#Severe Injury

[tempural]

No skin, no muscles, no hair.

Read alt text for diagnosis and care instructions - PONY EXPRESS IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY INJURY OR LOSS OF LIFE DUE TO AUTODOC MISCALCULATIONS. Please take good care of him regardless!

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2024 No. 16, No. 19, No. 22

Prompt 16: Swamp

Prompt 19: Abandoned cabin

Prompt 22: Tourniquet

Warnings: Animal death; severe injuries

A/N: Sorry for the abrupt ending. This one has been a work in progress since the beginning of the month and I just can’t get it to go any further. Maybe I’ll continue with a second part later.

gif is not mine - google

Neither human nor beast had moved since you had spotted the predator—a dragon by its own right. The alligator’s eyes reflected both the water’s surface and a sinister promise. Daryl, the water easily reaching his shoulders with his feet touching the swamp floor, was breathing quickly through his nose but remained otherwise motionless. The only thing you could see in his eyes was naked, implacable fear. 

“Daryl.” You whimpered. 

“Get outta the water.” You knew better than to argue and moved the slightest inch to turn before he spoke again. “Slow. Don’t splash.” He added. 

“Okay.” You tried to keep your movements fluid, deliberate. Each step beneath the murky surface felt heavy and so slow that you thought you would never feel the water receding around your upper body. You momentarily considered shedding your backpack but decided against it. There was a strange noise behind you but you kept your eyes on the overgrown shoreline. “Daryl?”

“Doin’ great. Keep goin’.” 

You nodded and maintained your glacial pace, bending at the waist as you began to leave the water in order to minimize the droplets that would unsettle the surface. The foreboding sense of being followed gnarled and twisted in your gut, and you allowed yourself to believe it was Daryl inching along behind you. 

“Almost there.” The tremble in his tone was easy to detect. You could also pick up that he was nowhere near behind you. 

“Daryl, how will you—” You didn’t see the debris. Of course you couldn’t through the dingy water. You had barely tripped and hit your knees when all hell broke loose around you. 

“Run, run, GO!” Came Daryl’s roar, a half a second before you heard and felt the chaos erupting. You were moving within milliseconds of his command, making the mistake of looking over your shoulder. 

“Shit!” A second gator had—at some point—surfaced, its tail whipping side-to-side to carry it toward you at a speed you would have never been able to outswim. Clambering onto the shore, the weeds soggy and giving beneath your feet, you ran a few meters ahead, trying hard to ignore the sounds that echoed beyond what could be your approaching death. 

The smaller alligator met land with a speed you hadn’t known the creatures capable of outside the water, its four legs carrying that open maw toward you faster than you were prepared to counter. With your only choices being abandon Daryl or fight, you made the only one with which your heart could live. 

Waiting until the last second, just as the animal lunged for you, you leapt to the side, twisting your body to throw your hunting knife. Those lessons with Daryl had paid off. The alligator slid forward until the momentum waned before going still, your knife protruding from its left eye. 

There was no time to catch your breath. “Daryl!” Between the heavy splashing, you would catch sight of a tail or an arm, the glint of sunlight off a blade. He was fighting for his life and you had no idea how to help him. Did you go back in the water? It’s what you wanted to do. There were likely other gators being attracted by the frenzy. Maybe you could keep them—

“Y’alright?!” 

“Oh, Daryl, thank god.” He was already wading toward you, shaking out his left hand while his right still held his knife. There was a decent amount of blood hitting the water with each flick. “Where did—is it dead?”

The archer shrugged a shoulder. “Dunno. Ain’t waitin’ ‘round to find out neither.” 

You were already reaching for him before he stepped out onto the mud, your hands latching onto his vest to pull him forward into a kiss that had him gasping against your mouth before just as quickly settling to return the gesture. After a few breathless heartbeats, his forehead rested against yours.

“Fancy knife work there.” 

You opened your eyes to find his still closed but you knew what he spoke of without separating from him. “Learned from the best.” You peppered his lips with several more chaste kisses before finally straightening to go retrieve your weapon. “We should probably take a look at—” The words died on your tongue, dissolved by horror and fear. 

Why hadn’t you urged him away from the water? Why hadn’t he moved further on his own? As the strong jaws clamped down around Daryl’s lower leg, the answers you sought no longer mattered. The archer smacked the ground with a shout, attempting to roll over while reaching for his knife. A sharp pull on his leg foiled his attempt. 

“Daryl!” You leapt forward, grabbing for his hand. Your fingers brushed his just as he was yanked into the water, the gator letting go just long enough to seek a better hold, teeth sinking into the flesh of Daryl’s right thigh. He let out a pained yell that followed him beneath the tenebrous marsh. “Daryl, no!”

The surface bubbled and rippled before going still, your heart twisting before it sank. The swamps were silent as you stepped into the shallows, scanning, watching, praying. 

“Daryl.” You whispered frantically, taking another step into the water. If you could do something for Daryl then you’d gladly let death come for you. If you could do nothing, then it could come all the same. Your feet slid forward again, your eyes darting, desperate for just a glimpse of your archer. 

When the surface broke, it was a tail first, then the gator’s belly. Its jaws still held Daryl’s leg as it rolled, his body twisting to turn with the beast. He was alive, and he was trying to remain that way while keeping his limb intact. The gator rolled a second time with Daryl gasping in a frenzied breath before he was plunged once again. 

Gripping the hilt of your knife, you dove under, throwing any consideration of your own safety to the wayside. It was impossible to see below resulting in you reaching for either Daryl or the gator. When you felt something crash into your hand, you made a grab for it and rolled to the surface, quickly opening your eyes to find yourself holding Daryl’s belt. Bending at the waist, you wrapped your legs around him as the movement continued, the gator relentlessly seeking to tear the archer’s leg from his body. 

Above water again, you sucked in a breath and found your target, stabbing at the animal’s head with your knife. You felt it drive home and pulled it free as the rolls continued, repeating the action over and over with nothing but a prayer that you managed the kill and doing so without hitting Daryl. 

The momentum slowed before stopping completely, the water tinted red as you clawed your way to the surface, reaching down to grab Daryl before releasing the hold you had maintained with your legs. 

“Daryl.”

He broke the surface with an agonized groan, groping for you while you held on urgently. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Backstroking while pulling him along, you managed to get him to the shoreline and struggled to your feet with your hands beneath his arms. You pulled and pulled, dragging him as far from the water as you could manage. He helped as much as he could with his uninjured leg, digging the heel of his boot into the ground and kicking back. “Let me see.”

The flesh of his thigh was torn, flayed at the edges of two wounds that were at least six inches long. They were deep but showed no bone. His lower leg was not unaffected but lacked the severity of the other injury. 

“Fuck.” You covered your mouth for a moment, watching him collapse onto his back, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Shedding your bag, you first grabbed a bottle of water, setting to work at cleaning the wound. When he shot upward with a shout, you began to mutter a mantra of I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. 

“Goddamnit!” Daryl exclaimed and fell back again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. The wound continued to bleed heavily, gaping open in such a way that seized you with panic, grasping for any remembrance of your medical training. 

“Stop the bleeding. Clean the wound.” You could attempt to stitch it later, once the blood clotted—if you could even manage to pull the skin together. Gauze would never cover it but you had little choice but to try, your clothing too wet with the filthy water to aid in staunching the flow. You prayed as you dug through your bag that the harder exterior of the medical kit had protected the contents. 

Your prayers were answered, the supplies were dry. With quick movements, you unbuckled your belt and pulled it free of the loops. Sliding it beneath his leg resulted in a groan and grimace of pain but you couldn’t stop, not until it was pulled tight and fastened above the wound. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You repeated as you released your makeshift tourniquet, satisfied with the visible decrease of blood flow. “You’ll bleed out if I don’t.” Grabbing another bottle of water, you removed the cap and quickly emptied it over the torn flesh, wincing in sympathy. Alcohol would have been preferred but much more painful. Still, you worked with what was available. 

“Do—do whatcha gotta do.” Daryl panted. He pressed his palms into the soggy ground and tried to push himself up, making it only to his elbows before he was out of breath. His left hand was still steadily weeping but at least he had managed to keep all of his fingers. “Christ.” He whispered, his wide eyes obtaining their first look at the wound. 

“I know.” You felt sick. What could you do beyond what had been done already? “We have to get out of here. Find the others and get back to Alexandria.” Square after square of gauze was applied before you wrapped the grizzly wound with the only roll you had to secure and press things into place. 

“S’gettin’ dark.” He commented, head tipped back. He was staring upward toward the canopy as his breathing slowed but failed to return to normal. “Can’t be walkin’ through this shit at night.”

“We can’t stay here, Daryl.” You argued. “There’s more, you know there are.” The swamps of Macon, Georgia were abundant with wildlife, including a healthy affluence of alligators. You were going to absolutely murder Rick for this mission when you and Daryl made it back. 

When. Not if. 

“S’try an’ find a place ain’t around the water.” He was still staring upward, dazed. “Ain’t got long to search ‘fore it gets dark.” When he didn’t make an attempt to move, you gathered all you could into your backpack, save for the knife you secured in the holster on your thigh. You even managed to put Daryl’s knife in its place on this good leg without any acknowledgment from the hunter. 

“Daryl.” You tried, watching the quick but shallow pants of his breath. His skin was still wet with swamp water, but was looking pale. “Daryl.” You attempted more forcefully. 

“Hmm?” He finally rolled his head toward you, the personification of calm. “Oh.” He seemed to finally catch on and started pushing himself upward, making it to a seated position only after you had grabbed beneath his arms and helped. Once it was clear he would not fold over onto his lap, you let go. 

“Gotta get you on your feet.” 

“Ain’t gonna get far.” The way he was behaving was beginning to worry you, his lack of panic—even pain.

“Daryl.” You crouched in front of him, taking another look at his leg. Red was already seeping through the bandage, a dark circle soaked into the soil below his thigh. “I need you with me.”  You said sternly, cupping his face with both hands. His gaze was cloudy, unfocused, and only seemed to clear the slightest fraction when you gave him a gentle shake. “Are you with me?”

He blinked, his brow furrowing. “Yeah.” He rasped. “Yeah, m’with ya.” Then he was actually trying to lever to his feet without your help, your hands frantically scrambling for purchase anywhere they could to provide support. To his credit, he made little noise beyond grunts and one sobbing rush of air once he was upright. 

“Okay, okay. Here we go.” He staggered into you while you assisted in draping his arm across your shoulders. “That wasn’t so hard.” You quipped, grinning up at him when those pretty blues glared at you. You had to keep things light. 

“Think—think you’re funny?” He grunted with the first supported step, his hand grasping for a firm grip on your shoulder. 

“I know I am.” 

“Gonna hafta—file a—a complaint.” 

The steps the two of you managed were small and hindered by the struggle of pulling along his right leg. Between blood loss and the tight tourniquet, it was amazing he could feel anything at all. Still, you trucked onward, boots sinking into the mushy ground. There was just too much water all around, too many threats. You kept your eyes peeled for danger, Daryl’s head now resting against the top of your own. He was getting weaker, slowing down, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep him going. 

When he began to shiver, it wasn’t a gradual transition. One minute he was simply a weight against your side and the next, he was vibrating and his teeth chattering. It was anything but cold. It could only mean one thing. 

“You’re losing too much blood.” You commented, not really with the intent of him hearing. If he did, he didn’t respond. 

The pale light that had been guiding your path had since receded before disappearing completely, leaving the two of you shrouded in darkness. Each step had to be calculated, a gentle touch of the toe of your boot to test the integrity of the ground before you would drag him forward. If you fell into the swamp water now, it would be impossible to pull him out. 

Glowing eyes surrounded you, the reminder that more of the apex predators awaited a single lapse in judgment, one mistake. 

“Talk to me, Daryl.” He was growing heavier and heavier, harder and harder to pull along even if the ground had been sturdy. 

“Called a—a death roll.”

“What?” You queried, truly curious about the topic even if you couldn’t pay him your undivided attention. You stepped across a downed limb, your hands never leaving him before you had to nearly drag him across after you. 

“What that—gator—what it did. S’a death roll.” He stopped talking for a moment, gaining his balance, or at least enough strength to keep him from toppling over. “S’how they—how they rip off chunks,” he sucked in a shaky breath, “to eat.”

The information sat like a stone in your gut. It really had been trying to sever his leg, less interested in killing him and more concerned with tearing off a hunk of him to swallow down. 

“Well.” It was the only thing you could think of to say. The silence ensued and dragged on, your hope being sapped out and left in the trail of disturbed mud his boot was carving with each pull of his useless leg. He was less walking and more limping along beside you in graceless movements that did little more than keep him moving. 

By the time the old cabin—more of a shack, really—came into view, you were barely holding Daryl up. Your strength was waning, your body exhausted. You could hear the moans and gnashing teeth of walkers stuck in the marsh, your consciousness just too lagged to give thanks for their inability to reach you and the archer. The very thought of defending the two of you in your current state made your body ache. 

“Daryl. Daryl, it’s a cabin.” You jostled him with your shoulder, relief flooding your senses when he raised his head, albeit slowly. His only reply was a drawn out hum. “We can make it. Come on.” Drawing upon your reserves, you pulled him along. “Hello?” You called, maneuvering Daryl up the dilapidated steps to the door. There was no response, no candlelight. Abandoned. Or so you had hoped before you heard a thump against the door that was followed by a snarling growl. “Of course!”

The walker—an old man—had a bullet wound through his cheek and you would have bet the entry wound was below his chin. He had missed. Maybe he had died quickly. You wished that for him. Without dwelling, you lured him out, keeping his focus away from the man you had placed on the floor of the porch, behind an old rocker. Your knife met the dead man’s temple at the top of the steps, the body toppling onto the ground and out of your way. 

“Done and done.” You nodded and sheathed your weapon, trudging tiredly toward where Daryl lay prone. “Hey, you still with me?” You patted the side of his boot on his good leg, chuckling when he gave you a weak thumbs up. “Let’s get inside.”

Easier said than done, but once the two of you were safe behind the closed door, you allowed your body the moment of rest it needed, sprawling out next to Daryl on the floor. He was still shivering, breaths shallow, and eyes barely open. Nope, nevermind. You were up immediately, searching for anything you could use. 

A dusty blanket, some dried meat, and a useless med kit were all you managed to scavenge but it was enough. At least for the moment. You wrapped Daryl up tightly inside the blanket after beating the dust from it outside. It would be enough to keep him warm. Your bag was situated beneath his feet, keeping the blood flow closer to his heart. And once you had his head on your lap, you set to work trying to get food and water into him. 

“You need to drink. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” You argued, brushing the sweaty strands of hair away from his face. “You’re already in shock.”

“M’fine. You have it.” 

“If you’re not drinking any, then I’m—”

He groaned. “Fine.” He accepted a few sips before turning away his head. Satisfied, you drank a few of your own and placed the bottle next to your hip. You only had that bottle and one other. That was a worry for another time. 

“Do you think you can navigate us outta here when the sun comes up?” You asked. You tore off a small piece of meat and tapped his chin. He didn’t argue and accepted the offering, allowing you to lift his head slightly so he could swallow. 

“Damn sure gonna try.” His voice was raspy and tired, his eyes remaining closed. The incident and injury had left him drained. You wouldn’t be sleeping that night, that much was certain. 

“Alright. Then you need to rest.” With the meat wrapped and inside your bag, you settled against the wall, humming and running your fingers through his damp hair. 

The cabin was small, everything in one room. A stove on one side, a broken bed on the other. You distantly wondered why anyone would want to live such an isolated life with nothing but beavers and gators for company. 

Daryl groaned from your lap, your expression falling when you saw the pain etched into his sleeping face. There was no way the man would be fit to lead the two of you anywhere. You’d be lucky if he was even still alive when the sun rose. Your best bet was to stay put, keep him warm and hydrated until the others found you. Maybe you could go out and—no. You couldn’t leave him behind. 

How would the two of you get out of this one?

[feyinvestigations]

Quick curly sketch

[this-acuteneurosis]

Cut to the Chase

Padmé reflects on political nonsense, and discusses the distance that's grown between her and Senator Clovis.

Leia learns first hand it isn't big enough.

[wolfs-writing-den]

Snippet #1 - Aftermath

Obi-Wan and Dragon!Anakin escape, with the main casualty being Anakin’s arm. This is the late-night, unedited, rambling edition of a conversation that comes later- after the reveal that Dragon!Anakin is In Fact Vader The Sith.

Dw tho. I’m sure things go fine later. Mace is gonna be thrilled.

•Snippet Below!•

“Vader… your arm needs treatment. This ship’s kit barely has a decent strip of bacta, you need professional medical treatment-“

“Then drop me off at the next spaceport, and go home, Obi-wan.”

The Jedi seemed torn, and at that he could only growl through clenched teeth. The room swayed, another flash of pain left him almost breathless, clouding his senses and adding to the fog coating his thoughts.

Obi-Wan was shaking his head. Why was Obi-Wan shaking his head?

“I’m not going to abandon you.”

“Why not?!”

“Because you are injured! Severely!”

“That has never stopped anyone before!” Anakin’s growl turned thunderous, eyes flashing sickly golden-yellow. Obi-Wan faltered, before setting his jaw and staring back just as fiercely.

“Jedi do not just discard their allies- their friends- so easily.”

“Good, because I am neither-“ Anakin hissed, irritation and pain fueling his ire against this stubborn, stupid old man. “- I am a Monster, Jedi Knight. Worse even- a Sith Monster.” He spat, teeth sharpening into fangs even as a white-hot pounding in his bones warned against any further shift.

“I don't need your mercy or your help.”

The sad look he got from Obi-Wan in response only stoked the flames. With a bitter curse he moved to stand- only to try and brace himself with his missing hand. A guttural cry ripped from his throat as the roughly-bandaged remains of his forearm failed him, sending him to the floor in a rather inelegant heap.

Or well- he would’ve ended up there had Obi-Wan not caught him. He fell limp against the Jedi, his remaining hand clutching the other’s robes as he let himself be guided down to their knees. The gentleness and care that Obi-Wan took startled him, so abruptly different from his usual existence. It felt utterly surreal, like this was all merely a fever dream.

“No monster would’ve saved my young padawan like you did- no sith would’ve taken the care to ensure safe escape for all those slaves at the camp.”

“…” Anakin shivered, falling into the warmth of the Jedi holding him up, breathing ragged and broken. His arm burned, his senses felt muddled- the force was muted in a way it never had been before and instinctively, he knew it was associated with the loss of his arm. It would never be the same again.

“I- I am no friend of the Jedi.” His voice felt hoarse, and his words lost their bite. He was pretty sure he’d reopened something and was bleeding all over Obi-Wan. “You and Ahsoka don’t count. You’re both crazy.”

He got a quiet chuckle at that.

“But I’m serious. What do you think will happen when you bring me back to that fancy temple of yours on Coruscant?”

“You’ll get medical treatment, and proper care afterwards. You have valuable information- a deal could be struck for your safety. A sort of witness protection.”

Anakin could only blink up at the man owlishly, his sheer naivety astounding. “Obi-Wan…. I’ll be put in suppressing cuffs and thrown in the brig. They’ll torture whatever information they want out of me and then kill me if they know what’s good for them.”

Even before he was done talking, the other’s head was shaking ‘no’. Again. Damn him.

“Please- trust me. If you can’t trust the Jedi, trust in me. I won’t let your wounds go untreated- you lost your arm saving us, Vader. If you don’t get treatment now you may lose your life-“ his voice cracked, and to Anakin’s flagging consciousness, the emotion over something so trivial made absolutely no sense.

But… Obi-Wan believed it. The truth of his promise chimed out into the force, even muted as it was. He was so, so tired…..

“Fine.” He huffed, “do as you see fit.” Black spots flitted in and out of his vision- making his head hurt something fierce. He thought he may have heard his name being called as his eyes slid shut and he slumped against the warmth at his side- but he was unconscious again before it could matter.

Obi-wan was left holding his new charge- hoping desperately that he wasn’t making some horrible, horrible mistake.

•✨🐉•

[musewrangler]

The Princess. He could feel her exhaustion and fear and grief. He also felt the unmistakable traces of her presence in his mind.

She’d been there—-healing. Soothing.

And the thing was, he knew why. He recalled it all with rather horrifying clarity.

He could only lie there—-nothing else but lie there while they spoke about him. He couldn’t even open his Force damned EYES!

“Hard to say, Your Highness.”

That was Henley.

“He’s healing physically. There’s no question you saved his life. But the extent of the damage to his brain is still hard to quantify.”

He felt a tender hand run over his hair and he realized that he was not in control of his own breathing.

Kark it.

Being intubated and conscious was the worst.

He needed them to take it OUT.

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1265

Anon asked:

TW: Sports injuries

Maybe prompts for whump related to sports?? Could be an injury on the field/court, or even as far as the star athlete being poisoned or sabotaged by the other team.

I can give it a go!

You could start off with the 'aftermath' of the injury. Perhaps when the whumpee is in the hospital or at home. Maybe they've gone back to the place of the incident to work out what happened (maybe they're struggling with fever, and take it upon themselves to go back.)

The day started out normally, they had their usual breakfast and went about their warm ups. There was nothing that could have gone wrong...

But it did. It so unequivocally did, and now they're nursing injuries they may not recover from.

Maybe there's still bloodstains where it happened.

Maybe their whole life revolved around being the best, and now they're so setback they start to doubt their future - they have to learn to be something/someone else. (Or so they think)

I could imagine the whumpee to be quite emotional too - either just generally depressed or very angry at themselves.

Maybe it was an accident, maybe it was deliberate, but above all the whumpee blames themselves.

[painsandconfusion]

A carewhumper using maggots to get rid of whumpee's rotting flesh.

Entirely medicinal and pretty effective for what they have.

But. Whumpee is clearly panicking.

So carewhumper has to strap them down

[miramaramora]

This brave young man , Ahmad Munasira , a while back , he was captured by Israelis and tortured.

He suffered from post traumatic psychosis due to the head injuries that were inflicted on him .

[loki-whump-recs]

Warbride by SatansSin

Summary:

Captured in a war between the Aesir and Jotnar, Loki, the bastard son of King Laufey, is kept in the Aesir camp as someone to sate carnal desires. And though he escapes unscathed later, it isn't the end of his problems. For he is sold in political marriage to his very captor; a Jotun slayer. He is ruthless and Loki is innocent. It is a match made in Hel.

Pairing: Thor/Loki Rating: M Word Count: 314k+

Tags: #crying #hugging and cuddling #mpreg #suicidal ideation #intoxication #domestic abuse #severe injury #minor character death #slavery #PTSD #Avengers fam #smut

Complete/Incomplete

Admin notes: Fantastic and a fave. Bros I cannot even count the amount of times Loki cries in this I think past a certain point he basically never stops crying tbh. There's no rape like the summary implies. Classic political marriage to true love trope with setbacks and miscommunication. Loki's a super timid, insecure little kitten with some slight Stockholm syndrome :< Oh and Balder's there! He's also nice to Loki.

[tempural]

Started with this B/W sketchbook drawing. Got inspired by the look of the sketchbook spiral on the side, cuz it looked like film notches. Made me think of x-ray scans. Ended up doing the whole medical route on the final drawing.

Coloring method was mostly pressing the "invert" tool to turn the canvas black. Then painting red/yellow with gradient maps. And then drawing the glowing blue lines, as well as typing the "medical" text, on an "add" layer.

Spoilers and long head canons and unlicensed medical talk under the cut.

The text reads:

REVIEWED BY PONY EXPRESS AUTODOC MODEL-SCUMSUCK

PATIENT: CURLY

Near total body disruption from explosive decompression

Complete dermal vascular system collapse

Severe radiation poisoning

Hyperosmolar hyperglycemic state

Muscle and bone cachexia

Single eye rupture

Chronic obstructive pulmonary

Testicular rupture

Severe leukopenia

Itchiness and dry eye

RECOMMENDED TREATMENT

Administer intravenous therapy and catheter

Support neck and spine

Change bandages as supplies last

Orally administer paracetamol for pain

Turn and reposition patient every 2 hours to prevent bed sores

Create relaxing enviroment

Listen attentively to understand emotional state

Allow time for exercise and meditation

Encourage positive thinking

Brush teeth

Administer mouthwash

SIGNED OFF BY DOCTOR ANYA

Of course none of the treatment is actually good. In the game itself, you give him paracetamol (TYLENOL) for pain haha. So I thought I'd go along with the bad medical advice. Including that universal medical advice you get to do "exercise and meditation" if you are in a bad mood :)

I think I spent about as much time looking up the medical stuff (specifically things in relation to explosion damage and radiation damage - thinking of the Byford Dolphin Incident as well as Hisashi Ouchi) as I did with the coloring! We don't know what exactly happened with Curly, but I'd just guess with my lack of medical knowledge that the ship crashed, something exploded, and he was exposed to intense radiation.

Realistically he wouldn't be surviving with the level of medical care they have available on the ship, so I drew a couple things I thought would help him... namely the IV and catheter haha. Also thought it'd be a fun time to introduce my favorite headcanon to gift cute characters: the gift of genital nullification. Yes, I drew this mostly to show off my not-buff and no-pp headcanons!!!!

I like Curly with no skin, no muscle, no hair. It's ok if he had those before. I probably wouldn't draw him "recovered" with perfectly functioning prosthetic limbs and magically regrown vocal cords and sexy 8 pack abs. That's just me. He could get a wheelchair, perhaps some sort of eye controlled assisted communication like Stephen Hawking (but Curly doesn't seem to be able to control his jaw or cheek?).

Thinking about ~da dystopian future~ and what support he would even get? His job ain't gettin him anything :P He doesn't seem to be in the sort of society with universal healthcare, they'd drain his savings and then put him in a dark room with a nurse that turns him over once every 24 hours... Well, that's if they find him. I think he's staying frozen for 20 years and then melting like Walt Disney once the power runs out.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumpuary Day 5-6

Prompt: “This is gonna hurt.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; description and treatment of injury; blood.

There weren’t a lot of things you could say were worse than trying to survive in a dystopian world with walking corpses that want nothing other than to eat you alive. Seeing Daryl in pain though? That ranks almost at the top of the list. 

Currently, you were trapped in a warehouse, surrounded by the dead, and your partner had a piece of bone protruding from the lower part of his left leg. It would have to be set and soon. He would barely be able to walk after you handled it, but definitely not before. 

Still, you were hidden in a small square of pallets. All it would take was one walker wandering off and rounding the end. You had no choice but to act fast. 

“Daryl.” You whispered as loudly as you dared, patting the side of his face to rouse him. His face scrunched, eyes clenching shut before fluttering open. His expression remained pinched and heavily lined with pain. You already had your finger to your lips when his eyes focused and found your face. “Your leg’s broken.”

“No shit.” He whispered sharply, immediately muttering an apology. “Gotta set it. Can’ walk on it like this.”

“I know.” Your expression radiated sympathy. “This is gonna hurt.” The moment he bit back a snarky retort did not go unnoticed. He decided to simply nod instead. You needed to be strategic but thorough. The leg was a mess, blood steadily oozing from around the bone. 

“Get on with it, woman.” Daryl was panting, visibly steeling his resolve for the pain that was to come. You swallowed hard, knowing for certain that it would take little effort for him to buck you off in an automatic reflex. It was a risk you’d have to take. 

Pressing a knee onto his thigh, you reached to grasp his ankle. When you forced the first move, your body lifted with the rigid tension of the muscles under your knee. To his credit, the archer didn’t make a sound, merely pulling deep breaths through clenched teeth. You couldn’t stop now. It needed to be like ripping off a bandaid. A large, shifting of bone, bloody bandaid. 

Your free hand came to rest just above the protrusion. Biting your own lip, you shifted his ankle and placed gentle but firm pressure against the bone, feeling the grind beneath your palm. Daryl’s breaths were becoming harsher behind you but you persevered. Blood was spilling onto the concrete. It was only a matter of time before the walkers picked up the scent. With only the dim light of the moon through the windows far overhead, you made sure the bones were aligned and gave one last twist and push, the audible adjustment finally enough to draw a scream from your hunter. 

You released his leg and twisted around to press both of your bloody palms against his mouth, your forehead against his. “I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Ssh.” You soothed, looking over his shoulder and through the spaces between pallets. The dead had frozen, their heads moving robotically to try and pin down the origin of the sound. 

Daryl’s eyes were wide, clouded, and frenzied. The pain being severe enough to overload the archer’s senses meant that it was bad. 

“I know, ssh.” You kept one hand over his mouth and let the other pet over his hair, rising enough to press your lips to his damp forehead while you kept your eyes on the walkers. They were still on alert but beginning to shuffle along. You just needed to guide Daryl through the worst of the discomfort and get him on his feet. 

Slowly and carefully, you maneuvered from the awkward position you had found yourself in while trying to silence him. Your hand still over his mouth, you now straddled his thighs, keeping your boots away from the injury on his shin. His breathing was beginning to return to normal, eyelids heavy over a dazed set of electric blue irises. 

“Daryl, are you with me?” 

A cool hand wrapped around your wrist and moved your palm away from his mouth. “M’here.” He whispered tiredly. Before you could rethink the urge, you pressed your mouth to his, hard and desperate, as well as apologetic. When you separated, your foreheads still touching, he thumbed away the blood on your mouth with a weak smirk. His mouth looked horrible though the blood had come from your hands. You tried and failed to smile, using your sleeve to wipe the mess from his face as best you could. “Le’s get outta here, sunshine.”

You stubbornly refused to cry, sniffing as you pulled away and rose to your feet as slowly as possible. There was a slim chance the movement could be noticed through the spaces between the pallets. “I’ll splint your leg once we get far enough away. They can handle the rest at the infirmary.” You offered your hand, the other gripping beneath his arm to help him to his feet. Daryl nodded once, leaning on you as you led the way. 

The journey was slow, shifting and ducking to stay out of sight until you could reach the door. A few stragglers lingered there. Shit. The only option was to make a run for the bike. 

“Daryl—”

“I know.” He knew what you were thinking. Of course he did. The two of you were a well oiled machine, becoming a force to be reckoned with over the years. You dipped your chin and mouthed a countdown. When you hit one, you moved together, his arm over your shoulders and yours around his back. His limp was pronounced but he didn’t slow down. Walker after walker reached for the two of you as you passed, signaling the others with their eager snarls and increased pace. 

There was no time to argue once you reached the bike. One second would be enough for either of you to be in danger of being grabbed. Daryl knew he couldn’t drive, but that didn’t stop him from cursing a blue streak when he had to climb on behind you. Only a portion of the vulgarity was due to pain. 

“Don’t worry!” You called over the rumbling engine. “I won’t tell anyone I finally got you to ride bitch for me.” Toeing up the kickstand, you urged the motorcycle into motion, decaying fingers only inches away from finding purchase. 

His leg was a pulsing, painful disaster but Daryl couldn’t resist holding tighter around your waist and brushing his lips over the side of your neck to lean in close to your ear. “Guess it ain’t so bad if s’you m’ doin’ it fer.”

“Don’t distract me!” You laughed. He could just picture your beaming smile. “I’ll crash and fuck up your other leg!”

“Nah, wouldn’ wan’ all tha’.” He smirked, resting his chin on your shoulder as you handled the bike like a pro, eating up the miles toward home. 

Taglist:

@thegeorgiahuntsman @livingdeadblondequeen @feral4daryl @deansapplepie @walker-bait-1973 @lazyneonrabbitt @bizquake @littlelovingideas @ririi-3 @ankhmutes @blackvelveteen1339 @sokkasimp101 @lehhos @loganlostitall @callmeyn @she-who-writes-for-multi-fandoms @gutsby @isakyakiisak @in-this-minute @eljaynosine_triphosphate @abbyreedus @wifeof-barnes @bigbaldheadname @bananafire11 @graciepies @georgiadixon @esgoraths @hutchersonsgurl @she-could-never @Kenzimae67 @nessa-mayfield @ilovedilfs4eversthings @KatelynAngel @richardsamboramylove55 @m0ss-g0blin @annhells @abi67sblog @nessieart @imgeorgeclooney @brinteylovesaliens @eduardast4rgirl @ass-butt-themusical @daryldixmedown @willowaftxn83-87 @ashtonbabe @atyourmomshouse01 @dixonzzgirl @unhingedbiatch @bultamer @lumimon47

[genericficerblog]

A surgical redemption: An everyone lives AU.

This is my 2nd contribution to @tbb-appreciation-week for 2023. This one is Tech, Everyone Lives, a Reunion, and "Please, Talk to Me". @intrepidmare here you go.

Tech knew what he had done on Eriadu would result in his death. He had come to accept that. That was Plan 99, after all, sacrifice. A cable knocked off his goggles which also knocked him out. At least when he hits the ground, he won't feel it. So when Tech awoke on a soft bed with every part of his body aching and a bacta patch on the side of his nose, he was astonished. What was going on? Is this where everyone goes after they die? Tech couldn't tell what time it was or even what planet he was on, so he didn't know what season it was. It was comfortable, though. And he could roughly tell he was in a bed. He looked over to a bedside table and saw some goggles, which he put on. The room blurred but was now visible, and he recognised a medical bay. Lights from the ceiling lit the room up, and Tech could hear the distant hum of an engine. He must be on a ship. He can smell and taste the sterile room, ship metal and the materials making up the bed he was lying in. The bed is reasonably soft and supportive. "Where am I?" Tech asked. He looked around and saw Plo Koon sitting next to him. "Is this where everyone goes when they die?" Tech asked. To his shock, Plo Koon shook his head. "No. You're alive. So am I. You've been unconscious for the past week," Plo Koon replied, looking at Tech concerned, "However, you would be dead if I wasn't there to separate you from the gondola you were attached to and then you didn't slam into the ground thanks to me," Plo Koon replied. "Thanks," Tech eventually replied after his brain stopped jamming. "No problem. But I have a question," Plo Koon replied. "What is it?" Tech asked. "Do you have any regrets?" Plo Koon asked. Thinking momentarily, Tech sighed and nodded, though he didn't tell Plo Koon why. His last conversation with Phee went badly. He had been distracted by ensuring everything was ready for their mission to Eriadu. In the process, he upset Phee. "Get some rest, Tech. Irala will remove the bacta patch in a couple of days," Plo Koon got up and started heading out, leaving Tech to his thoughts.

Over the next couple of days, his room would remain comfortable. Twice a day, Irala would come in to change the bed sheets. Tech would busy himself by surfing his holopad. However, he got bored sometimes. And when he got bored, he looked out of his door to see who else was there. He saw several familiar faces, including Fives, Kix, and Shaak Ti. The most intriguing to him, though, was that Irala turned out to be an age-accelerated version of Omega, which surprised him. He wanted to know more about her, but this age accelerated Omega was too busy to stay to chat. Other times, Tech's thoughts would wander to Phee. He needed to talk to her. But he would have to wait until the other squad members came to rescue him. Tech didn't mind waiting. He could scan the galactic internet forever and be OK. However, his thoughts kept drifting to Phee. What could he do to make things up to her?

Two days after he woke up, the age-accelerated Omega entered and removed the bacta patch on his nose. When he looked in a mirror, he saw no mark from the wound on his face. "Thanks for your help, Irala," Tech replied. Irala nodded, but at that moment, the alarms went off. "What's going on?" Tech asked, surprised at the sudden alarm. "All hands on deck, we need help moving a bacta tank," came a voice through the PA system. "We need half a dozen people to move a bacta pod. Unfortunately, with your goggles not working too well, I'm afraid you can't help," Irana replied as she left Tech's room. Soon, a dozen people moved a bacta pod past Tech's room. And if Tech was astonished he was alive, it was nothing compared to his astonishment at who was in the bacta pod. Phee Genoa being in a bacta pod was not how Tech wanted to reunite with her. Tech then did something out of character for him. He ignored the fact he couldn't see well and tried to leave his room to follow. "What is Phee Genoa doing here?" Tech asked once he exited his room. "Tech, please go back to your room. I know you want to help, but with your goggles not working properly, we can't take the risk," Kix called. "But I need to talk to her. I need to make things up with her," Tech replied. "Phee is currently not in a condition to interact with anyone," Kix retorted. "As a medic of Clone Force 99, alongside Echo, I can help," Tech said. "Not unless you've fixed your goggles. Now, back down, Tech. I've given you your path to help. But if you can barely see, you are more of a danger than a help," Kix glared. After a few moments, Tech sighed and then returned to his quarters. Irala saw this and asked, "Kix, can I go talk to Tech?" "Go ahead. Find out what about Phee has made him act like that," Kix replied. "Alright," Irala replied as she entered Tech's room, and Kix departed for the treatment room.

Tech was brooding on his bed when Irala entered. "What's up?" Irala asked. "I need to talk to Phee. I think I offended her or something with our last interaction. I want to make things right with her," Tech replied. Irala understood this feeling. There was a lot Irala wanted to say to her supervisor Kaminoan before the Empire rose that she never got the chance to tell. "Well, Kix did say that if you sorted out the goggles, you might be able to help him out. And I know where you can work on them," Irala replied. "Get me there. I need to ensure Phee is OK, and I can talk to her," Tech said. "Follow me then," Irala nodded and left the room. Momentarily pausing, Tech followed. When Tech and Irala enter the room, Tech sees the room is a mix of an optometrist and a glass forge. It was hotter in this room than the rest of the ship. Seasons aren't a thing in space. A lamp and the forge provide light to the room. Tech can hear the forge humming and can smell and taste the glass and plastic from the glasses frame. The ground is solid on his boots. "Now, Tech, can you please take a seat? We'll sort out upgrading your goggles," Irala said, pointing to a seat that Tech then sat on. "My goggles got knocked off my head on Eriadu. These are improvised goggles," Tech reminded Irala. "Right, that's why you had the patch," Irala replied as she placed the optometry device on Tech's head. Tech only realised the purpose of the optometry device when Irala inserted a set of lenses, and Tech saw his vision clear significantly. Tech was able to read the fourth line. "Good start. Now, one or two?" Irala asked. 'Two," Tech replied. The process continued a dozen times until they found ideal optical lenses. "Your eyesight is terrible," Irala admitted as she noted the specs. "You don't need to remind me of that," Tech replied as Irala removed the optometry device from his head. "Sorry. It's just I heard your eyesight was poor. I didn't think it was that poor," Irala turned back to Tech, "Now I'll get the forge going, and you should have your upgraded goggles ready in about an hour," "Thank you," Tech replied before he grabbed his Data Pad from the nearby table and started looking through it, holding it against his face. "Now that is near-sighted," Irala thought as she watched this.

An hour later, the lenses for Tech's goggles were ready, by which time the room had noticeably cooled. Irala struggled momentarily with the lenses for Tech's goggles before finally getting them in. Or so she thought, as when Tech put them on, Irala realised she'd put them in backwards. No problem. Irala switched them quickly, and Tech put the goggles on just as Kix entered. "We've been able to stabilise Phee for now. She'll probably briefly awaken soon, so if you need to talk to her, Tech, do it soon," Kix said to Tech before turning to Irala. "Have you got his goggles sorted?" Kix asked. "Yes," Irala replied. "Good. Tech, follow me," Kix said, and he exited. After a moment, Tech followed. When Tech entered the treatment room, the room assaulted his senses. Tech saw the lights, the bacta, and the chemicals. Everything in the room necessitated a moment for Tech to adjust. The roof and walls were off-white, while the room's floor was dull silver. There was medical equipment everywhere, including several bacta tanks and pods. Half a dozen beds occupy one side of the room, with five used by Clones or Phee Genoa. Tech immediately went to Phee's bed and sat with her. From what Tech could see, Phee was a mess. Phee only wore a medical robe and had bandages over most of her head. IVs stick out of several places in her left arm, her right arm fully bandaged, with more dressings likely covering a considerable portion of her body. Tech deduces Phee suffered severe burns. Phee's eyes flutter open, and she croaked, "Brown Eyes, you're alive," "Surprised?" Tech asked. "Kinda," Phee admitted, "From what the Wrecker said, you fell several hundred meters at least," "You can thank Plo Koon for saving me," Tech replied. "I'll thank him when I get a chance. I'm just glad you're alive," Phee smiled, which Tech slightly returned before he thought of something. "How did you wind up here? What happened?" Tech asked. Phee was hesitant. The events were still raw in her mind, and it hurt to recall everything. Tech gently took her good hand in his, then said, "Please, talk to me," Phee explained how Cid had, unknown to the squad, defected to the Empire and sold them out after they returned to Ord Mantell to save Omega's life. Phee continued with how Dr Hemlock had captured Omega, and then the Empire had returned to occupy Ord Mantell. Phee concluded with how she had learned about his death, how she had gone to Ord Mantell to confront Cid, and finally, how she wound up here when someone firebombed the Parlour. Tech felt a surge of anger as Phee explained everything. "And that is how I wound up here, staring at your handsome face," Phee teased, causing Tech to blush slightly. "T-thank you," Tech stammered, pushing down his newfound anger. Kix then appeared with them, "We've got to continue treatment, Tech. You're keeping us too long," "Oh, sorry," Tech stated as he stepped aside to allow Irala and Kix to wheel Phee into the operating theatre. Tech went to follow and got a look into the operating theatre. The floor, walls and ceiling were the same shades as the recovery ward. Medical equipment and Bacta Tanks dominated the back wall. A bed was in the middle of the theatre, lit by lights overhead. Medical equipment and life sign monitors dominated two entire walls. "What can I do to help?" Tech asked as Kix put Phee under anaesthesia. "What you can do is go and get the medication I'll need to treat Septic Shock," Kix growled. Tech recoiled in horror. Septic Shock. How had he not seen that Phee was slipping into it? "Alright," Tech said after his brain stopped jamming, and he finally registered what Kix told him. "I'll get the medication you need," Tech stated, adjusting his goggles as he spoke before heading back towards the recovery room, his stomach and intestines knotting painfully with guilt and confusion as he did so.

Once Tech reaches the cupboard, he tries to grab the medication but quickly realises he's having a panic attack. His breathing is short and sharp, and his chest is constricting. Realising this, he puts a hand on the cupboard and takes several deep breaths to calm down. As he does, he remembers Pabu and why he's here. He reassures himself that Phee will be OK if he gets the medication. After a few moments, Tech's heart rate calms down, and his chest, stomach and intestines loosen. Finally, he can focus again. He briefly searches through the cupboard and finds the medicine required. Tech returned to the operating theatre and found Irala and Kix arguing. "We need to treat the sepsis before we can put her in the bacta tank," Kix stated. "We do that, and Phee loses her arm at best. Her burns are bad enough that she needs to be in a bacta tank to treat it, or the Sepsis won't go away," Irala replied. Tech was confused by this argument. He gave Kix the medication, then remembered something Omega had mentioned during one of the times he'd treated her injuries.

Flashback: Omega and Tech were in the Havoc Marauder. The back room was warm and lit by a light in the ceiling. The scents of bacta and blood mixed as Tech strapped Omega's slashed forearm. The bacta bandage was smooth but slippery on his glove. Tech can hear his teammates discussing things in the other room and shallow breathing from Omega. Tech could sense Omega was in the early stages of shock. Sighing, he turned to her. "This bandage is the best we can do at the moment. You need a Bacta Tank to heal properly," Tech said. "You've done your best, Tech. And if you guys are OK with it, please stay with me while I'm in the tank, alright?" Omega asked. "Alright. But how are we going to check the progression of your healing?" Tech replied. "Well, Nala Se would put monitors on me while she tested on me or while I was in a Bacta Tank recovering," Omega replied. Once again, Tech felt that stab of anger course through him again at the Demagolka's name. "Eyeing your vital signs?" Tech asked. "Yes," Omega replied. "Alright. The nurses will want to keep an eye on your vital signs. Also, we won't help you change for obvious reasons," Tech said. "Privacy, I know. Don't worry, I'll handle that myself with the doctors," Omega replied.

End Flashback: "Can I interrupt for a moment?" Tech asked. It was enough for Irala and Kix to stop arguing and look at him. "Why not both? You can monitor Phee's vital signs while she's in the Bacta Tank," Tech suggested. They looked to Tech in astonishment. "How do you know that?" Irala asked. "Nala Se did that to Omega, your non-age accelerated counterpart," Tech replied, looking at Irala, who nodded. "Irala, get other workers. Tech, help me transfer Phee to this board, and then we'll bind her so she doesn't slide off. Alright?" Kix demanded. "Alright," Tech replied, and as Irala departed to find others, Tech assisted Kix in moving Phee to a special yellow board and binding her to it. Soon, Irala returns with three other doctors, and the sextet carefully transfers Phee to a Bacta Tank. Carefully, Tech, Kix and Irala lower Phee into the tank. The other three doctors carefully bind the board to the back of the tank to secure Phee's position. Afterwards, Tech and Kix attach IVs and monitors to Phee to ensure proper treatment. "Well done, Tech. Good work," Kix said, clapping Tech on the shoulder. "I'm just glad she's going to be OK," Tech replied. "You can stay around here or return to your room. I'll tell you when the treatment is complete," Irala said. "I think I'll stay in the recovery room," Tech replied, "You probably need this room anyway," "Well, we never know when we'll need it, so that's for the best," Kix replied. Tech returns to the recovery room while Irala and Kix watch Phee.

Twelve hours later, Kix and Irala remove Phee from the Bacta Tank and move her into a bed, the bacta having treated the Sepsis and burns. It was another eight hours, however, before Phee awoke. Tech, who had been scrolling on his datapad while sitting next to Phee. Immediately, he put his datapad away and turned to face her. "How are you feeling?" Tech asked. "Sore, but OK otherwise," Phee replied, her voice raspy from disuse. "Listen, Phee. I'm sorry I offended you in our last conversation before we left for Eriadu. I was distracted, ensuring everything was ready for the mission. Can you forgive me?" Tech said, sighing as a guilty shadow crossed his features. Phee gently caressed Tech's face and replied, "I forgive you, Brown Eyes. There's something I'd like to know," "What is it?" Tech asked, gently removing her hand from his face and taking it in his own. "Tell me how your brain works. I can tell it works differently from your brothers, alright?" Phee replied, smiling gently. "I will. We'll have plenty of time before my brothers rescue us," Tech replied. "I hope they know you're alive and we're here," Phee said. "If they don't know now, they'll find out. They'll find out you're missing, at least. Hopefully, they know I'm alive too," Tech replied.

[chill-vibes-but-rainbow-panic]

Cringetober 14: Candygore

That moment when you're forced to remember the second-most traumatizing thing that's ever happened to you :/ /j

[irbcallmefynn]

I'm at my mom's and I'm bored so fuck it oc lore time! Talking about their ages, the lack of genitalia, and a few miscellaneous bits!

Nauno is a little over 14 in Avalonian years, or about 21 in human years. (I got this math from the Avali wiki so yeah).

In this world, demon aging is about 10x slower than human aging. Fynn, being only half demon, doesn't get that full lifespan. He's about 180 in demon years, or 20-ish in human years.

Euphi is a complete mystery age-wise. She's maybe late 30s early 40s visually? She might be older though. (This is to say I have not thought about her lore lol)

None of them have genitalia. Fynn had his removed as a child by his mother (claimed it was a "vestigial relic of mortality"). Nauno lost his in an accident involving climbing through a window while someone else was scaling the wall. And Euphi just has metal down there. She's rarely clothed, so you've seen heart's crotch many times, it's just blank.

Although Fynn doesn't have a mouth, he was able to conjure taste buds in his stomach. This was very unpleasant at first, but his brain has learned to ignore the constant taste of stomach acid.

Nauno is banned from most gay bars in The City. They've stolen from every single one so many times every single one has almost gone bankrupt at least once. They're just a specter of financial woes for any business.

Euphi can run Doom. Heart doesn't like it (heart thinks it's scary), but heart is capable of running it. Also Euphi has a Blu-ray player built in. Great for movie nights!

[retiredcultistredux]

Ester. Ester what the hell are you gonna do. Wh-

tw//blood (not red but still), violence/severe injury

Ester laughed to himself, and all of a sudden, a shadowy appendage appeared out of the ground, grabbing onto Prince Fluff's feet and tugging him downwards lightly, causing some strain on the yarn whip.

Prince Fluff: "Wha--?! What are you--"

There was a sickening slashing noise followed by a thud as Prince Fluff fell to the ground. It took him a moment to recover from the shock, but once he did...

...He screamed.

[Uh oh looks like things are getting crazy over here!! You guys think Zan and Kirby heard the commotion?]