#medical prefixes

[er-cryptid]

Skeletal System Orthopedics Abbreviations

AKA = above the knee amputation

anti-CCP = anti-cyclic citrullinated peptide

AP = anteroposterior

BKA = below the knee amputation

BMD = bone mineral density

C1 = cervical vertebra 1

C2 = cervical vertebra 2

C3 = cervical vertebra 3

C4 = cervical vertebra 4

C5 = cervical vertebra 5

C6 = cervical vertebra 6

C7 = cervical vertebra 7

Ca = calcium

Ca²⁺ = calcium ion

CDH = congenital dislocation of the hip

DEXA = dual-energy x-ray absorptiometry

DXA = dual-energy x-ray absorptiometry

DIP = distal interphalangeal joint

DJD = degenerative joint disease

ESWT = extracorporeal shock wave therapy

Fx = fracture

L1 = lumbar vertebra 1

L2 = lumbar vertebra 2

L3 = lumbar vertebra 3

L4 = lumbar vertebra 4

L5 = lumbar vertebra 5

LLE = left lower extremity

LUE = left upper extremity

MCP = metacarpophalangeal joint

NSAID = nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug

OA = osteoarthritis

ORIF = open reduction and internal fixation

ortho = orthopedics

P = phosphorus

PIP = proximal interphalangeal joint

PT = physical therapy

QCT = quantitative computerized tomography

RA = rheumatoid arthritis

RF = rheumatoid factor

RLE = right lower extremity

ROM = range of motion

RUE = right upper extremity

S1 = first sacral vertebra

T1 = thoracic vertebra 1

T2 = thoracic vertebra 2

T3 = thoracic vertebra 3

T4 = thoracic vertebra 4

T5 = thoracic vertebra 5

T6 = thoracic vertebra 6

T7 = thoracic vertebra 7

T8 = thoracic vertebra 8

T9 = thoracic vertebra 9

T10 = thoracic vertebra 10

T11 = thoracic vertebra 11

T12 = thoracic vertebra 12

THR = total hip replacement

tib-fib = tibia-fibula

.

Patreon

#studyblr #notes #my notes #medical terminology #medical terms #medical flashcards #medical flash cards #medical terminology flashcards #medical terminology flash cards #medical language #medblr #medical notes #med notes #health science #health services #premed #nursing #scientific language #prefixes #suffixes #medical prefixes #medical suffixes #root words #medical root words #health terms #medical communication #medical recording #note cards #flashcards #flash cards

[werewolf-transgenderism]

every few months somebody comes around with the “only medical doctors should be able to use the title ‘doctor’ because they have the only REAL doctor degrees” nonsense and I get to hit them with the middle ages and tell them that its original use was for scholars and its use to refer to medical doctors came later. I’m not spending innumerable hours of my life spelunking my way through the tenth through fifteenth centuries to NOT use the title when I eventually earn it babes

#nothing against medical doctors but I’m not putting myself through a PhD to not be Dr Miles when it’s over #I will have earned my gender neutral prefix thank you very much

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

still think the coolest thing gallifrey does is the concepts that are like. medical thing + word thing. like elective semantectomy and abridgement syndrome. theres another one i think but i forgot. thats the absolute coolest thing. history = biology. they write themselves into it

#trying to up my technobabble game by going through medical suf and prefixes lists #and see if i can match that with other concepts like this #ive been doing some fun things with philosophy lately i think but i wanna branch out

[duoduotian]

ok maybe i’ll main LN now since i had to join an association to do the send postcard to friends task to get part of pastel set. immensely dislike not being able to add random ppl to fill the quota since i was not planning to be active in an association (i’ll try though...)

#mel 废话时刻 #just remembered what a pain dream weaver is #doing every thing for the second time thanks to whatever the SEA server was doing #i love the journal thing in the event but the font is so damn tiny on phone i had to ss and zoom in #looking at my old cover letter n cringing #time for 1 more video from the course and i call it a day #the prev two was on medical jargon GOD it was insufferable #the damn prefixes

[elliespectacular]

Do you still have that Jellicle name generator saved anywhere? Some friends and I used it for our OCs and it was an absolute blast!

The name I got was Callio the convivial cat, which is short for Calliope, who I played in Xanadu. She has a whole costume and everything now!

Even if you don't have it anymore, tysm for making it ;-;

Xanadu mention! Also I do still have it saved! This one is revised a little and I might make more changes later, but here it is in text form:

Jellicle Name Generator

This will give you a name that is relatively in-line with the naming conventions seen in Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot and later adapted into the musical Cats by Andrew Lloyd Webber - and unlike those shitty "last name and your birth month" name generators, this one won't doxx you in the process.

Before we begin, a bit of terminology we'll be using: - Portmanteau: Turning multiple words into one word linked by a sound or letter. Compelling Television = Compellevision. Punk Squid = Squnk - Smoosh: Combine words by simply removing the space and (optionally) changing the word positions. Country Jester = countryjester - Prefix: Goes before the name, like Mr. or Captain - Suffix: Goes after the name, like Jr. or The Great - Cat-like term: Something associated with cats. Meow, Whisker, Bell, Claw, Scratch, etc.

FIRST: Roll a D20 to determine your base name

An uncommon person’s first name

First syllable of a common last name + a unit of measurement. Portmanteau 'em.

Short, dangerous noun + a non-dangerous profession. Smoosh 'em.

Two Latin words. Portmanteau 'em.

A simple present-tense verb + sophisticated person's first name. Smoosh 'em.

Cat-like term + sophisticated person's first name. Smoosh 'em.

Combine two short nouns, then add "-er" "-ie" or "-est" to the end.

Think of an actor you like. Shorten their first name to its shortest nickname.

A medical term spelled incorrectly.

A food you liked as a kid + a pretentious word. Smoosh 'em.

A figure of legend/myth. Remove one syllable and any spaces.

An older person's first name that isn't common today.

Last name of a historical figure + a silly word. Portmanteau 'em.

A kids' name with 2 or more syllables + that name again without the first syllable + an onomatopoeia. Portmanteau 'em if you can.

A silly word + the first name of a former coworker. Portmanteau 'em.

A kind of public event + a cat-like term. Smoosh 'em.

Something from ancient history. Shorten what you came up with into a single word.

Something you do when you're nervous. Take that verb and add "-er" to the end to make it a noun.

Silly word + hostile-sounding verb. Portmanteau 'em.

Two silly words with 2+ syllables each. Smoosh 'em.

SECOND: Roll another D20 for flavor

Before you roll, consider how your name sounds without any additional flavor. If it's fine on its own, feel free to leave it as-is. Otherwise, roll on!

Suffix - An upsettingly average last name

Suffix - Think of a hobby. Your suffix is "The _____ Cat"

Prefix - A short adjective

Suffix - Think of an adjective. Your suffix is "The _____ Cat"

Prefix - Choose Mr. Mrs. Ms. Mx. or something similar

Suffix - Think of a color. Your suffix is "The _____ Cat"

Prefix - Any one-syllable word. Repeat the word a second time, adding or replacing the first consonant with that of your base name.

Suffix - Think of any non-proper noun. Your suffix is "The _____ Cat"

Suffix - it's the word Cat

Suffix - it's the word Kitty

Suffix - it's the word Kitten

Prefix - Choose "Sir" "Madam" "Captain" or something similar

Prefix - Choose "Lord" "Lady" "Noble" or something similar

Prefix - His/Her/Their Majesty (or any pronoun you prefer)

Prefix - His/Her/Their Grace (or any pronoun you prefer)

Prefix - Mc

Prefix - Van

Prefix - Von

Prefix - De

Suffix - Any cat-like term

And you're done!*

*This is as much a creative exercise as it is a "generator" so feel free to mess with the formula and/or let your result inspire something more original. Add multiple layers of flavor if you want. The rules are not rigid. I recommend generating a few names and picking your favorite!

#jellicle #name generator #jellicle cats #cats musical #cats the musical #ask

[queerbauten]

My hot take is that people who have a history of being medicalized/pathologized have the right to take issue with “[prefix]-spec” umbrella terms

#discourse of the LGBTQIA+ variety #just say ‘the [prefix] umbrella’ #medical treatment mention #not sure how else to tag this

[queerism1969]

General stuff I wish more cis people knew:

Being trans is a situation one is born into. No, trans children are not cis kids who are being manipulated or abused by parents because it's "trendy". That shit is just a modern reworking of the "gays are recruiting kids into homosexuality!" bullshit from the 70's and 80's.

Trans women are not "biologically male" and trans men are not "biologically female". Transition causes massive biological changes; trans men who are on testosterone and have had a hysterectomy have far more biologically in common with cis men than with cis women, and trans women who are on estrogen and have had reconstructive surgery have far more biologically in common with cis women than with cis men.

The existence of trans people is not a recent phenomenon, and the number of trans people is not increasing. Trans people have always existed; there are just more out trans people now.

Trans women are not gay men who attempt to become women in response to homophobia, trans men are not women who attempt to become men in response to sexism, and trans people would still exist and still need to transition even if both homophobia and sexism were eliminated.

Many trans women are bi or lesbian; many trans men are bi or gay (attracted to other men) (see p.28-29)

Allowing trans women and girls to use the same public facilities as other women (e.g., restrooms, locker rooms, etc) does not put cis women and girls at risk

That there are not more trans women than there are trans men.

Most trans people are not visibly identifiable as trans

Being trans and/or transition is not biblically condemned, and being trans/transitioning is not universally condemned by mainstream religious organizations

Spelling and grammatical notes:

It's transgender, not "transgendered"

It's dysphoria, not "dysmorphia". Dysmorphia is an unrelated anxiety condition on the OCD spectrum.

Transgender is an adjective, not a noun. So there are transgender people, but nobody is "a transgender".

The word cis is a Latin prefix, not an acronym, so there's no need to capitalize it as CIS. Cis is short for cisgender, which is the opposite of transgender. The prefix cis- means "on this side/on the same side", while trans- means "across/beyond/on the other side". E.g., cislunar vs. Translunar orbits

Faux pas to avoid:

Don't ask about our genitals unless you're our doctors or there's mutual interest in sex. Don't ask about "the surgery" either, which is still really just asking about our genitals

Same goes for the graphic details of our sex lives. Unless we're already in the kind of relationship where we casually discuss these matters, it's none of your business

When talking about something a trans person did before they transitioned, refer to them by the name and pronouns they use now unless they have specifically told you otherwise. It's like talking about someone who used to be married to an abusive asshole, but has since divorced him and stopped using his name. Even if talking about something she did while still married, I really hope you wouldn't call her "Mrs. Abusive Ex". That would be spectacularly tactless. That's not her name now and not how she wants to be known.

Never out someone unless they have given you explicit permission to do so. Don't assume that because they're out to some people that they are comfortable having others know that aspect of their medical history

If you accidentally refer to someone by the wrong pronouns, just correct yourself and move on. Don't dwell on it, just make a serious effort to not do it again

#mtf trans #scp mtf #pre op mtf #mtftm #mtf #mtf positivity #actually mtf #transsexual #transgirl #transgender #mtf pride #mtf trap #girlslikeus #trans mtf #ftm hrt #ftm #ftm bottom #ftm dom #gay ftm #ftm ns/fw #ftm cnc #ftm ed #trans man #transmasc #ftm mlm #trans boy #trans ftm #trans guy

[whumpster-dumpster]

Never been prouder to be in this community as the knowledge I've absorbed here allowed me to translate the jargon of some test results, breaking down medical abbreviations and prefixes related to x conditions that had my family looking at me all surprised and impressed 🏆

#whump #whump community #look at me go #big brain

[00-hawkboi-00]

War is Over (and what have we done?)

Part Three

Pairing; Graves x male!reader (slow burn)

WC; ~5k

Summary; reader has another episode, a childhood friend makes an appearance, and the results of the phone call.

Warnings; Implied child abuse, implied child neglect, implied domestic abuse, implied alcoholism, implied death of a parent, implied human trafficking(not of reader), dissociation, hallucinations, description of injuries/wound care, blood, blood used in a way it definitely should not be, described lead up to vomiting (as a result of blood loss)

A/n; ah, look at all those warnings. Oh, how I love angst. And still no comfort.

--- "lucky number twenty-seven" ---

Last week's bad decisions came in the form of a simple, inconspicuous helicopter landing on the worn tarmac out back the following Friday.

A few of your Shadows gathered around you now, curious faces watching the landing skids make contact with the mix of tar and gravel with thinly concealed interest. Likely wondering who the hell was here at five o'clock in the morning; there had been no meeting or announcement of an incoming visitor.

You hadn't told them. Hadn't deemed it necessary to. Not yet.

Only you knew what resided in that cockpit.

Or, rather, who.

That information had come in the form of an encrypted email. Not that there was even much intel to glean from that PDF document—a form containing more black lines than it did useful information.

Looking at those records had nearly made you sick; talking about the person within the file as if he were some type of experiment. A thing.

Clean cut and clinical; the most sterile ‘resume’ you had ever seen. Displaying simple, base facts about the ‘subject’. Anything that wasn't the man's birthdate, sex, gender, medical history- et cetera, was completely blacked out.

Details regarding past operations? Blacked out. With the exception of the date it was started and, as was with every entry, a bold stamp of COMPLETE at the end of each row.

You aren't entirely sure why everything was marked out, it was all in Russian anyway, nothing you could read.

There wasn't even a name. Just a number and prefix.

Predator-27

Predator. You'd thought she had been kidding when she said she had one of her predators—Predators—infiltrating the 141 TF. It made the idea of said Predator having its claws in the team that much more impactful.

And that much more satisfying.

The door slides open and a man steps out, at first you assume that this man was the one she'd sent. He certainly had the height and build one would expect of someone who had been raised into war; tall but not excessively so, wide and strong. Built like a damn tank.

Then the man steps to the side and out comes another man, this one shrouded in black—and you thought your outfit was a bit much.

This man was clearly built for speed and agility, though any indications of muscle mass was hidden by a long, dark cloth—was that a fuckin' cape??

This now felt more like some poorly written self-insert than the serious situation it actually was.

Maybe half a foot shorter than you from what you could tell, covered head to toe in black that likely concealed any tactical gear or weaponry, a cowl wrapped around his head, swathed over like a hood and lifted to hide his lower face as well.

The only thing that stood out amongst the rest of his outfit was the small sliver of flesh revealing the skin below his eyes and the bridge of his nose—you couldn't tell if the rest of the upper portion was covered by shadow or simply more cloth. His eyes were locked on you, unmoving and watching.

Piercing, as if looking through your very soul—or obvious lack of.

The man, Predator-27, doesn't stop walking until he's within a foot of you. Still staring up at you with those same dead, emotionless eyes.

“Lieutenant.” He rumbles, unblinking.

He seems to have no regard for personal space, and as the professional you most certainly are, you somehow find it within yourself to not take a much needed step back.

“Predator-27?” You ask instead, trying your damnedest to keep your voice level. He was here because of you, this was the consequence of your own actions. The least you could do is not treat him like some kind of thing.

Predator-27 merely gives a rough grunt in turn, still standing so close. Not looking away. Not even blinking.

You can feel your Shadows’ eyes on you, their curious gazes burning holes into the sides of your masked face. But, just as the man in front of you, you don't even glance at them. Don't provide a reasoning, not a single ounce of context.

Instead you give a small dip of your head, then a tilt back towards your base. As soon as you turn to leave you feel Predator-27 following behind you,

Not hear.

Predator-27 is a strange man, you've realized. He follows every word that leaves your lips without a second of hesitation. Sometimes you don't even have to verbalize what you want, simply point or gesture and he gets the hint.

He also doesn't leave you alone.

If you want alone time while in your office? You have to order him out, even then he just sits guard outside your door. Simply walking down the halls? He's right behind you. More of a shadow than your own teams’ namesake.

The only place you don't allow him to be by your side is when you visit Viper Shadow 0-9. You don't even grant him permission to wait for you outside the door; dismissing him an entire corridor before the medical wing.

You don't want him anywhere near him.

You tell yourself it's for Shadow 0-9’s safety.

You don't want him to know what you've done.

How you've failed him.

Failed all of them.

Darkness plays at the edges of your vision, shadows curling over walls and laminate floors. Bleeding through the faded white brick of the sterile room, black veins of it eating at the curtain partition.

You know what it is. Who it is.

And yet here you sit. By his side once again,

Desperately trying to ignore the swaths of black as it takes a familiar form.

Watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. To your great relief, it's much stronger than it had been. Considerably so when compared to when you had dragged his mangled body back.

If the deaths of your colleagues were your fault, so was 0-9’s current state.

If you hadn't said anything- if you hadn't told that fucker— who had the gall to say you even resembled him.

If that stupid fight hadn't happened—all over some random man, why is it always some random guy??—Viper 0-9 wouldn't be here right now. You don't even remember the guy's name.

Who has an argument in the middle of an active warzone? About a secret relationship of all things??

You, apparently. And Graves. And 0-9.

The three of you had acted like children and now were reaping what you sowed.

All except him.

“You absolute fool,” you murmur. Soft.. almost affectionate.

“You should've just listened to me.” 0-9 doesn't respond. He never does.

You sigh, looking down at his unmoving form.

Alive. Still alive.

The burns had healed, small, pink scars blossoming in their place. Only a few tiny patches that littered 0-9’s torso and arms. The fractures in his bones had been healing nicely, too, as Maria, one of your nurses, had informed you.

“All for a boy,” you muse, voice bitter. “All for a man who doesn't even know you're alive. Who likey doesn't even care.”

You didn't expect a reply, you never got one. You told yourself it was just because of the tubing shoved down 0-9’s throat. Not the fact that he was in a coma.

He'd been a mess when you had pulled him from the wreckage; a mound of support beam infused concrete, linoleum, and glass. It had been a surprise he was even still breathing.

Even with his extensive list of physical injuries, the main concern was his head. 0-9 had suffered immense damage to his frontal lobe, something about swelling and further wounding sustained to his hippo-something or whatever.

Memory. That is what you had picked up on most out of what your medical staff had told you.

It was bittersweet; you both wanted him to remember—isn’t that what makes a person who they are: memories?—and didn't.

“I doubt he even remembers who you are,” you scoff, eyebrows pulling together slightly, thinking. “Those bastards never consider anyone but themselves. Too worried about each other to look at the bigger picture.”

On one hand, if 0-9 did remember, that meant he would also remember what you did. It was selfish, you were fully aware of that, but you didn't want him to.

It was your fault, yes, but 0-9 didn't need to know that.

“He's going to blame you one way or another.” Those shadows creeping in finally take form. A child, standing just to your right, only barely out of your peripheral—not more than ten years old.

It's not real.

“I know that.”

And yet you always respond.

“Then why do you pretend?”

Always just out of sight,

“Go away.”

Never enough to get a full view.

“You know I can't do that.”

It wasn't anything new,

“I know.”

But it happens so much more often now.

“Then stop being mean to me.”

Ever since that damn accident.

“I'm not-” you sigh, shaking your head. “Then be quiet, at least.”

The child doesn't leave, but he doesn't speak either, so you ignore him and return to 0-9.

Back to those scars, back to those bandaged limbs. Back to that what-if.

Back to your mistake.

You decide that's enough for the day and stand, making your way for the exit, dropping off the snack wrapper on the way.

The child follows.

Out of the medical wing you have to pass by him—you don't even glance at the Shadows you have guarding his door. Then further on you collect Predator-27 just after that—you didn’t want her to know about him either—and he is by your side without a word.

It wasn't clear just how much she knew about you and your little pretend family, but you couldn't risk her knowing who you had kept as a prisoner. If she had ties to Price’s group of nobodies, had a rat in there gathering intel, there's no telling what could slip through the cracks. No telling what could become that self-centered teams’ asset by her influence.

You had to keep your new pet asset on a tight leash.

It's not until a week later that you finally introduce Predator-27 to the rest of your Shadows.

Gathering them in the large open field in the heart of your facility, standing at attention in neat rows and columns before you. Predator-27 stands only a foot away and to your left, silent as ever.

You address them as any commanding officer should; back straight, chin high, and hands clasped firm behind your back. The way you are subconsciously counting each finger with a tap of your thumb over and over again is entirely irrelevant.

The blurry and familiar child-like shape positioned far out behind your grouping of soldiers was also inconsequential.

“You all are probably wondering why I have brought you here,” you begin. “Probably also curious as to who this Batman-wannabe standing beside me is.”

That gets a few amused huffs from the crowd and you find it a little easier to breathe. Said DC comic lookalike doesn't even blink, but you can feel his eyes on you. Cold and detached, no feeling behind that gaze.

“This is Predator-27 and he will be staying here, with us, for the foreseeable future.” There's no reaction to that so you keep going. You'd be pacing if doing so wouldn't reveal the nervous tick you've hidden behind your back. “He is here to offer advanced teachings of stealth and hand to hand combat. As I'm certain you all know, you cannot always rely on your weapons to cooperate and your uniform to keep you hidden.”

The child is closer, no one else can see it. You need to wrap this up.

“Per your contracts, you all do not have to accept his mentorship and will not be reprimanded for denying it. That being said, while 27 is here you will treat him just as you'd treat one of your own. You have no grounds to take my word for truth, but I do implore you to put aside any qualms you may have and search out his teachings.” Closer. And if your gaze flicks away for a moment, no one acknowledges it. “Predator-27 is a skilled and excellently trained man, I guarantee that there is something he will be capable of teaching you. Even the best of us.”

Weary looks shift into curiosity.

“Now,” you need to get out of here. “Any questions?”

If there were birds and this was some god awful sitcom, there would be chirping.

“Good. Feel free to ask if you have any later down the road.” A nod. “Dismissed.”

There's a chorus of ‘sirs’ around the group of your soldiers and then they shift to talk amongst themselves.

You settle a little now that all eyes aren't on you. Sure, you've commanded your fair share. You and him had started this little company together, and had split the responsibilities equally.

In the beginning.

But that had shifted in him taking over the majority of the responsibility when it came to addressing your little army all at once—when it became apparent you weren't exactly the most.. socially inclined in large organizations. Leaving you to do more of the one on one exchanges or small groups.

That was then and this was now. And right now you need to get out of here before those shadows get too close.

You feel Predator-27 moving to follow you when you turn, so you look back, giving the other man a small, half-smile under your mask.

“Why don't you stay right here?” He tips his head a little to the side and you specify, “my shadows may have questions or concerns, may even want a demonstration from you.”

When it becomes clear—somehow, in those depthless eyes—that he's still not quite understanding what you're getting at you give a direct order.

“Stay here. Get to know my shadows. If they ask for a demonstration of your skills, give it to them,” well.. “but do not cause harm. If they ask to be taught, accept. Got it?”

“Yes.” Predator-27 responds immediately, a hint of something—maybe clarity?—passing through his dull gaze.

“Right.” You gesture vaguely with a tip of your head towards your soldiers. “Get to it then, 27.”

He leaves and you let out a breath of relief.

The child is at your hip now.

He's the only one that follows you when you leave the courtyard.

You were six when he first appeared.

You'd been sent to your room only minutes prior, the familiar ambiance of your parents shouting in the kitchen barely muffled by the hollow wood door—the scratch marks and dried blood at the base of it a story for another time. Curled up on your bed—a small, old mattress in the corner of the room, which had seemed bigger when you were little—, bundled tight in your tattered blanket. Trying your hardest to block out the increasingly distressed shouts outside.

“Pssst.”

At first you had thought it was the wind whistling just outside the improperly sealed window. Then it happened again.

“Psssst,” and a voice to accompany it. “Hey! Over here!”

A hushed whisper, coming from somewhere on your right. You turn, searching. But all you can see is the haunting darkness of your room; the matted carpet stained with dark splotches of who knows what, the old, yellowed wallpaper peeling and exposing cracked, crumbling drywall.

The only personal items being the stuffed bunny you were cuddling, that flimsy cardboard box that acted as a makeshift dresser—only overflowing on the merit that the clothes had just been carelessly thrown in—, and the few toys you had crafted yourself. Made up of old plastic utensils, scraps of fabric, and too much Elmer's glitter glue—which you had obtained when your kindergarten teacher was looking the other way.

You were a kid, and the little crafts looked almost laughably unlike the animals they were designed after.

“No! Not there!” The voice speaks up again. “Over here!”

This time you hear the voice from your left and quickly whip your head to the other side, blinking in an effort to adjust your sight to the darker side of the room. The dwindling yellow light of the sun didn't reach this part of your room, the window too far away to properly provide it with much of that fleeting warmth.

But there, in those depthless shadows, you see it. See him.

He looks like you, you think. Has the same hair, the same eyes, is even wearing your clothes. The only difference is that the clothing he wears isn't as worn and frayed as your own. Instead it's as if the fabrics were brand new, not a thread out of place or a hole to see. The double you, as child you had dubbed him—your little kid mind had found it absolutely hilarious that the name sounded like the literal letter ‘W’—, was like the perfect image of what your appearance should be.

Only six year old you didn't realize the lack of scars on his body, didn't take note of the missing hues of purples and blues, of healing yellow tones that painted your own skin.

You're a kid. You don't care when the other child comes closer, don't flinch when he offers out a hand.

Because you're a child and should never have been made to fear a raised hand. Should never have had the scent of alcohol and mold clinging to your outfit whenever you went to preschool—a smell that never failed to create a barrier between you and the other kids your age. Shouldn't have been scrubbing your own blood off those yellowed walls with diluted bleach and a tattered rag at the ripe old age of six.

As a kid you only think of this ‘W’ as a distraction from the screaming match in the other room. He's with you the whole night; you two play with those shitty hand-made toys, hushed whispers of joyful banter passed between you both like secrets from the two beasts next door. Too busy with your new imaginary friend that you don't notice when the ruckus beyond that plywood door comes to an abrupt halt.

The next morning when you wake up it's not your blood you're rubbing out of those laminate wood panels—the cleanest that kitchen floor had ever looked in all the years of your childhood—, but at least you aren't alone.

A sharp stabbing pain in your knuckles is what pulls you from your stupor.

Eyelids blink in harsh, quick flutters, and the crimson-stained floors transform into a broken mirror, your shattered, masked face reflected back at you. It takes you a moment to register that you're here, standing in a fucking bathroom and not your childhood home, then another to finally make the connection between your aching knuckles and the fractured glass in front of you.

Your eyes drag downward. Down, down, down. Oh-so-slowly until they land on the mess of glass and—more fucking blood—torn fabric that is your hand.

Your palms, burnt far beyond repair, may be unfeeling on even the best of days, and you'd long since have become sort of used to the lack of sensation. But the backs of your hands? They weren't completely untouched by that godforsaken flame, but that didn't mean they were as resilient as your scarred palms.

So you actually feel more than just see the jagged shards of glass that stick out of your gloves—the thin, everyday kind, not the thick ones you use for combat—, embedded deep in your skin.

You stare down at it for a prolonged moment, unseeing. Watching that deep red bubble up from around the protruding shards and spill over, soaking into the black cloth surrounding it. For a second the thought of ignoring your self-inflicted wounds crosses your mind.

You don't feel like running down to medical for the second time today. Don't want to be questioned by the nurses there, or any of your soldiers you may run into, or, worse, have to explain this little incident to your newest member. Then he could notify her, and the last thing you needed was for someone to question your mental stability—it was bad enough when your own Shadows did it.

You don't move, don't step away from that dreadful mirror. No. Instead you must have decided that you haven't tortured yourself enough for today and look back up. Gaze into those fragmented pieces of glass and very, very stupidly bring up your uninjured hand to—god, when had you become such an idiot; wasn't one mental breakdown enough for a day?—tug down your mask.

A quick and fluid motion that you immediately regret. The fabric is only bunched up beneath your chin, you'd given yourself that easy out, hadn't even unhooked it from around your ears. But you didn't take it.

Looking back into your own reflection only garnered feelings of shame and disgust. The uneven raises and dips of your scarred flesh never failed to worsen your already diminished self-image.

It was all your fault.

Fingers find your freshly cut up hand, the tips of them dipping into the wounds like some fucked up paintbrush.

So many had died.

Your blood is the paint.

Of your team, yes, but also the hundreds of innocent civilians.

Gliding across the glass, ignoring the jagged bits that scratch up your finger pads.

And yet you had saved the same man who'd brought so many people all that pain.

Because you loved him.

Because you had to be that loyal little soldier you had always been, you couldn't leave him behind.

It only makes the rust-colored smudges more prominent. A win in your book.

Couldn't just let him burn—as he let you.

When you look into that disfigured reflection—that ‘W’—, when those matching irises lock, all you can see is that broken man.

So you correct those mistakes.

That man who failed as a leader, as a soldier, as a student, as a son.

Mend the shattered pieces of his psyche.

The little boy who had grown to be the disappointment his parents knew him to be.

One bloody line at a time.

Who his father had predicted he'd become.

And become just like his mother.

Well, before he died.

And when you meet the reflection again, she's smiling back at you.

Your mask lays discarded on the blanket beside you. You aren't certain as exactly as to when, but somehow, one way or another, you had left the adjoined bathroom and were now seated on a bed you hardly used.

In a bedroom that rarely saw use—even before the massacre; had spent all your time in his.

In your lap is your injured hand, seated atop an old t-shirt to provide a makeshift worktable for you to tend to your wounds. A first aid kit on the bed beside you. Right next to the mask.

Each of your movements are done with a practiced sort of efficiency as you pluck each little shard from your skin with a sterile pair of tweezers. Needing to remove the larger chunks of glass before you can remove your glove and gain access to the smaller fragments.

Crimson still dribbles from each slice with every pull, every tug of the glass out of your skin. Any bleeding that had stopped, that had coagulated during that little intermission spent in the bathroom, restarting once the flesh was ripped back open.

By the time you're able to pull your glove off the poor thing is soaked entirely with your own blood, completely ruined beyond repair.

You fold it, tucking the soiled thing into the small, untouched drawer of the bedside table.

You pretend, telling yourself you'll take care of it later. That you just had nowhere else to put it. Didn't want to ruin the bedsheets too.

The next step is picking out all those tiny bits of glass, and the hardest part about that is keeping your gaze focused for long enough to find the little shits who seem to be doing some kinda disappearing act.

Each shard, to the best of your ability, is now laid out on the shirt you'd place on your lap. The poor fabric now stained with blooms of red that hadn't been there before, dotted with transparent triangles of varying sizes.

Another painting.

Cleaning the wounds is a much easier feat; it doesn't take the same quarter hour that removing the glass had. The needle piercing through your now sterilized flesh isn't nearly as painful as the original injury had been.

You barely even feel it; don't even flinch when you have to restitch certain parts over and over.. and over again. More pigment for the painting below.

After that and a quick layer of antibiotic cream it's time to bandage the mess that is your poor right hand. You can't even pretend to care as you wrap the appendage in layer upon layer of that sterile white bandage. Around and around and around until your fingers, sans the thumb, palm, wrist, and up to the beginnings of your forearm look like a mummy’s limb.

When your now-mummified hand reaches over for your mask, you miss. Trying again yields the same result and the sudden chill down your spine is accompanied with a stabbing throb settling deep in your temples.

Movements sluggish, you reach again, the exertion leaving you breathless. Panting as you try again, body cold, then warm, heating up. You're shivering but your entire body feels like it's just been deep fried in a pot of fucking conola oil.

You're okay, you're fine. Just- maybe, maybe you had waited too long to stitch yourself up.

The world spins in your peripheral, cold sweat forming under your uniform.

If you could just get your damn mask-

The next attempt has you tumbling off the bed, too slow to catch yourself.

Excess saliva pools in your mouth, too much for you to swallow and doing so makes you feel like your throat is clogged up by an overweight toad.

Both palms splayed out on the military-standard carpet, you don't even register the stinging in your still very much injured hand.

Lips part, tongue trying to escape as saliva leaks from the corners of your mouth and, fuck, it's a challenge to keep it from dripping onto the fucking floor.

The moment there's a firm knock at your bedroom door is the same one when you start dry heaving on the floor like a damn dog.

You can't let whoever it is see you like this—you don't even have your mask on!—, especially when you continue to act like a fucking mutt and crawl your way back to the bathroom. In the end you disregard the knocking and whoever's on the other side in favor of losing that protein bar—aka the only thing that had been in your damn stomach—into a porcelain bowl.

Next is viciously rinsing your mouth out with water and an untouched bottle of mouthwash, then crawling back to the bed.

The knocking has become much more insistent now and you barely manage to get on the damn mattress, slap your mask over your face, and tuck your bandaged hand in your lap before calling out a rough, “what.”

“Don't mean to disturb you, sir,” Ah, Venn. What a lovely surprise. “But.. can I come in first? I'd rather have this discussion face-to-face.”

You sigh, gaze flicking around for a spare glove before just muttering a defeated, “come in.”

She enters quickly, and, almost as if somehow knowing about your raging headache, carefully shuts the door behind herself with a soft click.

“Sorry for bothering you, I know you don't get a lot of time to yourself,” she apologizes again, to which you brush off with a small wave of your gloved and thankfully non-injured hand.

“Don't be sorry. Now, you needed something?”

“Yes.” She answers quickly, then hesitates.

“Spit it out.”

“It's about.. it's about him.” Venn finally murmurs. But her reluctance seems more like something she's doing for you rather than herself.

You don't need anyone's pity, so you grit out a bland, “Graves?” Pointedly ignoring the bitter taste the name leaves on your tongue.

“Yes.” She sounds dejected at this, her gaze flicking down to where you've hidden your other hand between your crossed legs before darting away again. It's none of her business, so Venn doesn't mention it. “He's become very.. uh, insistent about seeing you.”

“Seeing me?”

“Yes. He, uhm, said.. something.”

“Something? C’mon now, Venn, don't bullshit me.”

She winces, opening and closing her mouth a few times before simply not saying anything at all.

“What did that fucker say t’ you?” You ask, growing defensive.

“Nothing.”

Her answer is too quick. You ask again.

“Nothing- really.”

“So you came to my room, completely ignoring the fact I'm not in my office- to tell me.. “nothing”?”

Venn averts her eyes, sighs, then drags her gaze back to yours, “it wasn't about me.”

“Was it one of your teammates?” The thought of that backstabbing asshat talking shit to, or about, one of your soldiers makes last week's rage spark. Only verification could ignite it.

“No.”

“...are ya gonna tell me?”

“I don't want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because..”

“Because it's about.. about you, sir.”

That sends a wave of shock through your system, eyes widening in disbelief. “Me?”

“Yes.” Venn reaffirms. “You.”

“What about.. me?” It couldn't be anything good, that's for damn sure.

She looks away again, shaking her head ‘no’.

“You're not gonna tell me, are ya?”

“No, sir.”

“Fine.” You say, resisting the urge to groan in disappointment. “You're dismissed then. I'll.. look into it.”

She nods, and with that, Venn is gone.

And the room is quiet again, as if she were never here.

Looks like you'll need that new glove sooner rather than later.

__

Masterlist | One | Two | Next

__

@cptg00s3 @ruthgrimxiao @20nerd04-blog @gloma08 @mikahrh @in-down @hauntedapplefarm @mello-life69 @unkn0wnd3ad @tayaisback @starre-eyes @gabbvr-dog @suhmie @lazyrel @spiritsofthedead @yeonpm @its-ares

If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know in the comments!

#call of duty #cod x male reader #male reader #call of duty x male reader #call of duty x reader #reader insert #graves x male reader #gay #phillip graves #phillip graves x male reader

[bonefall]

sort of clanmew question: after a cat's warrior (or medic or etc) ceremony, is there a fun little period where cats will try out different nicknames for them? or do they choose themselves, or some other way?

They do choose for themselves! The full name is holy; the nickname is kind of like... the sheath of a sword.

The blade is what's valuable. You can change your scabbard as much as you want. You can decorate it, replace it, change its straps, and it will not affect the sword within.

So, there's no one correct way to choose your nickname. You can let your buddies come up with one on their own, or pick a way you'd like it to be said. Some names could contract into another word, which can be a source of amusement. If you stop liking it, you can change it.

The only rule is that there has to be one sound from the prefix, and one from the suffix. If that's not done, it is dancing around acknowledging the full rank.

Nicknames are also NEVER used at holy ceremonies. The full name is an incantation, StarClan is supposed to gaze down when it's invoked in full.

(A cat from another Clan could shout your name out in a battle, so they can ask StarClan to watch them kick your ass)

#More of a Clan Culture thing so I'll answer it now #Warrior names #Better bones au

[dimeadozencows]

Spy and medic heartfelt conversation and after spy bares his heart out medic prefixes his reply with "listen, from one old slut to another, "

#tf2 #tf2 spy #tf2 medic #i headcanon them as close friends but it looks super one sided cus spy never looks like he enjoys anything #id appreciate this not being tagged as ship but. yaknow. the worlds your oyster do what you wanna #i wont be upset seriously 👍🏽 #i wanna draw this sm

[er-cryptid]

entero-

-- small intestine

-- a combining form

.

Patreon

#studyblr #notes #my notes #medical terminology #medical terms #medical flashcards #medical flash cards #medical terminology flashcards #medical terminology flash cards #medical language #medblr #medical notes #med notes #health science #health services #premed #nursing #scientific language #prefixes #suffixes #medical prefixes #medical suffixes #root words #medical root words #health terms #medical communication #medical recording #note cards #flashcards #flash cards

[drdemonprince]

if im so opposed to psychology as an oppressive elite network of control and im opposed to essentially all other systems of authority and hierarchy, it really does provoke the question of why i publicly identify and brand myself as a "doctor"

and the real answer is just that when i got my phd, i was incredibly jazzed to have an official prefix to my name that was gender neutral, and because i thought it generally sounded pretty baller -- tho the latter is ultimately only true because of its status implications. and then, once again, the dr proved to be an asset when i started publishing and trying to sell books. and ive pretty much kept it around passively ever since. but it feels increasingly hypocritical. especially since i loathe people treating me as too much of an authority figure.

im reading freddy deboer's new book, and i didnt realize until starting it that he has a PhD as well, in rhetoric, and that he was in graduate school from 2009 to 2015, which almost perfectly lines up with when i was. i nearly went to graduate school for rhetoric as well, funnily enough; an old rhetoric professor of mine absolutely salivated over my final project in his course and begged me to apply to phd programs in the field. in the end i applied to many political science phds but am glad i didnt agree to attend any of them, tho having selected psychology instead brought its own winnowing of life possibility. suffice to say it left me thinking about alternative realities for myself, and provoked me once again to rethink my public branding as a PhD

nobody with a phd in the humanities identifies publicly as a doctor other than dan savage's local celebrity english professor brother, bill. and lots of people think he is pretentious for that. its unlikely id be swanning around with a dr in front of my name all the time if i had gotten a phd in poli sci or rhetoric. but with psychology you can get away with identifying as a doctor simply because the field has a quasi medical, authoritative association in people's minds. which is not great. i cant say that evoking any of that aligns with my actual values. so what to do. theres already another person with the exact same name and credentials as me who brands herself as devon price. i guess im professionally a bit stuck with the bad associations, i do think it's kind of darkly apt that i have this big glaring inconsistency, i think it gives the true anarchists and communists out there a reason to view me with skepticism which i probably deserve. i feel that my work has always gotten stronger by imagining them as an audience reading me with a critical eye.

[the-owl-tree]

Hi it's WARRIOR GAMES TIME. after the first games Hiddenwheat (Peeta) has one of his hind legs removed (don't as how cats can do this) and Goldfleck (Cinna) makes him a rudimentary cat prosthetic (think not quite peg leg, not quite crutch). Boltfire (the name ive decided on for katniss) can't grow fur on parts of her hind legs and had pretty scratched up ears (shes also partially deaf).

OTHER CHARACTER DETAILS Primrosepaw would probably be Duckpaw if not for the fact that primrose is a valid prefix. She has a fluffy nub tail (like a duck tail) and her full name would've been Primrosetail. She loves her mom but would've ultimately asked Boltfire to name her.

Boltfire actually has several names. Legally (cat legally?) and historically she's either referred to as Boltfire, the name Snowstar gave her, or Jayfire, the name Silverstar gave her. Family and friends call her Bolt-tail, though, a name she requested Skunkstream (Haymitch) give her after the war. Hiddenwheat also changes his name to Wheatstone (cause stone oven).

Skunkstream's alcoholism is now idk eating fermented berries and fruits. He doesn't tell anyone his Victor name. Goldenfur (Effie) jokingly called him Skunkstream due to his horrible hygiene and general demeanor.

Snowstar and Silverstar are weirdly and uncomfortably clean and unscarred. Boltfire, the daughter of a med cat and sister of a med cat apprentice, recognizes this means they get the best medical care.

That's all I have rn

veeerry interested....is the capitol an entirely separate clan or are they an entity of clan leaders that sacrifice their own warriors for these games? also really like the idea of boltfire having multiple names, very nice very nice

also, could not resist drawing primrosepaw and boltfire :3c

#sorry for no actual designs i drew these last night and then slapped some rough colors on them lol

[sysciety]

CDD terms and related things where it's just breaking down different types of DID (part of a megapost I'm making but breaking it down into parts for simplicity) DID - having 2 or more distinct parts/identities, and the presence of dissociative amnesia P-DID - full term: partial-did. Described as having a dominant/main part with other parts fronting/"intruding" less often. Not in DSM-V but in the ICD-11 (Medical term). Sometimes viewed as a subset of OSDD 1 on a community scale. Doesn't normally involve amnesia but sometimes can. Sometimes described as "host is always co-con" (but may include other presentations) PF-DID/C-DID - PF: polyfragmented. C: complex. Community prefixes used to denote "severe" cases of DID. Involves having high fragment counts, and several subsystems. Normally has high alter counts in general but not as a requirement. Formed from types of inescapable/daily abuse, commonly forms of RAMCOA (Ritual abuse/mind control/organized abuse). CANNOT APPEND TO OSDD 1. Medical/clinical term = you can get diagnosed with it Community term = you can't get diagnosed with it but people in these communities will likely know what you're talking about

#dissociative identity disorder #actually dissociative #cdd system #did #p did #pf did #polyfragmented #as always feel free to correct me if I've gotten something wrong #want these to be understandable but also accurate #cdd tarts

[the-delta-quadrant]

people claiming that bi has always been and is always inclusive of nonbinary people are actually doing a disservice to nonbinary people.

because that's a lie.

bisexual started out as a medical term. are you really trying to tell me that doctors who were too busy pathologising bi people knew or cared about nonbinary people? they chose the prefix bi for a reason. they believed there were only two genders and bi people were attracted to both.

and even now, a lot of discussions by bi people about being bi are painfully binary. there are so many exorsexist bi people around. most of the time it's not actually someone outright telling you that you don't exist, but rather a subtle undertone under most discussions that we don't exist or don't matter. looking at how a lot of bi people talk about being bi, you would absolutely think that the majority of bi people really only are into men and women, so it's bullshit that people say "bi has always meant attraction to all genders" because it clearly hasn't and doesn't - unless they just put us into men/women lite.

claiming a universal nonbinary inclusivity actually won't help us address exorsexism.

(and i'm not saying exorsexism doesn't exist in other mspec communities - i've literally seen people say "i'm pan, i don't care which of the two genders i date" - but it feels way more prevalent with bi, because it's older and pan, omni and poly are way more explicit about there being more than two options in the first place.)

#lgbt #mogai #queer #lgbtq+ #gsrm #lgbt+ #nonbinary #genderqueer #bi #bi week