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apersond · 25 days

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@faeriekit I would have sent this as an ask, but then it got Long, so... TW for graphic descriptions of a flesh wound.

I have many fun medical stories from either myself or my family that I could tell, but the one that I enjoy telling most is from when I was 10 and the relevant brother in this story was seven.

So, it's a saturday morning, my siblings and I are all supposed to be cleaning our rooms. Brother Dearest, however, is not cleaning his room; he is messing around, jumping on and off the bed, and also, most importantly, he is playing with the mini-blinds cord. Specifically, he is wrapping the cord around his finger and then pulling his finger out of the coil, wrapping then pulling, wrapping then pulling. In a fit of genius, he decides to combine the jumping-off-the-bed with pulling-his-finger-out-of-the-coil, except this time, instead of the coil loosening and his finger smoothly sliding out, it cinches.

Tight.

------

A brief aside, there's this really delightful medical term that is just wonderfully evocative of exactly what it looks like when flesh is stripped from bone; it's called degloving.

------

Later, my brother claims that he didn't really feel anything at the time, and I suppose that makes sense as he didn't damage the nerves so much as remove them.

Because of this, he doesn't really begin to panic until he starts to bleed, and he bleeds a lot. His bedroom is in the basement, so in order to reach my mother upstairs, he has to climb a flight of stairs, round the kitchen, climb another flight of stairs and then round the landing, during which my mother is being treated to the rapidly rising sound of my brother crying out, "mom, mom, MOM! There's so much blood! MOM!!!"

My Mother is exactly the kind of person you want next to you in a crisis or emergency situation, and I like to think that I inherited this from her. In any case, my mom, who has four accident prone children with varying degrees of severe asthma, is a pro at emergency room visits. In this moment, she doesn't hesitate or freeze, just grabs a clean rag, wraps it around my brother's hand and herds him out the door and into the car and off they go. She doesn't stop to think or panic, just moves.

This will be important later.

------

Before she leaves, my mother calls me up from the basement and tells me that she's taking my brother to the ER, and that in the meantime, I, as the oldest child, need to watch my other two siblings. She's not gone long before I get curious as to what all the fuss is about and start nosing about. Because he didn't panic until he saw blood, my brother left a rather convenient trail of blood down the stairs, across the basement, and to my brother's room. There, I notice a round looking rubbery object on the window sill.

I think it's a bouncy ball.

Then I see the nail.

------

Meanwhile, at the ER, a nurse is unwrapping my brother's hand to get a look at his finger. Very calmly, she looks my mother in the eye and asks, "do you have the rest of his finger?"

Just as calmly, my mother replies, "I'm going to have to call my husband."

------

Realization of what exactly it is I'm looking at washes over me, and I spin to see my youngest two siblings indulging their curiosity just as I did in following the blood splatter down the stairs. They haven't come into the room yet, so they don't know what's happened. There's still time.

I push them both all the way up the basement stairs, shut the door at the top behind me, and declare with as much authority as I can that, "No one is going downstairs."

Soon, my dad will get home early from work. He has received a call from my mother with instructions to collect my brother's finger, put it on ice, and meet my mother at the ER to drop it off. I know exactly why he's there. I tell him my brother's finger is on the windowsill in his room downstairs. He leaves just as quickly as he arrives, and once again I'm left by myself and in charge of my siblings.

I will remain so for the rest of the day.

------

Back at the ER, my mother has now passed control of the situation to the nurses and has gained enough emotional distance to come out of crisis mode.

She's feeling a bit nauseous.

The nurse currently looking after my brother is certainly not helping; she's looking at the damage to my brother's finger again, and because it's uncovered, every time his heart pumps, blood spurts out and hits the nurse in the face. She doesn't re-cover his hand. It spurts again.

The nausea gets worse.

Finally, the doctor arrives to assess the situation and give my mother the options on the table, and my mother can refocus. The facts of the matter are that, because all the flesh was stripped from the bone, his finger is going to need some help getting blood and oxygen to the area to keep any reattached flesh from dying while the necessary blood vessels regrow.

The first option is to stitch the injured index finger to his middle finger, except that the top third of his finger would need to line up with the middle portion of the middle finger, meaning his finger would need to stay perpetually bent. If at any point he straightens out his index finger, it would tear out all the regrowing blood vessels and they would need to start again.

My mother is a little leery of this option, but thinks it might be doable. "How long would it need to stay bent without moving for?" she asks.

"6 weeks."

"There's no way! I don't know an adult that could do that, much less a seven year old! What are the other options?"

Option two is to make an incision in my brother's side and stitch his finger into his side. Again, if it is pulled out, they have to start over.

"For how long?"

"Six weeks."

"Can you not see how that's worse?"

Option three is to minimize how much reattached flesh needs to be oxygenated by filing down the bone in his finger and mostly just reattaching the nail bed. Recovery is once again 6 weeks, but this is the only option that feels doable. My mother picks this one.

------

My brother gets half a dozen numbing shots in his hand, but they don't knock him out or ask my mother to leave the room. My mother is still in the room when the hand surgeon pulls out an instrument that can only be described as looking remarkably akin to hedge clippers.

My mother's heart rate jumps a bit.

"That is not a file."

Neither the doctors nor the nurses hear her, the nurses are asking question after question to the doctor. They've never seen anything like this before. My brother is still not being knocked out and my mother is still not being asked to leave. They're going to do this right in front of them.

My mother's nausea returns.

My mother ends up asking a nurse for a sheet to hold up between herself and my brother and the nurses and doctor so they at least don't have to watch. They can still hear everything.

------

Finally, they put my brother's arm in a cast to keep the tendons in his hands from pulling on the healing area, instruct my brother to keep his arm above his heart as much as possible to keep blood from pooling, and to come back in six weeks to get the stitches removed.

And that's the story of how I found my brother's finger on the window sill. :)

#graphic injury #flesh wound #graphic descriptions of a flesh wound #seriously I tell this story as dramatically and graphically as I can for Entertainment Reasons #nothing pleases me more than to watch people's faces twist in horror and disgust as they realize what's going on #if you have a queasy stomach or are currently eating #consider scrolling past

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trudemaethien · 6 months

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Glitch/Corr and hear <3

This got a bit graphic and gory😅, so…

HC: Corr sustained some hearing damage from the same event that took his arms, I don’t explicitly mention it here, but

The Force resonates with awe-inspiring vastness, full of sound and wonder, and most of the time Glitch loves to listen to it.

Sometimes it’s like that pesky brother who’s trying to get your attention to discuss his hairbrained theories and antics, for the fourty-third time, after curfew.

Glitch has a headache.

Before he knew what it was he was hearing, he got headaches a lot. He’s used to it. It doesn’t mean he likes it any better now than then.

He’s following, shut UP already!

A hand lands in the middle of his chest, halting him. “No civilians past the cordon,” a clone’s vocoder-leveled but still appreciably bored voice orders.

“I’m not, and I need to go there,” Glitch says, leaning into his words and the restraining hand. “You can let me in, I’m cleared.”

“You can go in…after you suit up. Since you’re cleared.”

The clone gestures to a heavy blast-suit, bulky and cumbersome. Glitch can’t function in that. He shifts his weight in preparation to move.

“He’s not cleared, Jack, what’s wrong with you?” another clone snaps, approaching. “Help me get this on; and you, scram.”

“Yes, Corporal,” Jack says, chastened. Sorry, he mouths at Glitch as the corporal straps on the extra armor.

The urgency is higher now, the Force like a klaxon in his head. Maybe there’s a klaxon out loud too, Glitch realizes, as the corporal hurries up, glancing toward the cordoned-off area.

“Corporal,” Glitch tries, “I need to—”

“To get the kriff out of my AoE and quit distracting me and my team,” the corporal says sharply. “We’re on the clock.”

Jack snaps the last clasp into place and taps twice next to the reinforced face shield like he’s patting the guy’s cheek. “Good to go!” he signs with his other hand in front of his face.

And go he does. Glitch can only watch as the demolitions corporal tramps across the ground to the device, not gracefully in that get-up, but with the ease of familiarity. Jack, he realizes, has a timer he’s gleefully counting off out loud.

“Corr’s a machine; fucker beat my time! I’m going to do him one better nex—”

…

So that’s what a bomb sounds like, is Glitch’s first dazed thought.

HOT, is his next. Something is crackling in his ears, and he looks around for Jack, for any of the others, and finds the world on fire with no one in sight. That adds up, he thinks nonsensically, and then looks at himself.

Shrapnel and slag are scattered all around him but not on or through his body, like the discolored dry shadow behind a retaining bulkhead hit by a wave. He—the Force—probably did that. He didn’t know he could do that.

Where’s Jack. The Force had probably wanted him to prevent this. The klaxon is still shrieking, or no—that’s too irregular.

Glitch follows the sound. The Corporal is struggling in his heavy suit of armor, trying to escape the burning crater. He can’t climb out for some reason, even though it’s only thigh-deep. Glitch grabs at him and then thinks better of touching the hot surface. He grabs him with the Force instead, and yanks him up and out.

He doesn’t see anyone else as he drags the Corporal to safety. Past the blast radius, he peels away the suit, slicing it with Rennax’s saber when it hardens too much.

He pulls the man free with difficulty. He’s slick with sweat and tears and blood, and not all of him comes free. Glitch almost hurls when he realizes the flexible gloves that allowed dexterity physically couldn’t shield as well as the rest of the get-up, and the meat of his arms up to the elbow is shredded off the equally shattered bones.

Tourniquets from his belt, not thinking about it, just applying them, then he hoists the trooper up, the whole time yelling, “Medic!”

The sole survivor of the blast clings to him with the stumps of his ruined arms and shakes with uncontrollable sobs. Relief and grief entwine with one another. “You. You got me. You heard me, you came,” he slurs. Accusation and gratitude are also inextricably bound in his tone.

Glitch wishes he could have done better, listened more carefully to the Force, actually prevented this from happening at all, but all he says is, “Yeah, I got you.” His own voice is hoarse and thick.

Neither of them let go until a medic takes the injured trooper to evac. Glitch watches him get loaded up, then regretfully turns away to follow the call of the Force once again.

Reverberating 🔒 https://archiveofourown.org/works/51595036

#writing prompt #fanfiction #ask answered #cloneshipping #repcomm #clone trooper glitch #clone trooper corr #glitch/corr #EOD: explosive ordnance disposal #cw: gore #graphic injury #pre triple zero #post draay 2 #timeline what timeline

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periodicparadox · 4 months

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Memoirs of The Past: The Forest Incident

TW: Blood, graphic injury

Characters: Kevlar Antoni / Avvius Sohica

The crisp fresh air rustled the leaves, a gentle shade covering a vast majority of the forest floor. A young male Tealblood with his trusty backpack strapped onto his back, was happily wandering around one of the few remaining Azothalian forests that had “government protection”, which basically meant “This has valuable resources, so we’re keeping it”. But that didn’t matter to him, he just wanted to see a world that he normally never got to see back in the city.

Kevlar Antoni was just a simple city troll, the hustle and bustle had finally gotten to him one night, and after informing his moirail of where he was going, headed off to hike through the dense, sloping forests of Azothal. Kevlar always had a love for going out and hiking, getting away from the noisy city to a place that was simpler. That didn’t require the Tealblood to constantly be thinking, be constantly on his toes and stress out over the little details. The wilderness was his happy place. A place that, much like his own moirail’s hive, made him feel comfortable and safe.

And it was in this forest, after an awkward and semi-hostile meeting, Kevlar met a young Oliveblood girl who didn’t seem to know anything about the outside world. The pair, after Kevlar assured the young girl that he WASN’T a threat and wasn’t apart of the system that constantly sent drones out to mine for resources in the forest, grew close and Kevlar made little visits to her hive whenever he was in the area. They shared stories, memories of their grubhoods and even went out looking for mushrooms together. Avvius, the young Olive’s name, sometimes even followed Kevlar on his hikes if she wasn’t too busy. But it was this connection, these two getting closer and becoming friends, that things took a turn for the worst.

Unbeknownst to Kevlar, Avvius had started to slowly develop feelings for him. Her feelings turning into a small obsession. And that small obsession turning dark. Dark and twisted feelings that caused an incident that would change Kevlar’s life for sweeps to come. The pair, like usual, were on a little hike together. Kevlar was sharing stories from the “outside world” as Avvius liked to refer to it as. The two ended up on a little hill that just BARELY broke above the treeline. And this is where everything happened. Kevlar was standing near the edge of the hill, his hands resting on his hips as Avvius stared at him from behind.

This “love” Avvius had developed for the Tealblood. This “love”, this obsession, led her to getting up and grabbing Kevlar by the back of his shirt, causing him to yelp in panic as he was roughly pushed off the top of the hill, sending him screaming down the hill side. Brush and rocks smacked against his body, scratching up his glasses and causing the most intense pain he’d ever feel. His leg rammed against a rather large rock, the bone cracking in two and ripping a gash into his flesh.

Upon reaching the bottom, he lay there in agony. He could feel the blood pooling under his leg, the adrenaline pumping hard to keep him awake. He lay there for what felt like hours before a rather expensive and fancy scuttlebuggy pulled up somewhere nearby, the panicked and worried voice of his moirail breaking out through the silence. And the moment the Indigoblood pulled the wounded Kevlar into his arms.

All Kevlar knew to do was cry. Cry and bury his face into his moirail’s chest.

#kevlar antoni #avvius sohica #paradox storytelling #blood #graphic injury

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ihopesocomic · 2 years

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also horse prosthetics are ethically questionable with the stress they can put the animal under. some horses can survive with prosthetics, but it's expensive, rare and a lot of difficulty for an animal that really isn't built to live on three legs. deer have the advantage of having more toes to balance on a more robust digestive system. there's photographs of deer surviving degloving (aka only bones left) of their limbs and still going! much more resilient!

There are many examples of three-legged deer surviving in the wild, you're quite right. And I apologise for offering a prosthetic as a workaround. I certainly would not encourage people to depict morally questionable practices in pet care in their stories.

Again, I got bad vibes while reading articles about horse prosthetics because it just sounded like a nasty process for the horse but I just figured I was worrying too much, as someone who doesn't know a lot about horses outside of the fact they need all four limbs to survive. - RJ

#ask #ask us stuff #content warning #graphic injury tw #graphic injury #gore

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first-and-last-neocount · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 3

#sorrynotsorry

Welcome the Goodbye!AU, aka Gerald Makes More Bad Decisions Under Pressure. Let us all bow our heads for a moment of silence in memory of Damien’s peace of mind.

There will be several more fics set in this ‘verse. You may consider that a good thing or a cause for concern by the time you’re finished reading this one. :P

Day 3 - Theme Chosen: Say Goodbye

Damien had stepped forward without a second thought, meaning only to shield Gerald, to buy a few moments to negotiate. When he met Andrys’s eyes, though, he experienced a moment of vertigo.

That wasn’t just hate and fear making the younger Tarrant’s eyes shine so brightly. Under those perfectly natural emotions, Damien caught sight of something else, something that he had glimpsed only once or twice in Gerald’s eyes during their travels together. Something he had seen more frequently in the eyes of those who had sworn themselves to serve Calesta.

The gleam of utter madness.

“You’d stand with him, then?” Andrys breathed. Damien’s blood ran cold, and the Knight opened his mouth, scrambling for the words to diffuse the situation - but he wasn’t given the chance.

“So be it,” Andrys hissed, and his finger flexed on the springbolt’s trigger.

The pain was slow to come. Damien felt the pressure first, a sudden punch against his ribcage, a peculiar breathlessness as though all the air had gone out of the room. He looked down dazedly, and saw the rear half of a springbolt shaft protruding from his shirt. Already, a small crimson stain was beginning to bloom around it, soaking outward through the light brown linen. The front half of the shaft, six inches at least, was buried in his chest.

Left lung, a lifetime of Healer’s knowledge whispered in his mind. With a strangely clinical detachment, Damien watched his own chest heave weakly, trying and failing to properly expand. At least partial collapse, possibly full. At minimum a severe pulmonary haemorrhage. Ten percent chance for a successful Healing, no more.

Then his chest spasmed again on another attempt to breathe, and the pain ignited through his nerves like wildfire.

Three percent.

Damien fell back, clutching for some kind of support; his right hand found cold stone and leather, and he realised dimly that it was the altar. He braced himself there weakly, feeling the floor tilt beneath him, but even the sudden ringing in his ears couldn’t drown the shout that echoed through the room.

“No!”

Despite the disorientation making his head swim and the tell-tale chill of shock spreading through his limbs, Damien managed to raise his head; perhaps his gaze should have gone to Andrys, but he found himself looking for Gerald instead, the man who had just shot him forgotten in favour of his own companion. Gerald was staring at him, the adept’s grey eyes wide and dark with a raw horror that reminded Damien viscerally of their encounter with the Unnamed. The Hunter’s eyes had looked like that right after Hell, haunted by the glimpse of what waited for him on the other side - but now, instead of sulphur stinging Damien’s lungs, it was the taste of copper blooming across his tongue.

“Damien!”

Gerald reached out to him, his face twisted in rare desperation, a few strands of precious fae twining visibly around his hand. An offer of power that the adept wasn’t strong enough to make. Damien opened his mouth, intending to protest, no matter his own need - but the words stuck in his throat, blocked by an obstruction more physical than fear or pain.

Damien retched a little, his throat convulsing involuntarily at the feeling of the blockage, and the thickness shifted all too readily upwards. A rush of blood filled his mouth and spilled over his chin, filling his mouth with its metallic tang, hot and slick and damning.

Zero percent.

As he choked, Damien felt something shift and tear inside his chest, and the ice-cold knowledge pierced the haze of shock that had fallen over him; he was going to die. That tearing sensation had been his lung tissue ripping as it struggled to pump around the rigid impalement of the bolt, and his lung was now filling with blood, the pooling liquid drowning the precious network of alveoli that transmitted oxygen into his circulatory system. Worse still was the pneumothorax - it wasn’t the shock of impact that was keeping him from breathing, but the air leaking into his chest cavity outside the lung itself, the increasing outside pressure letting his lung collapse in on itself like a deflating balloon. Removing the bolt would do even more damage, and Damien was in no condition to Heal what had already been done, and there was no help coming.

He had only minutes left to live.

He knew the sudden certainty had to be palpable through the link, watching the horrified realisation dawn across Gerald’s face. If Damien had needed any more confirmation that the Hunter truly did care for his well being, it was there, written loud and clear in the despair on Gerald’s face - but rather than being a comfort against the crushing agony in his chest, it sent a thread of fear coiling through Damien’s soul.

What does this mean for his second chance? God, if You are listening, please… Please don’t let this push him back into darkness.

Andrys’s voice seemed to come from far away, his tone jarringly careless, still drenched with self-righteousness and youthful bravado.

“I suggest you say goodbye to your pet, Hunter. Though, you’ll be joining him soon enough.”

If Damien hadn’t already been fighting a collapsed lung, the flood of unadulterated fury that spilled through the link would have taken his breath away.

Gerald turned to face Andrys, and the carefully cultivated mask of self-control fell away; his handsome face was contorted with a rage so primal that it seemed almost bestial, his eyes blazing with raw hatred. He was mortal, exhausted, he should have been nearly defenceless - yet, even Damien’s un-Worked eyes could see the power stirring around him, tendrils of violet light writhing to life about his feet. Mortal or not, it seemed the Forest knew its Master’s call, and the dark fae was ready to answer.

Gerald’s voice, when he spoke, was almost unrecognisable. As a fresh wave of pain rolled through his chest, Damien wondered distantly if he had lost enough blood to be hallucinating - surely that strange choral effect, as though the adept were speaking in a half-dozen voices of slightly different pitch all at once, couldn’t be real.

“I would break you beyond recognition for this, but as you’ve forced my hand, I will have to be content with your death.”

Gerald moved, then, striding forward; alarmed, Damien reached out - but the world spun too violently around him, and he staggered and fell. The ground was brutally hard where his knees struck it, and he slumped sideways against the base of the stone altar, fresh blood spilling from the corners of his mouth as he wheezed. His vision was swimming, and he could only stare at the blood-spattered floor, no longer able to lift his head - but the sounds that reached his ears, though they made little sense, were still horrifying enough that he was almost glad he couldn’t look up and see their source.

Andrys was screaming; not the enraged cry of a man confronting an enemy, but the shrill, unchecked howl of an animal with its leg caught in a trap. Gerald was speaking over his descendant’s agonised howls, his voice rhythmic, chanting. No matter how hard Damien strained, he couldn’t make out the words; he could hear the adept’s voice, clung to its familiar tones as his only anchor amid the pain and disorientation, but the words slid formlessly from his brain before they could register. There were other sounds too - a great rushing sound, like howling wind, and a rumble like thunder that made the ground itself tremble - but Damien couldn’t make sense of it. His sight was beginning to darken at the edges, and the ingrained knowledge of his years of Healing told him that he was nearing the brink of unconsciousness, with death soon to follow.

Still, some part of his brain refused to let go, resisting the pull of encroaching darkness with all its might. Some animal instinct, still shrieking a warning.

Listen! This is important, you have to listen, you need to know what he’s saying. Listen, listen-

“Vryce.”

The single clear, steady word jolted Damien out of his growing fugue. Familiar hands, cold and strong, gripped his shoulders and drew him gently away from the altar. Opening eyes he hadn’t even realised were closed, Damien found himself on his back on the hard-packed earth, blinking up at the man above him.

“Gerald?”

Damien could barely manage the adept’s name, his voice a wet rasp, almost unintelligible. Even to his rapidly weakening mind, there was something strange about the image swimming before his eyes. Gerald was kneeling next to him, his face pale and set, but the adept looked strangely better; the dark circles of exhaustion and the lines of pain were gone from his face, and there was a renewed strength in the line of his shoulders, a fluid grace to his movements once more. He looked more like himself than he had since his time in Hell - but there was something in his eyes, something dark and terrible coiling behind the quicksilver brightness. A long-buried madness, awake and aware once more.

Some part of Damien wondered hazily if the freezing sensation like liquid ice filling his chest was in response to something Gerald had done, or just the cold of exsanguination setting in.

“Don’t worry, Damien.” Chill fingers against his cheek, then, and he was meeting Gerald’s gaze - gazing directly into that darkness behind the adept’s eyes, a dizzying feeling sweeping through Damien as though he was standing at the brink of a very high cliff. The Hunter’s voice was soft, soothing. “I’m not going to let you die.”

His other hand came into view, and Damien felt a spike of concern - oddly sharp, as though of everything that had happened, this was the true reason for worry - when he realised that Gerald’s wrist was bleeding. There was a neat incision in the pale skin, just over the veins that flowed there, rivulets of dark vermillion spilling down; Damien blinked, and with seemingly no movement in between that injured flesh was pressed against his mouth, and the Hunter’s oddly gentle voice was echoing in his ears.

“You just need to drink. Just a mouthful. Just enough to keep you here, with me.”

The rest of the world was gone, swallowed by the thickening grey mist that swirled at the edges of Damien’s vision and all through his mind. The only things left were the hard ground beneath him, the gentle sweep of Gerald’s fingers against his cheekbone, the lukewarm trickle of blood over his chin. With those coaxing words filling his cloudy mind, it seemed so natural to part his lips, to let that crimson liquid spill into his mouth.

As the taste of copper spread across his tongue, oddly sweet, Damien felt the link bloom open in the back of his mind; that same dizzying depth of connection that had almost swallowed him whole at Shaitan, the sense of Gerald’s mind reaching out to enfold him entirely. Damien sank into the sensation, a taste like starlight and winter’s chill on his tongue, Gerald’s gentle words carrying him into darkness.

“I won’t let anyone take you from me.”

#whumptober2022 #no.3 #Say Goodbye #coldfire trilogy #fic #graphic violence #near-death experience #graphic injury #consent issues #gerald tarrant #damien vryce #andrys tarrant #evil is what you make of it #the neocount writes

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hostilecityshowdown · 2 years

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i've been watching (and enjoying) deathmatches since before light tubes were a popular fad. i think, on the basis of nick gage actually being dead for over five minutes previously, and what happened at gcw recently, we need to officially start pressuring promotions to either put serious limitations on light tube use or train referees and medical staff on dealing with... arterial bleeds.

kenny omega recently said we're not telling stories anymore and he's right

#[ colour commentary ]#graphic injury #excessive bleeding #don't look it up if you're sensitive obviously. let me know if i need to tag this more extensively #i yam just... angery #yes am aware light tubes have been used for a long time. but they weren't so widespread and you didn't see twenty tubes in one match

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dovizioso · 4 days

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#and heres what you missed the last time he was in the hospital for mx injuries #injury #graphic injury

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molassified-minipak · 2 months

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3. Bite Down on This

The fire elemental has nowhere to go. The narrow mountain trail passes through sheer granite walls, and the crack in one side leads to a dead end. The ledges above are accessible only to local goats.

The faceless stalks their cornered prey; an easy hit. The elemental hisses. Pravde knows better than to throw their cindamite powder at it. An explosion here would be mutually fatal.

They crouch and swipe their foot through the gravel, sending a spray over the elemental. Its rippling flames flicker. Again. Again. The fire is nearly banked, the elemental unable to do more than pop and crackle… but Pravde is nearly out of easily kickable material. They backtrack carefully, mask never leaving the fire elemental.

Here, near the mouth of the cavern - thick piles of dirt, churned by those goats. Pravde removes their boots and scoops handful after handful inside. They reach for a final load and knock - a metal pin?

Iron teeth clamp around their leg before they register what’s happened. A trap, designed for large predators. Pravde’s rangy calf is no match. They go down with an aborted yell.

The elemental in the cavern shrieks, snapping Pravde out of the haze of pain. Right. They have a job to do. Quickly, quickly, before the elemental regains strength… They unearth the trap, as wide in diameter as the handle of their mace. Its teeth shred further into their muscle with their efforts. The jaws won’t open easily. Their hands shake and falter with every lightning-lance of pain. They don’t have time for this.

Pravde shakes out one rubble-filled boot. The leather is thin, cracked in places. This is fine. They draw a small knife and hack a strip from the mouth of the boot. Fold, place between teeth… pull.

The iron teeth strip flesh, scrape bone - but with a clack of the spring-loaded hinges, the jaws snap shut empty. Adrenaline carries the faceless through sawing more strips from their tunic, winding them tightly around their blood-wet leg, pulling that boot on and lacing it for stability. No time, they’ll fix their leg later. They spit the leather strip from their mouth, bitten clean in two. Their good foot presses bare into gravel as they hop back to put the elemental out of its misery.

#graphic injury #blood #triage #reference to killing #febuwhump2024 #pravde #larp #oc

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4ft10tvlandfangirl · 6 months

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Timestamp on this is about an hour ago. I'm seeing reports that a few are using roaming SIM cards so a few things are getting out.

Please don't turn away from this. A lot of horrible things are happening with the support of western powers. I'm ashamed to say my country didn't even vote today, didn't even have the balls to admit that we are in the USA's pocket so we have to stay silent on genocide.

I can't stay silent and I'm begging you all not to stay silent. Speak, share, just something.

Gaza and the West Bank need a CEASEFIRE NOW!

Free Palestine 🇵🇸

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floofanflurr · 9 months

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@just-a-soft-kid want some angst?? You asked and you shall receive!!!!

These are drabbles for Heart on the Table, and take place before the events of my story. However that means that it's just canon Undertale at this point! Meaning you don't need to read Heart on the Table at all to read these drabbles. CW: graphic injury, temporary death.

This is based around the idea that Sans was there when Frisk died, and that Frisk knew he was there.

###

There were eyes on them. Frisk could feel them, but they couldn't pay attention. All of their focus was on rolling out of the way of the axes swinging above their head.

Frisk rolled forward onto the ground, dirt and cold snow melting into their sweater as they tried to dodge the sharp metal.

They weren't fast enough, though, and they had to bite back a yelp as Dogamy's axe cut through their side and sweater. It took a second for the pain to register, the metal so cold and sharp that they barely noticed. But then fire raced down the injury and they faltered.

Backed into the corner of the bullet box, and slowed down by the gash through their side, Frisk wasn't able to dodge Doggaressa's next swing.

It came straight at them and tore through their stomach and SOUL. Their skin split open easily, like a knife through butter.

Dying hurt. It didn't matter how many times it happened, it still hurt.

The world was blacking out, Frisk's vision fading, but just before it all ended, they looked up to meet the gaze that they had felt on them.

Sans was leaning against a tree in the distance, his hands in his pockets as he met their gaze with the same smile he always had on.

His back was the last thing Frisk saw as he slowly turned around and walked away.

###

Blood gargled out of Frisk's lips as they fell to their knees and clutched at their chest. Their lungs burned as blood filled them and Mad Dummy cackled only a short distance away.

Frisk couldn't stop themself from trying to breathe again, but all that filled their mouth was blood. They couldn't get air and it burned.

They had died so many times to Mad Dummy at this point. They hadn't figured out how to make friends yet.

They would do it, though. They would get past this eventually. Frisk was determined to get past.

As the Encounter around them faded into black, Frisk looked up.

Sans stood there.

He was near the exit that Frisk couldn't get to, half hidden in the shadows. The same blank smile was on his face.

They expected it at this point. Frisk realized a bit ago that Sans was always just around the corner.

They were glad. Even if Sans stared at them with an empty smile and walked away, he was always there.

It was nice to know they weren't dying completely alone.

Sure, no one cared when they died, but maybe they could pretend he did. He was there, after all.

Frisk fell back against the cave wall and tried to take another breath in, only to get burning pain. Hot copper filled their mouth and it was all they could taste as it drowned them.

Their vision began fade to black as blood dribbled out of their lips.

But before they died, they met Sans's gaze and smiled wide.

Sans's grin twitched, and a funny look that Frisk had never seen before crossed his face.

Unlike normal, the last thing Frisk saw wasn't Sans's back. Instead, their eyes slipped closed to Sans standing and staring at them.

#cw graphic violence #cw temporary death #temporary death #graphic injury #Heart on the Table #undertale fanfiction #sans #frisk #hott fic

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angelnumber27 · 1 year

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The Tyre Nichols Memorial Fund

Tyre Nichols was loved by his community and was known to be gentle, kind, and joyful. He loved skating and was originally from the Bay Area in California. He was known as someone “you know when he comes through the door he wants to give you a hug” and that “he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“He had never been in trouble with the law, not even a parking ticket. He was an honest man, a wonderful son, and kind to everyone. He was quirky and true to himself, and his loss will be felt nationally.”

Btw, the link includes a photo of graphic injuries. View with discretion.

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achenetype · 2 months

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Hihi can you please do a Luke x reader where it’s basically an unrequited love like reader is so in love with Luke and he has no idea so she moves on and years later she’s over him and confesses to him like a oh I thought you should know and the whole time Luke had been in love with her, kinda base it off that one TikTok audio where it’s like “I’m not in love with you anymore” “I never knew you were” 🩷🩷

OHH YOURE FEEDING MY ANGST BRAIN WITH THIS ONE. buckle up lets break some hearts

edit: this ended up being WAY sadder than i originally intended. i am so sorry anon oh my god

i gave you a rare gift (but you didn't want it) — luke castellan

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

content: angst, major character/reader death, unrequited love, mutual pining, reader is part of kronos' army, luke and reader are doomed by the narrative, [Y/N] used (sparingly), alcohol mention, description of injury

listening to: bloodfest (from mizumono) by brian reitzell

You are twenty-two years old, sitting on the rocky beach of a lake somewhere in the forests of upstate New York. Light, gentle fog hangs in the air around you, and the only sound is the tap-tap-tap of Luke skipping rocks across the water.

Come dawn, the world will burn. The gods will be dethroned. Every demigod will either be free, or dead.

But now, at midnight, you are twenty-three and Luke turns to you. He's holding a small, squashed cupcake in one hand. "Happy birthday," he says, "to my right-hand man." He pauses. "Woman. Right-hand woman."

He holds the pastry out to you and smiles, but something behind his eyes is empty. Hollow. He hadn't been sleeping recently. As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn't stop you from seeing when he came to you every morning for a cup of coffee and to debrief for the day.

Perks of being the revolution leader's best friend, you think. His right-hand woman.

Luke's eyes flick from the cake to your face. "Do you like it?" He asks, and for a split second, you swear there's a note of hope in his voice. "I wanted to do something, y'know," he says. "Twenty-three is huge. It's a monumental age."

You nod, but stay quiet.

He pauses for a second. "You remember how you always said you wished you never had a birthday?"

When you were twelve, nearly thirteen, your mother drove you across the country to go to summer camp.

"It'll be like a road trip," she said, tossing your duffel bag into the back seat of her battered car. "And then, hey, you'll only stay at camp until the end of August, and then you can come back and go to school. See all your friends again." She squeezed your shoulder and pushed the car door closed. "How about that?"

"Sure," you said. "Super fun."

And it was; you were actually kind of excited. You'd never been to New York. It seemed a million universes away.

And it was your birthday tomorrow. Maybe this was a gift, something that your mother had put together to make up for the years of being too tired and too drunk to make a cake, or get presents, or anything.

Your mother put her hands on her hips and sighed. "You know how I feel about the attitude, yeah? Let's not do this today."

"I wasn't even trying to—" You cut off as your mother glared at you, her face tense. You knew that look: the biting-the-inside-of-her-cheek, trying-to-be-understanding, trying-to-be-a-good-mom-despite-it-all look.

You hated that look.

"Just..." She sighed. "Just get in the damn car, [Y/N]."

You did, fighting back the tears building in the corners of your eyes, and the slam of the car door closing was as loud as thunder.

Twenty silent minutes of city streets and highway merge ramps and cold, empty stretches of asphalt and concrete passed before either of you spoke.

"Mom," you said, thirty-three seconds into minute twenty-one, "I'm sorry for talking back earlier." Your voice was quiet, shaking, cupped in your throat like a scared animal.

She didn't answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

"I don't like being like this, Mom," you said, looking over at her. The silhouette of her through the driver's side window, backlit by the streetlights, was shapeless. Impassive. "I don't like doing this with you all the time."

She scoffed.

You pulled your legs to your chest, tucking your head between your knees, and tried to find sleep.

You weren't sure how long you slept, but you woke up to the sound of music playing softly over the speakers. Exit signs whizzed past you at what felt like breakneck speed. You wondered, briefly, if you would break your neck if you jumped out of the car right now.

Ultimately you decided against it. You didn't want your mother's last words to you to be, get in the damn car.

That would make her feel guilty, you thought, and that guilt would make her hate me even more.

"I don't wanna fight," you tried instead, picking at a loose thread in the cuff of your jacket sleeve. "Mom, I'm sorry, okay? I don't want us to be mad at each other anymore," you said. A sob caught in your throat, heavy and wet and choking.

Your mother sighed and reached one hand from the wheel to tuck your hair behind your ear. "I know you don't, sweetie," she said. "I don't want to be mad at you either."

"Then why do you do it," you asked.

When she turned to look at you, her eyes were wet. She smiled, or tried to. "Sometimes, certain people just…can't help but fight," she said. "It's just part of who we are, I think."

"Did you fight with Dad?"

Your mother inhaled, quick and sharp through her nose, as she flicked the turn signal to right and guided the car down the exit ramp from the highway, her eyes locked ahead. "Yes," she said. "Sometimes. Sometimes I think that's where we get it."

You swallowed. "Do you ever miss him?"

She doesn't peel her gaze away from the road. "Every day."

The two of you made your way through bustling streets and across too many bridges to count. You thought you fell asleep again, for a minute or maybe a year. Maybe it was all a dream.

"Mom," you asked as she turned onto a worn dirt road, the sunrise barely stretching over the horizon, "why are you bringing me here?"

She didn't answer for a moment. Two moments, then three. Through the leaves, you saw one tree standing impossibly tall. A pine tree.

Your mother parked the car and turned to you. "Because I don't know what to do with you, [Y/N]," she said. "I don't know how I can keep you," she paused, "safe. How I could do this, on my own, in any normal way."

She got out of the car and grabbed your bag, shoving it against your chest. "Camp is just up that hill there," she said, gesturing in the direction of the large tree you'd seen earlier. "They’ve got people up there waiting for you."

"Mom," you said. "Wait, I—I wanted to talk to you—"

She shook her head. "I can't come with you, sweetie." She smiled, the curve of her mouth falling just short of her eyes. "You just remember that I love you, okay?"

At that moment, you knew: she was going to leave you here.

“No,” you said, tears rolling down your face. “No, no—Mom. Mom, please.”

“Before you go,” she said, her voice tight and sharp, “I wanted to give you this.” She reached into the back seat and pulled out a jacket, worn leather with patched elbows. “It was mine in college,” she explained, not meeting your eyes. Like she was reading from a play or book, and you were the unfortunate audience. “I figure, it doesn’t fit me anymore.”

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Happy birthday, baby.”

It was the first time you had ever felt like your mother loved you. You knew she liked you, sometimes. But you were never quite sure if she loved you until that moment.

And then she got back into the car with one final, teary nod.

And you never saw her again.

“Yeah,” you tell Luke, shrugging. “I think I’ve got a pretty good reason, though.” Your lips curve into a smile.

He laughs and tilts his head. It’s a habit of his; he’ll say something and twist his neck just a fraction, narrow his eyes. A nervous tic that not even years of training and fighting and killing could stamp out.

You used to think about kissing his neck when he did it, but now you’re not sure whether you would know the difference between kissing and ripping his throat out.

“True,” Luke concedes. You laugh, too, unrestrained and loud. “Gods, your sense of humor is dark.”

“You laughed first,” you remind him. He grins.

The cupcake he offers you, despite its lumps and smears of frosting, is pretty good. You split it apart with careful fingers and hand half of it back to him.

“You’re celebrating with me,” you laugh, “so you get half. That’s the rule.”

Luke simply smiles at you and takes the crumbling cake from your hand. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, grinning back. “Damn right.”

Luke’s laugh rings out again, sharp and bright against the night sky. Firelight flickers across his face, painting him in brilliant streaks of orange and gold.

“After tomorrow,” Luke murmurs, pulling his knees up to his chest, “we can do this whenever we want.” The wind ruffles his hair almost fondly, floppy brown curls stirring and settling back against his skull.

You raise an eyebrow. “This?”

He gestures in a wide arc. “Be here, like this. Just be people, instead of demigods or heroes or revolutionaries.” Luke’s voice picks up, conviction surging into his words. “I mean, seriously—when was the last time you thought you would ever have a normal life?”

You’d never understood the demigods who joined Luke’s cause without knowing him. The plan itself seemed crazy—the only way anyone would follow it was if they knew their leader could pull it off.

You have to know Luke to know he was capable of that, you think.

Until now. Now, you see what you think everyone else sees—a real leader, a revolutionary. A force for change with a silver tongue.

He makes it all seem so possible. You almost think he might pull it off.

Luke looks over to you. “We’re going to change everything,” he says.

Almost.

“We’re going to change the rules,” Luke said, spreading the map over an empty cot in his cabin. “If we want to win, we need to be thinking six steps ahead of the enemy.”

A few of the campers huddled around the makeshift table shuffled and coughed awkwardly.

“Every strategy’s been done before,” a tall girl with bubblegum-pink hair and an eyebrow piercing shouted from the back of the group. “How are we going to out-war the god of war’s kids?”

Murmurs rushed around the table, soft and susurrant. There’s no way we’re going anywhere here. We’ve gotten our asses beat six weeks in a row. What are we even doing?

Luke smiled. “Ares is the god of war,” he said, “not strategy.” He slung his arm around one of the campers next to him and inclined his head in the direction of the map.

Quietly, almost too quiet for you to hear, he murmured into the girl’s ear. “Don’t doubt yourself, Bethy,” he whispered.

You learned three things in the ten minutes that she spent explaining your team’s new strategy—

—one, your team was going to kick some major ass—

—two, your strategist’s name was Annabeth Chase, and she was the smartest eight-year-old you have ever met—

—and three, Luke was right.

Annabeth’s plan took the rules of Capture the Flag and threw them out the window. She split the team into four subgroups, each with a delegated leader. Luke nodded along as she talked, marking the map with a stubby pencil.

When Annabeth’s eyes, dark and piercing, searched the crowd and landed on you, you felt your heart stop.

“You,” she said, “are you good with a sword?”

You raised your eyebrow, pointing to yourself—just to confirm this genius child was speaking to you—and Annabeth nodded.

“I guess?” You said, shrugging. “I know some basic stuff, and I’m good at disarming.”

Annabeth’s face broke into a smile. “Work with Luke on the first wave of offense.” She gestured to the map. “You two will take points B and B-one,” she explained. “My group will take the A-points. You wait for our signal to move in.”

You met Luke’s eyes across the table. Hey, you mouthed.

His eyes flicked up and down your form. Hey, he mouthed back. You ready to win?

You smiled and nodded.

Good, Luke said, all teeth. Let’s go.

He stood and grabbed his helmet. You did the same.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said as you followed Luke through the forest. “We, uh—we met when I first got here, like, a year ago.” I was sobbing my eyes out because my mother abandoned me, you didn’t add. It was kind of pathetic. I think I threw up from crying so hard.

You suddenly hoped Luke didn’t remember meeting you, actually. That would be less embarrassing.

He turned and caught your eye. “You live in the same cabin as me. ‘Course I know you.”

Of course he remembers.

You laughed, flushing red. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

The silence was so thick, you could have cut it with the sleek bronze of your sword.

In the end, it was Luke who broke the silence. “You wanna play a game while we wait out here?”

You shrugged. “Sure,” you said.

“Twenty questions,” Luke replied. “So we can learn enough about each other to actually work together.” He smiled. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Low-hanging fruit,” you said, your voice just barely taking on a teasing tone. “It’s green.”

Luke laughed, loud and full and bright. “Apologies,” he said; mirth crept into his words, staining everything with a tinge of that laughter. “I’ll go for the more gut-wrenching, intimate questions next time.”

You flushed red again. Intimate questions. What the hell does he mean by that?

“My turn,” you said instead. “What do you want to be when you get older?”

“We’ll be heroes,” Luke whispers. “Real heroes. Not figureheads propped up by the gods.”

You wish you could believe him. He’s lying on the beach next to you, his head resting in the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Over the treetops, the stars are beginning to fade from the sky.

It’s almost time.

Your throat feels like someone has sanded it down to expose your vocal cords. This is a bad idea, you want to say. We shouldn’t do this. Tell me we can still not do this.

“Wanna play twenty questions?” You say, crackling and hoarse.

Luke turns to look at you. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

“My turn first,” you whisper. Luke nods.

You take a deep breath, in and out. “Are we going to die doing this?”

Luke inhales sharply. “Maybe,” he says. Slowly. Deliberately. “But we’ll do everything we can to make sure we don’t.”

“I got another question,” you say. Luke raises an eyebrow. His knuckles brush yours as you sit up.

“Are you scared?”

It’s your birthday.

You think you’re going to die.

Luke is kneeling over you, the palm of his hand pressed against the wet opening in your stomach where someone had caught you with a spear. The shaft of it is still sticking out of you, you think. You’re afraid to look down, afraid to see it.

“No,” Luke gasps, “no, no, no.”

You watch as the gold fades from his eye, leaving behind the honey-dark brown you remember. His hands are slick with blood—most of it’s probably yours, it has to be yours. You’re bleeding out, after all.

You tug on Luke’s sleeve weakly. “Hey,” you breathe. “Luke. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“No,” he says. “You’re—you’re hurt.”

“I know,” you rasp. “I know it hurts. I’m the one—”

You break off as a cough sticks in your throat. It feels wet. Oily. Desperate to get out. You taste the blood in the back of your throat before you can even take another breath.

“—I’m the one who’s feeling it,” you finish, your voice tilting up at the end. A joke. Gods, your sense of humor is dark.

Luke laughs weakly. “Don’t talk,” he says. “You’re gonna be just fine, [Y/N], just fine.”

He meets your eyes. You see him realize it in slow motion.

Tell him. Tell him now. He’s never going to know otherwise—he could die any minute—

“Luke,” you murmur. “Luke, did you know I loved you?”

He freezes. “What?”

You cough again. Blood spills over your lips. “I loved you,” you repeat. “Since we were campers. Had the…the biggest, stupidest crush on you.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. “You—”

“You’re my best friend,” you continue. “Whatever feelings were there, you’re my best friend.”

Luke’s palm against your stomach is warm. It feels safe. It feels like sleeping side-by-side in the cabin, like shared meals and shared secrets.

“Why are you telling me this?” Luke says, “why are you—why?”

You blink, just once, but it takes everything you have to open your eyes again after closing them. “Because I’m going to die,” you whisper. “And even if—even though I moved on, I wanted you to…to know.”

Luke bows over your body, pressing his forehead to yours. Tears slip from his cheeks and fall onto yours, driving little rivers through the blood smeared there.

He’s crying. Why is he—

“You idiot,” Luke says brokenly. “I loved you too. I loved you too.” He cradles your head in his lap, brushing your hair away from your face. “[Y/N], I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes slip shut.

I loved you too, Luke’s voice echoes. I loved you too.

#— ash's writing #pjo x reader #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan x you #reader insert #y/n #pjo imagine #ok now we get into the warning tags #graphic depictions of injury #major character death #major character injury #reader death #alcohol mention #doomed by the narrative #genuinely im so sorry i really ran wild with this one good god #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan fanfic #— ash’s answering!

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