#cw: grievous injury talk

[doublegoblin]

Happy WBW! What's the harshest part of your world? Be it a place, a law, something character-created or otherwise, what is just HARSH?

Honestly I think it would have to be the immortality thing of Rituals and Red Tape. Like it's not a state of no consequence, you still feel everything that happens. So there will be situations where you wish you could die (see: being torn to pieces, burned, slowly digested). Not as elaborate as some my answers, but an easy answer none the less.

[moonstruckme]

love the doctor!remus content!!!

would love to read about him in a similar setting as the last request u did, where reader doesn’t tell him she‘s had to go to urgent care (maybe she lost her phone) and he‘s in his big scary attending mood but the moment he steps into the room and realizes reader is the patient he goes all concerned and cooing and all the interns are confused as to what happened to calm collected and kinda cool doctor lupin :((((

Thanks love!

cw: hospital, mention of stitches

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

You can hear him talking as he moves down the line of small curtained-off rooms, your heart contracting at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice but too shy to interrupt him while he’s working. Remus’ tone is clipped and all business, and you can tell by how quickly his voice draws closer that he’s striding toward you in that brisk way he does when he’s busy. 

“This one’s already been treated,” he’s saying to someone, “so we’re just checking in before discharge. Let me ask some of the necessary questions first, and then we’ll ask the patient’s permission for you to ask some as well.” 

He looks nearly imposing as he whips open the curtain, clipboard in hand and a gaggle of what you guess must be residents on his heels. That all drains away, along with the blood in his face, when he sees you. “Dove?”

“Dove?” you hear one of the residents echo bemusedly. 

“Hi,” you say sheepishly. 

Remus steps toward where you sit on the bed, concern etched into the twin lines between his brows. “Honey, what happened? You” —he looks down at his clipboard, flustered— “you got stitches in your hand? What’d you need stitches in your hand for?” 

You glance between the many sets of eyes in the room, self-conscious in the face of so much attention. “I cut myself,” you answer quietly. 

Remus lowers the clipboard, looking devastated for you. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asks, but the reprimand in his tone is barely detectable behind all the fondness coating it. He holds out a hand. “Let me see.” 

You give him your hand obediently, doing your best to follow his example and ignore the murmurings from your small audience. He’s painstakingly careful as he removes the bandages to reveal your cut. It looks far better than it had when it had been bleeding all over your car on the drive over, but Remus still coos like it's the most grievous injury he’s seen in his career. 

“Seven stitches?” His lips turn down into a pout. “What’d you do to yourself, dovey?” 

You see one resident’s eyebrows fly up at the sappy pet name, exchanging a look with the one next to him. 

“I was trying to cut up the squash I bought last week,” you explain, unsure if you’re supposed to be talking to the room but directing your words only to your boyfriend, “and my knife slipped. I was going to call you when it wouldn't stop bleeding, but my phone died. I didn’t have time to charge it before I came.” 

Remus makes a gruff, reluctant sound of approval. “Well, I’m glad you came but I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you. Did it hurt very badly?” 

“Not really,” you lie quietly, but one of the residents behind you goes, “Doctor Lupin, is that one of the necessary questions we’re meant to be asking?” 

You flush, and Remus shifts modes in an instant, his look severe as he turns on the smart aleck. “No,” he says drily. “But this is still the portion where you’re meant to be quiet.” 

You sort of feel for the resident as they nod abashedly. Remus countenance warms again as he turns back towards you. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he says, still cradling your injured hand in his.

“It wasn’t too bad.”

“Baby.” Remus’ brows scrunch together, the sympathy in his eyes almost too much for you to bear. “I can tell you’ve been crying, darling.” 

“Remus,” you chide embarrassedly, looking again to the residents gathered behind him. 

“Ah.” He drops a hand to your knee for an apologetic squeeze, turning to face your observers with more of an authoritative air. “Go find somewhere else to be,” he tells them. 

They scatter like mice, and Remus huffs when the last one out doesn’t shut the curtain, stepping away from you to draw it closed himself. 

“Sorry, I sort of forget they’re there sometimes,” he explains, but he’s already doubling down on the sweetness now that they’re gone, bringing your injured palm to his lips for a very, very gentle kiss. “Did you cry while they stitched you up, honey?” 

You might cry again now if he keeps looking at you like that. “A little,” you admit. “I was being a tad dramatic.” 

“I doubt that,” he says, thumb stroking lovingly over the line of stitches before picking up the bandage and beginning to rewrap it. “Hand wounds are no light thing. It probably bled a lot, hm?”

“There may be some cleanup waiting for me in both the kitchen and my car,” you joke. Remus gives you a small smile for your efforts. 

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll take care of it when I get home.” He finishes bandaging your hand and leans in to kiss your cheek. When he pulls back, his eyebrows have bunched again. “You’ve got mascara tracks on your cheeks,” he murmurs, cupping your face and brushing his thumb over the plane of your cheekbone. “S’breaking my heart.” 

“Sorry,” you say bashfully, and he rolls his eyes at you, pecking you again on the cheek like he can’t help himself. 

“What’re you sorry for, hm? Well,” he seems to reconsider, “you ought to be sorry about your knife skills, but that’s an apology you owe yourself, not me. I’ll be stowing all the knives where you can’t reach them from now on, by the way.” 

“First you’ll have to deal with all the residents you just disillusioned,” you tease him back. “Seems like they used to think you were cool and blase, but not anymore.” 

Remus shrugs. “People are multifaceted. If they didn’t know that already, then I taught them something today after all.” He gives you another soft look, though it’s far less worried than the others had been. “My poor darling,” he laments, setting his hands on either side of you to plant one final kiss on your forehead. “Rest here for a bit, and I’ll come get you in a few minutes, yeah?” 

“Okay, thanks,” you agree readily, happy to have a ride home considering the state you left your car in. “Gonna go try to restore your street cred with the residents?” 

“Dove, don’t be silly,” he says on his way out. “They worship me.” 

[forwhump]

a/n; instead of apologizing I wanted to switch it up this time & say thank you thank you thank yooouuuuu !!! thank you so so much to everybody who has been so nice to me about my sad little guys from my notes app <3 I cry every time about it being scary to post & IT IS but you’ve made it so much more bearable so thank you sm :’)

tw/cw graphic depictions of violence, beating, guns, graphic mentions of noncon, misgendering, transphobia

human weapon whumpee, whumpee whumping whumper (?!)

The thing about Silas, the elephant in the room, is that he isn’t human, and he isn’t even close.

It was something that had been done to him, something horrible, something outside his control. He’d kicked and he’d screamed, fought and clawed and bitten, dug his nails into the last human parts of himself but it hadn’t mattered because Silas’ body was no longer his own. It belonged to the government.

And it’s kind of funny, isn’t it?

Funny in a way that’s pretty fucked up, sure, and maybe Silas’ sense of humor has crumbled after the years of repeated brain surgeries, but funny is funny all the same.

And it’s funny, because Silas had no say in whether he became a weapon or not. These men, this place, they did this to him. They created him.

And they’re so fuckin’ scared of him.

He can see it in the stiff line of Neat’s shoulders as he lowers himself into his chair, across the table from Silas.

Silas’ ankles are shackled together and his wrists to the table. The thing about Silas, the big thing, is that he isn’t human, and it’s obvious in every inch and ounce of him, the raised ridges of scar tissue, the bulk of mass and muscle.

Silas dwarfs that table and that chair. He could lift Neat by the throat and crush every bone in his neck with one hand. Silas is a monster, and they know exactly what he’s capable of — they had engineered it. It scares them, and Silas would be lying if he said he didn’t delight in it.

He squares his shoulders, tips his chin back, makes himself as big and as daunting as possible.

Neat clicks the end of his pen like he always done when Silas is making him nervous.

Silas thinks about how gratifying it would be to crack open the roof of Neat’s mouth with that pen like he always does when he’s forced to sit across from him.

“Park,” Neat says.

He’s a soldier by trade, but some kind of therapist to their unit. To Silas, at least. He’s forced to talk to him after every big trauma and especially grievous injury. Silas can’t fuckin’ stand him, and he spends a lot of what little brain power he has thinking about how brutally and violently he would put him down.

He’s wearing a therapist's costume, sweater vest and sport coat and round glasses, but even with a name like Neat, he’s a soldier. He’s one of them. The soldiers that mind them were hand picked from some special branch of the military — Silas could give less of a fuck, but it means they’re all the same. They’re all big. They’re all mean. They’re all bastards.

“Neat,” Silas greets, flat.

“How are you feeling today, big guy?” He asks. He always plays pretend therapist. Always plays nice. Mild, at least.

Silas can’t even pretend to play nice. “Where is he?”

Neat looks at him over the top of his glasses before he looks away, scribbling something onto the yellow legal pad he has in front of him. “We’ve told you, Park,” he says. “The girl is none of your concern.”

Silas leans forward, forearms braced against the table, because he revels in the way Neat’s back tenses. “Where is he?”

Silas hasn’t seen Wren in three days and his heart isn’t beating the same in his absence. It’s an abscess, as a matter of fact, an infection that festers and spreads the longer Wren’s away from him. Is he in pain? Is he scared?

What have they done to him? What are they doing to him now?

They’ve always been especially cruel to Wren, a sort of cruelty that even Silas can’t fathom and Silas hasn’t known kindness a day in his life. They’re hurting him, Silas knows they’re hurting him, and it makes him restless, it thrums under his skin, how helpless, how fuckin’ useless, that Silas knows he’s hurting and he can’t fuckin’ stop it.

“The girl,” Neat tells him, “is none of your concern.”

Silas curls his hands into fists so tight he cracks each of his knuckles. “Where is he?”

He looks up again. “Don’t waste your time worrying about her,” and back down at his legal pad. “How’s your head?”

“Great,” Silas deadpans. “Where is he?”

“Are the headaches still bothering you? The tremors?”

“Since I was shot in the face?” Silas asks, raising his eyebrows. “Yes.” He leans a little closer across the table, a little closer to Neat. “Where is he?”

Neat has a cute little burst of bravery and looks at Silas clearly across the table. “The girl is a whore, and not worth your concern. Have the tremors improved at all?”

It tells Silas everything he needs to know. It tells Silas more than he would like to know, in fact. But he’s glad he knows it. He’s glad he can resolve it in real time. “You’re fucking him, too?”

Neat’s face doesn’t change, but a muscle in his neck flexes.

Silas doesn’t miss it. Silas has been trained not to miss it. “Neat,” he says, soft, and shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Neat.”

“Enough, Park,” he says.

Slowly, Silas leans back again, lifting his chin. “Where is he, Neat?”

“Your obsession with this girl is starting to concern us, Park.”

“It should,” Silas agrees.

Neat clicks his pen.

Silas raises his eyebrows.

Neat clicks his pen.

Silas curls his hands around the chains keeping him shackled to the table. “Where is he, Neat?”

Neat clicks his pen. “She isn’t your concern.”

His knuckles crack again as he grips the iron in both hands. “Where is he?”

Neat clicks his pen. “She isn’t your concern,” he repeats, “and she isn’t anything special. Let it go, Park.”

Silas stands.

Neat clicks his pen. “Sit down, Park.”

“Where is he?”

Neat clicks his pen. “You can’t get to her.”

Silas loses his grip on his impulse control. “We’ll see.”

The table between them is something stone, something solid, and it makes a sound like lighting in the small interview room as it cracks down the middle and Silas tears himself free.

Near pushes back from the table quickly as it crumbles. He pushes himself even further back as Silas grins at him over the wreckage of it.

He loses his pen in his scramble. Silas, slowly, kind of taunting, if he’s completely honest, steps over the chunks of the table and picks it up from the floor. He clicks it, and steps closer. The shackles at his ankles drag the concrete but don’t stop him.

Near pushes himself further back, into the wall.

Silas is slow in his stalk towards him. He clicks the pen.

“Park —“

And Silas takes the opportunity to execute a fantasy he’s had for a long time.

As he speaks, as his mouth opens, Silas grabs Neat by the jaw.

It twitches in his hand as Neat tries to protest, maybe to plead, but Silas is quick to press his fingertips into the hinge of his jaw so hard the bones splinter beneath his hand and Neat’s jaw drops, hanging free, tethered to his face only by his flesh.

Neat makes a very small, very choked noise.

Silas rams his fuckin’ pen up and into the roof of his mouth.

The noise his palate makes, as it cracks, is almost as loud as the table.

The noise Near makes is one of the wetter sounds Silas has ever heard a person make.

He tries to lift a trembling arm and Silas grabs him by the face. He tries to reach for the panic button and Silas cracks his head back against the concrete wall so hard his face is sprayed with blood and brain matter.

He slumps down in his chair as he dies and Silas spits on his corpse.

Then he pushes the panic button on his behalf. He cracks his knuckles, cracks his neck, and waits for the cavalry that follows the alarm.

[sinisteryuri]

HII FOR THE TAG GAME. please do elaborate on #girl???

sickos: HAHA YESSS.

i actually answered with a little excerpt already so im going to talk about my characters from this general universe because. i love them.

cw for suicide and abuse under there

MOLLY my best friend molly. here is some older art of her !!!

so molly is 18, she lives in a world where some people have superpowers. kind of dc style. she’s an up and coming vigilante in the Big City (which is ILLEGAL but public opinion is mixed bc the government is like. not the best). she ran away from her suburban home after her older sister, angel, attempted to ritually give her superpowers for a plan to turn her into an Actual angel (not a real thing in universe). the powers thing worked but was traumatic and destroyed their relationship. molly is really self-sufficient, reckless, and attributes her continued, lucky survival to the existence of a higher power of angel’s creation. she has a grudge against the government because of the way angel was harmed by the government’s systems. her reckless but effective methods quickly get a lot of attention, both positive and negative, from the media and other heroes and vigilantes like lyov and lyra.

ANGEL the worst ever.

i don’t have a picture of herSORRY.

angel, got into like a sidekick training program really young and was considered a prodigy. she would spend winters in the city with the big shots and summers at bible camp with molly. her and molly’s parents commit a religious double suicide when she’s 17 and she walks in on it and develops a sun-centric religious belief system to deal with her grief. she keeps making increasingly dangerous mistakes at her internship under her manipulative mentor and returns home full of a justified but incredibly misdirected anger that she unleashes on molly, and molly’s friends, darcy and elise, over the next few years, culminating in grievous injury to all of them. she believes herself to be chosen as a divine being and her goal is to get revenge on the ex-mentor who scarred her face and also become an Actual angel with molly so they can meet their parents.

LYRA my best friend

lyra is a career hero following in her brother’s footsteps by day, a masked vigilante doing gritty rescue work by night. she doesn’t want the flashy fights and advertisements of her brother’s career, and instead she’s drawn to disaster work, holding up fallen buildings, pulling people out of fire, the hands on help people need. their parents want her doing magazine spreads and pr interviews, something primarily rescue heroes are notoriously not offered due to the lack of glamour in their work. so she takes things into her own hands in the mean time and does double the work, because anything is worth it for helping real people outside of publicly hunting down individual criminals. and as a bonus, she gets to meetup with this mysterious other vigilante who is really cool (it’s molly).

ORFEAS my best friend

child actor of hero work. he is actually a pretty normal dude. he wants to retire early and go to college for med school and his and lyra's parents are pushing him to wait longer, which he doesn't want to do. he's worried about his fame affecting how people treat him because he doesn't want an advantage. he briefly trained with angel. they had a little teen romance going on but she also scared him because he didn’t know how to help her.

LYOV MY SPECIAL GUY

old man yaoi. it's them. they knew angel fairly well when she was in training because at the time they were working as a hero. since, they've learned of corruption and separated themselves from the industry, working alone as a vigilante figure, though lucille helps them with tech behind the scenes. they come from a big family that they don't feel they can talk to after the death of an estranged brother who almost killed them when they were a child in a drowning, and they still feel the guilt of tearing the family apart, as they feel their family members took sides after the incident. they want to help molly out because she reminds them of angel who they still worry about as they never found out what happened to her. she just disappeared. they live with lucille and rowen and their kid and have a sad old man yaoi self-pity desire to date them and help them parent their kid.

THIS ISNT EVERYONE BUT IM ON MOBILE. PLEASE ASK MORE QS IF YOURE INTERESTED EVER. I LOVE THESE GUYS SO MUCH.

[mine-curse]

I uhh... lost my shit over this so uhh... I delt with my feelings by writing fanfiction, sorta. Its mostly just a drabble and half way to just being like, a summary meta post but 🤷‍♂️ Uhh also fair warning, I haven't written anything thats not a script in a while, and its been like 10 years since I really tried to write a fanfiction. Also misspelling and grammar errors incoming.

Uhh... cw for talk of death and imortality, aging and not, vague allusions to apathy towards death... nothing too serious, just like... thats what its about.

"Technoblade never dies."

The first time he heard those words were in hushed tones, rippling through a dingy tavern, flying with the rumors that the famed gladiator Technoblade would soon be visiting the local collisiem.

Ohkay, sure, what ever you say mate.

He couldn't help chuckling as he sipped his beer. He knew a thing or two about not dieing.

---

It was a blistering hot day as he settled in to a seat, high in the stands of the grand coliseum. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he'd happened to find himself staying in town a few extra days to see this supposedly invincible warrioir. The stands were packed and the excitement of the crowd was tangible.

The other combatants were introduced first. The announcer clearly saving the 'best' for last. The crowd going wild as Technoblade stepped onto the feild. He was a massive... man? Pigman? Towering over the other fighters. Wearing a thick red cloak, he must be sweltering in this heat.

The second the starting bell rang Technoblade moved, shockingly light on his feet. He dodged and countered with honed instinctual accuracy. He moved from one attack to another, one opponent to another, with frightening efficiency.

As the fight went on, the crowd became dominated by one single chant.

"Technoblade never dies!"

Somewhere, deep in Phil's mind. A tiny spark found some kindling.

is he..?

-----

Diamond blade met diamond blade as the two clashed. Blue eyes met blood red and somehow, it seemed neither could look away.

Is he?

He couldn't be.

Phil spread his wings, and, taking advantage of Technoblade's momentary shock at this revelation, broke the stalemate. leaping backwards, his opponent awkwardly lurching forward as he took to the sky. He looked down at the pigman, who was staring back up at him. Though they had broken apart, the stalemate continued. Technoblade probably could have thrown his sword and hit Philza. Philza could have drawn his bow, and taken a shot, taken out this unkillable foe. Technoblade never dies. Well, if that were true it would just be a waste of arrows to try.

-----

Its was another while before they met properly. How long, he couldn't quite be sure. But Technoblade looked no older than he had on that battle feild. So it probably hadn't been too long. Then again he wasn't exactly confident in his ability to judge how old a pigman was. This time they were on the same side. One of many two-person wrecking squads, sent behind enemy lines to do as much damage as possible.

"Bet we get way more kills than everybody else."

That was not empty confidence. "You think? There's supposed to be some strong people in this fight."

"Come on, you're Philza Minecraft, you actually know what you're doing! And I'm really good at stabbin' people."

He laughed, Phil chuckled along. "I'll just try to play support, scout and keep guys off you while you do your stabbing."

Technoblade gave a laugh, "Appriciate it," he clasped a clawed hand on Phil's shoulder, "We got this!"

--

Phil noticed, as they fought, Technoblade seemed to grow more used to having a partner. Stopped covering all sides with frenetic energy, and just let Phil cover his back, allowing him to focus on tearing through warrior after warrior. As they fought they laughed, setting off TNT, drawing opponents into traps. It was exhilarating, fighting with someone so powerful. Someone who was... like...

Me...?

-----

As time passed, Techno stayed the same, at least pysically. Same voice, same features, only more and more scars. But no matter how grievous the injuries that lead to those scars, it seemed nothing could truly harm him. He always made it out alive. The rumors and chants were true, Technoblade never dies. Together, they always made it out alive with a laugh.

He'd saved Phil's life on more than one occasion. A particularly nasty run in with a baby zombie had seemed to leave the unshakable Technoblade quite shaken. So Phil tried, tried to be a little more careful, at least for now, for Techno's sake.

-----

Philza would go off on his own for a while. Each time, dread would build for the inevitable moment he'd return and find his friend changed, grown in grey fur, developed that telltale rasp to his voice that signaled the inevitability of his mortality. Or maybe one day Phil would simply hear that he had already died, and that would be that. In some ways, he might prefer that. He wouldn't have to face... It. But Techno never changed, his voice stayed as full and booming as it ever was. He stayed as strong and graceful as the first day Phil had seen him.

Maybe it was just... less time had passed than he'd thought. His life had been a bit more eventful recently, mostly due to the time he spent with Techno. And that always had a way of slowing things down. Maybe pigmen, piglins (?) (he still wasn't sure), just aged much slower than humans. But maybe...

Is he...

Maybe it was better not to think about it too much. Yeah, better to just... enjoy his company, however long it lasted. Whether or not Technoblade would or would not never die was.. out of his hands anyways. Well, mostly. They kept fighting together, always watching each other's backs. He couldn't really say how much time had passed. He'd stopped bothering to keep track. It didn't really matter. They had somehow fallen in step with each other, and if that simply meant Phil was once again experiencing the flow of time as a mortal would, well, that was fine by him. But somewhere, deep in his mind, he had to hope, even if the fear of that hope being crushed kept him from finding the answer. Technoblade never dies. Maybe it was true. Maybe it could be...

Is he like me?

[aohendo]

For reaching that follower benchmark, here’s one of the openings I was considering for Attenuate! I might also post the original (albeit, now defunct) opening of Prince for Hire later.

CW: torture

Madison Arcona took pleasure in the Shareholder’s whimpers.

“My brother would have let you go,” she said, sitting on a free-standing butcher’s block, her mug of tea warm despite the gloves of her armor. The shed was uninsulated, but the walls were firm; only the Shareholder’s shudders and Madison’s own puffs of breath distorted the mug’s steam. “So would have my parents, or my trust family.”

The tea was honey-sweet on her tongue. It was from her home planet, and the taste, finally, was right again. It had been twenty-eight months, two weeks, and four days, and she had been saving it for something special.

The Shareholder lay gagged on the floor. Madison had pulled the Shareholder’s wrists behind her back and tied them to her ankles. Half the shed floor, she had covered in mulch not two hours earlier, and woody blue sprigs sprouted from the mess. She had bolted tie-downs around the garden patch, and short restraints spread from them. The Shareholder’s eyes were wide as she stared at the plants.

“My whole family was always pressuring me to be kinder, gentler,” Madison continued, “but I never hurt anyone at home. Not physically, anyway.” She crossed her ankles and swung her feet, and the heat from her mug crept into her hands. “It always felt like there was something blocking me: shame, judgement, a stray desire to keep that perfect Harpazan peace. But around me, my entire family was always so…” She grappled for the word, the warning looks in her uncles’ eyes, the subtle posturing of her parents when she passed someone she didn’t like, her brother’s tense worry, at the forefront of her mind. “Cautious.”

On the opposite wall of the shed, Madison had hung her pager. Its screen was currently blank. Like the days previous, she had set it to record. Beneath it, the plants grew.

“They were good people, though, trying to do what was best. They deserved long and happy lives—my brother especially. Solomon.” She sipped her tea. “He was incredible. Only fifteen, and he was already organizing protests, making politics work for him, accomplishing in weeks what no one had managed in years. He was going to make the entire Protectorate better than what it is.”

Behind where Madison sat were several syringes of stasis-gel, a numbing and quick-clot agent which could keep someone alive through all but the most grievous injuries. There were veins of it threaded throughout the underlayer of the black armor Madison wore, ready to inject should she be injured, but the syringes weren’t for her.

“Sol would be so disappointed in me if he could see this.” She set down her mug and slid off the butcher’s block, standing above the Shareholder. “He isn’t here, though. Neither is anyone else I trusted as family.” Her gloves caught the coarse and thick threads of the Shareholder’s gag as she pulled it away.

The Shareholder licked her lips. “I’m not going to tell you anything,” she whispered, a facsimile of bravery. “Torture me as much as you’d like. I won’t speak.”

Madison crouched and crossed her arms. “You think I would torture you for information?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, Sophia,” she said, as if she were talking to a child. “You’ve already answered my questions.”

“I haven’t told you anything,” the Shareholder said.

Madison loved this part.

Carefully, she removed her pager from the wall and projected the recording she took three days ago into the air. The hologram showed a similar image as today’s, although the garden wasn’t in place. The Shareholder was standing, ungagged and unrestrained, while Madison sat on the butcher’s block with an empty syringe of kritoset, an inhibition-reducer. Past-Madison read down a list of questions.

“How long have you been a Liberation Shareholder?”

“Six and a half years,” past-Sophia said.

“How were you recruited?”

“Shareholder Krueger personally recommended me to Shareholder Yang. The other Shareholders voted me in.”

“Did you pose the vote to kill Harpazo?”

“No.”

“Did you vote ‘yes’ to kill Harpazo?”

“Yes.”

Madison flicked off her pager and pressed it to her arm, waiting a moment as it latched to her. “You talked for over seven hours. My partner made lunch for us, and you complained it was too salty, but you don’t remember that, like you don’t remember yesterday, or the day before.”

The frozen shock on the Shareholder’s face, the defeated slump of her shoulders even as they were forced back behind her, the scrunching of the skin of her neck as she lay, stripped of her pride—Madison wished she could make this moment last forever. But it wouldn’t be long before the other members of Madison’s squad found where she had taken the Shareholder, and she only had three days before their transport returned and took them all back to Steino Station for debrief. She had three days.

“Those are Akuo lupines.” She gestured at the plants. They had grown another centimeter since she had started her tea. “You’re likely more familiar with their mature form: purple blossoms and stalks hollowed out for skyscrapers.”

There. The Shareholder’s eyes widened, just a little.

“When they’re young, their growth rate exceeds ten centimeters an hour. Carving them into habitable buildings is an artform because of this.” Madison shrugged. “I’m no artist, but I do have some talent with a knife.”

Ten quick swipes of her knife, a weapon cousin to a Marine kebar but specialized for armor-piercing, and each woody blue sprig was as pointed as her blade. Madison wiped the knife free of sap and holstered it.

“Did you know,” she continued, easily hoisting the Shareholder and settling her over the lupines, “a single stalk less than one hour old is capable of supporting eighty kilograms without being crushed?”

The timing was excellent, the Shareholder arching away from the plants and straining against her bonds no more than a half-centimeter from the tip of the tallest one. Madison tied the floor restraints around the Shareholder so she couldn’t roll away. When she stepped back, her tea was still hot.

She didn’t have time to destroy the Shareholder as methodically as she would like, but she was nothing if not adaptable. She had thirteen syringes of stasis-gel, three days, and a full docket of things she’d been dreaming of doing to any of the Shareholders for the past twenty-eight months, two weeks, and four days.

“Why are you doing this?” the Shareholder asked, panic lacing her voice and sending shivers of delight down Madison’s spine. “You’ve already interrogated me.”

Madison sat cross-legged on the ground, leaning against the legs of the butcher’s block for the best view, and sipped her tea. Her palette washed in honey and jasmine, her nose tingling with the scent of dried blood, mulch, and steam. “You killed my planet, my trust family, my parents, and my brother, and yet somehow, I’m alive. Do I need a reason?”

“Revenge?”

“Somewhat,” she conceded, readily. “But you aren’t the Shareholder who started all of this. You aren’t the one who instigated the vote, or developed the macrocannon, or sent the Liberator to Harpazo. You can’t give me what I need.”

“Why then?” The lupines trembled against the meat of the Shareholder’s back. “You’ve already questioned me.”

“I’m not torturing you for information, Sophia,” Madison said, patiently. “I’m torturing you for fun.”

[secondsister-a]

Let’s talk about Trilla’s scars  (◕‿◕✿)

𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃: A small, crescent scar on the back of her right hand, the result of a botched animal kinship lesson. This particular skill was never her forte, and as she trained with a convor that made its home in the temple, she was too forceful in her connection with it, attempting to control, rather than influence. The bird balked at their connection, and as she tried to summon it to her arm, it swooped, clawing at her instead. 

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒: Thin, white, branching scars zigzag up her forearms, the results of her torture at the hands of the empire. They’re consistent with scars you might see after someone is electrocuted ( cw for scarring, nothing explicit or graphic ) . Electricity remains Trilla’s most prominent trigger, setting off a furious fight or flight instinct that immediately results in her lashing out if she is able to.

𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇: Another, albeit smaller scar from Vader, from early on in training within the Inquisitorius. Trilla favors a style of fighting littered with aerial leaps and twists, which she tried to employ on her new master ------- only to have him swat her out of the air like a gnat, slicing her with his saber in the process. 

𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑: From her final confrontation with Cal. The wound struck her a nerve, temporarily paralyzing her arm, but in time she regained its full use.

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊: By far the largest and most grievous of her injuries, the scar runs diagonally from her left shoulder to her right hip, a memento from Lord Vader. While it’s as healed as it’s ever liable to get, it still burns on occasion. 

[shu-of-the-wind]

32. "Keep your eyes on me." For rebelcaptain please!

CW: blood, grievous injury

“In here,” says Chirrut, “in here,” and Bodhi and Baze together heave Cassian up onto the nearest table, sweeping off cups, plates, books. Jyn can’t hear it. There’s blood on Cassian’s shirt, and when Baze hooks his fingers into the slit in the fabric and tears the thing open there’s blood all over, ribs and chest and stomach. She finds his hand, and clings on. 

“Vibroblade,” K-2 says, hovering, fretting. “I was too far away, I couldn’t not prevent it–”

“It’s fine, I’m fine–” 

“Shut up instead of being stupid,” Baze snaps, and stalks off. 

“Bodhi,” says Chirrut. His voice is steady. “Go get me some water, please.” 

“But–the ship–there’s kits–” 

“Baze has gone to get a kit. I need you to get me water.”

Bodhi bolts without question. 

“Give me something,” says Jyn, and Chirrut turns his face to her, pale eyes empty and knowing all at once. “Give me something to do.” 

Cassian heaves a breath on the table, and it sounds wet. Blood in the lungs. No, no, no no no no no–

“Keep him awake,” says Chirrut. “He’s going to have to stay conscious through this. If he doesn’t we might not be able to wake him up again.”

She can do that. She has to do that. She’ll slap him awake if she has to. Jyn fumbles around the table, and when Cassian’s eyes drift from Chirrut to the wall to her, they stick, just for a second. 

“I’m fine,” he says again, in a thin voice. 

“Shut up,” she says, in a voice just as thin, and she catches one of his bloody hands in both of hers. She can’t remember making the choice to lift it to her lips, but she tastes blood, and Cassian shivers a little for some reason, eyelashes flaring. “Don’t talk. Just keep your eyes on me.”

Cassian warbles something. She only realizes it’s a laugh when his fingers curl in hers, just a bit. “Always do.”

Don’t leave me, she thinks, and bows her head over his hand. Please, please don’t leave me.

[nelrunari]

❖ And the Dream calls: Caelum Selwyn

Character Name: Caelum Selwyn

Pronouns: he/him

Age: 25

Trigger Warnings: abuse, familial death, self harm, suicidal ideation, terminal illness?, torture, violence

Appearance: Caelum is a short, washed out young man whose most striking feature is the fact that he’s absolutely covered in scars.

On full moons, he takes the form of a large white wolf.

Images

Personality: Caelum is a study in the benefits and pitfalls to perfectionism. He has high standards, both for himself and for others, and is particularly hard on himself for failing to meet those standards. He is not skilled at relating to people and he is incredibly reluctant to share personal details about himself, especially after his accident. But he does care about people. Though he is more comfortable reading a book than engaging in conversation, he shows his attachment to those he has accepted as his own in other ways. With his area of expertise, that often means taking care of their miscellaneous injuries and illnesses.

However, Caelum also has a much genuinely colder side people don’t often expect from a doctor; while he doesn’t ignore someone in need of medical help, he also has no qualms about using his knowledge to inflict harm on someone instead, should they draw his ire. Fortunately, the easiest way to make him angry is to give him reason to be protective over his patients, so this isn’t necessarily common.

Positive: disciplined, intelligent, diligent, loyal

Negative: cynical, detached, manipulative, dishonest

Background: Caelum comes from a heavily political family, a dynasty of sorts. His entire family is made up of people in various positions of power, and the same was expected of him… until after his “accident,” when it became more advantageous to keep him in positions where he wouldn’t be so centered in a spotlight.

The “accident” was a kidnapping, in which Caelum and his older sister Lyra were held hostage for ransom for more than two weeks. Their captors targeted them both because of their family’s money and because of their family’s political positions, but what they hadn’t counted on was how coldly stubborn the Selwyns could be when refusing to lose. They thought that maybe roughing up the extra child would serve as “encouragement” for their parents to pay up, and Lyra’s attempts to have her younger brother spared were fruitless.

In fact, Caelum spent his final days in captivity in the same room as his precious older sister’s corpse, the full scope of the horror of it lost on him until later due to his own grievous injuries.

Afterwards, Caelum changed. His sister had been the most important person in the world to Caelum, a much stronger positive influence in raising him than his parents had been. He became sullen and on many days he refused or was unable to talk at all. But he also became plagued by a terror of feeling as powerless as he did during his kidnapping again, and he began to study medicine in an attempt to never be in a position where he had to helplessly watch someone succumb to injury again.

Caelum’s new goal of becoming a doctor was just fine with his family; they could coax it into a beneficial spin for their needs, after the media shitshow that the entire ordeal had been. It kept his scarred face away from some of the cameras. And most importantly, if he was keeping his head down, there was less of a chance of anyone finding out the secret he carried with him of just how much that incident had changed him forever. Caelum just wanted to focus on helping people, as though that could ever make up for not being able to help the most important one.

As of now, Caelum isn’t sure what, if anything, he’s going to be able to do with his life when it still feels dreadfully empty. But he’s determined to fail trying, if he’s going to fail anyway.

Memento: A revolver loaded with silver bullets.

Natural Abilities: As an afflicted lycanthrope, Caelum has the ability to transform into a large wolf at will. He is also forced to take this form during a full moon, and at this time he becomes completely out of his own control. Caelum may also make use of a hybrid form in which he has wolf fangs and/or claws, and show this form without meaning to while under extreme emotional duress.

Lycanthrope Strength: As a werewolf, Caelum is stronger than the average person. He also heals faster, to account for the strain of his transformations on his body.

Lycanthrope Senses: Caelum has enhanced hearing and smell (or he would, if his olfactory nerves weren’t damaged). In turn, he has a form of color blindness called protanopia.

Lycanthrope Bond: While he can’t understand animals at all, Caelum is naturally in-tune with canines and bonds with them easily.

Lycanthrope Weakness: Caelum is extremely susceptible to silver in any form. Silver jewelry will burn his skin, and silvered weapons will deal grievous wounds that heal far more slowly than a regular injury.

Power History: N/A

Extra:

Caelum is a gay trans man and I’m taking him away from his boyfriend to bring him here can I get an F

Pinterest (Additional CW for blood/injury, scalpels/syringes/medical instruments)

Playlist

❖ Nelrunari Section ❖

Ward: Circinus

Player Tag: Here

❖ OOC Section ❖

Name/Alias: faust

Contact: @ idreisneoma

Age:  23

Pronouns: he/him

[mddaygardens]

okay anatomy nerding going on here, cw for blood/gore/grievous injury/medical/hospital talk under the cut (hot dog!), but i had the best experience of my LIFE last night and god i need to ramble SOMEWHERE

AIGHT SO before i begin, disclaimer number 1: im not a weirdo, im just mentally ill with a tendency to hyperfixate on things, and because i wanted to be a surgeon as a kid, my brain decided human anatomy and medical science was the perfect thing to hyperfixate on for my entire life. i use it to supplement my art!

and disclaimer number 2: don’t do what i did, i am an entire dumbass and i do not do bright things. but i was using a mandoline to hack up some potatoes into medallions and everyone who knows what a mandoline is already knows where this is going!

mandolines are the veggie slicers that you hold kinda upright and run the vegetable over. generally they have little holders to put the veggie in to protect your fingers. ours does not have a functional one! it did not protect my fingers. my fingers were anything but protected.

so i ended up slicing off almost half of the end of my thumb! it was extremely awful! blood was everywhere, i cried, pretty sure my siblings cried, etc, etc, etc.

but anyway, after a half hour drive to the ER, i had to wait in the waiting room for another hour (while bleeding out, mind you) and it was kind of neat being the person everyone kept looking at because i was covered in blood?

eventually i get back to the treatment room though, and first of all literally everyone there was nice, 10/10 a+ treatment. i got a tetanus booster because obviously. but the doc comes in, peels the gauze off and watches it gush blood everywhere and tells me “oh we can just glue this shut”

and im like “what????” as i watch blood literally pool on the tray my hand is on.

“yeah we can use skin glue to seal this off, it’ll form an artificial scab and encourage the blood to clot”

so right off the bat this is the coolest thing i have ever experienced because skin glue didn’t even EXIST the last time i went to the ER for a wound. it’s purple btw! my thumb is like, spyro purple and i couldnt be happier about that

but then she tells me we need to use a tourniquet to dry it out, and i’ve never gotten a tourniquet before, so now it’s even cooler. 

she leaves, comes back with all the supplies to clean it out and tourniquet it, and i saw something that i will never forget for the rest of my life: the visible difference between the skin layer and the adipose layer underneath. because fingers don’t really have muscles, you know? they only have tendons/ligaments controlling the bones. all the soft padding is adipose, which is a form of fat.

but as a person with a hyperfixation on medical science and human anatomy, that was the coolest thing i have ever seen. it’s all like, flesh color, too? you’d expect it to be a deep pink or something but nah, it’s just my own skin tone but a shade darker and that’s fucking AWESOME.

so basically my thumb is going to be disfigured for the rest of my life and i have to relearn how to draw despite it but i got to see a glimpse inside myself and im never going to forget it as long as i live

also the tech doing the splint i needed for padding was cute, messed the splint up but 10/10 would smash

[radthursdays]

#RadThursdays Roundup 11/29/2018

A wide photo of the iconic Westminster Bridge shows two banners that hang from it, reading, "CLIMATE CHANGE – WE'RE FUCKED". Source. Issues

[CW: state violence] Photos of Children Being Teargassed Stoke Outrage — While Playing into Trump’s Manufactured Border Crisis: "When the state uses tear gas, it does so under the purported rationale of a crisis in need of control. As such, tear gas becomes the mark of state-defined crisis. […] Even well-meaning outrage at Sunday’s violent spectacle risks feeding a narrative of a border crisis where there is none. The only crises are those faced by the migrants stuck in Tijuana seeking American asylum, which this country can well afford to provide. A violent spectacle is not a turning point unless we make it one."

The Populist Morass: “To be sure, the present world order doesn’t lack for strongmen, hustlers, and bigoted scoundrels of all stripes, from Donald Trump and Viktor Orban to Recep Erdogan and Nigel Farage. But it’s far from clear that anything is gained analytically from grouping this shambolic array of authoritarian souls under the rubric of populism. Indeed, by lazily counterposing a crude and schematic account of populist rebellion to a sober and serenely procedural image of liberal democratic governance, Mounk and his fellow academic scourges of new millennial populism do grievous, ahistorical injury to populist politics and liberal governing traditions alike.”

An extremely realistic drawing of a black person with white tape wrapped, extremely tight, in a spiral around their face. Mirror 000, 2018. Arinze Stanley. Source.

Stories

Black in Canada: 10 stories: "Black people have been living in Canada for centuries, and are one of the fastest growing demographics in the country today. But while the United States is used to talking about issues around race, Canada’s national narrative of multiculturalism and inclusion can stifle discussions about homegrown racism. Inspired by the many black writers and speakers who have begun to spark a broader discussion about race in Canada, the BBC partnered with photographer Jalani Morgan to travel to three Canadian cities and capture a slice of the black experience today."

Big Business

The Last Big Lean In: Corporate-Feminist Self-Help Was Always a Scam: "There is a clear link between the bestseller that hectored women to demand more from and for themselves in the workplace and the Facebook executive who ignored warnings about disinformation campaigns infiltrating the network, put people’s information at risk, and then complained about being criticized."

Google Shut Out Privacy and Security Teams From Secret China Project: "The report, which contained more than a dozen pages, concluded that Google would be expected to function in China as part of the ruling Communist Party’s authoritarian system of policing and surveillance. It added that, unlike in Europe or North America, in China it would be difficult, if not impossible, for Google to legally push back against government requests, refuse to build systems specifically for surveillance, or even notify people of how their data may be used."

Direct Action Item

Take the next week to go through The 8-Day Data Detox. You can spend half an hour each day taking back control of your digital life, from cleaning apps off your phone to stopping those ads that keep following you around on the internet.

In solidarity!

What is direct action? Direct action means doing things yourself instead of petitioning authorities or relying on external institutions. It means taking matters into your own hands and not waiting to be empowered, because you are already powerful. A “direct action item” is a way to put your beliefs into practice every week.