#clarity dr

[chaaistained]

felt bored so here’s an idea for the kind of signature i’d have in my main four dr’s — better cr . marauders dr . arrowverse dr . kpop dr :

better cr — ℳ

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marauders dr — julia

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arrowverse dr — gwen

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kpop dr — mina

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ignore the change in pen thickness w my kpop dr signature or i’ll pull my hair out

also .. this is lowkey bad bcs i did it really quickly on notes

but i’m kinda interested — who else randomly starts practicing signatures of your various dr selves?? i wanna know ≈

2025 © chaaistained

[brainrotisseriechicken]

bumpin that ....

ndsjmsm im so tired. redrew kon as this ↓ bad boy

[kogglyuffs]

nobody asked for more magma doodles, but here i am

[realsparrowboy]

Yeah

[sincerely-sofie]

Me: Ahhh yes. I have finally finished the first truly completed draft of Better the Wool's outline. It's got goofy scenes and gut-wrenching plotlines, tragic backstories and a central theme of power and control versus trust and uncertainty... plus shipping! This project is taking a hot minute, but thankfully I don't have anything demanding I finish prepping the fanfic ASAP :>

Meanwhile, the looming urge to participate in NaNoWriMo again in November:

[jomiddlemarch]

By Yonder Shining Star

He had not expected to begin with a reprimand.

“I don’t bite, you can stop lurking in the doorway,” Dr. Blythe said, not glancing up from the chart she was writing in. Foyle suspected she would have sounded much the same if he’d come upon her while she finished closing an incision after a long surgery, the same wry tone that had a hint of impatience in it. There were few enough female surgeons in England, even fewer egalitarian ex-pat Canadians, so it didn’t take much to infer she must be brilliant and driven, used to those around her finding her an anomaly. An Original, they would have said once in London society and been more accurate perhaps, but not a remark he’d offer if he wanted to get anything helpful from her. That’s why he was here, he reminded himself. It had been a long while since he’d needed reminding about his work.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. “I’m—”

“You did mean to interrupt and you’re Detective Superintendent Christopher Foyle of Hastings,” she said as she laid the pen down. He’d heard her described as “attractive enough” and had wondered enough for whom before he met her. Now, he found himself pinned by her grass green eyes, startled into silence like a green lad, feeling a fool as he hadn’t for years.

Decades really. Sam would burble in wonder to see him struck dumb while Milner would only give a brief and comradely nod of recognition.

“You’re well-informed, Dr. Blythe,” he said.

“You expected that,” she said. “That’s why you’ve come, to pick my brain, to winkle out some piece of information, some cipher that will break the code you can’t. To solve your case. It is a Godawful mess, I’ll give you that. The pathologist’s report was quite detailed. Almost literary.”

“I’ve come to ask for your help,” he said simply. Because he thought she’d prefer it and because it couldn’t think of what else he might have said.

“You might as well sit down. You’ll have to forgive me—I can’t offer you a cup of tea or even a biscuit,” she said. “I haven’t an assistant who sees me fed and watered.”

Something about the way she’d said it was an alert.

“The other surgeons do. Any of the nurses are glad to fix them a cuppa,” Foyle offered.

“I don’t know about glad, exactly, but it’s in that general way. I’m meant to fend for myself. It’s my own fault I’m not much good at fending. I was spoiled, growing up, with our housekeeper Susan. There was never an evening without a little snack prepared and her solution to any problem was the teakettle on the stove and a slice of fresh pie,” she said. She had a square jaw and her auburn hair was sprinkled with grey and tucked back in a practical snood, but there was a certain whimsical nostalgia in her expression. “She was a splendid bustler, our Susan, and that you may tie to, Mr. Foyle. And now I’ve run on and run and you want my help or whatever help you think I can give you, so you may as well begin winkling.”

“You have a way with words,” he said.

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me. I’m by far the least eloquent person in my family. It’s no accident I’m a trauma surgeon,” she said.

“It was an observation,” he replied. “And it’s because of your family I’ve come to speak with you.”

“It’s Walter,” she said, any dry humor entirely gone from her voice, from those arresting green eyes. Saying the name of her brother dead these twenty odd years aged her; Foyle saw the lines her face fell into when she despaired, the nights of grief that never entirely abated. 

“Yes. Because of what he wrote, Dr. Blythe,” he said, wondering if the clarification would bring her any relief. Wondering at himself for thinking of that first. Rosalind, who’d ever been generous, would not begrudge him an interest, a possibility, but he worried what it meant for his duty to the dead men, whose murders he was charged to solve, no matter that other men were dying across the Channel, that he risked making Diana Blythe’s hand unsteady when she held a scalpel or a needle trailing suture. 

“A poem,” she guessed. Hoped? The alternative was most likely one of his letters, perhaps one he’d written to her, one she wouldn’t want to surrender or corrupt by handing it over to be part of a criminal investigation.

“Yes. The poem, the famous one,” Foyle said.

“The Piper,” she said, her color back. “He’d have hated it, positively loathed what happened with that. All the breathless sentiment, the rallying and the women who memorized it, that sickly sweet melody Tremaine wrote for it—I swear it would be tattooed over half of Canada and all of PEI if people thought it was within the bounds of polite society. It’s not even close to his best work, I want you to know—”

“I know. I met him. In the trenches,” Foyle said.

“Fuck,” she said softly. And then, “I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t speak so—”

“Plainly? You can’t imagine I’d take any offense,” Foyle said. “I met your brother only a few days before he died.”

“Before Courcelette.”

“Yes. I was very young and he wasn’t much older, but he’d been fighting for several months longer than I had, maybe a year. I didn’t think anyone could live that long in that hell and still find something worth living for. Could still remember anything beautiful,” Foyle said.

“It was that bad?”

“It was worse,” Foyle said. Something in her face told him she would not challenge this, nor would she make him explain. Rosalind hadn’t done either, which was why he hadn’t cracked up entirely before Andrew was born. “Whatever he wrote to you, it was worse.”

“He didn’t tell us anything. Not even me,” she said. 

“You were close,” he said.

“I thought so. The night before he died, he wrote a letter. To our younger sister Rilla and a friend, Una. She was in love with him, Una, we all knew that, but he didn’t love her that way. I thought we were close, closest to each other over everyone, but he didn’t write to me,” Diana said.

“Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he knew you would be able to tell if he held something back. If he lied to try and protect you,” he said.

“Perhaps. Is that what you did, Detective Superintendent Foyle? Did you lie and keep secrets?” she asked. No one had ever dared before, not Rosalind, who’d admitted once she did not want to know everything about him.

“Christopher. My name is Christopher,” he said. “A long time ago, I was Kit. That was when I knew your brother.”

“I’m Diana. How does Walter’s poem have something to do with a triple murder?”

“There have been five murders thus far,” Foyle said. “It’s complicated, will take some time to explain. There’s a Lyons round the corner, quiet enough this time of night. We might have that cuppa—”

“If there have been five murders and somehow my brother’s poem is crucial to finding the killer, I’ll need something stronger. Bitter will do. I’d offer to stand you a pint, but I imagine that’s not considered ethical,” she said.

“No, nor gentlemanly,” he said, surprising himself.

“We’ll go Dutch,” she said, getting up from her desk and walking around to take down her coat and cram her barely fashionable hat upon her head. The coat flapped around her legs, obscured in a pair of drab tweed trousers, an unremarkable pair of brogues on her feet. She was beautiful.

“We haven’t much time,” she said, passing him at the door.

“I know it’s late. You must have an early surgery tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes, but that’s not what I meant. I ship out in a few weeks,” she said.

“France?”

“France,” she said. “I never wanted to go before. And now I can hardly wait.”

“I won’t waste your time,” he said.

“No, I don’t think you will,” she replied.

[asthe-crow-flies]

Day 6: Love @drcarmillaappreciationweek

[ID: a digital drawing of dr carmilla. she is facing right, leaning with her hands on a table, and her head hanging between her shoulders. she is wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants, and brown boots. she is also wearing blue gloves and a long white apron, both of which have blood on them. on the table in front of her there is a human heart in a small puddle of blood. on the left there is an operation table. there are feet under a white cloth on the table, the rest of the body is out of frame. there are cabinets above a counter in the background. the lighting is very dim and comes from over the operation table. end ID]

something something doing terrible things for love? idk i again wanted to draw medical malpractice and blood and also organs this time

[chaos0pikachu]

that last shot of the doctors eyes after tharn and phaya boned the night away was so fucking funny like I'm picturing him at his home sipping his tea and all of a sudden going like this

[nhura]

Before Aventurine are more colors than he ever remembers there being. Hundreds, thousands, millions of shades of colors contour against each other, fighting for Aventurine's attention.

Aventurine gasps.

His hands shoot to his eyes, and he nudges them under his glasses to touch them.

Prosthetics. He feels his prosthetic eyes. But he can see.

Chapter 3 is up! Written by Pent, beta'd by myself (but this time they sort of just dropped the finished thing in my lap and had me sniff around for typos) (because it was like, good). Start here.

[thepunkmuppet]

boom is the best doctor who since capaldi’s era and i’m not joking, we are SO fucking back

[brightside-brigade]

Horrific moment of clarity in which I realize I am so far from home, that my body isn't mine, I'm stuck trying to fill in for someone long gone, my home may be long gone as well, looking at pictures of those I knew hurts too much now, I'm stuck in a place where I'm hated for things out of my control, I'm stuck in an ending world. A home that's falling apart. My name is Jack Bright. Not any other name. I'm here. I'm still here. I'm still here. Gods, I'm still here.

[chaaistained]

totally ib my loyal darling bodyguard anon aksjdjskd that’s your name now love here are more red strings that i’ve weaved together in my latest addition to the tapestry of realities to which i shift :

every one of my s/o’s ends up putting flowers in my hair at some point, and if possible, they use jasmine flowers ≈

here’s a little brief summary for my main four

— in my better cr it’s probably one of the easier realities for my s/o to find jasmines : if it wasn’t clear already, my bf is indian as well, actually, he’s the same “kind” of indian as i am, from the next state over, same language, same religion . so it’s easy for for him to find jasmines garlands for me, but the beauty of the matter comes from how he sits me down to carefully pin them in my hair, taking each garland strand and weaving it into my braid before tying it off in the end. i can actually feel how gentle he would be with it, i can even smell the jasmines if i just take a second to imagine . trust, the minute the two of us can stop hiding our relationship, i will be handing him every single flower i get in a festival or function or wtv, bcs i want him to secure it in my hair. even if it’s simply a common garden flower that we come across during a date, i can see him take the time to carefully tuck it in between my hair before carrying on like that was the most normal thing to do, like my heart isn’t racing ready to leap out of my chest in this very moment

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— in my marauders dr regulus would usually just give me any small flower he found that he thought i would like, but after learning my favourite, he would undoubtedly conjure up jasmine flowers on command, he probably looked up the specific spell just to learn it for me hehe . they’d disappear after a few hours, and that’s always a little sad but that’s also what makes them so lovely and so special, he took the time to learn a totally unnecessary spell simply bcs he knew it would make me happy, and he even modified the spell so that the intoxicating scent of the jasmines would waft around me, like a calming ambience but for my senses. and when he finally finds what he’s looking for in the hogsmeade apothecary — a few vials half filled with water housing a couple stems of jasmine flower buds — he buys the lot and would carefully coax them to bloom so that i’d finally have a real garland of jasmines in my hair

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— in my arrowverse dr it’s one of those small little wishes that i never really share with anyone, no one knows how much i love having small flowers weaved through my hair. barry definitely noticed that i love the smell of jasmines and looks out for jasmine scented perfume or candles, specifically for that reason . but it isn’t until we find ourselves on an undercover op in a river village town in south india that barry notices how my eyes light up when one of the village elders carefully tied up the jasmine flowers into a long garland and handed it to me. by the time we got back to central city barry had learned how to make a flower chain — whenever he’s free you’ll find him fiddling in a corner until he’s got at least six or seven little wildflowers tied together before handing it to me or circling the garland around the base of my ponytail or something like that

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— in my kpop dr i actually make a point of demonstrating to people, to the fandom, that i enjoy having flowers in my hair. it’s very common to find clips of me throughout my years as an idol, where i pick off a small flower from the stem of a tree or a bush and give it a little shake near the grass (in case of any stray crawlies) before wearing it . this became such a noticeable unofficial trademark that even our groups concept photos lean into it, placing me or all of the girls in flower crowns, or pinning flowers to my slick back bun when we have a photoshoot. so, in that way, jungwon isn’t unfamiliar with my love for flowers as a hair accessory. but what makes it special from him is something so typically jungwon — every little flower that he finds and gives to me, he will place it in my hair whilst telling me some random fact about the flower, something he just happened to know off the top of his head, or he’ll tell me a small anecdote about how he found it, he’ll share a little story with me, and i don’t think he does this for any particular reason, but for me, it helps me remember those flowers so much more . also bcs one of my hobbies in this dr is pressing flowers and i will nine times out of ten press the flowers that jungwon gives me after i’ve worn them in my hair all day

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2025 © chaaistained

[chuwush]

Clarity and a Contemplating Dr. Armstrong.

[im-still-a-robot]

Doing a hit and run in the discord (finally finishing and sharing the piece I have been working on for the last 7 months)

[doctorrrmobius]

Mobius.

Mobius what did you do mobius.

Why do my memories feel scrubbed mobius.

-fracta

I had no other choice. It was the only way.

You would’ve all kept running experiments and tearing reality apart just to satisfy your sick curiosities.

I had to keep you all contained. Safe. I had to protect all of you from yourselves.

Even though it involved… tampering with aspects of your mind I knew you’d never forgive me for.

I can assure you, I regret it more than anything in the universe.

But I had no other options.

If it’s any consolation, I erased some of my own memories, too. Both good and bad.

After all, what kind of person would it make me, if I chose only you all and spared myself?

You must think I’m horrible for what I did, for what I had to do. And you’re right, what I did was horrible.

But you have to know, it was only to protect you. Protect everyone from you.

I’m so sorry.

[davidking124]

Meditation is for you to separate yourself from who you are NOT