#Compressive Strength Test

[heicodynamics]

Advanced materials is a complex scientific subject with many subfields, each dealing with a different set of practical issues. In the context of human-initiated material innovation, “advanced materials” include all novel substances. It typically describes newly found materials with technical uses that have emerged in the last several decades. A broad variety of scientific fields and compressive strength test may be involved in the study and creation of novel advanced materials for use in industry. It includes

[sophieguo]

Manhole Cover Compression Testing Machine

Reliable and Accurate Testing for Manhole Covers The Manhole Cover Compression Testing Machine is a specialized testing device designed to assess the structural integrity of manhole covers under extreme pressure. This testing machine plays a crucial role in ensuring that manhole covers meet the required safety standards and durability expectations. Whether used for quality control in…

[vincivilworld]

Understanding the Concrete Compressive Strength Formula

The  concrete compressive strength formula is fundamental. It calculates how well concrete can resist axial loads without failing. Concrete compressive strength formula is crucial for determining the strength of concrete structures. It also ensures the durability of buildings, bridges, and roads. The formula for concrete compressive strength is expressed as fc = P/A. Here, P is the applied load.…

[prestotesting]

Box compression tester is an engineering perfect lab testing instrument designed to assess the ability of corrugated boxes to withstand the compression force while stacking. This lab testing instrument is created for the paper & packaging industries and the manufacturers of corrugated boxes are highly interested in attaining this engineering perfection by testing-instruments and measuring the compressive strength of their boxes with maximum accuracy.

It is necessary to determine the potential of cardboard used to make corrugated boxes to withstand a compressive force so that the items within the box remain safe as well as to calculate the number of boxes that can be stacked over a corrugated box by determining its compressive durability through the box compression tester. Presto digital box compression tester works well to test the compression strength of boxes accurately. 

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Prove It

The apartment was quiet…just the low hum of the AC and the occasional creak of the couch beneath you. You were straddling Nika’s lap, breath catching between kisses, but your body refused to relax.

Every time your hips dipped forward, even the slightest grind of pressure, that voice in your head screamed: She’s still healing. You could hurt her.

Nika sensed it.

She pulled back just far enough to see your face, her lips swollen, pupils blown wide with want. “Why are you holding back, ljubavi?” she asked, voice low, breath warm against your jaw.

You bit your lip, gaze flicking to the thick compression sleeve still hugging her right knee. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve barely started rehab. I’m not gonna be the reason you…”

She cut you off with a scoff, her tone sharp but hot with hunger. “You think I’m glass now? That I can’t take my girl losing it on me?”

She adjusted her position on the couch, planted her feet wider, and tensed her thigh beneath you…hard.

“Sit” she ordered, patting her flexed leg. “You’re not gonna break me, Y/N. I want this. Let me show you what I can handle.”

You stared at her, throat dry. There was something about the way she said it…like a challenge, like a promise. The muscle under your thighs jumped with tension, powerful and steady, practically begging for you to trust her.

Slowly, you shifted. Let her guide you. Your clothed heat pressed directly onto the firm line of her thigh, and your breath hitched at the contact.

“Good girl,” Nika purred, her hands gripping your hips tightly, dragging you forward once, slow and rough, making sure you felt everything.

The friction made your stomach clench.

“You feel that?” she whispered, nipping your earlobe. “That’s strength, baby. That’s for you.”

You whimpered, the tension of restraint unraveling in your spine. You started to move against her slowly, testing, your clothed center brushing her leg with every pass. She guided you with both hands, setting a rhythm.

“That’s it” she said between gritted teeth, voice husky and accented, every word soaked in arousal. “Take what you need from me.”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. The slow grind became needy, your hips moving faster, your nails digging into her shoulders as pleasure flooded your body.

She leaned back slightly, watching you..watching you come undone on her thigh like it was her favorite view in the world.

“Look at you” she groaned. “Fucking dripping for me. You’re soaking through those little shorts, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, nodding, your face flushed and skin burning. “Nika…”

“Oh, you love this,” she smirked, cocky and breathless. “You love knowing I can still take care of you. Even broken, I’m still the one who gets you like this.”

Her hands trailed under your shirt, gripping your waist, her fingers hot against your skin. She rolled her thigh up once..hard..and you cried out, jerking forward.

“Ride me” she growled. “Come on, baby. Lose yourself. Show me how bad you want it.”

You obeyed.

Your hips rocked with abandon now, chasing every bit of friction her flexed muscle gave you. Her thigh was slick with your arousal, your body trembling against hers. Your moans were growing louder, breath ragged, skin tingling.

“Fuck…Nika…I’m close” you gasped, voice breaking.

“Yeah?” she rasped. “Come on, ljubavi. Use me. Let me feel it.”

She leaned in, licking a stripe up your neck, her teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

“You’re not hurting me. You’re driving me insane.”

That pushed you over.

You clenched…body arching as the orgasm ripped through you, messy and loud, your cries muffled by her hoodie as you collapsed into her chest. She held you, thigh still pressed snug between your legs, letting you ride out every last tremor.

You were panting, dazed, your body limp against hers.

“I fuck” you mumbled, breathless. “You’re insane.”

She chuckled against your neck, cocky but tender, brushing your sweaty hair from your forehead. “Told you,” she whispered. “I’m still strong. Especially for you.”

You smiled against her collarbone, still trembling. “Okay. I believe you.”

Nika tilted your chin up with two fingers and kissed you…slow and deep and sweet.

While your body was still trembling…Nika slid her hands up your thighs coaxing your hips to stillness. Her leg, slick with your arousal, twitched slightly beneath you and her grin was devastatingly satisfied.

She kissed you again…deeper this time. Lazier. Possessive.

“You’re still shaking” she murmured against your lips, breath warm, voice soaked in pride.

You nodded, unable to form words, sinking your forehead against hers as you tried to come down.

But Nika wasn’t done.

She leaned in, kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck…slow and lingering. “You think I was gonna stop there, ljubavi?” she whispered, voice raspier now, fingers trailing beneath the waistband of your shorts. “That was just the warm up.”

Your breath caught as her touch slid lower, teasing the soft fabric between your legs.

“But..your knee”

She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, her gaze searing.

“I said I can take it.” Her fingers flexed against your hips. “And I’m going to take everything you give me tonight. Starting with that pretty little pussy I’ve been thinking about since rehab started.”

Your entire body flushed. You whimpered, hips lifting into her hand on instinct.

She smirked. “There’s my girl.”

Without another word, she hooked her fingers into your shorts and panties, sliding them down your thighs with care and hunger. You lifted your hips to help, completely bare now, still wet and twitching from your first release.

She stared.

“God, look at you” Nika whispered, voice reverent. She brought her hand to your center and ran two fingers through your folds, groaning when they came back soaked.

“Still dripping,” she said, biting her lip. “I want to see how many times I can make you come before you forget your own name.”

Your hands gripped her shoulders as she slid her fingers back, slowly, teasing your entrance with featherlight circles.

“Nika,” you gasped, rocking toward her.

“I got you,” she said, and then she pushed in two fingers deep, knuckle full, curling instantly against that spot she knew like second nature. Your mouth fell open in a soundless moan, your head falling back.

Her hand moved expertly slow at first, deliberate, then faster, with confidence only she could wield. Her other arm wrapped around your lower back, holding you close as her fingers fucked you hard and deep.

The couch creaked. The room filled with the wet sound of her hand working you open.

“You hear that?” she growled in your ear. “That’s you. That’s how bad you need me.”

You were losing it. Your nails scraped down her back, your hips grinding desperately into her hand, chasing the edge again.

“You’re so tight, baby,” she panted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “So fucking perfect. You feel me?”

“Yes…yes, Nika…don’t stop, please.”

She didn’t.

She curled her fingers hard..once, twice..and your body snapped. You cried out, loud and unfiltered, coming hard for the second time, legs quaking around her as she fucked you through it, fingers still stroking deep inside you until your voice broke into sobs.

And still she didn’t stop.

“You’ve got more” she murmured, tilting you back against the couch, lowering herself between your thighs. Her breath hit your swollen center, and she smirked when she saw your eyes widen in panic pleasure.

“Nika, I can’t..”

“Yes, you can.”

Her tongue met your clit before you could argue again…slow and firm and relentless. She licked you like she was starving, her strong hands locking around your thighs to keep you in place as you squirmed.

You were sobbing her name now, writhing, overstimulated but unable to stop. She moaned against you, loving every twitch and cry you gave her, eating you like it was her life’s purpose.

And when you came a third time…a broken, shattered thing, shaking so hard you thought you might pass out…she didn’t pull away.

She kissed you through it, soft and slow, licking up every drop you gave her.

By the time she finally slid up your body again, your eyes were glassy and your legs refused to close.

She kissed your temple.

“You okay?” she asked gently, brushing your damp hair back from your face.

You nodded weakly, still panting. “You’re… unreal.”

She smiled, kissed you like a thank you. “Told you I’m strong.”

“You’re a fucking problem” you whispered, laughing breathlessly into her mouth.

“Only for you,” she murmured. “And I’m not done yet.”

[munchhmm]

hey ml! Was wondering if you could do headcanons of one piece men, specifically Zoro, with a love interest (preferably fem) who is SUPER strong, and fast, like Saitama.

Thank youuu! Byeee

More Than Muscle

Hi annon! I’m sorry I’ve never watched One Punch Man and I'm not feeling very well oops, but I have an idea (I think) of what you were expecting though!! hopefully this is good :’)

The boys reacting to reader being super duper strong! ♡

Image above is mine.

Pairings: Zoro, Ace, Law, Smoker, and Luffy x F!reader.

Warnings: None! ᐢ. .ᐢ

Word count: 550 I'm sorry It's so short :(

Zoro > ᴗ•

Doesn’t want to admit you might be stronger than him.

Sees firsthand how powerful your skills are—he’s in awe but would never show it.

Trains harder to try and get on your level, even though in the back of his head he knows it’s probably not possible.

Secretly finds it cute and fun; sparring with you felt like a real challenge.

“Where did all of this come from?” —asking out of sheer curiosity but with a hint of annoyance, knowing you’re beating his ass.

Protects you silently; he sees your strength but knows everyone gets tired sometimes.

Lets you lean on his shoulder, eventually his lap after practice—running his fingers through your hair when he knows you’re asleep.

Ace ´ ᵕ `

Smirking but wants to be your biggest fan on the inside.

Constantly puts you up to tests, timing your speed and agility.

In awe when you fight, almost to the point he forgets he’s in the scuffle himself.

Still tries to take care of you like a baby—he admires you so much. Even if you’re strong, you’re still his love.

Honestly would probably try to stop you from going overboard, like you’re all fighting and he grabs you so things don’t get too heated. Haha, literally, right? Get it with Ace? I should shut up…

When you get tired, he scoops you up and holds your body like you’re the most fragile thing on earth.

Doesn’t care about the teasing—he respects you even if your power can compare to his.

Law ᵔᗜᵔ

Doesn’t say a word outright, just a small smirk across his face.

Worries way too much—his doctor instincts kick in. Are you pushing yourself too hard? Are you hurt? These thoughts circle his mind constantly.

Stands behind you with his eyes closed like he isn’t paying attention. He most certainly is.

Offers practical help: meditation and cold compresses. This is his way of showing he cares.

When you do inevitably push yourself too far, he’s the first to notice—almost forcing you to rest and take things easy.

In secret, he lets you lay on his chest while he watches your face, trying to read what mental and physical state you’re in.

Would never let anyone tease you—giving deadly glances when anyone dares to open their mouth.

Smoker •⤙•

Cold and stern outwardly; on the inside, he’s really impressed.

Worries about you in battle but knows you can handle it.

If you ever did get hurt, he’d calmly bandage you while cursing himself for not being there sooner.

Never lets you push yourself too hard, even when necessary—he cares too much about you.

Watches with a focused eye at all times.

Brags about you to other Marines without even realizing it.

Keeps your weak spots in the back of his mind so he can help when—really if—needed.

Luffy >ヮ<

Biggest fanboy from the very start.

“WOAH, THAT’S SO COOL! HOW DID YOU DO THAT?!”

Wants to join every fight you’re in from that point forward.

Secretly learns the way you fight so maybe he can copy you.

If anyone ever underestimates you, he just laughs and lets you at them.

Tells everyone that you’re the strongest person he’s ever met—and means it.

Makes you eat lots of food—aside from what he steals from you, ofc—and rest a bunch to keep your strength.

[azzibuckets]

now that we don’t talk part 1 [paige bueckers]

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: you and paige break up and neither of you know how to move on properly with your life

a/n: decided to go for some angst again…didn’t really have an aim or a direction when writing this so not sure if i should turn this into a series or not ? lmk what yall think

word count: 1.5k

masterlist | next

The First Week

In the first week, Paige had fallen into her daily routine. Her moments of forgetfulness were instinctual; she’d laid a dollop of minty Crest toothpaste on her blue toothbrush before doing the same thing to your red one, leaving it hanging over the edge of the counter.

The first time she did it, she’d hadn’t even noticed. It was only when she’d turned her mouth to catch the water under the faucet that she’d spotted your toothbrush that she’d set up, ready with Crest, as if you’d pop in any moment to stick it in your mouth and start scrubbing. Paige had almost choked on the water she’d been gurgling, grief worming its way up her throat and making it hard to breathe.

Heaving, she’d stood over the sink, hand gripping both sides of the counter to support herself until her knuckles turned white. It took all her strength not to buckle over from the precipitous wave of agony that had collided into her with gut-wrenching speed.

But for some reason, Paige had stuck your toothbrush under the stream of water then placed it carefully back in its cup. And so she’d made the same mistake the day after. This time, when she realized what she’d done, it wasn’t the weight of sadness that compressed her lungs, but a brewing storm of fury. Her vision had gone red, and she’d grabbed the toothbrush and hurled it against the wall as hard as she could, with a strength that she didn’t even know that she’d still had. And this time, when Paige stared at the toothpaste dripping slowly down the wall, mocking her as it made a mess on the floor, the counter couldn’t save her. She’d succumbed to the force of her fury dragging her down, and had crumpled to the floor, sobs racking her body.

The First Month

Your room was dark, in almost sub-freezing temperatures with the windows wide open to welcome in the frosty, bone-chilling winter air that Connecticut was known for. The only light in the room came from the dim glow of your laptop screen, opened live to the UConn women’s basketball game playing live on ESPN.

At first, you’d attempted to be nonchalant whenever Paige sunk yet another basket with ease, making the crowd and commentators going feral as she celebrated with her signature moves. But as the game between UConn and Stanford got closer and closer, you couldn’t help but smile when Paige crossed over her defense, sending them flying to the floor and leaving her wide open to score yet another 3. It reminded you all too well of the Paige you’d met and fallen in love with, whose confidence on the court had made you start viewing her as more than just your teammate.

But any trace of smile on your face quickly vanished once you watched Paige’s post-game interview during the livestream. “You’ve had quite a run this season despite being out for most of your sophomore and junior year due to injury. Who would you like to thank for your unpredented comeback?”

“I’d like to thank God. He’s been with me through everything, given me trials to test my resilience. In fact, he’s made me stronger than ever.” Paige had paused. You’d recognized her hesitance; the way she nibbled her bottom lip, her mouth half open as she debated a response, the uncertainty in her eyes as they flickered. But she seemed to recover from any reluctance, and what she said next made your heart drop. “I’d also like to thank my girlfriend, Leslie.” She motioned to someone off camera, and soon the frame was filled with tousled brown hair and soft green eyes.

Paige pulled her in close, and your world spun as you watched Paige, your Paige, press her lips against the brunette. Your hands had reached up to tear your headphones off your head, unable to further listen to the claps and hoots of the crowd along with the cooing of the commentators without feeling the need to throw up. But before you could, Paige had started speaking again. Your hands froze. You hated yourself for it, but you had to listen.

“She’s been with me through everything, from freshman year to now. She was my number one supporter when I got injured.” She wrapped her arm around Leslie’s waist, staring intently at the camera, and never before had you been this sickened staring at the blue eyes you’d once adored, could’ve spent hours getting lost in. “But even outside of my injury, Les has been on my side. Especially with all the immature drama that happened on the court last year, she was really a clear voice in all of that. So I’m pretty grateful for her.”

Leslie’s mouth split into a grin, and she turned to pull Paige in for another kiss, and that was when you slammed your laptop so hard that when you opened it the next morning, you were surprised to see that the screen hadn’t shattered.

You were not someone who cried. Your family members, your friends, Paige could all attest to that. But the torment that was clawing its way through your body, threatening to suffocate you, finally exploded. Tears had surged from your eyes, seemingly never ending, and you’d cried so much that night that it suddenly made sense why you’d almost never cried before; it was like all the tears in your life had been pent up, waiting for this moment, for when the pin fell.

That night was the lowest you’d ever felt in your life, and possibly even the lowest you’ve ever acted - blinded by a jealous rage over the girl that Paige had always promised you not to worry about, the girl Paige was basically making out with on live television just one month after you guys had broken up (and when it’d taken her two years to show PDA with you), you’d gone on all your social media accounts and blocked Paige on every single one of them.

Then an idea came to you. An act of retaliation that would hurt Paige as much as she hurt you. So you’d reopened Twitter, unblocked Paige. You’d scrolled until you found the perfect tweet. Your thumb had hovered for a split second over the like button, haunted by images of Paige’s hand trailing your stomach, her hair brushing your eyes, her mouth on your neck, before it was violently replaced by the image of Paige locking lips with the brunette flooding your mind, causing you to jam your thumb down with ferocity on the like button. You’d slammed the final nail in the coffin by deleting the app so that you couldn’t go back and undo your action before word got around to Paige.

The First Year

You thought you knew grief. You thought you’d familiarized yourself with every aspect of mourning: the realization in the morning, when your eyes open and you lose the blissful state of dreaming and you’re confronted with the harsh truths of the world. Or the late nights, when you’re restless and can’t sleep because of jealousy plaguing your mind. Even the deep longing of missing someone’s touch so bad that you swear that you can almost almost smell their perfume.

So you thought you knew grief - until your grandma died. It had been a matter of time. She’d had breast cancer, and for years now the doctors had been saying any time. But that still didn’t prepare you for the overwhelming pain that consumed all your senses, making it hard to think or eat or sleep or even breathe.

The first few nights after you received the news, you stared at the ceiling, unblinking until the early hours of the morning when the sun started creeping up through your windows. But you couldn’t even cry; you felt like a broken faucet. What the fuck was wrong with you? Sobbing over your stupid ex that you’d broken up with an entire year ago, but unable to shed a tear for your grandma, the woman who had single-handedly raised you. You were exhausted to the point of no return. When would everything stop hurting?

You’d only torn your eyes from your ceiling when your phone had lit up. It was 4 AM, and you wondered who it could be. You checked your phone, and every part of your body froze when you read the notifications.

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

I’m so sorry

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

I just heard the news

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

Don’t know if you’re even active on here anymore but it’s the only way I could reach you. If you see this, I just want to ask you to not keep your grief to yourself. Isolating yourself won’t make the pain go away. Make sure to talk to someone

Your heart had ached, your phone trembling in your hand. Because Paige had cared enough to send you a message, on the same app where you’d given the tabloids a wet dream and caused the UConn fandom to go into a spiral by liking a hate tweet about Paige. She’d cared enough to disregard all that to make sure you were okay. But she still hadn’t cared enough to offer to be that someone that she wanted you to talk to so bad.

So you’d left her on read, without responding. Had slipped back into your sheets, your head pounding and your lungs aching. This time the tears fell out easily.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

A hand dynamometer. A device to measure a person's grip strength. Your friend bought it off from somewhere during one of her impulsive shopping sprees. She lent it to you for the day.

You tried it out yourself, squeezing the handle as hard as you could and having your whole arm contracting. You were lukewarm with your results, your strength fell into the average category. Nothing more, nothing less.

You kept it away, forgetting about it for a while and your friend did so too. It's almost like she gifted it to you.

Until one day, you were searching for something from your drawers. You stumbled upon the dynamometer again.

You were curious about Yves's grip strength, he's quite lean and built. His readings must be high, but you wouldn't know until you've tested it on him.

So you went back out to your living room. Yves was folding your laundry neatly, it was warm and fragrant as he did it for you earlier. His fingers smoothened the wrinkles delicately, caring for everything you own.

Yves didn't have to do your chores, but he insisted because he said he loves doing it. Especially when it's in service to someone he loves to death; you.

He did offer to let you move in with him. Although it was tempting, you didn't want to feel like you're taking advantage of his willingness to take care of you. It would be even worse if you lived with him, Yves would become your full time maid! It feels unsettling despite Yves's reassurances that he's enjoying doing such tedious tasks.

"Yes, my love?" He asked while picking up a stack of shirts to be returned to your dresser; It's arranged by colour and makes it aesthetically pleasing to look at. Yves reflexively used a hand to tidy the strands of hair away from your face.

You presented him the device.

"Ah..." Yves smiled charmingly as he picked it up from your hands. You knew he knew what it was, this is something you've appreciated about this relationship. It's as if he would read your mind and words aren't necessary to convey your wants at times. It saved you a lot of energy and you felt... Special. It's something no one has ever made you feel before except your new partner.

Yves barely gave it a squeeze before you heard a defeaning crack that made your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach. It also made Yves's green eyes widen in surprise too.

He slowly uncurled his slender, delicate fingers from the handle. "Oh?" Only for the gadget to fall apart, shard by shard, screw by screw and spring by spring. It crumbled like a scone to the floor, miscellaneous pieces bouncing off everywhere and landing on the tip of his high heels.

Your jaw was slack, just how strong is he? You remembered using all your might and maybe about to burst a vessel in your eye from the power, just so you could get an average score. Yet, Yves is leisurely holding your neatly folded clothes in one hand, while the other merely gives the dynamometer a light compression at best- and he obliterates it.

He sets your clothes back down into the clean laundry basket before kneeling on the floor to pick the debris up.

You asked him how he is so strong.

"I am terribly sorry for breaking your handheld dynamometer, dear." He spoke, picking the sharp pieces up first, so you wouldn't get cut. "But it was already faulty before I could even perform a fair test." Yves continued

That made a lot more sense. Because that device can handle up to 200 pounds, or 90 kilograms. To make it shatter like that, Yves would have to at least double, triple or even quadruple its maximum limit. And within a blink of an eye too? Without breaking a sweat or grimacing? It's impossible that Yves possessed superhuman strength to do that. Right?

"Where did this come from?" He asked, rising up to his full height as he carried the broken dynamometer in his deceptively dainty hands. "It isn't of good quality."

You told him it came from your friend, you have forgotten to return it to her and it seems like she has forgotten to ask for it back.

He cocked an eyebrow. "The one who regularly partakes in flagrant overconsumption?"

Your eyes darted around, trying to defend her. But ultimately, Yves is right. She buys more than she can afford. And she tends to visit sites that sell for cheap, but in horrible quality.

"That explains its... Intolerance." He brought the mangled dynamometer to your eye level. Yves sighed before chuckling, "I'll replace it as soon as I can."

Yves kissed you on the forehead before walking past you, so he could reach the trash can to dispose of the broken dynamometer.

You didn't catch the second, silent sigh of relief, though. He thinks he's getting sloppier, Yves was trying to impress you by achieving a grip strength comparable to those of elite athletes. But he was much stronger than that, Yves was supposed to control the contraction of his muscles to not scare you off. But he must have gotten distracted by your presence, all he could think of was how kissable your cheeks were and his cuteness aggression must have gotten the better of him. That damned device was actually functioning perfectly fine.

You seem to buy his coverup. But regardless, he must do something about his near uncontrollable urge to squeeze you out of sheer love and affection.

He dusted his hands off and turned around. Yves caught a glimpse of you carrying your folded stack of clothes back into your bedroom.

His eyes tracked your every movement, big or small. Cherishing and memorizing each sequence. Yves's face may be unreadable, but his fingernails digging into the palm of his hand and the momentarily dilation of his pupils could tell a story of a thousand words about his rawest feelings towards you.

[heicodynamics]

An important first step in ensuring the materials can handle the loads and meet all design requirements is to test their compressive strength. Preparing the specimen, running the test, and interpreting the results are the steps involved in determining the compressive strength test. For accurate data on concrete resistance before field evaluation, compressive strength testing is the way to go.

[yunvamp]

stitches and silence

pairing: park jongseong x female reader trigger warnings: emotional trauma, injury, mental health themes (burnout, isolation), mild medical description word count: 2410

The first thing you’re told about Jay is that he doesn’t want to be helped.

Not that he can’t be. Not that he won’t be. Just that he doesn’t want to be. And that’s the kind of detail that sticks to your ribs in silence.

Your job, technically, isn’t complicated. You’re a licensed physical therapist with a specialty in post-performance injury recovery. K-pop idols, dancers, stunt actors. You’ve worked with fractured ankles and dislocated shoulders, tension headaches so bad they caused temporary blindness. You’ve seen overworked, over-pushed bodies from the inside out.

But this case feels different before you even walk in.

Jay's injury had been bad. A clean tear in his left shoulder muscle during rehearsal—an aggressive, adrenaline-fueled choreography that had made headlines for being "iconic." And in the middle of that choreography, Jay had dropped mid-spin, clutching his arm, and didn’t get up.

That was three weeks ago.

Now, you’re at HYBE’s private recovery facility, standing outside the door of a room that even his members seem to avoid.

“Don’t force conversation,” the manager tells you, eyes wary. “He doesn’t speak unless he has to. Barely eats. He won’t let the usual team near him anymore. You’re... new. Maybe that’ll mean something.”

You knock gently, even though you know they told him you were coming.

No answer.

You open the door.

The room smells like cold air and disinfectant. It’s dark—blinds drawn, lights off, the glow of a single screen against Jay’s face. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, back to you, his injured arm resting in a black compression sling, phone in his other hand.

He doesn’t look up.

“Jay?” Your voice is careful. Quiet. Like if you’re too loud, you’ll shatter something fragile.

Still, no reaction. You step in and close the door behind you.

“I’m Y/N. I’ll be working with you for the next few weeks. I’ve looked over the report. Grade 2 muscle tear, partial dislocation of the joint—”

“You don’t have to say all that,” he says suddenly, voice low and flat.

You blink. His first words.

“I read the report,” he continues, setting his phone down. “I know what happened.”

You pause. “Then you also know recovery depends on movement. Physical therapy. Strength rebuilding.”

Jay finally turns his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to catch yours. They're sharp—but empty. The kind of sharp that cuts not because it’s trying to hurt, but because it forgot how not to.

“Are you here to heal the muscle or fix the artist?”

You inhale softly. That was not a question you expected on day one.

“…Both, if I can,” you answer honestly.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then: “Good luck.”

The first few sessions are stiff, clinical.

You’re not allowed to touch his arm unless he grants permission. He often doesn’t. You instruct him from a chair across the room. “Lift your elbow. Rotate inward. Hold for five.” His face never changes, but sweat gathers near his temples. You notice how his fingers twitch when he pushes past the pain. You say nothing.

He never plays music.

He doesn’t speak unless necessary.

You try not to take it personally. You know what this is.

Pain doesn’t just exist in the body. It anchors in the mind.

Jay is in mourning—not just for the injury, but what it took from him. The canceled performances. The silence from fans. The pause in momentum when he was so close to becoming something permanent. Idol careers don’t come with sabbaticals. You either shine or you disappear.

One day, after a particularly brutal set of range tests, you notice his breathing falter. Shallow. Chest tight.

“Jay,” you say softly. “You’re overextending. Let’s stop for now.”

“I can go again.”

“Your heart rate’s too high. You’re pushing past useful pain.”

“I said I can go again.”

His voice cuts like steel.

You pause, eyes steady. “Are you trying to recover or trying to punish yourself?”

His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists.

And then he says something that settles under your skin like ash:

“If I get better, they’ll expect more from me again.”

Progress doesn’t come in leaps. It creeps in.

One day, he doesn’t flinch when you adjust his sling. Another day, he agrees to light massage therapy. Once, you crack a joke under your breath and swear you see a smirk—so quick it could’ve been a twitch.

And then, one evening, weeks in, you find him sitting on the mat even before you arrive.

“You’re early,” you comment, surprised.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad night?”

He shrugs.

You kneel beside him, pulling out a heat wrap. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

You nod, unbothered. “Okay.”

Silence falls. You press the heat to his shoulder, adjusting the strap with practiced fingers.

His voice is quieter when it comes again. “They think I’m faking it.”

Your hands freeze, mid-motion.

“Who?”

“Online. Some fans. Maybe some of the staff too. That I exaggerated it. That I wanted time off.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s not about fair. It’s about being forgotten.”

His voice breaks—just slightly—and that’s the first time you hear the sound beneath it. The weariness. The fear. The quiet please see me hidden under leave me alone.

You sit with him. You don’t say It’ll get better or You’re not alone or You’re so talented—he’s heard those all before.

You just say, “You’re allowed to not be okay. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real.”

And for the first time, Jay lets his head fall against your shoulder.

He doesn’t apologize.

The next day, he just lets you in.

You find him on the floor again, cross-legged on a padded mat, dressed in gray sweats and a black tee. The sling is off. That’s new.

“Did you remove it yourself?” you ask, gesturing to his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Any pain?”

“Only when I breathe.”

You glance at him, uncertain if he’s joking.

Then he smirks, eyes flicking toward you for a fraction of a second.

It’s the first smile you’ve seen on him.

That night, the exercises go longer. Not because you push him—he keeps asking for more. Five reps become ten. Ten become fifteen. It isn't perfect, but his posture is straighter. His movements more precise. He sweats through his shirt but never complains.

And when it’s over, he doesn't leave immediately.

Instead, he asks, "Do you ever get tired of it?"

"Of what?"

"Fixing people."

You stare at him, caught off-guard. "I don’t think I fix anyone."

"You do," he says. "Or you try. Doesn’t that wear you out?"

You consider that. "Only when they pretend they don’t want to be fixed."

He nods slowly, not looking at you. "I'm sorry I made it harder."

Your chest tightens at that. You say nothing, just nudge a bottle of water toward him.

He takes it, fingers brushing yours. That touch stays with you long after you leave.

And for the first time in weeks, you can’t stop thinking about Jay long after the door closes behind you.

Jay starts keeping the room brighter.

You don’t comment on it, but you notice. Curtains open halfway. Desk lamp on. He still wears oversized clothes, hoodies that swallow his frame, but he lets you sit closer now. Some days, he even talks before you ask a question.

"What happens when this is over?" he asks during cooldown.

You glance up from your notes. "What do you mean?"

"When I'm healed. Do we just pretend this didn’t happen?"

You hesitate. The honest answer is: maybe. That’s how it usually goes. The recovery ends, and so does the bond. But you say:

"No. We remember it happened. Because it mattered."

Jay nods, slowly. And then he says something you didn’t expect:

"I used to love performing. I don’t know if I do anymore."

You watch his throat work around the words like they burn.

"Is that bad?"

"It’s not bad," you say. "It’s honest. And honesty is the first real thing you’ve given yourself in weeks."

Jay plays music for the first time.

It’s soft—an acoustic version of a song you don’t recognize at first. When you do, your heart stutters. It’s one of his. But stripped down. Raw. Vulnerable in a way the polished version never was.

He’s watching you as it plays. You wonder if he sees your eyes shift. If he hears your breath catch.

"Do you think that still sounds like me?" he asks.

"I think it sounds more like you."

Jay exhales like you’ve given him permission to believe in something again.

"Tell me something true," Jay says.

You raise a brow. "Like what?"

He shrugs, shifting to lay flat on the mat, his arm propped under his head. "Anything. As long as it’s real."

So you tell him about your first job. How you once sprained your own wrist trying to demonstrate a stretch. How you cried in the staff bathroom, embarrassed. How your supervisor brought you ice and didn’t laugh.

Jay listens. Really listens.

"Your turn," you say.

"Okay. I... don't like mirrors."

You blink. "Why not?"

"Because when I look into them, I keep seeing the version of me I used to be. The one who didn’t think he could fail."

He closes his eyes. "That version hates me now."

Jay gets angry.

It happens during a bad day. The pain flares out of nowhere. A wrong twist, an awkward angle. His arm spasms, and his face crumples before he can stop it. He pushes you away when you reach for him.

"Get out," he snaps. "Just—leave."

You don’t. You kneel, slow and steady.

"I’m not going anywhere. Not while you’re in pain."

His hands tremble. His voice cracks. "Why? Why do you care?"

And your answer is simple.

"Because you matter. Even when you’re angry. Even when it hurts."

Something in him breaks. Not in a violent way—more like an unraveling. A dam finally giving in.

He lets you hold him while he shakes.

Jay hums when he thinks you’re not listening.

It’s a new melody. Something he hasn’t written down. You recognize the rhythm as the count you use during stretches. A slow, deliberate 1...2...3...4. But he’s turned it into something beautiful.

You hum it back to him one day. He freezes.

"You were listening."

"Always."

He turns his head toward you. "I think I want to finish that song. When this is over."

You smile. "Then I’ll be the first to stream it."

One night, it rains.

Jay doesn’t cancel the session. You arrive soaked, hair clinging to your face. He hands you a towel without speaking, eyes soft.

"You didn’t have to come."

"You didn’t cancel."

You sit close that day. Too close. But neither of you moves. Not when your fingers brush. Not when his knee touches yours.

And when the lightning flashes outside, he flinches.

You reach for him without thinking.

He grips your hand like a lifeline.

You’ve stopped pretending you’re just his therapist.

There are moments now. Small, charged. The way he watches your mouth when you speak. How your name sounds different when he says it like a question.

"Y/N..."

"Yeah?"

He doesn’t finish the sentence. But you know. You feel it in your ribs.

Later, you find a note in your locker.

It just says: Stay.

And your heart does.

There’s no session booked today.

Still, you find yourself outside his door.

Jay opens it before you knock.

He’s in soft clothes. No brace. No mask. Just him.

You spend the whole day together. No therapy. No pain charts.

You watch a movie you don’t finish. He makes coffee. You fall asleep on his couch.

He tucks a blanket over your shoulder like it’s instinct.

And in the quiet, he whispers, "Don’t go."

It isn’t planned.

You’re laughing—really laughing—for the first time in weeks. Jay’s hand is on your wrist. He pulls you toward him to show you something on his phone, and suddenly you’re closer than close.

The kiss is soft. Hesitant.

He pulls back immediately. "I shouldn’t have—"

You kiss him again.

You don’t need to say anything. You’ve already said enough.

Jay’s cleared to return to light choreography.

The others cheer. The company schedules meetings.

But he comes to you that night, eyes wild.

"What if I’m not ready?"

You press your forehead to his.

"Then we take it slow. On your terms. Nobody else’s."

He nods. And for the first time since this began, you see him breathe easy.

Six months later.

The lights are brighter than you remember.

You’re in the back of the crowd—shoulder to shoulder with strangers—but your eyes never leave the stage. Not when the music starts. Not when he steps into the spotlight.

Jay.

He moves like he’s found gravity again. Controlled. Elegant. There’s power in his limbs, not pain. Focus in his eyes, not fear. You almost don’t recognize him—until he smiles. That soft, quiet thing he used to save only for you.

He’s whole. Or close enough to it.

After the encore, you slip backstage with a pass you didn’t ask for. One that arrived in your mailbox, tucked inside a folded napkin from his favorite coffee shop. The note said: If you’re still listening... come.

You did.

He finds you in the hallway. Still in stage gear, breathless from the show. His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead. His hand curls instinctively around your wrist when you reach him.

Neither of you speaks at first.

Then, softly: "You came."

You nod. "You remembered."

"Every note. Every word. Every you."

There are people moving all around you—stylists, managers, other members—but it fades, all of it, when he leans in.

The kiss is firmer this time. Like it’s earned.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I wrote something," he says. "Want to hear it?"

You nod.

Jay hums the melody. It’s familiar. A variation on the stretch count, the acoustic version, the rainy night. But this time, there are lyrics. Real ones.

It’s about pain. And recovery. And you.

When he finishes, his voice is a whisper:

"It’s called 'Quiet Light.' I thought maybe... that could be us."

You take his hand. Press it to your chest.

"We already are."

And in that moment, it’s not about fame. Or healing. Or how close he came to quitting.

It’s about two people who didn’t.

Not on each other.

Not on themselves.

Not when it mattered.

note: yup....i kinda dropped this out of the blue, but who cares right? ...right? anways!! i spent like half an hour just coming up with what this should be about, and then 2-3 hours writing it..hope you enjoy :3

(perm taglist is open !!)

[labzenix]

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[starsjulia]

angel chapter six // pain

a/n : saddest one yet, also i’m not fully educated on seizures because when i have had one obviously i don’t know exactly what they’re doing, so bare with me if it’s inaccurate.

warnings : cancer. seizures, a lot of pain, just all in all an angsty one.

masterlist

The weeks seemed to stretch on endlessly, a mix of cautious hope and lingering fear. There had been some signs of improvement in Angel’s condition—small but meaningful steps that Leah had clung to with all the strength she had left. But hope was a fragile thing, and it shattered too easily. The decline started subtly; Angel seemed more tired than usual, even on her better days. Her appetite, which had slowly begun to return, all but disappeared, and her once-bright eyes now appeared dull, shadowed by fatigue and pain.

Leah did her best to hide the worry that gnawed at her, always trying to stay upbeat for Angel’s sake, always putting on a brave face even when her insides were twisting with dread. But then came the pain—deep and relentless—that left Angel curled up in bed, clutching her stomach or head and whimpering through clenched teeth.

One evening, as Leah sat at her daughter’s bedside, reading softly to distract her from the pain, Angel suddenly cried out, her voice raw with agony. The book fell from Leah’s hands as Angel’s small body twisted, her back arching as she let out a scream that tore through Leah’s heart.

“Mummy, make it stop!” Angel’s voice was desperate, her little hands gripping the bed sheets as tears streamed down her cheeks. Leah’s own panic rose, and she reached out to hold Angel, her arms trembling as she tried to soothe her.

“I’m here, Angel. I’m right here,” Leah whispered, her voice cracking. “Just breathe, darling. Breathe.”

But the pain wouldn’t relent. Angel’s cries grew louder, her body shaking violently. Leah pressed the call button for the nurse repeatedly, her hand slamming down in frantic desperation as if the quicker she pressed, the faster help would arrive. She watched, helpless, as her daughter writhed on the bed, her face contorted with agony.

When the nurses rushed in, Leah moved aside but didn’t let go of Angel’s hand. “She’s in so much pain,” Leah choked out, her voice barely audible. “Please… do something.”

The nurses worked quickly, injecting medication to ease Angel’s pain and bringing in cold compresses, but nothing seemed to help. Angel continued to thrash, the pain like a wildfire burning inside of her. Leah felt as though she were falling apart, her own breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to be strong, tried to be the one thing that anchored Angel through the storm.

Then, without warning, Angel’s body went rigid, her eyes rolling back, and she began to seize. It was a sight that Leah had never experienced before and one she would never forget—her daughter’s small form convulsing uncontrollably, the sound of her teeth grinding, her face turning an alarming shade of blue.

“Angel!” Leah screamed, reaching out as if she could somehow bring her daughter back with her touch. “No, please. Someone help her!”

The nurses moved swiftly, tilting Angel’s head to the side, ensuring her airway was clear as they administered anti-seizure medication. Leah could only watch, paralyzed with fear, as the seconds stretched into eternity. She couldn’t breathe; her entire world was reduced to the terrifying sight of her daughter’s tiny body trembling on the bed.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the seizure began to subside. Angel’s body relaxed, falling still against the pillows, her breathing shallow and labored. Leah collapsed into the chair beside her, her hands shaking as she reached out to stroke Angel’s clammy forehead, tears falling freely down her own face.

The doctor arrived soon after, his expression grim as he reviewed the situation. “The tumor may be causing increased pressure in her brain,” he explained softly. “We’ll need to run some tests immediately. It’s possible that the cancer is progressing, causing these severe symptoms.”

Leah felt the words slam into her, each one like a punch to the gut. After all the fighting, all the hope, to hear that things were only getting worse…it felt like a cruel twist of fate. “What… what can we do?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “How do we stop this?”

“We’ll do everything we can to make her comfortable,” the doctor replied, his tone gentle but unable to mask the gravity of the situation. “For now, that’s our priority.”

Leah stayed at Angel’s bedside throughout the night, not daring to close her eyes even for a moment. She was afraid—terrified, even—that if she did, she would wake up to find her daughter gone. The nurses had given Angel more medication to keep the pain at bay, but there was still a haunting emptiness in the room, a silence that echoed with the aftermath of the screams.

At one point, Leah found herself trembling, her entire body shaking as if she were the one in pain. She stood and began to pace the small hospital room, desperate to do something—anything—that might keep the crushing anxiety at bay. She wanted to scream, to hit something, to cry until there were no tears left, but she couldn’t. She had to stay strong for Angel. Her little girl needed her.

It was just after three in the morning when Angel stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. Leah was immediately at her side, her hand gently cradling Angel’s cheek. “I’m here, love. Mummy’s here.”

Angel’s voice was barely audible, a fragile whisper. “It hurts,” she whimpered, her eyes filled with tears.

“I know, baby. I know,” Leah whispered back, her voice breaking. “We’re going to make it better, I promise.”

But even as she said the words, she felt the hollow ache of helplessness. There was only so much she could do, only so much anyone could do. And that thought—the crushing knowledge that she couldn’t protect her daughter from this—made her feel more broken than she had ever thought possible.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of exhaustion and despair. Leah sat beside Angel, singing softly, telling stories, and doing anything she could to keep the darkness at bay. She wasn’t sure if her daughter could even hear her, but she didn’t stop. She kept talking, kept loving, because it was the only thing she could do.

When the first light of dawn finally broke through the window, Leah felt as if she had lived a lifetime in the span of those few hours. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t rested, but she stayed beside Angel, her heart aching with every shallow breath her daughter took. The doctors arrived again, ready to run more tests and reassess the treatment plan. Leah stepped aside, letting them work, her eyes never leaving Angel’s face.

She was exhausted, but more than that, she was afraid—afraid of what the doctors would find, afraid of what the next few days would bring. There were still so many questions, and the answers seemed to be getting further out of reach. Leah had always known this fight would be hard, but she hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt to see her daughter in such agony, to feel so powerless in the face of it.

Later that morning, when Angel was finally resting quietly, Leah stepped out into the hallway. Her legs felt like lead, and she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. The tears came then, hot and silent, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. She wanted to scream, to curse the universe for doing this to her little girl, but all she could do was cry, each tear carrying the weight of her love, her pain, and her deepest fears.

It felt like the darkest night she had ever known, and the dawn, despite its light, didn’t bring the comfort she so desperately craved. As the day began anew, Leah steeled herself for whatever came next, knowing that as long as there was breath in her body, she would fight with everything she had for Angel. There was no other choice.

For now, it was all she could do to take things one moment at a time, to stay by her daughter’s side, and to hope—because hope, however small, was the only thing keeping her from falling apart entirely.

[malecardiolove]

The Test, chapter 3

The sharp sound of an alarm filled the lab as Dr. Ruiz watched the screen projecting Jack’s heart rate. There was no pulse. The graph displayed a flat line, unmoving, as the young man’s heart had completely stopped after the extreme cooling. Without losing his composure, Ruiz turned off the device and opened the tank.

Jack’s body was cold, his skin pale and covered with droplets of water that slowly dripped onto the lab floor. Ruiz lifted him with surprising ease and placed him on a nearby stretcher. Jack’s bare chest, covered in electrodes, rose and fell only by inertia, but there was no life in his heartbeat. The doctor looked at him with calculating eyes, as if he were an experiment with endless possibilities yet to be explored.

"Don’t fail me now," he whispered, making a quick decision.

With precise movements, Ruiz began cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). His hands pressed Jack’s chest with rhythmic force, trying to stimulate the heart to resume its beat. Each compression seemed futile, but the doctor didn’t stop. After two minutes, sweat started trickling down Ruiz's forehead, but he showed no signs of fatigue. He knew he had to push to the limit.

After ten minutes of CPR without any response, the doctor prepared for the next step. He took the defibrillator and placed the paddles on Jack’s chest, his skin still cold. The machine emitted a beep before delivering the shock. Jack’s body arched violently, but the monitor still registered no heartbeat.

"Don’t go so fast," Ruiz murmured with a faint, twisted smile.

With an almost sick determination, he decided to continue. He injected an orange liquid into the vein in Jack’s arm, an experimental solution prepared specifically for this phase. The liquid slowly flowed through Jack’s body, seeking to reach his stopped heart.

One minute passed. Then two.

And then, a faint tremor ran through Jack’s body. The monitor displayed a small fluctuation. The heart, after nearly fifteen minutes of stillness, began to beat again. At first, slowly; just a few weak beats that seemed like desperate attempts to restart. But gradually, the beat grew stronger.

"There you are," Ruiz murmured, satisfaction evident in his voice.

Jack, barely conscious, opened his eyes slightly, seeing with blurred vision as the doctor continued to gently massage his heart with his hands. He could feel it, a strange rhythmic pressure keeping him in this fragile balance between life and death.

“Breathe, Jack. Your heart is beating again,” Ruiz said, listening through the stethoscope as the sound of the slow but present beats filled the room.

The young man couldn’t move. He was completely weak, almost without strength, barely aware of what was happening around him. He could only sense the lingering cold in his bones and the strange warmth emanating from his chest as his heart, enlarged by the orange liquid, struggled to beat.

Ruiz turned on the echocardiogram and carefully observed the boy’s heart on the screen. The beats were slow but steady, and the image clearly showed the enlarged size of the organ.

“Incredible,” he murmured, fascinated by the outcome. “It’s grown in size, but I see no damage to the chambers. You’re more resilient than I expected.”

Ruiz fell silent for a moment, thoughtful. Then, he made a decision.

“We’ll do one last test. We can’t stop here.”

He picked up the defibrillator again. Jack barely understood what was happening before another shock went through his body. Pain surged from head to toe, an electric jolt shaking every fiber of his being.

The monitor showed the heart, exhausted, beginning to fail again. The beats slowed once more until there was nothing. The graph showed a flat line again. Jack’s heart had stopped for the second time.

Ruiz smiled, satisfied with the result.

“It’s fascinating how your body responds. Let’s see how much more you can withstand.”

Jack, floating in a deep darkness and unable to move, heard the doctor’s last words as a distant echo. His life was now entirely in Ruiz’s hands, and his heart, reduced to a tool in the doctor’s cruel experiment, could only wait for the next blow.

[med-fetish]

Hello! Today I started playing with AI, this is what I came up with, I hope you enjoy it !

Isabelle was 26 years old when her life took an unexpected turn. Since childhood, she had always been an active and energetic woman. She loved running in the park, practicing yoga, and spending hours exploring the city with her friends. But everything changed one summer day when she began to feel a persistent pain in her right side. At first, she thought it was just a muscle strain, a consequence of her busy schedule and long hours at the gym.

However, the pain did not go away. After several medical consultations and tests, she received a devastating diagnosis: kidney cancer. The news hit her with overwhelming force. The idea of facing such a serious illness at her age was terrifying. Despite the tears and anguish, Isabelle gathered her courage and prepared for what lay ahead. She knew she had to undergo surgery to remove the affected kidney.

On the day of the operation, Isabelle arrived at the hospital with a mix of nerves and hope. She was greeted by a medical team that reassured her and prepared her for the procedure. In a private cubicle, she changed into a surgical gown, feeling the cold fabric against her skin. Clara, a kind nurse, placed a hair cap on her head and explained the importance of the compression stockings, which were put on her to aid circulation during the surgery. Despite her discomfort, Isabelle felt a bit more at ease.

When it was time for anesthesia, Dr. Martínez placed an intravenous line and explained that she would feel a little dizzy. As the medication took effect, Isabelle felt the world slowly fade away, leaving behind her worries. However, what no one expected was that the surgery would become complicated.

Hours passed, and the medical team realized that something was wrong. As the operation dragged on, a growing fear filled the operating room. Suddenly, alarms began to sound. Isabelle had gone into cardiac arrest. “She’s going into arrest!” shouted a nurse. In an instant, the room became a whirlwind of activity.

Dr. López, the lead surgeon, moved quickly, directing the team with precision. Dr. Martínez adjusted the anesthesia and administered emergency medications. Every second counted as the team fought to stabilize her. After several attempts, they finally managed to restore her pulse. The operating room, once filled with tension, was flooded with a sigh of relief.

With Isabelle’s heart beating again, the team continued the surgery, this time with renewed determination. Finally, after hours of hard work, Dr. López announced that they had finished. Isabelle was transferred to the recovery room, where she began to awaken. Her body felt heavy and confused, but the sound of the monitors reminded her that she had overcome a great battle.

As she regained consciousness, she found herself in a calm silence. When she opened her eyes, she saw a nurse approaching, who explained what had happened and assured her that she was okay. Over time, Isabelle began to understand what she had experienced. Although she had faced an overwhelming challenge, she had come through it.

Her recovery was a gradual process. With each passing day, her strength returned, along with her determination to live fully. She joined support groups, shared her experience on social media, and became a health advocate. Her story resonated with others facing similar situations, inspiring them to keep fighting.

A year after the surgery, Isabelle signed up for a charity 5K run, a goal she had set for herself before her diagnosis. On the morning of the race, she felt a mix of emotions. As she ran, each step reminded her of her struggle and the life she had regained. Crossing the finish line brought tears to her eyes, but this time they were tears of joy and gratitude. She had faced her fear and emerged victorious.

Isabelle had not only survived an illness; she had learned to live again, with a new perspective and a deep appreciation for each day. Her story became a testament to resilience, reminding others that even in the darkest moments, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.

[taintandviolent]

The Dork Theory ; Max Cooperman x reader

summary: Against better judgement, you decide to go to a college party. You run into a familiar face there, and you decide to test a long running theory to do with dorks and big 🍆 . Shameless smut ensues.

warnings: smut without plot, pnv, car sex, unprotected sex, handjobs, oral sex, degradation/shaming, recording.

a/n: max deserves it. he really does. not beta-read. this was just a whim kinda fic, so I hope it's not total garbage. enjoy! thanks for reading if you did.

full fic & taglist under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / ♪ recommended playlist here! ♪

It was a party, so you were forcing yourself to do party things. Or so you kept telling yourself. Really, it was a live streaming event for some stupid college fight, which was an event that you wouldn’t be caught dead at – under any circumstances. It wasn’t your scene, you couldn’t care less about fighting – outside of the carnal, hormonal fact that you got to see rippling muscles and displays of strength. At times, even you were simple. Whatever fight had already happened and judging by the sudden uptick in shouts and cheers, you assumed the preferred candidate won. The party was now in full swing with people mingling and drinking excessively. Ah, college. 

Admittedly, you weren’t one for college parties either. It was a place to drink, screw, and in most cases, as a byproduct of the previous two mixing, fight. Of those three things, you only really enjoyed one of them and hadn’t done it in a while – long enough for you to crave it. Maybe that’s why you came to the party to begin with; to get some tail. Albeit hypocritically, you were also drinking. You weren’t drunk, but definitely heading there; your head felt fuzzy as you stared into your half-empty red Solo cup. Whoever had mixed the drinks had erred on the side of too strong.

“Well… hey there.”

You looked up from said cup, one brow quirked. In front of you, stood a guy who looked oddly familiar, but you couldn’t place him. Eyes narrowed, you scanned him from his shoes to his lush, curly brown locks. He wore jeans and a Something Corporate t-shirt. Really? You realized you’d seen him earlier, schmoozing with girls, explaining something very passionately. They hung on his arms, but seemed distant – but no, that still wasn’t where you recognized him from. 

He was scanning you up and down, lingering on all the right parts of your body; your hips, your breasts, your face. Finally, he spoke. "My name's Max, what's yer--"

"Wait, hold on." You pressed a single finger against his lips, which pressed back into your finger, almost like he was kissing it. 

"Max?" 

He nodded, still compressed against your fingertip. He didn't need to confirm it, really, because just like that, it all came rushing back; it had been years but you knew exactly who he was and you were about to make sure he remembered, too. You withdrew your hand with a breathy chuckle. 

"Like... Max.... Cooperman? The chubby kid who was always recording fights in the schoolyard?"

Ouch. Max cringed, knotting his mouth up to one side. Starting off strong with this one. “Yep, that – was me. And for the record, I was a part of those fights from time to time. And I trained -”  

"Ohhhh my god," you breathed, cutting him off as you covered your mouth with your hand. "You were such a dork, you know that, don't you? Like, such a dork.” 

“Okay, alright.” he said, looking behind him for a brief moment. “I came over ‘cause I have a policy that no cute girls are allowed to stand alone, especially at one of my parties. Are you just gonna’ stand here and bust my balls all night?” 

So he thought you were cute. Your cunt clenched — you’d take that thought to the bank. You grinned inwardly, rocking back and forth on your heels. “I can, if you want me to.” 

He cocked his head like a dog, unsure how to take that. “What, are we gonna’ play fight?” 

“Something like that.” 

You reached forward, teasingly slapping his cheek. With an intrigued expression, Max caught your hand and yanked you towards him, looking at your lips. You mirrored his gaze, wondering what they tasted like, and if they were as soft as they looked.

You couldn’t deny the facts; he wasn’t the dorky kid that you passively paid attention to. He stood taller and had trimmed down, a result of likely more physical activity and maybe better eating habits. The attraction that bubbled up in your core wasn’t new, it had just been dormant for many years. You ran your tongue along your bottom lip, wetting it and Max’s dark brown eyes followed your tongue as it travelled, a smirk stretching across his lips. 

"You still have that Mustang?" 

"Pffft, of course I do." 

“You wanna’ um…” 

Wide-eyed and eager, Max nodded. “Uh, YEAH?” 

The two of you made your way outside, with Max quickly navigating you to where his car was parked. The cool night air bit at your skin, goose flesh erupting over anything that was exposed – mostly your legs. Now in front of the car, your eyes swept over the Mustang, admiring it. You weren’t a car girl, by any means, but you knew when to appreciate them. This was decidedly one of those times. He took care of his car, that much was apparent. 

With a deep breath, you turned back to Max, an expectant smirk on your lips. “So, is this the part where you tell me you’ve had a crush on me since high school?” 

Max laughed as he leaned against the door of the car, shaking his head. You were cute, but this wasn’t a teenage romcom. “Actually, no, I don’t know you. I mean… I wanna’ know you.” 

He reached for you, snaking his hands around your hips to pull you closer. 

“Ohhoh shit, someone gained some confidence when they lost that baby fat, huh?” 

“Damn, okay.” He looked away, almost annoyed, but the lust that was now coursing through his system trumped any fleeting anger. “You seem to know a lot about me.” 

You paused, taken aback as you stared at him. You did. Because while he didn’t remember you, you remembered him. You’d always had an affinity for dorks and paid attention to them, despite cringing at their cornball behaviour – because if you knew one thing, it was that the weird, shy guys were always hung – and there was one particular day where you’d made your opinions about Max Cooperman. 

It was May, somewhere in the middle of the month. You were in a hurry to get to 4th period when you heard a bunch of guys shouting and jeering at each other. The natural instinct to watch a fight took over and you slowed your steps. 

You’d only paused for a second, not wanting to be late to class. He was fighting behind the bleachers, bright, red blood running down his top lip, fists up in front of his face, shouting at some guy: “I got this, bro! I got this!” 

You blinked. Back to reality. 

“Maybe I knew you. Maybe I thought you were cute,” you confessed, letting the alcohol take over your nerves. “Maybe I have a theory that dorky dudes have big cocks.” 

“Butterball Cooperman? Cute? What am I now then, huh?” 

You chewed your lip, not saying anything. Max caught your glance, looking at you with a hunger in his eyes that promised it would lead somewhere — it was the kind of look that said, Hey. My dick just woke up and it’s because of you. You crushed your lips against his, tangling both of your hands in his warm curls. A whisper of fucking hot echoed in your mind. Max didn’t need to hear it, he felt the heat coming off your body, rolling towards him in waves. With his groin throbbing, he connected your bodies again, pulling you tight at the waist. His free hand stretched behind him, fumbling for the door handle. 

“Wanna’ find out?” He asked, breaking the kiss. 

You nodded. 

Max threw the door open, and pulled the driver’s seat up, allowing you some space to crawl in first. You leaned in — making sure your ass was on full display in the short, denim skirt you’d chosen earlier that night — and moved  quickly to the passenger side. With your knees pressing into the black, leather interior of his backseat, you sat upright, making room for him as he joined you. 

He faced you, leaning his back against the window and angled his hips towards you, knees to his chest. You stretched forward, tapped one side of his closed knees. “Lemme in, Cooperman.” 

Immediately, they fell open, exposing the bulge in his jeans. There was a dirty, devilish little smirk on his face; he knew you were looking, sizing him up. Not such a dork now, huh?

“Theory proven?” 

“Maybe. I’ve gotta’ see.” 

You palmed his half-hard cock outside of his jeans, the tips of your fingers tracing the faint outline, until they came to the tip. Applying pressure, the pad of your pointer finger swept back and forth into the squishy flesh until your finger was met with a wet spot. You’d given a fair number of handjobs in your life, enough to be confident in your skills. 

“Shit,” Max hissed above you. “Shit.” 

Underneath the fabric, you felt his dick shift in his jeans. With a pleased smirk, giving him what he so clearly wanted, you unbuttoned and unzipped, allowing his hard-on some room to breathe. The bulge pitched forward slightly as you reached for the ruched edge of his boxers, and pulled them down over his balls. His cock now free, it flopped heavily against his stomach, searing hot on his abdomen. It was about as long as you’d expected, but much thicker. With a wanton gaze, you took hold of the shaft and began stroking, feeling the veins swell with each pass. Every so often, you paid special attention to the underside, gliding your fingers over the thickest veins. Eventually, his cock stood at attention, the tip reddened and leaking profusely. You bit your lip. 

“Ooooooh, Max Cooperman has a big thick cock.” You tittered in a teasing lilt, still fondling it. He whimpered loud, a high pitched desperate sound that filled the car. You hadn’t expected him to be so whiny, but somehow you weren’t surprised — it seemed appropriate for that nerd in the schoolyard. Whiny then, whiny now. Every obscene word was punctuated with a whine, like a teenager getting his first handjob. He rutted his hips helplessly against your fingers, grinding his stiffness into your grip. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just like that - fuck.” 

Almost to shut him up, you craned forward to kiss him again, your mouths crushing together in violent desperation. After a few seconds, Max sloppily broke the kiss to look down at your hand, saliva stringing from his bottom lip to yours.

“Oh my fuckin’ god,” he breathed, watching your fingers as they stroked his swollen cock, paying special attention to the scarlet, almost purple head. His cock twitched again in your grip, expelling more precum. “Oh my fuckin’ god, holy shit, holy shit…” 

You were delighted by the position of power you were in, and even more than that, delighted by the way that Max was literally coming undone in front of you. All his acquired cockiness had melted away, replaced by the desperate dork you remembered. 

“I knew he was in there,” you whispered under your breath before giving his cock a firm grip, milking another whine from his lips. Max was too far gone to even respond logically to anything, you weren’t sure he’d even heard you over his ragged, uneven pants.  

Feeling adventurous (and perhaps cruel), you extended your tongue, flattening it against the underside of his cock. The salty pre-cum oozed onto it. Max gasped, lifting his hips upright, which forced his dick further into your mouth. You pulled back, shaking your head softly. For a moment, he did nothing but stare at his own cock, watching it as your hand drug up and down over it, working it inches from your lips. You thought he was going to lose it, but with a heavy breath, he lowered his hips again and went back to breathing unevenly.

“Please,” he begged incessantly, his voice a few octaves higher than usual. “Please lemme’ fuck you…”

“Uh-uh.” 

Max whimpered again, bumping his head against the window repeatedly like a kid throwing a tantrum.

“You can’t, Max. There isn’t enough room here.” 

“Yeaaah, baby, yeah there is. We’ll make it work.” 

You paused for a moment, surveying your surroundings. Even with the seats pushed forward, the backseat left little room for moving around, and the oddly placed hump in the center was undeniably impeding any laying down. Max’s hips were already jutted up oddly, you couldn’t picture laying down atop of it… unless….

“You wanna’ fuck me, Max? How bad you wanna’ fuck me?” You asked, already knowing the answer. 

Slack-jawed, he nodded, his curls bouncing. The collar of his shirt was a shade darker with sweat. “So bad. So fuckin’ bad, you have no idea. You can’t even fathom.” 

You thought about it. And thought about it some more, until finally, you said: “Move over.”

Obediently, Max scooted his hips up, his dick bobbing before he shifted himself onto the floor, allowing you to crawl forward, using the curve of the backseat like a sex pillow, your ass tilted up towards the now very fogged up back window. Your cunt was already warm and aching from giving him head, and with a deep breath, you imagined the wet slit that would greet him as soon as he got up behind you. 

Curious, you reached up between your legs, pressing them into the satin fabric – just as you thought. Soaked. Finding the hem of your underwear, you yanked them to the side, exposing her. Your middle finger then slipped inside, dragging some of the slick down to your clit, which you tapped, bringing the sensitivity higher. 

“Oh shit,” he gasped, seeing this erotic display that sent spikes of arousal straight to his already engorged and aching cock. Still on the floor, but now behind the passenger’s seat, Max leaned forward. Still awkwardly positioned – you silently applauded the desperation in which he did it – Max went for your cunt, bending his head at angle so that his tongue could flick out against your wet folds, getting a taste of your sweet, leaking juices. You couldn’t help but moan into the leather, clenching and shaking as he lingered there for a moment, just lapping at it, swallowing and mouth breathing heavily onto her. 

“Fuck–” He straightened up, and used the back of his hand to wipe off his chin. “You taste so good, baby.” 

You wiggled your ass in response, smiling against the seat. After a little bit of strained and clumsy maneuvering, Max was finally behind you, dick in hand. He shuffled closer, his jean-clad thighs pressing into the backs of your bare ones. Using his free hand, he glided over the curve of your ass and down your spine, as far as the jean skirt would let him. You felt the warm head bumping into her over and over again with a haphazard rhythm, strings of precum dripping down onto the seat below you  – he was jerking off into your cunt. 

“I thought you were going to fuck me.” 

“I am,” he panted. “I am… this is just too good. Fuck! I wish I had my camera.” 

After using the tip to play with your wetness for a bit longer, Max finally lined up and sunk his cock inside of you, using your hips to pull himself deeper. He bottomed out – the stretching heat burned, filling you from wall to wall as his hips began bucking instinctively, finding a carnal rhythm – you let out a low moan. You begged, wanting him to press himself as deep into you as he could.  

“Record it,” you suddenly ordered. 

“Wha-?” he choked, out of breath and still pumping himself into you. 

“Record it. You have your phone, don’t you?” You arched your back, pushing up into him. 

“You serious?” 

“Yeah, I’m serious. It’d be hot.” 

Still in awe of your lustful demand, Max reached in his back pocket and pulled his phone out. He quickly navigated to the camera app, tapped the red button, and held the phone above you, getting a wider angle. The flash was on; he pulled his thick, glistening cock out of you slowly, while his dark eyes darted back and forth between watching you and watching it on the screen. Knowing he was going to have this to later jerk it to… shit – his breath hitched in his throat. He bumped his hips into you a few times, popping the head into your cunt.

“Yeah, you like that?” 

At first, Max breathily answered, but remembering he was recording, cleared his throat and answered in a lower tone. “Fuck yeah.” 

“Oh stop,” you laughed, wiggling your hips on his cock. “Afraid to let your dorky voice out again?” 

“Shut up, I’m not a dork.” 

“Yeaaaah, yeah you are. A big dork with a big cock.” 

Much to his own dismay, Max whined, picking up speed as he hammered into you, his little desperate bunny humps rutting against your pussy, sending shockwaves through your core.  The sounds of skin slapping against skin, paired with your broken moans and Max’s pathetic, horny whines filled the car. He’d never really been one for degradation, but the way you teased him, throwing your verbal right hooks every chance you got, had him in pieces. Every time you did it, his dick twinged painfully, stiffening past the point of comfort. He took hold of it, jerking it a few times into your pussy. Making sure the camera was capturing it, Max went back to thrusting, sinking his aching cock halfway in before bottoming out again. The video would never see the light of day, you knew it. He’d have to mute it to save his ego, and what was the point of muting porn? Max was way too whiny to show his macho friends, every other thrust was accompanied by a desperate little whimper. 

“Shit, I’m gonna’ - I’m gonna’ baby, oh my god, I’m sorry I’m gonna’ – auuggh!”

With a final whimper, Max yanked his cock from your pussy, allowing his orgasm to burst out over your exposed cunt; hot, milky strings decorating your folds and ass cheeks.

Immediately after pumping the rest of his cum onto your ass, like a gentleman, Max sunk two fingers in your pussy, curling them up to masterfully find the sensitive, spongy flesh inside. So, he’d had practice, too. You took fistfuls of the seat, digging your nails into the soft, polished leather. Thankfully for him, you were close, so the way he pumped his fingers in and out of you brought you over the edge within a matter of seconds. 

With a final: “Ffffuck!!”, you clenched around his fingers, pleasure rupturing your entire core. You squeezed your eyes shut, riding out the orgasm and backing up into his fingers to increase the pressure. You heard Max hiss in a breath through his teeth as he watched you, enjoyed you, and recorded you in your most intimate moments. The thought drove your orgasm forward even further. 

As the pulses subsided, you flopped down heavily, out of breath and drenched in sweat. You pivoted your body, rolling back over onto your back. Max was still recording, absentmindedly playing with your still weeping cunt. You watched him with a smile, entertained and enamoured that he was so invested with you. With a little dinging sound, the recording finally ended, and he tucked the phone back into his pocket. 

You two sat in silence, breathing heavily until, in a moment of post-nut clarity, Max said: “Shit, I was supposed to spar with Matt.” 

“Who?” You couldn’t care less. 

“Uh, my friend.”

“Mm, well… Matt is just gonna’ have to take a rain check. That’s too bad.” 

He laughed, leaning his head against the window again. After a few moments, he spoke again, his voice soft and low.  

“So, your theory is true, huh?” 

“Oh, yeah. It’s true. Took me years to prove it, but… it’s definitely true.” You leaned up and ran your pointer finger along the inseam of his jeans, smirking to yourself. “Definitely true.”

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