#finally asked for medication

[honestlytrulycompletelysteady]

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[hop-a-lot]

Thoughts on bidwell, Pauling and medic friendship?

I have an idea which they developed some kind of business partnership that might involve...organs trafficking

[boimann]

emesis bloo medic

[ineed-to-sleep]

*me immediately after going through a terrifying and traumatic experience* haha yeah I guess it was rough but I'm fine now like I'm totally chill. It was kinda funny actually if you think about it

[fall0utmind]

WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME IF I TOLD YOU MY DARKEST SECRETS? Chapter 4 - Crash

Hi guysss,

Thank you sooooo much for all the love you have shown me and this fic, i could not have asked for anything better for my first fic!!! SO MUCH LOVE FOR YOU ALL!!!

Let me know what you think, come yap in my asks :)

Chapter 4 (CRASH) below

HERE on AO3

Part 1 here

Part 2 here

Part 3 here

TW/ SUICIDAL THOUGHTS/ IDEATIONS - be safe xx

When Marc eventually reaches the garage, he’s a mess. He finds a deserted room, pulls the door closed and screams into his fist. His brain is flurried, thoughts travelling at 100 miles per hour. He feels wound up, taught with anger and pain, ready to snap at the next tiny mistake. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to quiet his brain, but Valentino’s cold words echo in the empty spaces. He buries his face into the front of the hoodie he stole, breathing in Dovi’s comforting scent, hoping to cling onto some semblance of kindness, of warmth. He refuses to let the tears fall, unwilling to give Rossi any more of himself. He will not continue to split his heart into pieces over a man who flip-flops between not looking at him or spouting cruelty.

Marc must race, he has to, no matter how crap he feels. He has ridden through worse before, he just needs to quiet his mind, get on his bike and do what he was made to do. He blinks his eyes open, his harsh breathing filling the otherwise silent room. There are teeth marks on his knuckles from where he has bitten his fist too hard, he revels in the way it burns. Pain is a good focus – a distraction from his racing thoughts. Marc steps out of the room and makes a beeline to the nearest bathroom. He peers into the mirror above the basin and feels his heart sink at the sight of red eyes which sting with unshed tears. He rubs his eyes furiously, splashing cold water over his face to remove the redness, attempting to make himself look less fragile. The water is freezing, shocking him back into his body, it makes him feel a little more in control. Looking a little less like he's about to fall apart is the best that he can hope for as he mentally steels himself to face down the world.

The cameras are trained on him when he enters the garage, pulling at the edges of his awareness as he begins to prepare for the race. The team decide to let Marc and Alex go out onto the grid at the last minute in an attempt to prevent any unwanted attention. That doesn’t stop the media from trying. He feels wrong-footed, like something is a millimetre out of place but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. His arm aches. He shrugs it off. Instead, he focuses on his pre-race routine, ignoring the buzz around him until they need to go.

When they finally make their way onto the grid, they are surrounded by more mechanics and engineers than usual, wrapped in a protective cocoon of familiar pale blue. He keeps his head down and his game face on, ignoring any attention as he makes his way to the front of the grid, thankful that he’s there and not in the middle of the pack. He nods at Alex as the group splits, watching his brother approach his bike. He tries to keep his features neutral, unbothered, but can’t help feeling like he’s failing, the strain of the weekend weakening his usual façade. Passing Pecco in the p2 spot makes him grimace, another reminder of the earlier disaster. He can see the Italian trying to catch his attention out of the corner of his eye but refuses to engage. Reasonably, Marc knows that Pecco is not Vale, he is too calm, too rounded, missing the ragged edges that Marc personally knows so well. Despite this, he will not run the risk of looking. He does not have the capability for mind games right now, not after Valentino’s little stunt earlier. Instead, he walks away, his eyes trained on the ground, unaware of Pecco’s concerned frown behind him.

Usually, Marc has no problem focusing before a race, narrowing his universe down to just him and his bike. But today a million thoughts are racing through his head. He tries to shove it to the furthest corner of his mind, boxing up the nerves and the sorrow. But the little voice telling him that he is not enough refuses to be silenced. Instead, he pushes his visor down, blocking out the world and its pain, and gets ready to do what he does best. He can forget about it for 13 laps, he can ignore the pain – it is, after all, what he does best.

The grid begins to clear. Marc’s heart is pounding. The green flag is waved. He can feel a thousand eyes on him.

The lights go out.

The bikes roar off the line. He gets a good start, slingshotting around the first corner, retaining his first place. He feels alive as he guns the throttle, throwing his body from side to side to hit angles that should be impossible. Marc always clings to this feeling, the bike humming underneath him, adrenaline pumping through his veins, this is what he lives for.

Halfway through and Marc is doing well, he lost a place to Bagnaia on lap 2 and Martin is riding up his ass, but he is still in contention for the podium, potentially even a win. As he enters the 4th lap, Marc unintentionally tunes into the crowd, the roar as Pecco passes followed by the unintelligible mix of boos and cheers for him. He knows he’s not popular in Italy, God he’s been dealing with it for years. He can’t help but imagine that the booing has got more vicious this weekend, pouncing on his weakness. In the moment of distraction his mind capitalises, automatically leaping to the vicious words whispered behind his back and to the hatred that he’s seen, heard, and read. It comes in flashes: Valentino telling Pecco that it’s not worth it, Valentino implying that he’s an attention seeker, that he made this up. The people who think he’s better off dead, that he has ruined the sport, or that he’s selfish for no longer wanting to live the hell that was 2015. It echoes like a mantra, carved into the walls of his brain, ensuring that he never forgets the burning hatred of those around him.

He distractedly shifts his weight into turn 10, realising a fraction too late what will happen. The back tyre wobbles, desperately seeking friction against the scorching tarmac, before the whole bike bucks from underneath him, launching him into the air and sending them both into the gravel trap. Marc feels weightless for half a second, tumbling through the air and unable to do anything about it. He comes crashing back down to earth with a thump, tossed head over heels across the track, before coming to a halt near his bike.

Fuck.

Marc lies on the floor for a moment, willing himself to not lose it then and there. He knows he should move; people will begin to think the worst – but a small, messed-up part of him barely cares. He lets out a primal scream, thankful nobody can hear him, before finally clambering to his feet, wincing in pain. He jogs over to his bike to assess the damage. His bad arm hurts like a bitch, but a quick body scan tells him that he is mostly okay, just bruised. The main collateral is his ego. His bike is a little worse for wear, but fixable, that’s what matters.

Idiota, he can't believe he got so stuck in his head that he crashed. He needs to be better. He does not want people doubting him now, not when they can already identify spots of weakness through his heavily constructed armour.

He drags his bike upright, refusing the help of the marshals, before being escorted back to the garage.

They force him to go to medical after his crash, much to Marc’s annoyance. He gets plenty of sympathetic winces at the array of bruises now decorating his body, but there is not much else they can do. He is checked for a concussion, which he has thankfully avoided, and the medics give him an ice pack for the worst of the bruising (most of it is bad). After, he slowly makes his way back to the garage, a slight limp in his step. He apologises to the crew, grimacing at the replays of the crash flashing up on the screens. He knows that people will use this against him, rumours that he can’t stand the pressures of this sport. That he’s a danger to other drivers and himself. The irony isn’t lost on him, he doesn’t have to be on track to be a danger to himself.

If he’s being honest, Marc is scared. A deep-rooted fear that his career will be derailed by this weekend, that he will no longer be known as an 8-times world champion, the baby champ, instead he’ll be the dangerous, mentally unstable rider who couldn’t cope with fame and heartbreak. He is scared that Valentino’s narrative of his character will have a lasting impression on his name in this sport.

It's Dani who eventually breaks him from his self-deprecating thoughts, pulling him into a tight hug. He whispers to Marc that the voices aren’t true, that he isn’t what they say he is, that he is a good person. Dani has always known him a little bit too well. When Marc draws away there are tears in his eyes. He knows he will have to face the press again, especially after such a disaster in the sprint. But for now, he is content to be looked after by his team and his friends.

Alex ends up taking p6, a good outcome for at least one of the Gresini riders. Marc has been avoiding the media pen since his crash and is rapidly running out of excuses not to go. He pulls Alex into a congratulatory hug, wrinkling his nose as a press officer shoos them both off to give their interviews. In a last-ditch effort, Marc sends his very best puppy eyes in the direction of Dani, Dovi, and Jorge, who, true to their word, have been in the garage since the race started. All he receives in return is two sympathetic looks and a shit-eating grin from Jorge, who has always been a pain in the ass. Marc laughs at the thought, grinning and tugging Alex with him as he leaves, racing disasters momentarily forgotten.

*

Marc is going to kill someone. The jury is still out on whether it will be himself or whoever fucked up so bad that a summary of his entire medical history ended up on the internet. (He’s kidding, it won’t be himself, he has too much to prove for that). His media appearances go about as well as expected, which is to say it’s a clusterfuck.

The kinder interviewers ask him about the crash and how he is feeling, touching on his prospects for tomorrow’s race. The meaner of them question whether the news was the cause of the crash, and how Valentino played a role, pressing on already delicate bruises. One even goes as far as asking if 2015 “ruined him as a rider”, whatever that means, he has 4 championship wins under his belt since then for God’s sake.

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that more information has been leaked. Whoever is behind this surely wants to destroy Marc for all he’s worth, he cannot believe he’d be so unlucky to have another piece of his life flayed open every time he’s on the track. The moment they ask about his arm, his pain, and his “questionable history with pain medication”, Marc simply walks out. It is surely not his finest moment of PR, but he has had enough of this weekend, of people digging up every hurt and pain he has been through and splaying him open for all to see.

The journalists clearly can’t tell or don’t care that Marc is done, pushing and shoving to get a word from him about the most recent gossip. Marc doesn’t know where to turn, every exit is seemingly blocked by people who want to profit from his pain. The world is spinning around him as tears blur his vision. He has no point of contact with the world, he is floating away, woozy with the feeling. For a fleeting moment, Marc wishes he had succeeded all those years ago, he wishes he would have put an end to all the pain and suffering in his life. The realisation rips an ugly sob from deep within his chest, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. He doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t. But he certainly doesn’t want to live life like this. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, shaking apart at the seams, before three sets of hands lead him away. Somewhere through the haze, he recognises Aleix’s gentle Spanish, clearly alternating between soothing him and conversing worriedly with someone else. Marc stumbles over his own feet, held upright by a strong pair of tattooed arms, identifying the second person as Fabio. For what feels like the hundredth time this weekend, his eyes well up; he is unimaginably grateful for the few members of the paddock he can lean upon. They manoeuvre him away from the press, earning some baffled stares from other pilots and team members. Marc guesses that it's not every day you see Marc Marquez half-carried out of the press pen. He can hear his rescuers rapidly debating where to take him before a consensus is reached to deliver him back to the Gresini garage, where hopefully Alex will be waiting.

Marc is surprised to identify the third person as Pedro Acosta. He has not interacted much with the rookie but is pleasantly surprised by his careful hands, aiding the others to get Marc somewhere safe. He suppresses a groan at the sudden realisation of the articles that will no doubt surface tomorrow. Marc Marquez, damsel in distress? At this point, he might as well give an interview saying he’s been in love with Valentino for as long as he can remember.

Marc knows that a decade ago he would have ripped his own heart out and given it to Valentino to destroy. The older rider has unscrewed all his parts, - his hero devotion and childhood wonder, before piecing him back together into the splintered man he is today. He guards himself more these days, walls built strong and high to withstand the storms that always seem to batter him. He can no longer see himself falling into a lover’s arms like he did all those years ago, instead choosing to keep them at arm’s length, decidedly distrusting. He knows if Valentino came back, it would be the end of him.

Pedro disappears at some point between the media pen and the garage, leaving Fabio and Aleix to usher him through the back corridors of the paddock. Marc is aware of the near-continuous apologies listlessly falling from his lips, despaired by the idea of being so weak. He is gently shushed by Aleix, who holds open the door for Fabio and him to enter the back of Gresini’s building

It’s Jorge who notices the three men spilling into the room first. He’s out of his seat in a flash, urging Marc to sit down whilst Dani fetches some water, working in perfect tandem.

“Cazzo, what happened?”

Dovi directs his question towards Fabio and Aleix, the former of whom answers, with a worried frown.

“He just shut down in the media pen, he fully froze. It was like he’d just gone somewhere else; we got him out of there as soon as possible. I’ve never seen him do anything like that.”

“It happens sometimes when he’s been bottling everything up for a long time, especially when he feels weak. He just loses his sense of reality. It’s always scary, it doesn’t get any easier.”

Alex takes in his brother's state from where he has entered the room. He knows he needs to take Marc somewhere where he can fall apart in private, their motorhome being the sensible option. Marc needs this, needs to let it all out so that he can race tomorrow.

“Alex, is what they’re saying true?”

It’s a quiet question from Dani, but it catches the attention of all of them.

Alex scoffs, “Which bit?”

“Given the extent of media coverage, we can assume the A&E trips happened. I remember being worried about him during those years, it was like he was always pretending.”

Alex nods at Dani, confirming his assumptions. It’s Jorge who pipes up then, voice full of unconcealed fury,

“I’m going to fucking kill Rossi, I swear to god”

He lets out a string of expletives, calling Valentino every rude name under the sun. Alex can second that, and Marc, now gaining some lucidity, let’s out a brittle chuckle.

Fabio asks the question they’re all thinking, a pained look on his face.

“And his injury? It was that bad, even after the surgeries, I know he was out of it during races, I didn’t know how much pain he was in...”

Marc replies to this one.

“Agony, like red hot knives tearing into my flesh every corner. Not helped by the Hondas tendency to play buckaroo with me.”

He gives a self-deprecating laugh

“But I am nothing without a bike so still I raced”

Dovi begins to refute the statement, but Alex simply shakes his head, this is a long fought and lost argument.

Alex sighs, resigned to an evening of his brother once again falling apart due to Valentino Rossi and the scars that remain.

“Probably best we go to the motorhome then, are you all coming?”

*

They must make quite a strange image, seven riders, both current and retired, sneaking through the quiet and unknown parts of the track to reach the safety of the motorhomes. Marc is in the middle of them, bracketed in and protected from each side. He still feels pretty spaced out, his thoughts are a mess, and he keeps getting stuck in a loop of forbidden memories that have resurfaced. Marc registers the others leaving once they arrive at the familiar blue motorhome. He clutches Dani’s jacket before he can walk away and makes the three retired riders promise to return, feeling too fragile not to have the comfort of safety in numbers. He turns towards Aleix and Fabio and quietly thanks them for their help before turning back towards his brother.

Alex helps Marc inside the motorhome, pushing him toward the shower, and telling him to clean up whilst he talks to the team. Marc turns the water temperature up as high as possible, hoping it will soothe his aching muscles since it can’t do much for his current mental state. After he’s done, he wraps a fluffy towel around his waist, heading to the bedroom to change whilst Alex showers. He feels more physically grounded now but inside he’s in emotional turmoil. He feels like he’s been cut loose, unmoored on choppy water, unsure where he can sink his anchor to weather the storm. For now, he decides his motorhome and his younger brother are the safest place.

Alex is already there, washed and dressed, when he re-enters the living space. He has a little pinch between his eyebrows as he stares at Marc in concern; clearly, Marc’s attempts to cover up his misery are unsuccessful. He winces as he approaches the sofas, his brother instantly picking up on that too, damn having a codependent relationship with a sibling, they know too much. Thankfully, Alex says nothing, he just helps lower Marc onto the cushions, before turning to grab the bruise relief cream, looking at Marc pointedly until he takes his shirt back off. Alex cringes at the array of watercolour blues and purples painted across Marc’s skin, still uncomfortable seeing Marc in pain, even after all these years.

“How’s your arm?”

Marc hums, considering,

“It’s pretty bad, I don’t need medication through”

Alex gives him another look, understanding but slightly exasperated.

“Marc, you still sometimes need the medication. You are not who you were then. You are in pain; you do not need to just live in it.”

Marc contemplates his brother’s argument, smiling slightly at his unwavering support.

“Not yet, I will take them later, maybe”

Their conversation is interrupted by the motorhome door opening, Dovi slipping inside and shutting it behind him. His eyes instantly shoot to Marc, who is still shirtless on the sofas, his eyes widening as he takes in the tanned skin of the Spaniard. Marc still looks gorgeous, even when battered and bruised. The thought makes him feel guilty for a second, he never wants Marc to be in pain. But still, it doesn’t take away from his attraction. Alex rolls his eyes at the pair, coughing obnoxiously as Marc’s cheeks flush pink. Dovi grins at Marc, still unabashedly staring as he shrugs a t-shirt and hoodie back on, glaring lightly back at the Italian. Look, Dovi’s not blind, he knows an attractive man when he sees one (he always has), but he is also well aware that Marc is still a bit in love with Valentino, plus he would be stupid to risk such a friendship. But he can still look and the younger still preens under his gaze.

Marc tries to will the blush away from his cheeks, well aware of Dovi’s smug look, and frankly, it’s slightly unfair that the man still has that effect on him, he thought that he was over that part of his life. But he can’t deny that he enjoys the older man's attention.

Dani and Jorge return about ten minutes later, and they settle together on the couch, joining the others. Marc feels his brain quiet, the volume of his thoughts turned down a few notches. His whole body aches after the crash, each movement burning his muscles. He eventually gives in to the pain, flashing Alex a pleading look, spurring the younger to fish out the appropriate number of painkillers and hand them to his brother with a glass of water. They’re the strong ones that make Marc a little hazy, a little more fluid and uncaring as they kick in. He ends up settled between Dovi and Jorge, leaning heavily on the older Spaniard, his legs across Dovi. Dani is on Jorge’s other side and Alex sits opposite.

*

The conversation is soft. The TV is talking to itself quietly in the background. Marc has lost track of all threads of the topics once more, tangled like balls of yarn in his brain. He allows the pain medication to soften him and lets himself drift amongst his thoughts, ebbing and flowing like the sea. He feels Jorge’s (Danis?) hand gently petting his hair and Dovi's warmth pressed against him. It’s peaceful. Somewhere in the back of his mind, alarm bells are sounding at how vulnerable and weak he’s being in front of the others, but for now, he ignores them, allowing himself to float.

The weekend has been a mess, he will be the first to admit it. The fact that his medical records have been leaked would be bad enough, even if they didn’t contain all his biggest secrets – his mental health, the extent of his injuries, his weakness. The world has seen what 2015 took from him, about his overdoses, and subsequent admissions to A&E. They know that the doctors had looked to Alex to make sure his older brother stayed alive another day. Back then, he lived life as if he didn’t care to see another day, throwing himself into reckless situations with abandon. He was indeed a danger on the track to himself, but he never, ever, meant to drag anyone else into it. The only thing he could clutch onto was his success on the bike, it was all that mattered to him. In 2015 and the years that followed Marc would leave everything on track, he would go out not caring if he returned to the garage, and we he came back time and time again, he was empty and hollow.

Valentino had taken everything from him, everything but his riding. His hope, childhood dreams, and will to live had been snatched by jealous hands. The media had torn him and his family to shreds. His loved ones were scared to leave him alone. Marc just felt hollow. Nothing mattered to him but winning. He thought that maybe people would consider him worthwhile if he was winning. Valentino would look at him again. Would tell him he was wrong, and that he was sorry. The day never came. Instead, Marc was left with the demons, locked in his mind and told to make his own way out.

Then one day, finally, the light was shining at the other end of the tunnel. After the depression, after the suicide attempts, and the self-destruction. After he had glued together the shattered pieces of himself into something that only partially resembled the old him, before Valentino Rossi. Then Jerez had happened. He came off his bike so fast he didn’t truly remember it happening, just the searing pain and a useless arm hanging limply by his side as he tried to mask the pain from the world. 

The next few years were a haze of surgeries, pain, riding, not being able to ride, pain medication, and more encompassing sadness. He knows somewhere on the internet there is now a long list of medications he was on for that pain. No doubt there would also be records of the countless doctors who were concerned about him ignoring the pain, or not taking his pain meds. It was some twisted form of self-flagellation that he told himself he should live with the burning agony to prove that he was strong. He was too weak to do it in the races and instead would take medication before, just so he could make the corners, followed by copious numbers of painkillers after, knocking him out clean. He would be so doped up that his brother would have to look after him, feeding him and putting him to bed. Marc still remembers the phantom pain that followed him everywhere, despite the medication. At some point, he took too many and became unresponsive. Alex had to rush him to the hospital. From that day on Marc had vowed to be more sensible, if only for his brother's sake. 

The memories make him feel hollow, the empty space in him aching for his loss. He does better these days, but it has taken a long time to reach this point, with countless hours spent talking to professionals about his pain and his feelings. He hates that there are records of so much of this online, that anyone can read about the worst moments in his life. It makes him feel weak. Unworthy. He stays there for some time, revisiting the pain and trying to stay tethered to real life, rather than consider the endless possibilities in a different universe. He doesn’t know when he starts travelling down dark paths, but it makes him shake with sorrow. He feels part of himself shatter, right there in his motorhome in Misano.

[altocat]

Was there ever a time when Sephiroth came really close to something similar to the Nibelheim incident?

One incredibly insomniac evening, Sephiroth takes to wandering around the lower bowels of the science department. Since Hojo isn't awake at this time of night, Sephiroth supposes now would be an amazing time to go snooping for classified information, if only to satisfy a niggling bit of curiosity before it's time to sleep for real.

This innocent inquiry quickly spirals into full fledged agitation when he happens upon an old collection of experimental video logs, each tape depicting various trials, surgeries, and testing scenarios performed on a very special young boy. Unsettled, but hungry for potential answers, Sephiroth snatches the collection and retreats to his room to view the tapes, knowing full well that he might relive the trauma all over again but too invested in Hojo's private findings to stop himself.

It is worse than he remembered. Far, far worse. Seeing himself, so small, so frightened, is bad enough. Hearing Hojo's various anecdotes on just how unique and durable he is... it's a whole other level of disturbing. And yet Sephiroth watches everything, every violation, every brutal breaking of boundaries. There are even things he was not conscious for--intense dissections, methodical reconstruction, stitch by precious stitch. Watching his tiny fingers twitch on the gurney, watching the fragile rise and fall of his little chest. Sephiroth watches until his eyes burn, until the room around him begins to jerk and sway. He's sick. He cleans himself. He's sick again.

And he doesn't stop.

Angeal and Genesis come to collect him days later, nervous and uneasy at the sudden disappearance. Genesis would normally jump at the chance to rub it in Sephiroth's face that he's now on probation for so many absences...but this feels different, almost dangerous. The room is cold when they enter, finding Sephiroth pacing, the scattered line of tapes torn to plastic scraps at their feet. Sephiroth is wild-eyed, disheveled, muttering incoherent nonsense over and over again, scratching at his arms. He refuses to let them touch him, nearly ready to fight them if not for his evident exhaustion.

The sight of him like this is so incredibly abnormal that Angeal has to push Genesis out into the hall before he has a panic attack. Angeal manages to coax Sephiroth back to a feasible level of understanding, taking his arm and gently guiding him into the bathroom. Genesis anxiously hovers outside the door, listening to their muffled voices in the stillness. They remain there for a long time, the faucet occasionally running, Sephiroth's voice gradually easing back to its normal stoic calm. When they exit the bathroom, Angeal orders Genesis to help him guide Sephiroth along to the medical wing, the two friends neatly and efficiency prodding and coaxing Sephiroth step by step.

Sephiroth remains there for several weeks, his treatment classified behind closed doors. Angeal and Genesis hate the silence but continue to wait for him day after day. By the time Sephiroth is back on duty, he is more detached than ever, seemingly uninterested in his surroundings thanks to the steady supply of tranquilizers laid out for his private use for the next six months.

All remaining intact tapes are subsequently confiscated and destroyed.

[ear-motif]

is it time to start treating adhd like the neurodevelopmental disorder it is instead of a collection of nasty habits and quirky personality traits or do we just wanna stay here for another 10 years

[lillypuppetchild]

Got the 'tism

[physically-bloody-medibot]

Do you hate humans?

WHAT M-MAKES YOU THINK I H-H-HATE HUMANS??? THEY ARE A GREAT SOURCE OF-OF FUEL!!!

[unknownarmageddon]

Hunger games simulator but it's just Kross aus

OH MY GOD you’re so right. hang on

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

Sorry to my inbox, I know I have messages to respond to, unfortunately my state is currently under water and I have family and friends and neighbors I'm trying to locate and help atm. If you see me on here it's not because I'm here, it's because I'm trying to get five fucking minutes where my head isn't just airraid sirens

Much love to all, we are all just doing our best to survive ❤️💚

[zanukavat]

OOOO OP DROP RICK AND MORTY OCS

OH BOY HERE WE GO.

so, I made these cute ref sheets in the shows style yesterday (and today), apologies if you cant decipher my scribbly handwriting, ill summarize below:

Rick (nicknamed on the citadel "Seven")

Rick's home dimension is M-121.5 but you could hardly call it a home. He left his Diane and Beth behind shortly after acquiring portal technology from Prime or one of his subordinate Ricks, wandering off to absorb himself in the vastness of infinity.

His original dimension never ended up birthing a Morty, since his Beth and Jerry had trouble supporting themselves and had Summer as their only child.

Rick, eventually growing lonely but refusing to admit it, joins the citadel in an effort to be useful and climb the ranks there with the hopes of living a fulfilling life in a safe, Rick-made bubble. He gets assigned a Morty as standard, but said Morty dies in combat on a riot not too shortly after.

Rick gets a (small) punishment, one you'd get for breaking a doorknob or forgetting to turn off the lights in the building before you leave; getting a Morty killed. He probably just has to scrub toilets for a week or something.

He gets his new Morty and resumes work on the teleportation deck as normal and lives with his Morty in a small apartment, until S301 where they manage to flee the citadel together.

Morty ("unlucky charm" / other similar insults behind his back)

Has forgotten his original dimensional code due to constant changes of ownership. Only the Morty databanks know it now. He took M-121.5's dimension as his and carries a small wristband with the code written on it.

This Morty has gone through a LOT of Ricks. Six in fact, which is why his new Rick is mockingly called "Seven" by others on the citadel, making fun of him for ending up with such a shitty excuse of a Morty. Asking him if he'd lost a bet.

Morty's left arm has been surgically altered to fit a tracker interface that'll show Rick's current position and vitals to Morty. Though he only gets this later, after they flee the citadel.

The jacket he is wearing was originally merchandise stolen from a small shop he worked in while living on the citadel. They later add patches to it in an effort to cover up the citadel logo, since Morty doesn't want to give up the jacket, and Rick is paranoid about association with the citadel after they've fled. Pretty rich coming from the guy still wearing his uniform under a stinky coat, but what can you do when those are the only clothes you've got.

They go through an intense period of struggling for survival, with the Federation collapse and chaos left behind, the two of them retreat to more desolate spots of the universe to wait for the dust to settle. After a bit of "holy shit we lived" euphoria, they fight a lot, with Rick slowly noticing the many flaws in this Morty he is now -- in his assumption -- forever stuck with. He also pushes Morty too far numerous times but reels him back in again anytime because what other option is there? Being stranded alone in an asteroid gas station restaurant?

Eventually Morty suggests returning to "their" home dimension. Rick's home dimension. He's reluctant but eventually (after a really long while and lots of convincing) does give in since their circumstances are dire and they could use a little civilization, even if it means returning to the family he abandoned.

I don't have much worked out for this Smith family, but I'd assume Summer is a good deal different from the Summer we know, due to being an only child. Beth's daddy issues are just as intense as Beth Prime.

This Beth and Jerry probably also never end up divorced and stay together for Summer's sake, honestly probably unhealthier than just splitting up for the time being and working out their issues separately.

Once they crash (probably literally) into their new "home" and everybody gets over the initial insanity of the situation, Rick struggles to confront the reasons he left and kind of just drowns himself in unhealthy habits. Besides the known drinking issues which is kind of the baseline, he makes sure to never let Morty out of his sight and pretty much makes a normal life for the kid impossible despite desperately promising it to him when they turned to move to Earth.

He builds a new portal gun out of scrap they've harvested while surviving and old things Beth never threw away because they reminded her of her father, and he's gone again. Gone with Morty. Gone God knows where. Except he returns at night to sleep in a shitty little cot and fuck he probably drags Morty's air mattress into his room with him without any explanation. Blames it on Morty not being able to sleep alone since they left the citadel. Blames it on anything but himself.

They go into what I'd describe as a narcissism-fuelled grace period, or honeymoon period, the more time they spend together off-planet after crashing at the Smith's house.

They go from Rick being very controlling and making Morty feel like an inferior sidekick, to Rick actually opening up and helping him become better. Very slowly and gradually, he realizes that, well, he's stuck with this Morty now. This is *his* Morty by all intents and purposes, and he doesnt have a fuckin replacement Morty ticket and after constructing and unregistered portal gun he'd not be let back into the citadel anyway even after reconstruction - so might as well invest his time and effort into this one Morty as much as he (claims to) hate it.

The kid is so broken already, having witnessed so many versions of his grandpa die, which Rick realizes after a while would just make it easier for him to reassemble him anew and mold him how he wants it. He's a sick bastard but if it aint broke dont fix it and especially dont fix it if it promises to always stay by your side and begs you not to leave

The whole "unlucky charm" curse only serves to fuel Rick's ego too because, unlike all these previous Ricks he only knows about on paper, *he* hasn't died yet with this shitty excuse of a Morty around him. which makes him better than all those before him. He's cocky, priding himself on living where those Ricks failed.

He gets too confident, as all Ricks do, and after a few too-close brushes with death he does decide to invest into various failsafes and "upgrading" Morty to a standard he sees fit. This is when Morty gets the tracker arm enhancement and various other augmentations that'll essentially turn him into a lifeline for Rick. He's driven by anxiety of his past mistakes, past deaths of Ricks, repeating. This time there'd be no scolding by teachers and new Rick two weeks later. There'd only be grief, and nothing.

Morty's trained not only in combat and survival skills but also shown how to reboot and even replace certain cybernetic parts of Rick's body.

surgery, baby!

Not on a clone, not a simulation, the real him. Train for the real deal.

They spend weeks in the newly constructed underground labs, Morty cutting him open and putting him back together; surgeries upon surgeries without any anesthetic so that Rick is fully aware and awake to guide Morty through it.

Eventually Morty does have to put those skills to the test when shit goes wrong on an adventure, but this is already so long so I'll spare you!! I'd be surprised if you read to here, if you did, thank you and I'm glad you're interested in my little guys !!

[tyrianludaship]

i know the abusive mercs discussion is over with but i had to put in my own two cents

"medic is an abuser because he kept spy's head in the fridge and spy begged for death" ohhh my god that is the hardest reach anyone has ever reached. how do you look at a clearly comedic scene and take it that seriously. spy did not "beg for death" he just said "kill me" in a flat, monotone tone. idk its clear that scene is simply meant to be morbidly funny, not some grand relevation that medic is actually some "evil abuser ooooh"

You see it actually shows the manipulative nature of roadrunner when he paints a huge ass rock as a highway, basically gaslighting will e coyote as a means of self-preservation to escape his abuse.

[ziptiesnfries]

A to Z Lab Whump Prompts

Amputation

Biopsy

Cloning

Defibrillation

Experiment

Forceps

Gurney

Hazmat

IV drip

Jump

Keel over

Lab coat

Mortality

Needles

Operating table

Plexiglas

Quarantine

Reanimation

Scalpel

Toxin

Unconscious

Vivisection

Withdrawal

X-ray

Yell

Zapped

Feel free to send combinations of words; make things interesting!

[altocat]

Can I have some dark hcs about Babyroth? For research purpose 😇

It's Sephiroth Hurtin' Hours. Let's do this.

Sephiroth was not permitted to get close to other scientists and orderlies after Gast leaves and Hojo takes over. Hojo does everything in his power to effectively isolate Sephiroth so he'll be more reliant on the things Hojo teaches him without outside interference.

As a result, Sephiroth is more than often achingly lonely, only having himself or Hojo to talk to. And since he's so strange and off-putting, most of the other scientists don't really want to talk to him anyway.

The constant isolation, procedures, and general antagonism through Hojo often gives way to terrifying fits of extreme rage and aggression within Sephiroth. While he is generally a skittish and polite child, he will sometimes lash out violently, not caring who he hurts. It doesn't satisfy him though. And he only just gets punished for it later.

There are days when Sephiroth simply refuses to leave his cell at all, lying under his bed balled up and not really talking or moving. He doesn't want to perform. He doesn't want to fight stupid training simulations. He doesn't want to get cut up on Hojo's table. He's just...tired. Tired and hopeless.

When he's in this state, Sephiroth simply withdraws from the world altogether, his eyes glassy and his body scrunched and fetal. He won't sleep or eat, won't really do anything at all. He simply....stops. As if he'd like nothing more than to just curl up and die.

Hojo often has to come to collect him whenever he gets like this, unless it's a severe emergency. There's been a few times where Sephiroth's symptoms have required the help of strong antidepressants, especially if he stops eating. Hojo MIGHT be a bit more lenient during this period, at least until Sephiroth perks up again.

Sephiroth often has periods of being completely nonverbal, mindlessly obeying as commanded, but not really engaging. He's more or less on autopilot.

Lots of the medications prescribed to Sephiroth as a child are further continued during his adult years, but at an even higher dosage. They are cyclical most of the time, per Sephiroth actually needing them.

He seems better when he's with Angeal and Genesis. And the fact that he's occasionally on any medications is kept a massive secret from the public. Not even a single leak on Silver Elite.

Sephiroth often has difficulties dealing with his body due to the many procedures he underwent as a child. Sometimes, he still does feel instinctual needs to react as he did in the past--nonverbal behavior, detaching. He has significantly more control over himself now, but the need is still there.

[purgetrooperfox]

🙏Doth thou have eine liste of your OCs??? So we may ask questions about them?? bitte

I don't,,,, YET but this did give me a kick in the ass to put together a decently comprehensive one (bc I've been meaning to for ages)

if tumblr's search functionality works at all, I do tag all of my oc posts here and on ao3 as follows 💃 idk how populated these tags are but they're the ocs I think about the most

#leocs - is my catch all oc tag

this is my ao3 collection of fics featuring my ocs

star wars ⬇️

#clone medic nocte - is my most developed oc, he is corrie guard cmo

#arc trooper uj'alayi - he is arc trooper, he is mostly corrie guard but I also throw him at the shadows

#bastra vargdan - he is jedi investigator, he absorbed so much of my personality that he's almost a self insert

#lān'drien "lane" hurosa - they are journalist on coruscant

#clone commander bones - he is commander under bastra, he is severely underdeveloped

cyberpunk ⬇️

#desmond "eyes" gallagher - he is ripperdoc for maelstrom

call of duty ⬇️

#atama "nocte" te rangi - he is nocte starwars transplanted into cod, he is field medic with tf141

mortal kombat ⬇️

#danver "jag" hakka - he fell in with the black dragon and may or may not have a redemption arc, he mostly lives in my gdocs drafts