close as you come to the Canadian medicare system I grew up under and the NHS system I lived under for more than a decade. Broadly speaking, I really like KP. Its app – while terrible – isn't as terrible as the other apps, and they've taken very good care of me for both routine things like vaccinations and checkups, and serious stuff, like a double hip replacement.

Around the time of The Lump, I'd been assigned a new primary care physician – my old one retired – and so this was my first appointment with her. I used the KP app to book it, and I was offered appointments six weeks in the future. My new doc was busy! I booked the first slot.

This was my first mistake. I didn't need to wait to see my PCP to get my lump checked over. There was really only two things that my doc was gonna do, either prod it and say, "This is an extremely common whatchamacallit and you don't need to worry" or "You should go get this scanned by a radiologist." I didn't need a specific doctor to do this. I could have ridden my bike down to the KP-affiliated Urgent Care at our local Target store and gotten an immediate referral to radiology.

Six weeks go by, and my doc kind of rolls the weird lump between her fingers and says, "You'd better go see a radiologist." I called the Kaiser appointment line and booked it that day, and a couple weeks later I had a scan.

The next day, the app notified me that radiology report was available in my electronic heath record. It's mostly technical jargon ("Echogenic areas within mass suggest fatty component but atypical for a lipoma") but certain phrases leapt out at me: "malignant masses cannot be excluded. Follow up advised."

That I understood. I immediately left my doctor a note saying that I needed a biopsy referral and set back to wait. Two days went by. I left her a voice message. Another two days went by. I sent another email. Nothing, then a weekend, then more nothing.

I called Kaiser and asked to be switched to another Primary Care Physician. It was a totally painless and quick procedure and within an hour my new doc's intake staff had reviewed my chart, called me up, and referred me for a biopsy.

This was my second mistake. When my doctor didn't get back to me within a day, I should have called up KP and raised hell, demanding an immediate surgical referral.

What I did do was call Kaiser Member Services and file a grievance. I made it very clear that when I visited my doctor, I had been very happy with the care I received, but that she and her staff were clearly totally overloaded and needed some kind of administrative intervention so that their patients didn't end up in limbo.

This is a privilege. I'm a native English speaker, and although I was worried about a serious illness, I didn't have any serious symptoms. I had the ability and the stamina to force action in the system, and my doing so meant that other patients, not so well situated as I was, would not be stuck where I had been, with fewer resources to get un-stuck.

The surgeon who did the biopsy was great. He removed my mass. It was a gross lump of yellowy-red gunk in formaldehyde. He even let me photograph it before it went to pathology (warning, gross):

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/54038418981/

They told me that the pathology would take 2-5 days. I reloaded the "test results" tab in the KP website religiously after 48 hours. Nothing was updated. After five days, I called the surgical department (I had been given a direct number to reach them in case of postsurgical infections, and made a careful note of it).

It turned out that the pathology report had been in hand for three days at that point, but it was "preliminary" pending some DNA testing. Still, it was enough that the surgeon referred me to an oncologist.

This was my third mistake: I should have called after 48 hours and asked whether the pathology report was in hand, and if not, whether they could check with pathology. However, I did something very right this time: I got a phone number to reach the specialist directly, rather than going through the Kaiser main number.

My oncologist appointment was very reassuring. The oncologist explained the kind of cancer I had ("follicular lymphoma"), the initial prognosis (very positive, though it was weird that it manifested on my rib, so far from a lymph node) and what needed to happen next (a CT/PET scan). He also walked me through the best, worst and medium-cases for treatment, based on different scan outcomes. This was really good, as it helped me think through how I would manage upcoming events – book tours, a book deadline, work travel, our family Christmas vacation plans – based on these possibilities.

The oncologist gave me a number for Kaiser Nuclear Medicine. I called them from the parking lot before leaving the Kaiser hospital and left a message for the scheduler to call me back. Then I drove home.

This was my fourth mistake. The Kaiser hospital in LA is the main hub for Kaiser Southern California, and the Nuclear Medicine department was right there. I could have walked over and made an appointment in person.

Instead, I left messages daily for the next five days, waited a weekend, then called up my oncologist's staff and asked them to intervene. I also called Kaiser Member Services and filed an "urgent grievance" (just what it sounds like) and followed up by filing a complaint with the California Patient Advocate:

https://www.dmhc.ca.gov/

In both the complaint and the grievance, I made sure to note that the outgoing message at Nuclear Medicine scheduling was giving out false information (it said, "Sorry, all lines are busy," even at 2am!). Again, I was really careful to say that the action I was hoping for was both a prompt appointment for me (my oncologist had been very insistent upon this) but also that this was a very broken system that would be letting down every patient, not me, and it should be fixed.

Within a couple hours, I had a call back from KP grievances department, and an hour after that, I had an appointment for my scan. Unfortunately, that was three weeks away (so much for my oncologist's "immediate" order).

I had the scan last week, on Hallowe'en. It was really cool. The gadget was awesome, and the rad-techs were really experienced and glad to geek out with me about the way the scanner and the radioactive glucose they infused in me interacted. They even let me take pictures of the scan visualizations:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/54108481109/

The radiology report was incredibly efficient. Within a matter of hours, I was poring over it. I had an appointment to see the doc on November 5, but I had been reading up on the scans and I was pretty sure the news was good ("No enlarged or FDG avid lymph nodes are noted within the neck, chest, abdomen, or pelvis. No findings of FDG avid splenic or bone marrow involvement").

There was just one area of concern: "Moderate FDG uptake associated with a round 1.3 cm left inguinal lymph node." The radiologist advised the oncologist to "consider correlation with tissue sampling."

Today was my oncology appointment. For entirely separate reasons, I was unable to travel to the hospital today: I wrenched my back over the weekend and yesterday morning, it was so bad that I couldn't even scratch my nose without triggering unbearable spams. After spending all day yesterday in the ER (after being lifted out of my house on a stretcher), getting MRIs and pain meds, I'm much better off, though still unable to get out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time.

So this morning at 8:30 sharp, I started calling the oncology department and appointment services to get that appointment changed over to a virtual visit. While I spent an hour trying various non-working phone numbers and unsuccessfully trying to get Kaiser appointment services to reach my oncologist, I tried to message him through the KP app. It turns out that because he is a visiting fellow and not staff, this wasn't possible.

I eventually got through to the oncology department and had the appointment switched over. The oncology nurse told me that they've been trying for months to get KP to fix the bug where fellows can't be messaged by patients. So as soon as I got off the phone with her, I called member services and filed another grievance. Why bother, if I'd gotten what I needed? Same logic as before: if you have the stamina and skills to demand a fix to a broken system, you have a duty to use them.

I got off the phone with my oncologist about an hour ago. It went fine. I'm going to get a needle biopsy on that one suss node. If it comes back positive, I'll get a few very local, very low-powered radiation therapy interventions, whose worst side effect will be "a mild sunburn over a very small area." If it's negative, we're done, but I'll get quarterly CT/PET scans to be on the safe side.

Before I got off the phone, I made sure to get the name of the department where the needle biopsy would be performed and a phone number. The order for the biopsy just posted to my health record, and now I'm redialing the department to book in that appointment (I'm not waiting around for them to call me).

While I redial, a few more lessons from my experience. First, who do you tell? I told my wife and my parents, because I didn't want to go through a multi-week period of serious anxiety all on my own. Here, too, I made a mistake: I neglected to ask them not to tell anyone else. The word spread a little before I put a lid on things. I wanted to keep the circle of people who knew this was going on small, until I knew what was what. There's no point in worrying other people, of course, and my own worry wasn't going to be helped by having to repeat, "Well, it looks pretty good, but we won't know until I've had a scan/my appointment/etc."

Next, how to manage the process: this is a complex, multi-stage process. It began with a physician appointment, then a radiologist, then a pathology report, then surgery, then another pathology report, then an oncologist, then a scan, then another radiologist, and finally, the oncologist again.

That's a lot of path-dependent, interdepartmental stuff, with a lot of ways that things can fall off the rails (when my dad had cancer at my age, there was a big gap in care when one hospital lost a fax from another hospital department and my folks assumed that if they hadn't heard back, everything was fine).

So I have been making extensive use of a suspense file, where I record what I'm waiting for, who is supposed to provide it, and when it is due. Though I had several places where my care continuity crumbled some, there would have been far more if I hadn't done this:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/26/one-weird-trick/#todo

The title of this piece is "how to have cancer," but what it really boils down to is, "things I learned from my own cancer." As I've noted, I'm playing this one on the easiest setting: I have no symptoms, I speak and write English fluently, I am computer literate and reasonably capable of parsing medical/technical jargon. I have excellent insurance.

If any of these advantages hadn't been there, things would have been a lot harder. I'd have needed these lessons even more.

To recap them:

See a frontline care worker as soon as possible: don't wait for an appointment with a specific MD. Practically any health worker can prod a lump and refer you for further testing;

Get a direct phone number for every specialist you are referred to (add this to your phone book); call them immediately after the referral to get scheduled (better yet, walk over to their offices and schedule the appointment in person);

Get a timeframe as to when your results are due and when you can expect to get a follow-up; call the direct number as soon as the due-date comes (use calendar reminders for this);

If you can't get a call back, an appointment, or a test result in a reasonable amount of time (use a suspense file to track this), lodge a formal complaint with your insurer/facility, and consider filing with the state regulator;

Think hard about who you're going to tell, and when, and talk over your own wishes about who they can tell, and when.

As you might imagine, I've spent some time talking to my parents today as these welcome results have come in. My mother is (mostly) retired now, and she's doing a lot of volunteer work on end-of-life care. She recommends a book called Hope for the Best, Plan for the Rest: 7 Keys for Navigating a Life-Changing Diagnosis:

https://pagetwo.com/book/hope-for-the-best-plan-for-the-rest/

I haven't read it, but it looks like it's got excellent advice, especially for people who lack the self-advocacy capabilities and circumstances I'm privileged with. According to my mom, who uses it in workshops, there's a lot of emphasis on the role that families and friends can play in helping someone whose physical, mental and/or emotional health are compromised.

So, that's it. I've got cancer. No cancer is good. This cancer is better than most. I am almost certainly fine. Every medical professional I've dealt with, and all the administrative support staff at Kaiser, have been excellent. Even the doc who dropped the ball on my biopsy was really good to deal with – she was just clearly drowning in work. The problems I had are with the system, not the people. I'm profoundly grateful to all of them for the help they gave me, the interest and compassion they showed, and the clarity and respect they demonstrated in my dealings with them.

I'm also very grateful to my wife, my parents, and my boss at EFF, all of whom got the news early and demonstrated patience, love, and support that helped in my own dark hours over the past couple of months.

I hope you're well. But you know, everyone gets something, eventually. When you find yourself mired in a broken system full of good people, work the system – for yourself and for the people who come behind you. Take records. Make calls.

Look after yourself.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/05/carcinoma-angels/#squeaky-nail

[just-some-user-hunny]

Nikto headcanons...

Here are some of my nikto headcanons!

Dividers credits=

@rookthornesartistry

@anitalenia

@adornedwithlight

Images are not mine <3

Nikto man is covered in scars and burns- they're gnarly and rough and biting.

They cover the expanse of his chest and back, deep scar tissue running along his left side- the skin rough and almost scaly to the touch. He's hardened from the biting cold. Hardened from cruelty. An impenetrable vault of gnawed steel.

Prominent thick veins run up his hands and arms and v-line, and the expanse of his palms are rough and gritty and run hot. There's discolouration on his body, especially his left side, where you can tell there have been skin grafts and surgical procedures done to attempt to replace missing skin and muscle tissue, along with burnt skin. There are ripping and tearing scars in his shoulders and neck, which seems like canine bite marks- possibly having been mauled by dogs. It appears he had tattoos once- now left as scraps of skin and blotted messy ink, most of it burnt away or torn off. The skin grafts over his right shoulder, the wide expanse of his chest, and right side of his body almost seemed pieced together like a jigsaw of flesh. Incomplete tattoos, discolouration, scars. Like Frankenstein's monster.

He's built like a brute. Thick shoulders and arms, muscled hips and thighs, and a strong torso. Over winter he puts on fat- a pillowy layer of fat covering his thighs and stomach and chest. His build is strong- but not overly toned like a bodybuilder. Dark hair decorating the expanse of his chest and forearms.

His eyes are blue. Not the bright, blinding light blue you're imagining. They're like rain- grey and cool and icy, piecing and pinpointing. Intense and searching. Like Gunmetal and black ice.

The first time he takes his mask off, it's safe to say he's never been this terrified in his life. You've captured glimpses of his lower jaw and mouth whenever he peeled it up to eat or drink down his black cherry tea, and even then he seemed timid. Timid like a fighting pit dog whose wounds are fresh and exposed. You can see there is damage- how much, you cannot speculate exactly, but by the sight of a few more teeth than usual peeking through torn flesh, you can tell his wounds were heavy. Both physically, and emotionally. His lips are rough and torn, an attempt at a grin sliced into the flesh of the corner of his mouth- stretching out across his lower cheek in a violent snarling tear. He always seems a little embarrassed whenever he drinks around you- it's subtle, he's trying to be subtle, but you can tell by the way he makes himself eerily scarce in the moment that he's trying to disappear. His eyes avert, he struggles for a moment to swallow, and then he's timidly looking back at you. Like he's returned to his body, to the moment where he's sitting in the kitchen with you.

He lets you do it.

You take it off for him.

You're not sure you've heard him right. But he's as serious as ever, glacial blue eyes pinpoint with your own- like he was peering into your very soul.

You're settled between his legs, standing as he's slumped fidgety on your couch. His hands are squeezing at your hips anxiously; grounding himself as his chest rises and falls quicker than usual.

Your fingertips ghost over his lips, tracing the rough scarred tissue and the plumpness of his lower lip. He gazes up at you like you are the moon, like you placed the stars in the sky.

You do it slowly- noting his grip tightening on your hips as you peel away at the mask. His fingertips almost bruising, but he's shaking too.

You peel it away from his skin, revealing more and more of him to you. There are things you've never seen before- like the few light freckles that lay upon his cheek, wispy like constellations. His nose is prominent and crooked, a slavic nose. Strong. Nikto's eyes are still on you as you take him in and his knee is bouncing now. Like he wants to get up and run. But he stays put- like his straggling trust in you is stronger than the fear.

It's off quicker than expected. A head of dark mahogany hair, dark brows, and stressed lines in his forehead- all revealed like naked flesh. It's a little shocking- but in a good, refreshing way. You've never seen his face like this- all the glimpses of features you've had now laid out in front of you like a completed puzzle. He's beautiful.

A familiar stranger.

The damage you've glimpsed whenever he tucked that thick fabric up over his mouth is clear to see now, and you can see just how much it takes room on his face. The left side of his face is scarred and discoloured- acid burns? Fire? A part of his brow at the end is missing, where hair doesn't grow anymore.

Nikto feels naked. More naked than ever, and it leaves him angsty. Your eyes are drinking him in, gentle fingertips tracing his skin and nose- and it feels nice. But his whole existence is a bare festering wound, and he can't decide if he wants to flinch away from you and snarl- or ease into you like you're the balm that'll finally ease the sting.

"Andre".

You utter his name like it's a happy prayer. Like it's sunlight and warm tea that soothes your cold hands and soul. Something good. Something you want.

He's something you want.

Something in him crumbles, and before he knows it, you're lightly wiping your fingers under his eyes to dry the tears in his waterline. A deep  harrowing choke catches in his throat, and he's embracing you close like a life raft. Pressing his face hard into your stomach, as you scratch at the nape of his neck and pull at his short hair a little. You understand him.

That little sting grounds him, keeps him tethered to the earth and you.

Keep him grounded. Please.

[orangetintedglasses]

@forgivenpunishment // one taser might not do it, but what about...?

Holding off a wave of people was no small effort.

Keeping an army off the back of another person while throwing yourself in harm's way, regardless of your strength, was something noble. Something that deserved praise, recognition; the undertaker's efforts would not go unnoticed.

... unfortunately for him, though, it wasn't Vash that they wanted. It wasn't Vash that would be swarmed by fully-amped stun batons and tasers and more bodies trickling in, crowding the hall to prevent escape, or even basic movement that might've allowed him to get the upper hand as some old, croaking voice shrieked don't kill him! We need him alive, he's useless to us dead...!

That had been nearly an hour ago, now, though. Trivial. Shouts and crackles of electricity had been replaced by the din of machines; the hum of glaringly bright surgical lights; the slow, steady blip of a heart monitor keeping track of vitals as six men bustled around the surgical table that they'd strapped him to. They'd cut him out of his clothes to save time, as well; naked save for the various nodes and monitors they'd fastened to him, and a clean, white sheet over his hips that went down to mid-thigh.

Was that sparing his dignity, or theirs? It didn't really matter, did it. No, no, what mattered now was how the subject was feeling whenever he came to again--

[villain-crown]

needle | @jegulus-microfic | words: 786

critical care, part 2 | (part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9)

a Jegulus nurse!AU

“Prongs!”

Sirius strolled onto the medical-surgical intensive care unit with a coffee in one hand and an exasperated Remus Lupin in the other. James had to hand it to them—ever since his friends started sucking faces and Remus had flatly refused to let Sirius sabotage his 15 minutes early arrival policy, Sirius was never late to work anymore.

“Hey, mate,” James replied over his shoulder, examining the patient assignments that he’d just outlined.

“Are we in charge?” Sirius demanded into his Starbucks when he’d come close enough to read the board.

“Yeah, I'm charge nurse for the medical patients, you can have the surgical ones. Looks like your brother’s floating up here today.”

Sirius hurried to gulp down the sip he’d already taken. “Reggie? Yesss! Put him on my team! I want to boss him around.”

“How is that different from any other day of the week?” Remus asked.

It was on the tip of James’s tongue to ask—why would Marlene warn me not to stare at your brother?—when the two-toned wail of the code blue alarm blared through the hallway, automatically pulling their focus towards the far side of the ICU.

Sirius sucked up the last of his coffee, attempting to simultaneously shrug off his jacket and stagger towards the action. “Fucking hell, okay, OKAY!”

James was already taking long strides towards the other end of his unit, his eyes flicking to the blue light over room twelve’s door and the controlled chaos unfolding within it. Three people were already present: his two Gryffindor nurses, Lily and Mary, along with a very slender man in dark green Slytherin scrubs performing chest compressions.

“We started compressions about fifteen seconds ago,” Mary supplied from her position performing rescue breaths via bag mask at the head of the patient’s bed.

“Do you need a step stool?” James asked without thinking.

Stranger.

Slytherin scrubs.

This must be Regulus!

As the petite nurse looked up to spare him a glare while continuing to stand on his toes to maintain his rhythm, James realized exactly why he’d been warned not to stare.

He’d seen it all in the course of his career: severed fingers, gaping wounds, and infested flesh. When Marlene had warned him to keep his eyes to himself, he’d figured it was because there was something physically off about Sirius’s little brother; a scar or imperfection of some kind.

He was wrong.

Regulus Black wasn’t some deformed hobbit.

He was fucking gorgeous.

Truly, James couldn’t imagine anything he’d like to do more than stare into those stunning silver eyes set in that lovely face. His eyes had barely swept down to register the man’s slender body and neat little waist when fingers clicked sharply in his face.

“Watch your fucking eyes, Potter!” Sirius snapped, having finally caught up, pushing roughly past him to join his brother at the patient’s side. “Hold compressions, Reggie.”

Regulus paused his movements, backing off slightly to come down off his toes as everyone in the room observed the meaningless squiggles on the cardiac monitor fade from the reading. A wavy, trembling line replaced the previously jerky chaos.

“V. Fib,” Regulus concluded, correctly identifying the lethal heart rhythm.

He was much smaller than James, which was exactly what James liked. It would make pinning him up against a wall by the hips as they fucked a lot easier.

“Yeah. Take over compressions, Lily. Reggie, can you give a round of epinephrine? Where’s Dr. McGonagall?”

“In a budget meeting, according to the intern answering her phone,” Regulus answered, drawing up the medication with a needle.

Fuck, even his voice was just incredibly lovely. James imagined how it might sound in a much dirtier context than they were in now.

“Ah. Pour one out for McGonagall,” Sirius instructed Remus, who obediently emptied a syringe of sterile saline into the garbage.

Regulus paused his own movements, watched this action incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s good luck. What, you guys don’t do that in Slytherin?”

“We don’t need luck in Slytherin.”

James rolled his eyes. “See, this is why people hate you guys. Okay, one milligram of epi is in.”

“Hello, everyone!”

James looked up and scowled upon seeing Barty Crouch Jr., one of the resident physicians on loan to them from Slytherin, swanning into the room like it was a lovely day. He seemed distinctly unconcerned by his late arrival and more interested in sidling over to Regulus and throwing an arm around his shoulder, making James frown.

“Hey Reg! Wow, they’ve really got you slumming it with these surgical idiots, huh?”

“Are you here to help or hit on my baby brother?” Sirius snapped over his shoulder from where he was recording the code events with a dry erase marker on one of the windows.

Crouch frowned. “Where’s McGonagall?”

“Budget meeting,” came from three different directions.

“Oh. Hey, Lupin, pour one out for—“

“We already did that! Now fucking give us orders, you cretin!”

“Oh. Alright, pause compressions, let’s check a pulse…”

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids, 

Did you know the practice of meditation can have side effects? Some people experience adverse reactions to meditation, such as heightened anxiety or depression or even delusions and hallucinations. 

What does that have to do with being lgbt? Well, nothing - but meditation is often seen as one of those “healthy things everyone should do”, something that just has so many benefits and doesn’t require you to take anything or undergo any kind of surgery, something that it’s widely recommended and accepted as healing… and even THAT super great thing has some people who will regret doing it. 

Not a perfect comparison, nothing ever is, but you see the analogy coming: Transition (social or hormonal or surgical) is super beneficial to many people. And there are also some people who will regret it. 

Any kind of health decision - and really any decision at all - can end with you regretting it. That’s a part of life. 

“Protecting people from making a decision they might regret” sounds like such a noble goal. We want to live in a world where people can make informed decisions. Education, including on risks and side effects, is something to strive for. But it’s important to remember that we can not live in a world where nobody ever regrets anything. 

People can regret getting their ears pierced. People can regret buying a car. People can regret going to university. People can regret having sex with someone. People can regret marriage. People can regret moving to a different state. People can regret coming out as gay. People can regret hip replacement surgery. And yes, people can also regret transitioning. 

If we seriously wanted to protect people from ever regretting anything, we would need to just take any deciding power away  (and then who would we give it to? Whoever makes our decisions for us then, they could also make a decision they end up regretting!). 

Another reason why this analogy works: I told you meditation has side effects and people regret it - but I pretty conveniently left out that it’s pretty rare for that to happen. Meditation is generally very safe and has a really low regret rate. Plus, people who regret it may not regret that they choose to meditate all together but rather report that they regret a specific experience (such as choosing silent meditation over guided meditation or going on a meditation retreat that lasted multiple days). 

Similar to that, transition also has a low regret rate (statistically much lower than tattoos or hip replacement surgery for example!) - and people who regret it may not actually be a case of “I regret it because I realized I’m not transgender”, even if that’s what transphobes tell you. Some people still identify as transgender but regret their surgery because they experienced complications (as they can arise from any kind of medical procedure). Some people regret it because they lost friends or family or job opportunities after coming out. And so on. 

The topic of regret is much more complicated than “meditation is actually bad” or “they woke up one day and realized they were brainwashed into believing they were trans”. And it’s unfair to not only the ones who will never regret it but also to the ones who do regret it to reduce their stories to a cautionary tale meant to stop people from making a decision over their own body.

“We need to protect people from making decisions they might regret” just isn’t a good argument. 

With all my love, 

Your Tumblr Dad 

[beecroft]

Orthopedic veterinary surgeons in Singapore specializing in fracture repair, TPLO surgery, spinal surgery, hip replacement, and orthopedic procedures for dogs and cats.

Web Page: https://beecroft.com.sg/beecroftsg/project-two-3amwl

[smytherines]

∇owen (make it fluffy? pretty please?)

A fluffy aging/old age headcanon for Owen 💜

(I'm having kind of an emotional day so... sorry in advance)

Okay. In order for Owen to actually grow old, this has to be an au where he doesn't die on the staircase. I think there'd be a long, complicated, painful reconciliation process, but ultimately Curt and Owen would get back together. In this version of reality they get out of the spy game, and have a remote little place somewhere far away from either of their countries. Maybe Costa Rica or something like that. So let's take all that as read.

I like to think that Owen gets to have a home. A real home. That someday Curt brings home a stray dog he finds on the side of the road and Owen is dead set against having a dog, but eventually he and the dog become inseparable. I like to think that he gets a little patch of land, and spending his time growing things- beautiful flowers, vegetables he uses to make dinner- helps to heal something in him. Something he thought was broken forever after the fall.

I think as Owen gets into his 40s, a lot of the injuries he sustained in the fall start to get worse- arthritis in the places he had breaks, scar tissue, etc. Modern knee replacement surgeries last for around 15 years. I'd assume 1950s joint replacements are not quite as durable, so maybe ten years on he needs to have surgery to replace the worn out knee and hip replacements Chimera did for him.

And even though they've made a lot of progress, Owen hides how much pain he's in for a long time because he's terrified that Curt would leave him- if not for needing surgery to begin with, then certainly for all the care he would need for the long recovery afterwards. Curt wasn't there after the fall. He doesn't know how bad things were. Owen explained some of it to him, but couldn't bring himself to talk about having trouble walking, needing help to go to the bathroom, being constantly on the verge of tears for months because the pain was unbearable. The stuff nobody likes to talk about with injuries like that.

He has a lot of insecurities about himself that he didn't have when they were together before- burns, scars, limited mobility, chronic pain. His body is different now, and it's a long, slow, horrible grieving process to deal with that.

But eventually he has to have these joints replaced. He could hide the pain, but he can't hide it from Curt when his knee starts suddenly giving out on him. He was using a cane only on really bad pain days before, but as the joints start to break down he has to use it every day. So he gives Curt an out, tells him to go, maybe even tries to push him away. Owen tells himself that this would be easier for him to survive than Curt seeing the reality of his injuries after the surgeries and choosing to leave when Owen needs him the most. At least this way they're parting on terms Owen has some control over.

But Curt is older now. He's had a chance to be in a real relationship. The kind of thing where you wake up together and go to sleep together and have a home and a life together. And also he's stubborn as fuck. Curt has never had a problem caring about people, but he's never really been able to care for someone. To take care of someone. Hell, he could barely take care of himself sometimes. But he refuses to leave. He refuses to let Owen push him away. He chooses to commit, to stay, even if its messy and uncomfortable.

I think before all this, Curt was probably doing some defense/security contractor work- there's plenty of it out there for someone with his background. He does enough to pay the bills, which isn't much. And in his spare time he takes up woodworking. It keeps him busy. Keeps him doing something with his hands, something he gets to be creative with. So when Owen comes back home after having these big surgical procedures, Curt has built a little ramp so the wheelchair can get up the stairs. He's put up railings and hand-holds everywhere he can think of. He rebuilt a couple of doorframes to make them wider. He made a little cart on wheels that fits over the wheelchair, so Owen can still prepare and cook food if he's up for it. He really goes wild with it. He's still him, he still struggles to say how he feels in words, but he finds other ways to express it. He takes care of Owen's little garden while Owen is recovering (and accidentally pulls half of it up because he doesn't know the difference between a weed and a growing vegetable, but it's the thought that counts)

And they get through it. Curt understood on an intellectual level what happened to Owen after the fall, but didn't really have any way of knowing exactly what it means to be that injured, that dependant on the people around you to survive. So this thing that can and does drive a lot of couples apart (seriously look up the stats on men leaving their partners when they become sick/injured, its bad) ends up bringing them closer together. It ends up soothing that constant fear that Owen has had ever since they got back together- that at any moment Curt might just get sick of him or decide he isn't worth the trouble and leave him again. It helps Curt understand how vulnerable Owen was when Chimera convinced him to work for them.

Eventually Owen heals up, the chronic pain issues go back down to his post-fall baseline. He is still a full-time cane user, but Curt loves to find the most beautiful downed branches, exotic hardwoods, and make Owen a variety of canes. He gets into woodcarving so he can decorate them. He tells Owen that the cane makes him look distinguished, that its actually kinda hot. And Owen chooses to believe him.

By the time Owen is in his late 50s, maybe early 60s, he's a full time wheelchair user. He can walk short distances with a cane, but for the most part its better for him to just use the chair. But thats okay, because the house is pretty well adapted for him already. Curt helps him when he wants to tend to his garden, and he makes big family dinners whenever Tatiana and Barb come to visit.

Curt's mom visits while she's still alive, and although Curt and Owen never outright tell her about them, she knows. She knows the same way a kid knows that their unmarried aunt with short hair and a longterm female roommate is probably a lesbian, even if nobody ever says that word in front of them. She treats Owen like a son.

That's my soft, sappy, overly sentimental alternate universe headcanon for Owen Carvour growing old. That someone cares about him. Someone cares for him. Not because he's useful, not because he has skills they can exploit for their benefit. That Curt cares for Owen just because he loves him. And Owen loves Curt.

My dumb fluffy headcanon is that after the first half of their lives being so brutal and violent and painful, they get to have a second chance. A second chance they never should have gotten. A chance to find things that are beautiful and wonderful and hopeful. And they take that chance together.

[rivalriotrenegade]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader Random "I love you"

About fic: Slight comic references, so if you know you know and if you don't that's still okay. Technically monster Simon Riley x reader but can be read as human Simon also no monster parts described so you can imagine whatever you want. As the title suggests the prompt was "random I love you" so Soft Simon Hours. This fic is for @midnightxsecretary (because they asked for more!) also @luvergirl777 because I think they'd like this based off a fic they wrote. One that you should totally go read after this!

Word Count: 593 (Short read)

Warnings: None, but GN reader.

It’s weird really, to see Simon acting so domestic you think to yourself as you silently watch him wash the dishes. The usual uniform has been replaced with a T-shirt and jeans and the balaclava has been traded in for a black surgical mask instead. You smile softly to yourself as you lean the laundry basket against your hip. 

It had taken Simon months before he felt comfortable enough to let his walls down like this. He had constantly been on guard trying his best not to let you see him down, but eventually you managed to peek through the cracks and slowly he let you see more of himself. Despite the fact that there had been plenty of ups and downs in knowing Simon the more you learned about him the more you grew to love him. All the bits and pieces, broken parts and sharp edges, all the things that made him him.

“Hey Simon?” You call out. 

“Yeah?” He replied without looking at you, too focused on finishing the task in front of him to bother turning around when he could hear you perfectly fine like this. 

“I love you.” You say, smile evident in your voice before you continue down the hall to finish your chore. 

For a moment time seems to stand still as Simon freezes… and just like that, with three simple words, you have shook him to his very core. 

You didn’t see the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hands grip the counter. You didn’t hear the deep breath he takes to calm himself and the emotions currently raging inside of him. You didn’t see the way he has to hold himself together to try and keep from crying. You didn’t see the hand he used to cover his eyes as he leaned over the counter because he wasn’t sure he could stand on his own two feet without his knees giving out. 

It had been a long, long, time since Simon Riley had heard those three words and to hear them so suddenly, for no apparent reason, hit him harder than any punch, bullet or knife ever could. 

He wanted so desperately to say it back, to tell you how much you mean to him. That if given the choice he’d take you over the very oxygen he breathes, because without you what purpose does his life have? He is a man who has lost everything. His mother, his brother, his sister-in-law, and nephew have all been killed for the sake of revenge. His teammates, his friends, have died in his arms. His very identity has been stolen from him, forcing him to live his life as a shadow, as a ghost. For the longest time he had lived for nothing more than to fight another day, to survive. But then you came into his life and for the first time in a long time he didn’t want to just survive… He wanted to live. 

But Simon couldn’t say that. Wouldn’t even know how to begin to put it into words. The strength and courage, the amount of vulnerability it would take to say something like that isn’t something he thinks he could handle. Someday, when he has found the right words and has steeled himself he’ll tell you. 

But that day is not today. As of right now he is doing everything in his power not to fall apart. Breathing in and out, washing the dishes in a circular motion, rapidly blinking his eyes and ignoring the stray tear that slips out. 

Hey! Hope you liked it. If not that's okay too. Please leave a comment and let me know your thoughts, I love interacting with you all. Also feel free to send in your requests! Nothing too weird tho. Have a great day :)

[randomwriteronline]

"I can't do anything for the eyelid."

Krakua listened in polite and total silence as Jaller (slightly creaky, emphasis on velar consonants) insisted: "Nothing at all?"

"It's fused into the mask," Zaria (ejective alveolar fricatives, deeper tinnier tone, slightly scratchy) replied curtly: "I can't separate the different protodermis masses anymore, and even if I could the lid wouldn't be able to move on its own after the damage it sustained. The only viable options are to either close it completely, leave it like this, or remove the whole thing."

"A permanently open eye sounds like a nightmare..."

"And there's no saying an operation like that doesn't run the risk of fracturing the brain, either."

"That's a possibility?"

"With how brittle he is, I wouldn't be surprised." the voice shifted, sound waves changing trajectory with a sneer: "How did you even wreck yourself like that, huh? Forgot how to finish a Nova blast?"

Krakua remained perfectly still, breaths quiet, shallow.

After a long pause, Jaller spoke up: "Can the mask be removed?

"Surgically, yes. I could probably shave off a bit of the excess protodermis to make the mass a little more manageable, too. He'll need to be operated on his joints either way."

"What's your sentence on those?"

"Left knee will have to be bolted down so it doesn't risk dislocating abruptly, but it'll survive; I'll leave what to do with the right one up to him in the end, though personally I'd completely re-do it since it's not much better than the calf and ankle - those are too damaged and will need prosthetic replacements. His foot seems fine enough, I'll see if I can salvage it."

"And his other ankle? Hewkii said it was broken."

"It is, and it'll need a thorough welding job. His hip and spine too, on a smaller scale. His chest is only a bit warped, thankfully, so there shouldn't be too many problems."

"About his arm--"

"The problem's organic. Elder Racans promised they'll check on it."

"Thank you. If there's anything we can do..."

"See if you can remedy him some more braces like the one he already had until the prosthetics feel natural and at least one crutch to get around, maybe a small vehicle. He'll need as little weight on his lower half as possible for the adjustment period, and it surely won't be too bad to let him have some support later on, either."

"That's the opposite of an issue. Nuparu will love to keep himself busy for about a day designing and making all that."

A deeper hum closed the conversation with a nod, and the Toa of Iron stalked away to the other side of the room to rummage with a pile of something delicate, of carefully tempered metal and thick crystalline glass, looking for the correct tool.

Their soft tinkering painted unclear shapes in the eye of Krakua's mind as their careful sounds melted into the white noise tracing patterns on the ceiling.

"You've been awfully quiet," a creaky voice whispered at his side.

"Thinking," he replied hoarsely, peacefully.

Jaller smiled: "About what?"

"If my mask can be fixed."

"That's a question for the mask makers," Zaria interjected.

"They'll surely have the schematics for a Suletu," the Toa of Fire reassured his friend: "If not, they can easily get someone to send a print for it over."

But the De-Toa tilted his head slightly: "I want my mask fixed," he insisted: "I don't need a new one. Mine's fine. I just want it fixed."

"It will have to be melted down."

"That's fine. I just want it fixed."

"I think that can be done. It will probably have some added protodermis, though, to stabilize it."

"But most of it will still be the same?"

"Of course."

"That's fine, then."

Liquid lightly crashing against the inside of some kind of vial distracted him briefly: the Toa of Iron laid the object down before he could catch a good glimpse of it and went back to rummaging for yet some other medical utensil.

Raising his volume so he could be heard above the rockus, he did not turn as he asked: "Did you listen to what I said earlier?"

"Yes," Krakua croaked as nicely as his ghastly voice could.

"What do you want for your eye, then?"

"Like this is fine."

"Your knee?"

"I trust you."

"So I have permission to make it a prosthesis?"

"Yes, please."

Zaria turned to him briefly like he'd just spoken in an alien language: "Aren't you polite," he muttered at last, sounding flabbergasted.

Krakua coughed out a little laugh.

Jaller remained in the room as long as he could, keeping a careful eye on the few pieces of equipment slowly piling up on a small tray beside the cot - metal ingots, a sealed glass vial of some nebulous liquid, some kind of half-mask, a chisel, a pair of small scissors, a miniature blowtorch, a scalpel of sorts. He recognized most of them from his time getting a shoulder fixed up in the claustrophobic infirmary in Ta-Koro, his example being used to teach as many Matoran as possible how to treat more dire injuries.

His thoughts soured the longer his gaze lingered on the utensils. A vague sense of calm nudged them to the side: glancing downward, he found the De-Toa staring at him, buzzing faintly yet reassuringly where he laid with a sort of pleasant grimace and a quiet mischievoys request to distract him.

Acquiescing, a short sonar wave left the Arthron.

The Toa of Fire managed a little smile when his friend squirmed with a hissing giggle as the sound gently hit him.

He nodded whenZaria made a definitive gesture, telling him to get out and wait until called again - probably to fetch the safely removed Mask of Telepathy.

His hand squeezed gently the dark armored shoulder one last time: "Remember you'll need to adjust."

"Hm-hm."

"And I'll have your mask."

"Hm-hm."

"So don't disappear again. Got it?"

"Hm-hm."

A stern look: "Got it?"

The battered warrior cackled: "Got it."

Jaller patted him lightly; the next moment, he was gone.

The Fe-Toa's palm was heavier, more concrete: laid across Krakua's chestpiece it seemed to encompass it completely, carefully studying how the protodermis rose and fell beneath it.

"Take a deep breath," he instructed.

Krakua inhaled as much as he could.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Good. Keep going," he ordered as he went to fetch the vial.

The younger being watched him fix the half-mask on top of it, careful not to jostle the liquid too much yet: "I don't need it," he spoke calmly, very quietly. "I can handle the pain."

He watched the rusted fingers clench a little harder around the glass.

The words came out of Zaria in a hiss: "You can't."

No further arguments were had.

It took a couple of tries, but at last the muzzle fit perfectly over the Suletu's mouth.

The anesthetic smelled like something far too clean, scrubbed dry of any hint of life. Krakua shut the one eye that could still be properly shut and breathed the disgusting antiseptic scent in as long and as deep as he could, just like he was told to do, while a palm pressed down on his forehead.

Slowly, very slowly, the odor subsided.

He startled awake when he realized the weight spread on his face was gone as well. His throat rumbled and sputtered like an engine revved up one too many times, hurriedly calling out for Trinuma: no other part of his body understood his intentions, remaining limp and unresponsive inside his frozen body, and so all that came out of him was the low monotone wail of a calculator incurring into an impossible error.

An orange shape entered his field of vision: "Stay calm," (ejective alveolar fricatives, deeper tinnier tone, slightly scratchy) "Stay calm, we're done. Deep breaths."

"Done?" Krakua repeated - borrowing Zaria's voice when his own failed him again.

"Done. The operation's done. It went well. Now breathe."

His chest moved easier now. His back had lost the strange tingle he'd been feeling long enough to forget about, noticing it again only now that it had disappeared. His lower half felt like bits and pieces of a whole: entire body parts he knew had to be there left terrifyingly large gaps in his tactile reception.

His body felt more his with each breath, returning inhabitable little by little. It took a few long attempts, but his neck cleared, and opened, and words began to fill his mouth once more.

"How are you feeling?" the Fe-Toa inquired.

"Weird," he wheezed raucously, a little pained: "Drowsy."

"That's normal," his surgeon reassured him. "Your body is trying to recognize the prosthetics. Try to sleep it off, I'll wake you when Racans arrives to see what to do for your arm."

"My mask?"

Steps moving away: "Jaller's got it."

"Ah... Ah. Right."

He focused on the white noise - conversations out of the door, just far enough for the words to become indistinguishable, blooming into large pixelated patterns of static against the ceiling.

Another part of his body felt a little more familiar.

A whine left him.

Zaria turned back to him: "What now?"

"Wanted to ask," Krakua groaned through his tiredness. "More discreet... With a Suletu..."

He did not miss the scratching sound of tightening joints: "Questions about your operation?" the deep tinny voice hissed, warning him witho uttering any threat: "Or about Toa Zaria?"

The De-Toa craned his neck enough to look at the other.

His interlocutor showed him his back as he fancied himself busy putting his tools back in their rightful place.

"You thought of two things, when I said... I could handle it. The pain."

The creak of glass under pressure: "Be very quick."

"For the second - does it always feel, that bad?"

"Yes."

A soft hum.

Zaria's eye glowered from behind his shoulder: "And for the first?"

"Does it ever get better?"

Silence followed.

His head felt so terribly heavy. He didn't want to sleep.

It would have been so easy, if he'd had his mask. Maybe he should have left it forever stuck to his skull. It hurt horribly, and it didn't work as well as before, but he would have been able to use it now.

His body quivered. He was so tired. He didn't want to sleep.

The white noise on the ceiling curled around him comfortably, locking him in some sort of soothing hold.

Rusted hands rested on his knees.

"You'll need these checked every year," Zaria mumbled: "I'll be waiting for you. And hopefully, I'll... I'll have a good enough answer for you, one of these times."

His gaze met Krakua's.

He got back a comforted smile.

[lollipencil]

High Tide: Part 3

Originally this part was going to be completly different, but then I rewatched Werewolf By Night and this popped into my head.

Enjoy and be gentle ---

From the murky corner of the tank he was being held in, Steven knew he was screwed. For two whole days, he'd watched as monsters of different sizes and shapes were dragged, kicking and wailing, from the room he was in to the set of double doors just to his left. Few came out again. And those who did were always missing something.

Clumps of feathers. Patches of skin. Teeth. Whole limbs. And based on the looks of the people who stopped in front of his tank in the last couple of hours, Steven was next.

---

When the tank was carried through the double doors, the tears finally came. Warming the water around his eyes, he sliently wept as the surgical theater was revealed to him. Blood still covered the table as the man finished screwing in the specially made straps. Steven started to unconsciously shake his head, as if that little sign of intelligence was enough to stop them. But, the men turned to him, drills replaced by cattle prods, and began to unlatch the tank's lid.

Thud!

The sound startled both the men and Steven. They turned from him, focused on the doors. Faintly, human screams could be made out along with snarls and roars. Then, for just a moment, silence.

Suddenly, a wooden table came soaring through the doors. It clonked both the men in the head, one harder than the other. Both went down like boulders. A massive green body with bright red eyes strode in with purpose toward the one man who was still awake. He scrambles on the red-slick tiles, before the creature's hand clamps down on his head. The man's screams seemed crystal-clear to Steven as he watched the man burst into flames, quickly withering to a charred husk that flopped to the floor.

If Steven had been out in the open air, his quivering breaths would have been as loud as road construction at six in the morning. He couldn't stop looking at what once was the man, until a faint sound shook him.

The lid was open. One of those great, fire-inducing hands was reaching down.

With a silent scream, Steven slammed himself against the glass as flat as his body would allow him to go. Water sloshed out of the box as the hand and Steven's movements displaced it. Then, nothing happened.

The hand sat in the tank. The water remained the same tempature. No bubbling, no touching. Just was there, fingers half curled. Waiting.

Eventually, Steven turned to look at it. It looked just like a normal human hand: if they could grow big enough to enclose around most of Steven's chest, and composed of plant matter in place of flesh. Hesitantly brushing his own scaled hand over it, a texture closer to a plant stem greeted him. As Steven gripped one finger, his scales blended in almost perfectly, and the thumb moved so slowly to gently rub the back of his hand.

Oh. This creature wasn't going to hurt him.

The knowledge hit like a truck. Steven instantly sagged in relief, not even caring when the creature held him by his hips with both hands and lifted him out. A deep soothing rumble was the first clear sound Steven had heard in over two days, emanating from the creature's chest. The smell of old blood and stagnant water had Steven gag through his first breath of air.

As if suddenly noticing where they were, the creature hummed and tucked Steven into his shoulder while walking out. All of the cages in the other room were open and human bodies littered the floor. Steven just turned his head into that broad shoulder and tried to block out the massacre.

The next time he turned to the world, it was to a large and impossibly fancy bathroom. Somehow, it didn't surprise him too much. The creature set him down into the bathtub and, after some thumbling with the controls, managed to get the shower head running. Sighing happily, Steven shoved his head under the spray and shifted. Standing was harder than usual, knees wobbling from disuse, but he did it. And the feeling of warmth on his skin almost brought tears to his eyes.

Steven was so entranced by the feeling, he completely missed the creature leaving the room. At least, until he came back.

The door closing made Steven jolt slightly, only mitigated by the prominent bulk of dark green in the corner of his eye. The creature rumbled, set a bundle of clothes on the closed toilet seat, and waved on his way back out. Turning off the shower head, Steven staggered over to the towel rail.

Once he was moderately sure that he was dry, Steven pulled everything on and left the bathroom. The creature was waiting by the door, hairdryer in hand and plugged in. Soon after, Steven's newly fluffy hair was hidden behind a knitted hat.

And, with a mutual nod, they both left.

---

Jack stirred with the usual aches after a full moon. And to a voice that was very unusual. "-yeah, just like that," the new voice softly encouraged, "They can be read from left to right, right to left, or in columns from up to down. You see the ones with faces?" Ted grumbled in agreement, and Jack relaxed and began to crawl out of his shelter. "They will always face the direction you should read it from."

The new voice was bundled in warm clothes and a gentle smile. What looked like egyptian hieroglyphs were drawn in the dirt, Ted was studying them with interest. Once Ted noticed Jack was awake, he hummed and offered him a cup of coffee. "Thanks," Jack murmered tiredly. "Good morning," their guest waved as Ted refilled his cup, "Cheers, mate." The skin of his hands briefly shifted to green and amber scales with webbed, clawed fingers, answering Jack's unspoken question.

"Rough night," Jack noted. "Yeah, got better though. I'm Steven." "Jack, hope I didn't do any upsetting last night-" "No, no, you were fine! You were already asleep anyways, got more than I did."

After that, silence settled in. Suddenly, Ted hummed a question in their direction. "Would you like to join us for breakfast?" Jack translated. "That sounds, really good," Steven admitted, "What were you guys thinking of?" "I think there's a bakery not too far from here?" "...Yeah alright."