#is not medically accurate

[what-shitfuckery-is-this-ew]

I want people to read their scientific articles before sending them to me. Like actually read the entire thing or at least read the conclusion. Reading the first line and thinking that that means you understand the entire topic is very inaccurate, and it makes you look like a joke when i actually read it and find that it contradicts your point.

[fruitycircus]

mann co assigned mottos, based on a conversation on twitter about the catchphrases in the mercs' bios that are totally things that they said and not for mr. hale to slap on arsenic-lined t-shirts. totally

[parisoonic]

im skipping halloween and mentally going straight to winter

[notfeelingthyaster]

every season of house is the same. it starts fine, and then mid-season house has a drug related problem, and he gets mean, and say awful things, and then maybe he tries to get better. he inevitably fails. he has some closeted gay second plot where all his/wilson's romantic relationships are actually a parallel to their relationship with each other. all his ducklings are imploding. there's someone dying somewhere, but that's not actually important.

and i eat it up every time.

[jaratedeguadalupe]

my first contribution to the fandom in 5 year,,,,,,,,,, how are we looking so far

[luna-loveboop]

I love how warriors is the one who always asks paramedic-style questions when someone’s hurt

He’s asking questions not just to distract, but to see how bad the wound has impacted mental functioning “maybe we should be worried, because that’s not what I asked”

Calling by name to draw attention, asking easy questions…

Like look at his face in each panel, how closely he’s watching while talking to assess the damage

He’s always the one taking action in first aid (though obviously he can’t do magic stuff like hyrule but outside of that it’s him)

Wars is a captain, he’s trained and has had to take care of wounded, so he knows how to take care of not only the physical but the mental impact of injuries as well, and he always comes through for it.

I just kinda think that’s pretty cool

(Credit to Linkeduniverse au)

[reactions-daily]

[sea-lanterns]

Idk if anyone has told you this yet but a lot of the Brazilian players have taken to calling Xilonen "Onça pintuda", which translates (as far as I can tell) to "big-dick jaguar" and I think you should know that

THE BRAZILIAN FANBASE IS INTERESTING 😅

Big dick jaguar has a nice ring to it huh? Gonna start calling Xilonen the big dick jaguar for now on /j

Imagine being in a relationship with Xilonen and teasingly calling her your “big dick jaguar” just to mess with her. She’d be embarrassed but a little bit prideful that you’re so fond of her size…

Reader: Pspspspsps come here big dick jaguar

Xilonen: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[jayden-writes]

fragile

pairing: Lucifer x gn!Reader

wordcount: ~1.5k

genre: hurt/comfort, angst

cw: descriptions of an injury (sprained ankle)

summary: When you sprain your ankle, Lucifer doesn't appreciate your attempt at hiding it.

other notes: no name, Y/N or MC used // based on this drawing by @sbmlamb // AO3 // thanks again to @gravedwe11er for helping me so much with this fic!

There was no doubt in your mind that you must have been the clumsiest being in all three realms. Twisting your ankle because you simply tried to keep up with the long strides of a demon? How utterly embarrassing.

Gritting your teeth, you kept following the brother that was escorting you back to the House of Lamentation today - Satan. It seemed as though he hadn't noticed the way you were falling behind or your minor accident at all, being too engrossed in his rant about something Lucifer had done.

Despite the mixture of pain and numbness radiating up your lower leg, you managed to catch up with him, maintaining a mostly normal expression and a steady gait. Turning his head towards you, the anger drained from his features as he observed you. He took in your carefully masked suffering and how your shoulders were heaving with the effort it had required to get back to him.

“I'm sorry,” he said, slowing his pace and giving you a worried glance, “I hadn’t realized that I was too fast for you. Are you alright? It looks like you’re in pain.”

Cursing yourself internally, you racked your brain for a believable excuse.

“I… uhm… I just have a stitch in my side. No big deal,” you explained, shooting him a reassuring smile.

Satan nodded and visibly relaxed at your words, returning his attention to the path. From that point on, the walk back was spent in comfortable stillness with him occasionally glancing at you. When you reached the mansion and entered, you exhaled a quiet sigh of relief and waved goodbye, heading straight for your room as quickly as you could without putting too much weight on your foot while still walking normally. Finally inside your own space, you hobbled towards your bed, sitting down to take off your shoe and sock, which jostled your ankle, and caused you to hiss in agony. Once it was bare, your eyes widened at the sight of it swollen and bruised.

“Fuck…” you muttered and attempted to move it, which only made the pain worse.

Suddenly, there were knocks on your door, startling you.

“Oi! It’s your turn to make dinner!” called Mammon’s voice out from the other side. Right. Of course. You had completely forgotten about that.

“Give me a moment!” you yelled back and you heard him disappear again.

Sighing, you removed the second shoe too, and slipped into a pair that had a looser fit to reduce the pressure on your foot. Then you limped towards the doorway, biting your tongue to stifle the pained whimpers threatening to escape you, and opened it. Peering outside, you looked to your left and right, checking whether someone was around. Satisfied at not seeing anybody, you stepped out and silently shut the door behind you. Making your way to the kitchen, you put as little strain as possible on the ankle.

Aside from being embarrassed about your clumsiness, you also didn’t want them to worry about you or for them to start treating you as if you were a fragile thing. You weren’t. You really weren’t. You were a human and they were demons. Surely, you would be able to handle this just fine on your own, and wouldn't have to rely on one of the brothers.

It took you almost twice as long as usual to get to the kitchen, but once you did, you immediately started gathering all of the supplies you needed to prepare the meal. Still, you stayed vigilant, closely listening for any noises so you’d know when to stop limping.

What you hadn’t accounted for, however, was the practiced silence of Lucifer’s steps. You didn’t hear him arrive, rather, you felt his presence, the way his crimson gaze burned into your back. It made the hairs on your neck stand up and you whipped around to see him leaning against the doorframe, his eyes narrowed and fixed on you.

“And what exactly,” he drawled, pushing himself off the frame to saunter towards you, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Cooking dinner…?” you replied hesitantly, although it sounded more like a question than an answer. His tall figure loomed over you, and you tried your best to maintain a casual position that kept your weight off your foot.

“Is that so?” he hummed thoughtfully, scrutinizing you. “What made you think that this was a good idea in your current state?”

“Huh? Come again?”

“You are hurt, are you not?” Lucifer’s voice was calm and collected, in contrast to the displeasure evident on his face.

“I’m not, I’m totally fi-” you began, only to be cut off by him saying your name sharply.

“Do not take me for a fool. Answer me. What made you think walking around with an injury was a good idea?”

“It’s my turn to cook dinner…” was your meek reply, and he simply sighed deeply.

“Seriously. You are incorrigible. I can’t believe you sometimes. Sit down. Now.”

Reluctantly, you obeyed him. He kneeled in front of you, reaching for your ankle, and pulled the shoe off with careful motions that betrayed the ire he was exuding.

“It’s just a bit twisted. I’m sure it’ll be fine by tomorrow, there’s no need to make a big deal out of this,” you mumbled, grimacing as you watched your swollen and bruised foot become visible again.

“Twisted, you say?” Lucifer echoed, his gloved fingers delicately grasping your injured body part as he examined it. At first, it was painful, but soon a soft glow emanated from his hands, providing a cooling sensation that dulled the ache. “It is not twisted. You sprained it, if not worse.”

“Oh…” you responded quietly. “Well, that’s not good, I guess?”

“Not good…” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “That certainly is one way to say it. Especially considering that you have foolishly decided to keep straining it.”

Standing back up, he hooked one arm underneath your knees, wrapping the other around your back to lift you up. Your brain short-circuited for a moment as you were held against Lucifer’s chest. He was already halfway to your room when you managed to recover yourself and glanced up at his face to study his stern expression. Red eyes darted down to meet yours, and you flinched internally at the combination of anger and disappointment swirling in them, swiftly averting your gaze. Once he had entered, he placed you on the bed and made sure to elevate your ankle, then he turned to leave.

“Stay here and do not move. I will return soon,” he said gruffly, and with that, he was gone, leaving you alone. Defeated, you let your head sink into the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Eventually, the door handle was being pushed downwards, and heels clicked across the floor as Lucifer approached you, pulling up a chair to sit on.

“I will perform a quick diagnostic spell. It may cause an odd feeling, just bear with it for a minute,” he informed you matter-of-factly, and you gave an affirming hum, only briefly glancing at him to catch a glimpse of first-aid materials before looking away again. Mumbling some words under his breath, he grazed his fingertips over the swollen flesh, the leather of his gloves barely touching your skin. It was silent for a while and your foot prickled until he withdrew his touch.

“You are lucky. Nothing is broken, however, one of the ligaments is partially torn,” Lucifer explained plainly. “You will have to stay in bed and rest for at least a week.”

“A week?!” you exclaimed indignantly, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him. “You can’t be serious! What about RAD? I have a presentation in two days!”

He huffed in annoyance and shot you a glare, taking out bandages.

“You have two options: either you will stay in bed voluntarily or I will have you tied to it. So, what shall it be, hm?”

Without offering a response, you sank back into the bed.

“Good. I’m glad you’re finally being reasonable,” he grumbled and started wrapping your ankle up carefully.

Turning your head away from him, you clenched your jaw tightly when the pain that he had dulled earlier with whatever spell he had used resurfaced temporarily. Lucifer heaved a faint sigh as he took note of your stubborn stillness and your tense posture. As soon as he was done, he put a cold compress on your ankle and sat on the bed next to you, the mattress sinking under his weight. He spoke your name; you didn’t respond.

“Come on now,” he whispered, his voice much gentler now, and he stroked a hand over your hair, “I am simply looking out for you, you know that, right? You are far too reckless with your health.”

“You’re one to talk,” you retorted, and pouted, but you turned your gaze back towards him, observing his softened expression as he hovered over you.

“Don’t deflect,” he chuckled, and cupped your cheek, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I will make up for it, alright? I am going to keep you company. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

“Fine…” you breathed.

“That’s my good human,” Lucifer cooed, tilting your face up to brush his lips against yours. “Now, rest.”

[opbackgrounds]

People in this series shake off ridiculous injuries often enough that I have come to appreciate the times Oda shows when they don't

[adverbally]

I’ll Be Seeing You

Written for the @steddieangstyaugust prompt “The sunset looks lovely, don’t you think?” | wc: 929 | rated: T | cw: traumatic brain injury, dementia, memory loss, degenerative illness | tags: grief for a person who’s still alive, caregiving, title from the song by Billie Holiday

———

When Eddie comes home, Steve and his nurse are sitting in the backyard. It’s where they are at this time every weekday, when Laura is there to help Steve. The yard may be small, but there is enough space for a table and chairs on the patio and Steve’s beautiful garden.

It had taken months for Steve to meticulously plan and set up— what to grow, when to plant and water, how to maintain everything— but the end result was worth it. Eddie still looks upon it with awe. He wishes it wasn’t left to his clumsy care now but he doesn’t dare neglect it, not when it still brings Steve so much joy.

Laura is telling Steve, “The sunset looks lovely, don’t you think?” as Eddie sits in the patio chair next to Steve.

“Eddie!” Steve beams at him once he notices his presence. “Check it out, the rosemary is doing really well.”

Oh. Steve isn’t usually so lucid, and a lump forms in Eddie’s throat.

He glances at Laura, who seesaws her hand side to side in a silent report of how Steve’s day had been. It’s often like that, a roller coaster of confusion and happiness and defiance that nobody can predict.

It won’t get better, the doctors had explained. Steve’s history of traumatic brain injuries had done lasting damage that couldn’t be fixed. He would continue to lose his keys and forget his appointments and get lost driving around their own neighborhood. That was fine, Eddie would be there to help Steve look and remind him to put the laundry in the dryer and drive him.

It won’t get better, it will just get worse. This is what Eddie still can’t wrap his head around, five years after they got the diagnosis. Steve will continue to deteriorate, losing more of himself every day. His memory, speech, coordination, even his ability to eat and piss by himself, will be gone.

Eddie will watch the love of his life forget who he is and fade away until he dies. He’ll be a widower by the time he’s forty, most likely.

His watery smile feels more like gritted teeth when he says, “That’s great, honey. The bees will love it,” but Steve doesn’t seem to notice as he talks about his day.

“Robin came over for lunch. She brought her lemon bars and a new puzzle for us to try. Then Wayne called this afternoon.”

Eddie leans an elbow on the table so he can subtly cover his mouth while resting his chin in his hand. It’s not Steve’s fault that he doesn’t remember that Wayne died last fall. The two of them were close in the end, it makes sense that those happy moments might drift to the surface occasionally. Every time, it’s a double gut punch of missing Wayne and seeing the extent of Steve’s memory loss.

He imagines it’s like being stabbed. Knowing it’s coming doesn’t make it hurt less.

Fighting the tears back down, Eddie says, “I’m glad you two had the chance to catch up. Did you talk about last night’s game?”

“Yeah, especially that bullshit call in the seventh,” Steve snorts.

Eddie feels bad about tuning out the little baseball tangent that follows, but he is trying to soak this in. Since they got the diagnosis, there have been an increasing number of days where Steve doesn’t recognize Eddie or remember his name, where Steve is agitated and insistent that he has somewhere else to be, where Steve is quiet and listless and a husk of himself.

Today is a good day, though. Steve is smiling and animated, his memory blips don’t frustrate him, and he holds Eddie’s hand under the patio table. The sunset looks lovely and so does Steve, beaming as Eddie leans in to kiss his cheek, catching Eddie’s shoulder with a shaky grip to hold him close for a real kiss.

Tomorrow won’t be so kind, Eddie is sure. He will listen to Steve gush about his husband and the date they have planned for that night. He’ll ask polite questions about himself in the third person, like he’s a stranger. He’ll lock himself in the soundproofed studio basement and cry himself hoarse. He’ll go to sleep in the guest room because it can be upsetting for Steve to wake up next to a man he doesn’t know. He’ll welcome Laura when she gets there and leave for work as fast as he can so he doesn’t have to face the utter hopelessness of the situation for a few hours.

He’ll do it all again the following day. He’ll keep doing it for the rest of Steve’s life.

Their marriage isn’t legally recognized, but they had stood in front of their friends and family and made those vows to each other. In sickness and in health. ‘Til death do us part. They hadn’t expected those words to become relevant so soon, but Eddie will be damned if he isn’t at Steve’s side right up until the very end.

So Eddie stays with Steve on the patio, the dying sun drying the tears from his cheeks, and listens to Steve’s beautiful voice while he can. He squeezes his hand, trying not to think about how he’ll be doing the same thing when Steve takes his last breath in the not-so-distant future. He says, “I love you,” while Steve still has the capacity to say it back.

It is a lovely sunset. Eddie tries to enjoy it while he can, knowing he’ll never see another one without thinking of Steve.

[bunnieswithknives]

Wait so Dev STILL needs a cane anyway? Oh the irony.

There are days where he does need it and days where he doesn't!

[pastel-medic]

The beloveds are together at last hehe 🤭 I thought Medic was gonna arrive later but I got surprised today! Once I get a proper shelf or display case for most of my figures (that are still in my closet since moving a couple years ago) I'll make a MedicSpy section just for them 😚💖

[noodl3s4dayz]

”Am I Still Pretty?”

[whumpster-dumpster]

Had a dream from the POV of a non human whumpee who had a pretty bad fever and the caretaker for some reason had to use one of those candy thermometer probes instead of a regular thermometer to track their temp and keep holding it into their mouth because the probe was so much more uncomfortable under their tongue but it was all they had. It was great

[sugaredoleander]

the most unrealistic part of house md isn't the malpractice it's the unlimited resources & how little time they spend dealing with insurance