#Airway visualization

[medicalequipmentabimed]

Medical Video Laryngoscope

A medical video laryngoscope is an advanced medical device used by healthcare professionals, particularly anesthesiologists, emergency physicians, and critical care specialists, to visualize the larynx (voice box) and facilitate endotracheal intubation.Fully waterproof design covers the device for damage

[abbotjack]

Overtime .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

pairing : dr. jack abbot x reader x dr. michael "robby" robinavitch

summary : You told yourself you were just taking your time. Just late for a blind date Samira set up. But the truth is, you stayed behind on purpose. You listened to their voices. You waited. You weren’t supposed to want this—not from them. But you've been holding it in for too long. And they’ve been watching you just as closely. INSPIRED BY PREVIEW FOR NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE.

warnings/content : Threesome (M/F/M). Vaginal and oral sex (f. receiving). Set in a hospital locker room. Praise, light power dynamics, subtle possessiveness. Emotionally restrained men. No m/m interaction. No protection used. Yeah really no plot just filth

word count : 4,672

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

The trauma bay smells like alcohol swabs and synthetic latex, and something heavier clinging underneath—stale blood or antiseptic, it’s hard to tell which. Someone’s wiped down the counters but not the floor. There’s still a puddle under the base of the gurney, shiny and half-dried, not enough to slip on but enough to keep you standing a little off-center.

You leave the curtain half-drawn behind you as you head toward the locker room. Not in a rush. You don’t move like someone eager to get out—you move like someone delaying something they haven’t put a name to.

Your body’s on autopilot. The kind of post-shift shutdown where your hands still flex like they’re gloved, your spine’s too straight from twelve hours of standing, and you haven’t realized how hungry you are until your stomach knots around nothing.

The hallway lights feel too bright. The door handle cold against your palm. You step inside and let it swing shut behind you. The air is still. Not silent, exactly—just muffled. Contained. The hum of the vents.

You stop at your locker and open it. A half-eaten granola bar sits on the shelf next to your spare scrubs. Your hand rests on the hem of your scrub top. You don’t pull it off.

You just stand there. Listening.

Not to yourself.

To them.

From somewhere down the hallway you can hear Jack and Robby trading tension like it’s clinical procedure.

“You pushed the paralytics too early,” Jack says, voice low and clipped. “She wasn’t ready.”

“She was already bottoming out,” Robby answers. “I didn’t see you moving any faster.”

“If I waited, we would’ve had a stable line.”

“If you waited, she would’ve lost her airway.”

It’s not yelling. They don’t yell.

It’s quiet. Controlled. So precise it hurts to listen to. Like they’ve done this before—not just here, but in a hundred trauma bays before this one, in years they never talk about.

You know the way they argue. You’ve watched them do it across body bags and shift changes. But this time, you don’t move on.

You just stay.

You reach for your phone.

8:07 PM – SAMIRA don’t ghost me

8:08 PM – HIM still good for 8?

8:08 PM – SAMIRA please go i told him you were hot like ER hot he’s new he’s NORMAL u need normal just flirt kiss him if he’s not annoying

You stare at the screen for a long moment. Type out :

Still at work...

Then delete it.

The plan was simple. Leave on time. Shower. Maybe mascara. Meet Samira’s friend for a drink somewhere tolerable. You hadn’t been optimistic, but you’d said yes. You even wore a lace black bra, not too sheer, just something that made you feel like a person under the hospital layers.

But instead, you’re still here.

The voices carry again.

“You want clean intubation? You wait for visualization.”

“You want a pulse? You don’t wait at all.”

And then, clear as anything, you hear it—

“You always think you’re right.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

You’re halfway out the locker room before you realize you’re moving.

One hand still on the doorframe, body loose with something between exhaustion and defiance.

You don’t think. You don’t plan it.

You just lean into the hallway, and say,

“Looks like two old white guys who still can’t figure out how to intubate a patient.”

The silence that follows is surgical.

Jack’s head turns slightly at the sound—reflexive, automatic—but the second he sees you, something shifts.

A flicker of recognition. Like a signal’s been hit.

His shoulders square. His mouth goes still.

He turns the rest of the way. Not fast. Just… deliberate. Like a spotlight locking on. His eyes skim your face, your chest, then back to your eyes—taking in everything and giving nothing back.

Robby follows a second later. He’s already smiling like he can’t decide if he’s impressed or pissed.

“Oh, I know she’s not talking about us,” Robby says.

“Well I know she’s not talking about me,” Jack mutters.

You lift a brow. “And if I am?”

You hold their stares for a breath longer than you should. Then you turn. Not fast. Not flustered. Just… done.

You walk back into the locker room without a word and leave the door open. You don’t have to look to know they’ll follow.

And they do.

Jack enters first—quiet, unreadable, his presence pressing in without needing to speak.

Robby follows a beat later. He exhales, half-laughs under his breath, and says :

“You’re mouthy today.”

“I’m post-shift,” you reply, not facing them yet. “And this is the third time this week I’ve heard you two go at it like divorced dads at a resuscitation workshop.”

“You’re still here,” Jack says, watching you. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had a date.”

Robby’s brow arches. “Had?”

“Supposed to meet someone. Samira’s friend. He just moved back to Pittsburgh.”

“You're not going?”

You glance over your shoulder at them. “Clearly I’m running late.”

You don’t wait for their response. You just pivot—slow, deliberate—like the conversation’s over. Like you didn’t just hand them the truth in a sealed envelope and walk away from it.

Jack shifts. Robby studies you.

You add, quieter now, without turning back :

“Figured if I stalled long enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to go at all.”

A beat.

“Guess I’m just not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood for what?” Jack asks.

You hesitate—just for a second.

“Nice,” you say.

And that’s when it happens. That snap in the room. Like someone closed a valve too fast. The pressure spikes.

“You wore lace,” Jack says.

You stop mid-step. Turn slowly. Blink.

“Excuse me?”

“That strap peaking out doesn’t look standard. You wore lace under your scrubs.”

Robby’s gaze flicks down, measured. “On a trauma shift.”

“It’s what was clean,” you lie.

It sounds false the second it leaves your lips—thin and fast, like you’re trying to sweep something off the floor before anyone notices. And both of them notice.

Robby doesn’t correct you right away. He just tilts his head, eyes flicking briefly down the center of your body—not ogling, but noticing. He lingers at your waist, then lifts his gaze back to your face, calm and unshaken.

Then, without a hint of mockery,

“No,” he says softly. “It’s what you picked.”

The quiet that follows isn’t comfortable. It vibrates.

You shift slightly, the hem of your scrub top sticking to your lower back. Your chest feels too tight in the tank beneath it. The lace underneath is starting to itch, but not from discomfort—just awareness. The fact of it, now exposed, somehow makes it feel sharper against your skin.

Jack’s still watching you—shoulders squared, hands at his sides, not moving. But it’s the stillness that unsettles you. The patience of it. Like he’s already read the outcome and is waiting for you to catch up.

“And you stayed,” Jack says, voice low.

Not accusing. Not surprised. Just the truth.

You look toward the exit, like that’ll help you regain control. Like pretending you’re still on your way out will change what’s already unfolding.

But you don’t move. You don’t even blink.

His voice drops—not teasing anymore. Just steady. Clinical. Like he's reading vitals straight off your chart, and he already knows how the story ends.

“You haven’t changed. You didn’t go to your car. You didn’t even unclip your badge.”

Robby's voice cuts in—smooth, but anchored with something harder.

“You’ve been waiting.”

A pause.

“You missed your date on purpose.”

You laugh, too quickly. It’s not convincing. It’s the kind of sound you make when you feel the edge of something sharp and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

“Right. Because standing around while you two argue like it’s foreplay is a great way to spend a Friday night.”

Jack doesn’t even flinch. “You mouth off in the pit. You flirt without smiling. You track us when we speak.”

You shift your weight. “I track everyone.”

“Not like this,” Robby says, voice tighter now, like the act of calling it out is doing something to him too.

Jack’s eyes narrow—not in anger. In certainty. “You ask us questions you already know the answers to. You stall your movement when we pass you. You hold the vitals clipboard like it’s a shield and a dare.”

“You wait for our shift overlaps,” Robby adds, voice lower. “You take the longest hallway. The one that goes past trauma, even when it’s not the most direct.”

“You hold eye contact longer than anyone on this floor,” Jack murmurs. “Until it matters. Then you look away.”

And you do.

You already did.

You didn’t even realize you dropped your gaze until Jack took that step forward and the room got hotter.

You look down at your shoes like that means something. Like it gives you back a piece of yourself.

But it doesn’t.

Jack sees it.

You hear it in his tone—how something in him tightens.

“You think we don’t see it?”

Robby’s voice is quiet, but it lands heavy. “You think we haven’t wanted to say something sooner?”

Your pulse climbs to your throat.

You make yourself look at them—at both of them.

Their faces are unreadable, but not blank. You can feel it radiating off them—attention. Restraint. Intention.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask.

Jack doesn’t hesitate.

“Because the second we say it, we’re not just talking anymore.”

The air between you cracks open.

You feel your stomach dip, your chest clench, your calves tense like they’re bracing for something that hasn’t touched you yet.

The silence this time is worse.

It lingers.

It buzzes.

You realize you’ve been holding the edge of the locker the entire time—so tight your fingertips are red.

You swallow, but your throat sticks.

Then you say it :

“You think I wore this just to get your attention?”

Robby doesn’t move. His voice doesn’t change. But his gaze drops—slowly—to your clavicle. He watches the way your pulse shifts under the skin.

“Did you?”

You try again. “No.”

It barely makes it out. Too breathy. Not defiant—just unraveled.

“Then why aren't you going on that date?”

You know the answer. You’ve known it since you stood in front of your locker too long. But saying it? That’s something else.

“Because I didn’t feel like sitting across from some guy who’s never set foot in an ER and explaining why I showed up thirty minutes late and still covered in adrenaline.”

You look at them now, full on.

“I’m good at this. I’m better than good. And I’m not going to spend the night pretending I’m smaller just to make someone else feel bigger.”

Jack’s gaze sharpens—not cruel, not even surprised. Just locking in. Like a monitor flatlining and spiking at once.

“He wouldn’t have known how to talk to you,” Robby says. It’s not a dig. It’s a diagnosis.

Jack, quieter now, “He wouldn’t have known how to see you.”

You almost respond.

But your mouth stays open and useless. Because they’re right. And you hate that some part of you wanted to hear it from them.

Robby steps forward. Not crowding you. Just present. Enough to tilt the room.

“But we do.”

Jack’s voice is a whisper of heat.

“We’ve seen you. All along.”

It sinks into your chest.

You feel your jaw twitch. Your vision tightens.

Jack continues. “We’ve watched you lead. Watched you pull two lives back from the edge this week. Watched you make choices most residents would’ve hesitated over.”

“You think we haven’t noticed that your hands don’t shake when it matters?” Robby says. “You think we don’t see how much it costs you to keep control all the time?”

“You’ve been waiting,” Jack says again. “You just didn’t know if we’d be the ones to break it.”

You shiver. You don’t know if it shows.

Your breath catches on something inside you, and suddenly you’re braced between them—not physically, but gravitationally. Like they’ve closed in without moving.

“I don’t—” you start, but Jack’s already stepping behind you.

“You don’t have to lead right now,” he says, voice low, close to your neck. “You don’t have to perform.”

“You already did,” Robby says. “And we saw it.”

“You’ve been better than most of the other residents for months.”

“You just never let anyone say it.”

“You called the chest tube before I did,” Jack says. “And you did it without hesitation.”

Your whole body aches now. Your shoulders. Your legs. Your hands. All of it. Like tension has been your armor and now it’s slipping, inch by inch, to the floor.

“You moved,” Jack says, “like someone who knows what they want.”

Robby watches your face. Your breath. “Do you?”

You try to answer. Nothing lands.

Jack is behind you. Close enough now that the air bends. That your spine straightens without permission.

“You want permission,” he murmurs.

You nod, barely. “Permission for what?”

"To stop pretending you don’t need this.”

“To be seen.”

Jack, a little closer, a little deeper, “To be told you’ve been good.”

You inhale sharply.

Jack leans in—his breath just behind your ear.

“You’ve been so good.”

You break.

“You’re standing still,” Robby says softly. “For the first time all day.”

And it’s true. You don’t remember when you stopped pacing, bracing, pretending. But you’re still now. Still and shaking and too full of something you can’t name.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat.

“You’re not supposed to do anything.”

“Just stay,” Robby says. “Just let go.”

Your fingers slip from the locker. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And when Jack leans closer—

“Say it,” he whispers.

Your voice cracks.

“Close the door.”

And Jack moves.

The lock clicks.

The air shifts. And you're not the same.

It’s not that it gets hotter. It just presses down—thick, charged, intentional. You’re not used to this kind of quiet. Not in the locker room. Not between them. Not like this.

You don’t turn around. You just stand there—heart hammering, breath shallow, arms loose at your sides—because the thing you’ve been circling for weeks? It’s not circling you anymore. It’s here. It has you.

Jack doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. You feel him behind you like a current. Stillness, held so tightly it hums.

Robby’s in front of you, leaning back against the lockers. Watching. Palms braced behind him. His gaze is steady—assessing, not predatory. Like he’s watching your vitals rise in real time.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. But then Jack says—

“Turn around.”

You do. Slowly.

Your pulse is in your throat now. You’re not trembling, not really. Just over-aware of everything—the heat of your own skin, the way both of them are looking at you like they’ve already decided.

“Take off your top,” Jack says. Calm. Commanding. A tone you’ve only heard once before, during a double code. It made your hands steady then. It makes them ache now.

You peel your scrub top over your head. Fold it. Set it down.

“Tank too,” he adds.

You hesitate for half a second. Then you reach for the hem and lift.

The fabric clings slightly, damp from heat and wear. As it pulls over your head, the lace edge of your bra drags against your ribs—cool, sharp, suddenly too exposed.

You know they can see it now.

Robby shifts off the lockers, gaze steady.

“That’s not the kind of bra someone forgets they’re wearing.”

Your mouth dries out.

Jack’s eyes rake over your chest—slowly, deliberately—and when he speaks, his voice lowers.

“Take it off.”

Your hands fumble at the clasp, just for a second. It’s not nerves. It’s exposure. You’ve stripped down a thousand times in hospital locker rooms, but never like this. Never while being watched.

The lace hits the floor. You don't reach for it.

Jack steps in close enough to ghost his fingers over your collarbone. He doesn’t look at your breasts. He looks at your face.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he murmurs.

Behind you, you feel Robby’s warmth draw near. He’s not touching you, but his presence is a second gravity. You’re caught in the pull of both of them.

“You’re not shaking,” he notes, voice low.

“Should I be?” you ask.

Jack’s eyes flicker.

“We’re not going to be gentle.”

Your breath catches.

Robby moves behind you, hands bracing gently on your waist, not grabbing—just anchoring.

“You want us to take it from here?” he asks. “You want to stop thinking for once?”

You nod. Not because it’s polite. Because it’s the only thing left in you.

Jack leans in. “Good.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not rough either. It’s contained—all sharp control, jaw tense, mouth firm, tongue deliberate. Like he’s tasting you to see if you’re telling the truth.

You kiss back. Open-mouthed. Hungry. Barely holding your balance.

Robby’s hands trail up your sides as you kiss Jack, fingertips dragging gently over your ribs, your sternum. When Jack breaks the kiss, you’re already breathing hard.

“Bench,” he says.

They guide you to it. You sit, knees slightly apart, spine straight.

Jack drops to one knee in front of you. His hands go to your waistband. He looks up. “Yes?”

You nod again. “Yes.”

He slides your scrub pants down slow, watching your face. You don’t look away. Your underwear is next—low-cut, black, delicate. His thumbs hook into the sides and pull them down in one smooth motion.

Now you’re bare. Fully.

And they’re both still fully clothed. That does something to you. Something low and sharp and needy.

Jack’s hand smooths up your thigh. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“You’ve been so fucking good,” he says. “You kept it together all shift. Gave everything to your patients. Took nothing for yourself.”

He leans in.

“That ends now.”

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue starts slow—flat, firm pressure over your clit, no teasing. No buildup. Like he’s been waiting for this and he’s not wasting time.

Your hips twitch, but his grip locks you down—one arm slung under your thigh, the other braced across your stomach, holding you exactly where he wants you.

You can barely breathe. Your hands scramble for something to hold.

Then you feel Robby behind you.

He climbs onto the bench, one knee beside your hip, chest flush to your back. His arm wraps around your shoulders—steady, grounding—and his mouth finds your jaw.

“Relax,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “Let it happen.”

Jack’s mouth moves with maddening precision—every flick, every circle deliberate. Not fast. Not gentle. Exactly what you need. Like he’s been studying the way you breathe for weeks.

You whimper. It escapes before you can catch it.

“Good,” Robby whispers. “That’s good. Let us hear you.”

Jack groans low into you and your hips twitch again. You can’t help it.

“Jack—” you gasp.

He doesn’t stop. His grip tightens. You feel his tongue change rhythm, pressure intensifying just enough.

And then—

You come.

It hits like a wave, cresting hard and then crashing down your spine. Your body shakes with it. Jack holds you through the whole thing—never backing off, never letting up until you’ve ridden it to the end.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is wet, eyes dark. Controlled.

“You’re going to come again,” Jack says.

You barely have time to breathe before he stands and undoes his belt.

Behind you, Robby doesn’t move far. His hand slides up, slow and deliberate, until it rests gently at your throat—not choking, just there.

His mouth finds your ear again.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

Jack pushes his pants down just enough. His cock is thick, flushed, hard.

He strokes himself once. Twice.

“You want this?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“You ready to be fucked like you deserve?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your thighs go weak at the praise. It shatters something soft inside you.

Jack lines up. Grips your hips. Pushes in slow—inch by inch.

He’s big. Stretching. Real.

You gasp. Clutch his arms. He groans when he bottoms out.

“You take it so well,” Robby murmurs behind you.

Jack starts to move—deep, even thrusts. His hips roll, grinding against your clit every time. You can’t stay quiet. Not with the way he fills you, not with Robby’s hands on your skin, not with both of them murmuring praise you didn’t know you craved.

“That’s it,” Jack growls. “Take me.”

“You’re doing so well,” Robby breathes, lips at your neck. “So fucking good for us.”

You’re going to fall apart again.

“Jack—”

“I’ve got you,” he pants. “Don’t hold back.”

You don’t.

The second orgasm is messier. Sharper. It rips through you like a current, and this time, when you cry out, Jack slams into you and holds.

You pulse around him. He groans.

And then he comes—hips pressed deep, cock twitching inside you, a low growl caught in his throat.

The locker room goes still.

Your head drops back against Robby’s shoulder. You’re breathing like you just ran a trauma code—fast, uneven, body humming from the inside out.

Robby’s arms stay wrapped around your waist, anchoring you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw.

You nod.

Jack’s still inside you, hands gentler now—steadying your hips as you both come down.

“You did so well,” he says, quiet and low.

You exhale. A shaky laugh escapes—half-sigh, half-something else. Robby kisses your shoulder. Your skin still buzzes with aftershock when Jack finally pulls out.

You whimper—barely audible, not from pain, but from the absence. The sudden ache of being empty.

Robby doesn’t let you fold in on yourself. His arms stay around you, his chest flush to your back, his hands firm at your ribs. Holding you there.

“Easy,” he whispers, brushing damp hair from your neck. “You did so fucking good.”

Jack steps back. His pants are still open. His cock glistens, softening, but he doesn’t tuck himself away. Doesn’t move far.

He just watches.

Your eyes flutter open.

Robby shifts slightly behind you—just enough to look down at you from the side.

“She’s not done,” he says, voice quiet but certain.

Jack doesn’t answer. But the way his jaw clenches—you know he agrees.

“You okay?” Robby asks again, lips brushing your temple now.

You nod.

He smiles, slow and crooked. The kind of smile that means something soft is about to feel dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Your body jolts at the words—like your nerves haven’t caught up yet, like the phrase reached something deeper than muscle.

Jack smirks. “She likes that.”

“She loves that,” Robby murmurs. “Don’t you?”

You nod again. This time slower. Your throat is too tight to answer out loud.

“Up,” Robby says gently. “Let’s get you on your back.”

He helps you shift—guiding you gently by the waist as you lie back along the bench, your spine pressing into the cool surface, legs still parted and loose from the high.

Then Robby slides down from the bench. Jack doesn’t move. He stays where he is, leaning against the wall.

Arms folded. Cock still out. Watching.

Robby presses your legs apart with both hands, thumbs stroking gently along the inside of your thighs.

Then he lowers his head. Close. Close enough that the heat of his breath makes you twitch.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs.

“She’s a mess,” Jack says. “Made for it.”

You let your head fall back. Your chest rises, tight with expectation.

Then Robby’s tongue licks slow up your center, and your hips jolt.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t test the waters.

He dives in.

He eats you like it’s his job. Like he’s been thinking about this for weeks.

And maybe he has.

His mouth is precise — all tongue, lips, and breath — alternating pressure and rhythm, soft where Jack was firm, deep where Jack was tight.

You’re gasping by the second pass. Your thighs twitching.

Jack steps in, crouches beside the bench. His hand finds yours and grips it — firm, grounding — as Robby mouths your clit and groans into you.

“She’s close already,” Robby murmurs, not lifting his head.

“She’s been close since I pulled out,” Jack mutters. His free hand trails along your breastbone, tracing lazy lines between the soft curves of your chest.

“You holding back on us, sweetheart?” Robby says, flicking his tongue against you.

“No—” Your voice breaks. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Jack says.

Robby’s mouth works faster now, tongue circling, flattening, sucking you into the space between his lips and holding you there while your body starts to shake.

“I’ve got her,” Robby murmurs.

Jack strokes your arm, smooth and slow. “Let go.”

You do.

The third orgasm rips through you. It’s a full-body collapse — thighs trembling, fingers digging into Jack’s arm, head thrown back. You moan loud this time, and neither of them shushes you.

Robby doesn’t stop.

He works you through it — mouth never letting go — until your legs start to twitch uncontrollably and your voice cracks from the noise caught in your chest.

“Easy,” Robby says. “That’s it.”

You’re gasping. Trembling. Raw.

Jack leans in, kisses your jaw. Then your mouth. Then your cheekbone.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs. “You should see yourself right now.”

Robby finally pulls back, chin soaked, breathing hard. He leans in and kisses your inner thigh—slow, reverent.

“You’ve got nothing left to prove,” he says.

You want to answer. You can’t. All you can do is lie there, letting them both touch you, praise you, look at you like you just gave them something holy.

Which maybe you did.

You smile, lips swollen, hair plastered to your forehead. You exhale slowly, like your body’s still remembering how to breathe.

Robby runs a hand through his hair and rises to his feet, then offers his arm without a word.

You take it. Let him help you sit up, your legs shaky. Jack is already tucking himself back into his boxers, and zips his pants without a word.

He doesn’t wipe himself off. Doesn’t look away.

He moves like he’s still in it—like he’s taking every part of you with him.

No one says anything.

You find your clothes from where they were dropped and pull them on slowly. You don’t bother with the bra.

You grab your phone from your locker where it was buzzing, thumb hovering over the screen for a second too long.

9:12 PM – SAMIRA well??? did you kiss him?? is he weird pls tell me you didn’t ghost again girl don’t make me call the ER, i swear this guy is TOO GOOD to waste!!! if you’re hiding in a supply closet again i’m going to strangle you

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter. “Samira’s texting me.”

Jack lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Robby leans in just enough to see.

“She really thought you were gonna make it to that date, huh?”

You snort, exhausted. “She probably already told him I got called into another trauma.”

Jack wipes a hand down his face. “Not technically a lie.”

Robby smirks. “You gonna tell her the truth?”

You lean back against the lockers, phone still in your hand, and exhale.

“What—‘sorry, got fucked on a bench instead’?”

Robby whistles low under his breath. “Yikes.”

“Bit much,” Jack agrees, but he’s not even trying to hide the smirk.

“Pretty sure you’re done with blind dates,” Robby says.

You slide your phone into your pocket, still smiling.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

[land-of-departure]

here I am, recovering from an asthma attack after taking my inhaler, and I’m suddenly reminded that almost every asthmatic you see in tv and movies should be DEAD!!!!

[the-ancient-dragons]

EXTRA OVERCOMPLICATED ICEWIIIIINGS

You know how it goes, Joy Ang is cool and I'm not yadda yadda move on.

Details and explanation below!

Otherwise, next week is the last Pyrrhian tribe: NightWings!!!! See you then!

More overcomplicated dragons.

If the RainWings are the design that destroys Joy's work the least, this one takes the original IceWings and tosses them out the window. Going into this design I knew it would be hard, but boy was I unprepared to get art block for 2 months because of it.

I eventually found my inspiration in the girdled, spiny, and horned lizards, They. Are. So. Freaking cool. If you think a crocodile skink is awesome, look up girdled lizards. Not as fancy with the eyeliner but they are SPIKY!

I fell in love in particular with the giant girdled lizard. I knew I wanted the scales of the IceWing to look rough and like they were made of actual ice or diamonds - or covered in frozen sleet and snow - and this lizard was basically perfect inspo for that. Also, blue spiny lizards. They are basically real life IceWings, full stop.

But even though I had perfect references to draw from, I still struggled with the head shape. I wanted them to feel like a reptilian polar bear, which is why I slightly blunted it, but I think I should have gone with a more angular shape instead. I can always change it later when I do their full-body.

I did have a very fun time with the horns, however. I wanted them to be a mix of narwhal teeth and icicles (yes, narwhal 'horns' are actually overgrown teeth. One tooth, usually, but sometimes they can have two!!). Before I get distracted I should explain how they grow: the scales at the base of the horn are constantly growing and essentially create the horn. That's what gives them their narwhal-like spirals.

I chose a similar approach to the neck spikes (untangling that mess was fun, let me tell you. Grids are very useful when doing many scales/spikes). At the base of each one you'll notice a scale forming it. On the back, I wanted to give a good side profile of the spikes. Technically, they are ever-growing, and need to be trimmed or sharpened constantly.

Now, as I was drawing them, I asked myself: why do IceWings need a mane of spikes?

A stupid question, you might wonder, but to me it's very important. Animals look the way they do for survival. So, while it's important visually for the ice theme, how could they be explained scientifically?

And then, when thinking of polar bears, I got my answer.

How the hell does a giant sparkly dragon hunt in the north? Seals would probably be part of their diet, but it's hard to sneak up on them if you're a ten ton reptilian flying creature, so I imagine they would tackle the problem like a polar bear would by waiting by a breathing hole and pouncing at the right moment. They already look like a frozen snowbank, so that part is easy.

But any hungry polar bear would be doing the same thing, and like a giant dragon, they would be waiting downwind of the breathing hole too. They wouldn't pose a threat to adult dragons or dragonets larger than them, but in real life polar bears are dangerous hunters and prey on humans. Why wouldn't it prey on a dragonet it thinks it can take on? Things in the WOF universe seem to be extra big (or scavengers/humans are tiny) so I think it would be a feasible for a desperate bear to hunt a dragon. They cannibalize, anyway, so going after another apex predator isn't out of the question. In this case, the horns and neck spikes would be a dragonet's saving grace, discouraging attacks from behind and especially on their necks. A bear's teeth could never get through their scales, but they could still crush their airways and choke them, and the spikes would keep them away from their necks and protect them from that fate. As they grow up, the neck spikes' length and strength could be used to determine a dragon's health and help them select good partners.

Finally, continuing with the bear theme: for the scales, I took inspiration from polar bear fur (which is actually hollow) to help design how IceWings preserve their body heat. In polar bears, its used to make them look white by reflecting the light of the sun, but in IceWings it could keep the cold out. Air pockets would create a barrier between them and the outside elements, and whatever gets in would meet their thick layer of fat that does the real warming. Yes, IceWings would be squishy, but you'd probably poke your eye out or stick permanently to their side a la tongue to cold metal pole.

Don't hug IceWings; they're very cold.

[pathologicalreid]

Dude I love ur writing sm!! It’s literally so good and Buried Alive was amazing! If ur down for it (totally no pressure at all) I was wondering if u would eventually write a second part where Spencer helps the reader with the aftermath? Like maybe they struggle with PTSD or severe claustrophobia after that? Idk ur literally amazing enough I’m sure u have great ideas and again, it’s completely up to u, I was just wondering

above ground | S.R.

part one part three

in which spencer helps you cope with the aftermath of your abduction, and you reciprocate

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category: hurt/comfort, angst

content warnings: claustrophobia, being buried alive, nightmares/night terrors, ptsd, death, cpr, use of pet names, mentions of drugs, therapy, suffocation

word count: 2.2k

a/n: hello anon! i am absolutely always down for spencer reid hurt/comfort!! thank you so much for asking!!! i've been super overwhelmed with all of the support i've received on buried alive and i'm so so grateful for all of the kind things people have said.

Standing in a dark room, you looked around your surroundings. There was nothing around you that told you where you were. The walls were all blank, the ground was cement, and it was too dark for you to even see the ceiling.

Hesitantly, you reached out your palm, touching the wall just for it to be met with something… damp? You pulled your hand away, and your skin came back dirty. Your stomach churned as you observed the soil that had settled in the creases of your fingerprints. “No,” you breathed, quickly moving to dig at the walls.

You felt it on your elbow next, like the dirt walls were encroaching on you. You turned around to see the dark room was just getting darker, and the walls started to deteriorate. Like an avalanche, the dirt of the walls falls to the ground, covering your feet, “No,” you cried out this time.

Digging at the walls just made your earthly prison bury you faster, so instead, you tried to climb toward the ceiling. You whimpered in defeat as you reached the previously unseen ceiling. The loose earth reached your chest, constricting your breathing. You tilted your head back in an attempt to keep the dirt out of your mouth.

Your face felt cool like a gentle breeze was being blown on it. You choked, but to your surprise, you didn’t choke on dirt.

            There were hands on you, one hand on your shoulder and another on your waist. That didn’t make sense to you, someone hauled you into a sitting position, patting your back in an attempt to help you clear your throat.

            The choking turned to coughing, which then turned to dry heaving off the edge of your bed. Very rarely did anything ever come out, but you kept a trash can there just in case. You blinked as someone reached over and turned on the lamp on your bedside table, the comforting hand remained on your back.

            Desperately, you tried to catch your breath, tilting your head back as you tried to open your airway. “You’re safe. I’m right here, angel,” Spencer whispered from behind you, he leaned his forehead between your shoulder blades and drew hearts on your back with his index finger.

            You took a deep, shuddering breath as you finally filled your lungs, visualizing the air going in and out of your body. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth.

            Spencer continued whispering to you, not once did he tell you that your dream wasn’t real because it was real. To you, being buried alive was very real. The suffocation was real, it had happened to you.

            Two months ago, you had been abducted and buried alive by a family, a mother and her two sons. All of whom were in jail awaiting trial. The two agents from the Omaha field office who had left you alone in the funeral home apologized profusely, you had a private meeting with the director of the FBI, and the BAU rallied behind you, it was nice, but none of it made the fear go away.

            The first nightmare came the same night you were back in Virginia, and you had screamed so loud that your neighbors called the police. Spencer handled everything, and when the officers insisted that they needed to speak to you directly, he flashed his FBI credentials, something he really wasn’t supposed to do.

            Your response was to avoid sleeping, at least at night. You stayed awake at night, reading, or watching TV with headphones on, and you slept during the day so that when you opened your eyes, you could feel the sun on your face. The problem was when you needed to go somewhere, you didn’t sleep, or when it rained, you didn’t sleep.

            The exhaustion just made your anxiety worse, and Spencer caught on to it. He sat you down on the couch and held your hands, telling you that he understood that you didn’t want to feel like you were burdening anyone with your nightmares, but he needed you to understand that you were killing yourself at the same time.

            He didn’t do it for everyone, but for you, Spencer took over the role of protector. He found you a therapist in the district that specialized in patients with PTSD and claustrophobia. It was an hour round trip, but Spencer was more than willing to take you the first few times.

            Dr. Montgomery quickly diagnosed you with PTSD and claustrophobia. You hadn’t realized that claustrophobia was something you could be clinically diagnosed with, but the doctor told you that there’s a difference between a fear of enclosed spaces and what you had. He was straightforward, which you liked, and he told you that your claustrophobia was a response to the traumatic event that you had experienced.

            A steady course of treatment that included medication and exposure therapy had slowly been giving you your life back.

            But then there was Spencer.

            Spencer had Morgan help him take the inside doors of your apartment off the hinges so air would flow, and you wouldn’t be afraid of suffocating. He left the ceiling fan in your bedroom on even as the weather cooled so the air never got stale.

            Six weeks ago, you had mentioned offhandedly that you were having a hard time sleeping in total silence, and Spencer had come home later with a white noise machine.

            When you apologized to him for needing the lights on to sleep, he responded by stringing lights around the entire apartment, telling you he read that warm light can help prepare the mind and body for sleep.

            He turned in all of his PTO, even accepting some from David Rossi, who didn’t use his anyway, so he could stay home with you while you were on mandatory medical leave. He tagged along to therapy appointments, to the neurologist, and even to the FBI physician who needed to clear your physical injuries to your ribs before you could return to the field.

            On his nightstand, there was a stack of books all about claustrophobia and loving someone with PTSD.

            Not once through this whole endeavor did you question your relationship with Spencer, he made himself perfectly clear through his actions. He wasn’t going anywhere.

            The FBI physician cleared you two weeks ago, your neurologist faxed Hotch paperwork stating you were without any deficits, and your psychiatrist told you that as long as you felt like you could avoid your triggers, you should be able to go back to work. In fact, Dr. Montgomery thought going back to work could be beneficial.

            You were supposed to go back tomorrow.

            Spencer was now sitting in front of you, and he offered you a small smile as you blinked yourself out of your nightmare-induced stupor and met his eyes, “There’s my girl,” he whispered. For a moment, you focused on his movements, smoothing your hair back with one hand and leaving the other hand resting on your waist. “I love you. You’re safe, you’re at home with me,” he reassured you.

            You narrowed your eyebrows, “It was- I was in the ground again.” Hesitantly, you looked down at your hands, they were perfectly clean, not a speck of dirt to be seen.

            “It was a night terror, angel,” he said, speaking gently to you as he reached over and pulled the strap of your tank top up and over your shoulder from where it had fallen. A night terror, not a nightmare.

            Tears dropped down your face when you closed your eyes. “I couldn’t breathe,” you whimpered. Taking a gasping breath, you looked at Spencer as you tried to draw air into your lungs, “I couldn’t breathe, Spence. I couldn’t breathe.”

            Quickly, Spencer pulled you into his lap and held you, “Shh,” he cooed. “I’ve got you, my love. I’m right here,” he murmured as you set your chin on his shoulder and cried.

            “I suffocated,” you whispered, it was a fact of your life, that you had stopped breathing for a period of time. The doctors estimated you had been down for almost ten minutes.

            His hold on you tightened, “I know,” his voice broke slightly. “I know, baby,” he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “What do you need?” He asked, watching you intently as he reached up and used the pads of his thumbs to wipe away your tears.

            You blinked the last of your tears from your eyes before meeting his, “Can we go outside?” You asked him, placing your hands on both of his shoulders.

            Spencer nodded, leaning over to grab his glasses off of his nightstand before standing up and picking you up as he went.

            Instinctively, you yelped, but a laugh escaped your lips. It was a foreign feeling sometimes, but Spencer always knew how to elicit a smile from you. “Put me down,” you said, but your tone was light.

            Once your feet were touching the ground, Spencer looked at you, “I just wanted to see you smile.” He said earnestly.

            Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth quirked up, “Thank you.” You reached over to grab your phone off the charger and slide it into your pocket before you led Spencer out to your apartment’s balcony. He sat down on one of the chairs and pulled you down onto his lap.

            You let him hold you, not moving and just letting your body settle on top of his. The cool autumn air filled your lungs as Spencer held you. You let him hold you because you knew that his fear was just as valid as yours. While you were afraid of confinement because you had been confined, he was afraid of you dying because you had died.

            “I can hear you thinking, honey,” you whispered, leaning your head on his shoulder. “What’s on your mind?” You asked him, taking his hand and intertwining your fingers together.

            He sighed, “I’m worried about you,” he admitted. “I want to tell you not to go back to work yet, even though I know that logically it’s the next step for you,” Spencer said, you watched his honey-colored eyes as they studied your face. “And I know that you need it, you need to return to something dependable.”

            You move your head so you can look him in the eyes better, “But?”

            “But,” he continued, “the BAU isn’t dependable. You have this great routine that we’ve very nearly perfected and I’m so worried about you straying from it. The long hours at work could very well cause you to lose all of the progress you’ve made in the last two months,” he tells you candidly. “What happens when you need to get on an elevator, or when you need to get on the jet, and you can’t? What about when you-“ He cut himself off, swallowing thickly before he said something he couldn’t take back.

            You shifted so you were facing him, shoulder to shoulder, “What is it, Spence?”

            He took a deep breath and cupped your cheek with his hand, “The last case you worked on, you died. I pulled your dead body out of a casket. Fuck, Y/N,” his curse took you aback, he usually strayed from swearing. “I did CPR on you before Morgan took over,” he finished, voice growing hoarse.

            Your lips parted; you couldn’t answer him. You didn’t know how to answer him, but you took his hand and selected his third and index finger before pressing them to the pulse point on your wrist. In response, he sighed and leaned his forehead to yours. You watched his lips move as he silently counted the beats per minute.

            The both of you jumped when your phone went off, and dread filled your stomach when you checked your phone.

            Penelope Garcia: Local case. Round table room in thirty if you’re up for it.

            “If you ask me to stay home, I will,” you told Spencer, sweeping his curls behind his ears. “I won’t hold it against you, I’ll tell Hotch I need more time.”

            Spencer shook his head, “You know I can’t do that. I can’t make that decision for you, and I don’t want you to make the decision for me, you need to choose what you want.”

            You both went, Spencer distracted you for the entire elevator ride up to the BAU, but he was still tense. Even though he insisted he was fine, you knew him better than that.

Spencer followed you up to Hotch’s office and when you told Hotch you wanted to work but you didn’t feel ready to be in the field, your unit chief nodded and told you that you were welcome to stay in the local precinct and work on a geographical profile with Spencer.

            You watched the tension leave Spencer’s body. He tried to tell you that you didn’t need to do that, but you just rolled your eyes and dragged him to the roundtable room.

[charseraph]

Comparison of Bongspider, a human socialized crown, and a homeworlder speaking.

Homeworlder crowns use less eye movement in expressing, opting for a rich set of vocal cues and tones.

Bongspider adopted jaw and lip movements to visually supplement his speaking despite all of his human speech being produced in his throat. This is analogous to a human performing continuous, confusing arm and hand gestures as they spoke.

Note, crowns produce meaningful sound with their jaws and ventral skeleton in addition to their airways.

[m1rotics]

Devourer (Gods must be fed)

cult leader's son!hongjoong x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k

warnings: near death experiences, divine suffering, heavy religious aspects to this, strangulation, anything can be phallic if you believe, gore but it's not too explicit, consumption of blood, something is severely wrong with hongjoong, set after his to have, his to hold.

when you were around five or six, you used to stand at the edge of the river. directly on the edge. just enough that if you took another step you'd plunge beneath the water.

you'd do it daily. you'd sneak through the forest, walk through the flowers, and hang off the edge of the riverbed, swaying back and forward, balancing. you'd sigh and close your eyes, soaking in the chirping of birds, the sound of running water, the smell of grass in the air. you'd imagine yourself as a bird. something small and light. free.

you don't know why you sought so much out of it, it wasn't like you could swim. no one taught you. no one bothered to.

until one day, you slipped or misstepped, either one. it doesn't matter how it happened, and suddenly you were plummeting into cool water. you gasped, kicking and failing, water burning its way down your lungs. your body felt so heavy and the water felt so thick, like you were moving through cement. it was like a brick was tied to your ankle yanking you down. you remember everything slowing— your breathing, your blinks, the world around you.

you closed your eyes at some point during the struggle. perhaps when you realized you were going to die, and didn't want to see the taunting of light, of the surface anymore. prayers droning in your head like a whispered lullaby. everything dulled after that, not just visually but mentally. your thoughts lulled. you didn't recognize whose hand wrapped around your wrist, you didn't recognize who dragged you out the water, but you felt it. distantly. hands pushing on your chest until you gasped, until the water that was clogging your airways spurted out. they left before you woke, curled up on the grass. it was eventide by then, and you heaved yourself home to your distressed mother. she clutched to her chest and told you it must've been an angel. you hold that close to your chest.

you liken that experience with how it feels to thrusted into hongjoong's orbit. a dunk under ice cold water. the burning of your sinuses, the ache of your lungs. it sums up the experience quite well.

the shift comes slowly.

it's kind of like ice melting. slow if you're watching, but surprising when you finally realize all the ice cubes in your glass is gone. hongjoong occupies a good portion of your day– from lunch to anytime he decides to leave you alone. he disappears randomly, comes and goes. most of the time without saying anything, other times he's whisked away.

hongjoong is quiet, but not peaceful. it's a stern silence, a practiced one. silence that holds millions of words, constantly thinking about something.

sometimes, when you look at him, you wonder what.

he's different than what you thought, but not in the way you thought. hongjoong is odd, he is confusing, and he is apathetic. but you didn't realize how lonely he is. the drastic difference between how he interacts with the rest of the world. he spends so much time worrying about keeping everything running.

hongjoong's not alone, he's never alone. he's isolated.

hongjoong's a chameleon, an illusion, an actor. he puts on masks and he wears them well. he breaks off his rough edges to fit in. he smooths out his wrinkles, hones his softness. smiles with just enough teeth, the perfect amount of squint to his eyes. he dances around conversations with poise and grace. no empty stares and loaded silence. he's well-mannered, he's nice. he's sweet.

he's an idol.

he's the golden boy.

he is a leader.

he is hope.

hongjoong has perfected how to be human. has mastered the art of shepherding.

from the conversations you've seen hongjoong handles his duties calmly. with a firm hand and rationality. he's mindful but effective. he takes things into account you never would thought of. because surprisingly, hongjoong is always thinking about other people– how they feel, how they react to things, what makes them comfortable. he's perceptive. eerily so. he expresses sympathy, empathy, compassion, but it's just another mask. another camouflage.

“do you ever fear your ordination?” you ask, cross-legged, looking out into the distance. there's nothing but forest and water.

“no, i don't,” he replies.

you don't respond, and the sound of nature fills the silence, rustling of leaves, running water, the song of birds.

“but sometimes i wish i wasn't his son.”

there's something small about it. soft in all the ways hongjoong is usually not. delicate. like he's telling you a secret. a bit of his shell chipped. his soul bare, and for you to hear– to know.

you can't help the giddiness that simmers within you. that girlish, warm feeling. the one that fizzles and pops on your tongue like soda. addictive. that's what it is. he's confessing, he's confiding in you. he's letting you see him. he's letting you be the few that genuinely know him. and that– that makes you feel special.

—

it's funny the things that slip your mind, and the things you can get used to. you've accepted hongjoong's presence. you've come to terms with it, gotten used to it, enjoyed it at times.

yet, somehow you don't realize hongjoong's never taken you to his house until you're in front of it. he's been to your house. lounged there. your mom loves him. well, she's always been fond of him. she always tried to push you to talk to him when you were a tad younger. when he was scrawny and bug-eyed. his knees perpetually bruised. she gives you a weird, knowing look when he shows up, and she grins when he immediately heads to your room when she declines his offer to help around.

hongjoong seems to like your house because he comes by often. practically lives there when he's not busy.

if you didn't force him to go home, you're pretty sure he'd try to sleep at your house. but for once, he's retired to his house. well, he didn't tell you where you were going, ignoring your questions as he continued to graze through the village. his hand enclosed around your wrist. hongjoong doesn't ever hold your hand, only ever your wrist. you don't ask. you know why.

you're so shaken you forget to take your shoes off at the door. you don't make it a few steps before hongjoong pins you with a pointed stare.

“shoes,” he observes.

you freeze, eyes flitting down to your tennis shoes, “oh, sorry.”

nobody moves. hongjoong stares.

“are you going to take them off?”

you nod and drop to your knees. he doesn't walk away. he doesn't move an inch. he stands and he watches. your skin prickles, and you fumble with your laces. nerves making you shaky. he's still looking when you're propping yourself up and off your knees. he doesn't turn away until you're following behind him. the house isn't big. it's modest, slightly bigger than yours, but not enough to be considered a mansion or anything of the sort. there's pictures on the wall, mainly of him and his dad.

there's one that sticks out, and your gaze lingers. a picture of hongjoong and his mom. hongjoong's younger, he looks to be eight or nine. he's on her lap, wearing a button-up and black shorts. his face pressed to hers and her arms wrapped around his waist, holding him tightly. his smile is face splitting. his eyes sparkle. his face is flushed. childish joy.

it's the only picture hongjoong looks genuinely happy in. the picture feels oddly personal. you wrench your gaze away and continue following behind him.

hongjoong's room is ordinary. there's pictures on the wall, landscapes and people from afar. a notebook on the desk across from his bed. his bed neatly made. a lone teddy bear on his bed, leaning on his pillow. you eyes drift to it. it's weird being in here— in his space, you mean. you've been alone with him plenty of times, but this feels different. hongjoong sits in the chair in front of his desk.

you plant yourself on his bed, “who got you that?”

“got me what?”

“the teddy bear. he's cute. i just didn't peg you for a plushie guy.”

hongjoong stills, “my mom got it for me when i was little.”

“and you kept it?”

he fully turns away from you now, picking up a pencil and writing on one of the papers stacked on his desk.

“i don't like being alone.”

it's barely audible. practically whispered, but you hear it in the silence.

“good thing you have me now,” you quip.

it's a joke, mostly. a little bit of concession. a lot of acknowledgement. it's the closest thing to acceptance.

hongjoong glances at you over his shoulder. the smallest smile plays on his face. cherubic and sinful.

“that's right,” he titters, coquettish.

a swirl of dread and devotion flicks in your stomach like the tail of a cat.

you pluck at a loose string in the seam of your shorts.

—

hongjoong's sitting on your bed, and you're sitting besides him. your back pressed against the wall. a book in your lap. it's about birds. another book about deer sits on your dresser. you flip another page. you're not reading anymore, more so staring at the pictures. barn swallows perched on wooden fences. a jackdaw in the grass. a falcon mid-catch. they all begin to blur together. wings, beaks, feathers. free.

you shut the book and turn your head to look at hongjoong. he's sitting with his knees curled, notebook resting on his thighs. scribbling down things. you never know what he's writing.

perhaps, you should ask one day.

you don't know how long you spend observing him. could be minutes, could be a few seconds. it doesn't matter. hongjoong eyes spring up to meet yours. they brush over your face, down to the book on your lap.

“birds, huh?”

your eyes sweep back to your book, then back up to him, you nod.

hongjoong closes his notebook and sets it to the side to sit on his knees, “what do you like about them?”

“i like their wings,” you mutter.

hongjoong hums, “what else?”

“i like their beaks, their talons, their eyes…”

hongjoong crawls closer, simpering. eyes round and dark, spilled ink. wasted midnight. everything happens so slowly. it's preventable, you could move. you could stop him, but you don't. his hands cradle your face, and you just watch, waiting. wanting. his lips press against yours. your eyes flutter shut. they're as smooth as velvet, as gentle as rain. a sweet caress. it's different from the last. it's honeyed, it's sweet. it's nothing like him. at the same time it's everything like him because there's one thing missing: love.

it's a mimicry of it, of teenage romance and puppy crushes. it's a caricature of girly fantasies, of cheesy love stories like the one tucked somewhere in your room. it's a whisper of affection. ownership compacted into something digestible. possessiveness dotting the edges of it. still, your heart trembles in your chest. something bats its wings within the confines of your stomach.

hongjoong smiles against your lips.

he pulls away.

you sigh, subdued, “what was that for?”

“i just wanted to,” he replies, tongue swiping over his lips. you wonder if it tastes like you.

—

listlessness has become a common companion. you don't talk to anyone much besides your mom and hongjoong. you never had much to do before this. you have next to nothing now.

well, there's always seonghwa, but you've never spoken to him before. you weren't allowed to. the thought sours on your tongue. it turns all thick and arcid like spoiled milk. anyhow, you can now. that's what matters. seonghwa's a new addition. a precious commodity. rare human contact. you'd never talked to him before hongjoong. never had a reason to. seonghwa was someone you'd hear about but never hear from.

hongjoong's chatting with seonghwa about something. the words faded into unintelligible nonsense after a few minutes, so it must've been important. you don't like hearing about that stuff. it's not for you. too serious, too much of a hassle.

your eyes drift to the window. you can see the field of crops from here. it's nearing the end of september, so the harvest effort is en masse. you can see jongho and his parents. san and his dad. you think san is smiling, probably laughing too. jongho’s back is facing you. you imagine yourself out there. nostalgic bites into you like the crack of a whip.

“do you speak?” a smooth voice knocks you out of your head. your eyes narrow, locking on seonghwa.

hongjoong's gone, you realize. the chair beside you is painfully empty. something about that doesn't feel right.

“i do,” you state, harsher than intended. you don't think seonghwa minds. you certainly don't.

“oh, good, for a second i was convinced you were mute. i don't think i've heard not a peep out of you.”

his tone is measured, all the syllables stretched, the vowels slide clean off his tongue. it's so blunt it feels like an insult. you stare at him for a good minute before saying, “never had a reason to speak to you.”

seonghwa drums his index finger against the table, “you do now.”

“true,” your eyes fall to it, his fingers are slender, his nails cut. they're pretty, “but i was never convinced you were good company.”

seonghwa chuckles, his fingers ball up into a loose fist. he rests his other arm on the table, crosses his arms and leans forward, “you're funny.”

“thanks,” you mutter, dry.

seonghwa regards you with clinical interest, curiosity, and next understanding. he pulls back after he checks the time, slipping out of his seat, “unfortunately, i must depart, but it was nice talking to you.”

you think the word nice is an exaggeration, but you don't bother to correct him. the door creaks when it closes. you muse on how you didn't hear hongjoong leave.

—

hongjoong is acting weird.

he's always weird, but mostly in a way that you've come to expect. most of the time, it's because hongjoong works different. he does things his way, and tugs you along for the ride. needless to say, you haven't seen him in days. actually you have seen him, but only from afar.

which means hongjoong is avoiding you.

you don't know how you feel about that. the world has become purgatory, and you, a soul that has yet to be damned or delivered. the dichotomy between you and the rest of the world is rapidly expanding and collapsing upon itself, swallowing you up in its wake. you have yet to figure out what this page of life is leading you, but you know it will never end well. you sink your teeth into the apple in your hand. it disintegrates into dust on your tongue, becomes all chalky in your mouth, sticking to your throat when you swallow. you grimace.

you let it fall to the ground.

—

warmth settles over you like a blanket. the breeze raises goosebumps. you gaze up at the cerulean sky, wispy clouds floating by. you're sprawled out on the grass, an arm beneath your head. a leg bent. never mind the poke of the grass and the dirt on your clothes.

hongjoong appears to you like an apparition. you cant your head further back, looking at him from upside down. his pink lips are a straight line, his gaze is empty; hollow. excavated by time and some unknown forces. deja vu strikes you over the head. hongjoong steps forward, tilts his head, watching. his puffed up long sleeves flutter from the wind, two button undone to combat any heat.

nobody speaks. you close your eyes. grass snaps beneath hongjoong's feet. you hear him moving. further away? closer? you can't tell. you don't open your eyes to check.

hongjoong starts humming. low and silken. your skin tingles, dread tugs at your heartstrings. deep breath.

then there's pressure. body weight. hongjoong straddles you, trapping you in place. you don't want to look because you know what's coming, what he's about to do, but hongjoong pauses. you feel him shift, then you feel breath. hot, fanning over your skin.

“open your eyes,” he mutters, giving your cheek a few firm pats. just enough to sting, “look at me.”

your eyes peel open, and hongjoong's eyes look like pitted fruit. wide as saucers. he blinks. once, twice. he looks strangely child-like. he's not smiling. there's no indication of mirth, no curled lips, but there is a glint. playfulness. sunlight beams from around him, wraps around his raven hair like a halo. hongjoong leans back a little, rests more of his weight on your stomach. a thin finger draws a line up your neck, and you tremble, palms sweaty, worrying your bottom lip. hongjoong presses a thumb to your adam's apple, applying ample pressure to make each nervous gulp uncomfortable.

he presses two fingers to the underside of your chin, along the edge of your neck against your pulse, “are you scared?”

hongjoong's voice isn't curious, there's no lilt. there's nothing but monotony. his tone is flat, indifferent. another gulp. you nod.

“good,” his fingers wrap around your throat. lightly, he squeezes. his hands are soft and warm.

“hongjoong,” you whisper. desperate. pleading.

your heartbeat muffles your hearing, reverberates through your whole body, bounces off your ribs. his grip tightens. he takes his time, footslogs you through the experience of manual asphyxiation. at first, the air thinning is annoying at best, making your lungs ache as they push against your ribs in an attempt to expand. it's a mild pain. background noise. a low drone.

you squirm and your hands clasp his wrists, “please.”

you don't know what you're begging for: mercy? non-existent; help? no one is coming to save you; divine intervention? God has his fingers wrapped around your neck.

are the angels watching? you hope they are.

your death will be pathetic but meaningful, merely because of whose hands it is. your vision blurs and you blink away tears.

next, panic sets in.

it hacks through you. cleaves you clean in half. jumpstarts your nervous system. lights tiny fires within you, that pop off into fireworks. needle-like pain shoots through your stomach. you're stomach roils, gurgles, aches. you feel sick. the realization that you're dying hits you. that hongjoong is choking you— actually, it's closer to wrenching now. hongjoong is crushing your windpipes, and you are reeling. your thoughts are disjointed, tripping over themselves. nonsensical. you're convulsing, legs kicking and scratching at his wrist like a cat gone feral. your face is hot, too hot, and there's spots growing in your vision. drool bubbles at the seams of your mouth. your ears are ringing.

hongjoong is enraptured by your struggle. unblinking, laser focused. cheeks flushed all the way to his ears. cherry red. his mouth parted and spit-shiny. a layer of sweat coating his body. his veins are prominent from the effort he's exerting. you think he's panting, his breath labored. his eyes glittering. pupils blown to hell. oil-slick. wild dog.

reality is carefully torn from your frantic fingers, dragging you down, down, down into this middle ground of awareness. limbo. your eyelids are barely holding themselves open, and your thoughts have slowed damn near to a halt. your vision whites.

then, everything blips. shatters and ruptures like a grenade. shrapnel flies. nuclear. atoms splitting and imploding upon themselves. abruptly, air rushes into your lungs. you gasp, sputtering, coughing so hard your throat pulses. you gag. hard. it's disgusting. the world is spinning, rapidly shifting into different color shapes. your throat is scratchy and aching. you already know it's bruised so you avoid touching it.

your hands shoot out to push at hongjoong's chest. you need to sit up. he doesn't budge, but after a few agonizingly long seconds he scoots back onto your thighs.

good enough.

you pop up, and nausea racks through you. you shudder, turning your torso to the side and vomiting. the apple you ate is a tawny against the grass. your throat burns. you sob. wailing like a wounded animal. howling. you can see hongjoong's silhouette through the tears, and he's just looking at you. you push at his chest again, trying to get him off of you. your words fail you. your throat is too scratchy. hongjoong does, reluctantly, separate from you. he doesn't go far though. he sits next to you, like three feet away, and you understand that's as good as you'll get.

you don't know how long you spend sitting there. tears streaming down your face until there's nothing but stray droplets caught on your eyelashes. you sit there until your chest stops throbbing and breathing doesn't feel impossible, and it's shameful to admit that having hongjoong there does help. just a little. he's good company when he's quiet.

you don't tell hongjoong you're ready to go, you simply get up onto your feet. you stand perfectly still to combat the sudden lightheadedness. you take one step, and down you go. hongjoong catches you, tugging you closer to his chest, and you melt. it's nice. the tightness of his hold, the firmness of his body. you try to match his breath, imitating the relaxed nature of him. he loosens his hold, and it feels like you're going to disappear. like you're going to unravel into a pile of nothing, or crumble and blow away in the wind. you tense and hongjoong doesn't let go.

you pull away first. the sun is lower than it was before, light more orangish than white now. you begin the trek through the forest. hongjoong hikes behind you. the walk is silent. no explanations, no insults, no excuses, no apologies.

he did tell you he thought about it, that he would do it. you might be dumb for not being as scared as you should’ve been, as you still could be.

hongjoong has surprisingly soft hands.

—

existing the next day is easy. hongjoong's not avoiding you anymore. you don't ask what's changed. he doesn't tell. there's nothing to be said. whatever that was has made a home between you two, kept cradled in a box no one opens. life goes on. except there's a few changes like your switch to turtlenecks and telling your mom that you came down with something when she asks why you sound like that. life goes on.

night comes, and sleep overcomes you.

the world is fuzzy, shifting blobs of colors. pretty pastels bleed into each other. you're supine. you try to get up, it doesn't work. your arms don't move. your palms are pinned. you try your legs. they don't lift an inch. your nightgown is pulled up past your underwear, warm knuckles graze your skin, they stop below your breasts, revealing your stomach.

every vulnerable part of you is on display. your cheeks warm. they're in between your legs, but you can see their face. obscured. formless. fingertips ghost down your skin till they stop at the chub covering your womb. a few inches from the band of your panties. they repeat the motion. they keep their touches faint. cottony. your skin tingles at the brief contact. they shift from their fingertips to lightly raking their nails down your stomach.

they repeat this twice. they press harder, digging their nails in, a sting accompanies their trail. it makes your stomach tense. you squirm to no avail. you want to rub at the ache. soothe it. they pull away, and it whisks a whine out of you. you try to form words, but they get stuck behind your teeth. your throat throbs. a cold edge kisses the skin under your sternum. they push it slowly, and you gasp. your eyes turn glassy. you ache to touch, to pull out the intrusion. sweat gathers on your forehead. your body feels hot.

they tug it down, and your mouth falls into a soundless scream. tears skim down your temples. skin splits like a seam ripper through thread. it hurts in the way that makes your heart ache and your toes curl. your eyes roll into the back of your head. the blade is both simultaneously cutting and kissing you. you're dizzy on it. dread coils around your heart alongside this euphoric feeling of divinity. a sense of sanctity befalls you.

you're wheezing, choking, gushing. the blood is thick and warm, descending down your sides like ribbons. your wound is sticky. you are leaking. slender fingers are shoved into the wound, pressing past muscles. they manage to reach viscera. your eyes screw shut.

you think of Adam, and God's hands. of plucked ribs and empty spaces. of phallic symbols and slick holes. you wonder if it felt like this– like penetration.

the fingers curl, and you feel god-touched. saints sing and trumpets resound from the sky. plump, warm lips press against the wound. their tongue meets flesh and they groan, hands grabbing your sides, dimpling the fat there as they lap into you.

hongjoong's looking back at you when your eyes flutter open. the lower half of his face red-stained and wet. eyes lidded and blown. his lips tinged red. he smiles, toothy and big.

his perfectly white teeth shine pink.

you wake up with a jolt, sweaty and disoriented, a dull buzzing in your head. your bed is damp and being underneath the covers is muggy.

you drop your heavy head back onto your pillow and stare at the ceiling.

[despazito]

Yet another new study published by Cambridge reaffirming the same patterns in conformation association with heightened risk of BOAS. The study showed that Bostons had a lower prevalence of BOAS in comparison to previous studies with bulldogs, frenchies, and pugs (I'm guessing this may be tied to the Boston having more moderate, less meaty desired postcranial conformation) but the dogs which tested positive for BOAS had the same phenotypes correlated to BOAS risk as in previous studies with other brachycephalic breeds:

The study does acknowledge that while there are statistically significant links between these traits, there was also frequent overlap between affected and unaffected dogs meaning that a BOAS diagnosis cannot be done by purely visual exam and that dogs must be screened with respiratory testing for accurate results.

I do want to draw attention to the stenotic nare graph though, zero dogs with severe stenosis had grade 0 BOAS scores in this sampling..

[craigslisthorses]

Hyperkalemic Periodic Paralysis (HYPP)

Breeds with HYPP; Quarter Horses, American Paint Horses, Appaloosas, and Quarter Horse Crosses.

HYPP

"An inherited disease of the muscle, caused by a genetic defect. A mutation in the sodium channel gene. Sodium channels are pores in the muscle cell membrane which control contraction of the muscle fibers. When the defective sodium channel gene is present, the channel becomes “leaky” and makes the muscle overly excitable and contract involuntarily. The channel become “leaky” when potassium levels fluctuate in the blood. This may occur with fasting followed by consumption of a high potassium feed such as alfalfa. Hyperkalemia, which is an excessive amount of potassium in the blood, causes the muscles in the horse to contract more readily than normal. This makes the horse susceptible to sporadic episodes of muscle tremors or paralysis."

GENOTYPE

HYPP Positive= H/N and H/H

HYPP Negative= HYPP N/N

HYPP horses with H/N genotype means they are heterozygous carriers, carrying one copy of the HYPP gene. If you bred a mare who is H/N to a stallion who is N/N, you would have about a 50% chance the foal is H/N as well. However if you bred an H/N mare to an H/N stallion you will have about a 25% chance the foal being N/N, a 50% chance it will be H/N, and a 25% chance it will be H/H.

HYPP horses with the H/H genotype means it is homozygous, carrying both copies of the HYPP gene. 100% passing the HYPP gene to it's offspring.

I made a thing in case it helps the visual learners out there

IMPRESSIVE (but not really)

Let's talk about the QH stallion, Impressive. All horses that have a HYPP positive gene of any kind, all descend from this horse. Impressive sired 2,250 foals and they estimate he has around 50,000 living descendants. No dilution of lineage will remove HYPP, as it is a dominant trait and will show whether you are 5 generations back or 2.

HYPP SYMPTOMS

HYPP varies in severity, it's not always equal and every horse may have different reactions. HYPP can be confused for tying-up or even colic, they may have difficulty breathing, muscle tremors, sweating, weakness, tremors. In more severe cases the horse may collapse from paralysis of the muscles in the airway and can result in sudden death.

Not every horse who is HYPP positive may display symptoms, making this disease sometimes hard to detect.

IS IT CURABLE?

No. HYPP may be managed with diet and certain medicines for maintenance but it cannot be cured. H/H positive horses have poor prognosis and can be much more difficult to manage.

VIDEOS OF HYPP ATTACKS

CW: Horses in distress, videos may be hard to watch for some.

Video 1

Video 2

Video 3

Video 4

Video 5

Sources (and if you want to read more); AAEP , UCDavis, Tri-State

Is there anything I forgot? Anything to add? Just covering the basics of this disease and what it does to these horses.

[regular-gnome]

hey..

at what point do collectors opt to turn things from puppets to scrolls? I feel like turning an entire living creature into [a piece of paper] is very complicated, while turning them into simple puppets is easier because they keep all the same parts, just simplified and wood?

It is! It depends on the person's proficiency and understanding of the mechanism regarding when and how they change the creature. Once someone gets good at it, the creature can be transformed into a lifeless object without it dying in the process, and they will move on to more complex and efficient ways.

The way I see it, archiving is a form of information compression and storage—and there is A LOT of information. When looking at Earth creatures we have everything from single-cell bacteria to whales that range up to 100 quadrillion cells, all with different sizes. The smallest single-cell critter is 0.3 μm, while the largest single cell is an ostrich egg that can get to 18 cm. So it's not just noting "a cell"—there's also a lot of information about the cell content, size, the DNA, current water, and oxygen levels, what protein it contains and how much. Then there are spatial dimensions. (While we can consider there being more, especially in fiction, I’m sticking to three; trying to visualize four fills me with frustration and existential dread xD) Every cell has its place in space in relation to the others, and all the contents' relations are also important. If, suddenly, all histones materialize inside a mitochondria instead of the nucleus, we can have a problem. Additionally, physical and chemical processes gotta be considered. There's electricity powering our brains, hearts, running nerves, air in airways traveling to lungs, chemical signals traveling between synapses that also need to be accounted for. So, you have all the contents in space, their vectors, and building blocks. Thats a ton to save. This information has to be compressed to be preserved in an organized manner while also remaining lossless so that when returned to its original shape, it's as it was. Not even mentioning that in intelligent beings, there are also minds to take care of. Jellyfish might be fine after 100 years in a static void, but a human? Yhhhhh.

I think the mechanism would work by saving information in intangible magic and assigning it to a physical medium—be it a statue, doll, book, or scroll. If it is physical and can carry information, it can be used. We can argue the mind is part of the soul, or it is a biochemical process, but the fact is nobody really knows for sure what it is and Im not a theolog, so for the sake of this universe, I'll say it's something that occupies the same space magic does and is influenced by chemical processes, meeeeaning it can also be tricked by them. And the magic.

The first degree of preservation would be spells that only change the material but keep all shapes and info in place. This wouldn't require much thought while executing and could be "automated" or worse, taught to mortals (if they have enough magic to power the spell), like petrification or changing someone into wood, metal, or any other solid material. It's not perfect, if the structure is damaged, the spatial information is damaged too. Breaking is one thing, but imagine if the statue melts.

The next step would be assigning objects with some compression and change, like toys and dolls. I feel like there would need to be a system like a content library, so not every single atom is saved each time, but chemical structures like nucleotides in DNA (the ATGC thingies) would just have a shortcut. Larger repeating patterns could also be assigned their own id to save data, and it would slowly stack up. While things are written in intangible magic form and anchored to the medium, the medium can be somewhat customized, like the decorations the Collector added to the dolls. The mind, running in controlled magic, can also be affected, as we saw with Collie trying to scare them and Luz’s dream. On the spell keeping the preserved critter stable has a link to what shortcut it uses so with countless diffrent worlds and structres it wouldnt mix up.

Then we go further into compression, reducing size and dimensions until we reach a point where one axis is almost entirely removed, and we end up with a scroll. Then there are other things—creatures saved as amber miniatures, snow globes, scrolls, or drawings, sometimes purely to annoy the sibling that has to deal with the creature in unhandy form. A more permanent binding would be in a book that can contain a bunch of different animals. Rebinding for long-term preservation is the Curator’s job.

Looking at Earth creatures, eucariotic life shares ancestry with some ancient bacteria that decided to rebel and started to cooperate, so we share similarities even with distant organisms in some strutures since they come from each other. So when it comes to preserving whole populations with relations, the library of compression doesn’t have to be separate for every single animal or plant. For each section of the archive, there would be a common library of building blocks, and scrolls being somewhat separate carrying the exact instructions for body arrangement and the soul/mind/the part that makes them alive attached.

Next is unpacking the information. I think this requires the ability to interpret and recreate what was saved that mortals lack. While they couldn't really unpetrify others, a collector could (assuming the mind hadn’t deteriorated into a husk). In the case of an automated spell, I think it would result in a very lossy transmutation—like a jpg losing pixels, the creature might lose like heart funtion. The Collector's spell also looked temporary or incomplete since an influx of other types of magic (like in Amity or Raine’s case) was able to push back on it. That might also be why they were conscious in the form they were in. Not meant for long just enough to take them to archive in normal conditions. When a creature is heavily compressed, it needs external force to rebuild, as it's essentially written fully in magic. That’s what I think happened to the Owl Beast. Lilith released it from the medium, but since it wasn’t fully rebuilt, it being a magic form attached itself to a magic source.

SO YEAH, its a process that takes quite a while for them to master and it comes with experience. But when experience is based on life it often makes it hard to practice so those with less empathetic approach master it faster. Thanks for the ask! I was dying to talk about that for such a long time and that was a perfect thing to organise thoughts

[kalelactually]

second chapter of ratchlock mecha au !! you can find the first one on my tumblr profile or my ao3 — as always, inspired by @keferon ‘s mecha au, based on pacific rim !! check out their blog, it’s full of delicious art. :3

chapter summary :: in which ratchet swears and has a vaguely southern accent, deadlock still hasn’t woken up, and the author uses the phrase “back to the garage” a ridiculous amount of times. heavily sprinkled with apostrophes.

thx for reading, enjoy !!! <33

fun little note: read ratchet’s voice and thoughts with a southern accent / drawl. it makes for an exhausted, no bs kind of hilarity. i can’t explain it to you, but trust me. XD

——————————————————————————————————————————————

• send out a signal, and i’ll fly low (i’ll find you by the light of your halo) — chapter two

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Ratchet stands on a log that’s halfway suspended off the ground, the figure splayed out in front of him (he’s hoping the height will give him a better vantage point to visually assess priority injuries.) He’d just made a run to the garage and hauled back whatever supplies Lassie (his all-terrain rover) could fit.

(And listen, he didn’t pick the name, that was all First Aid — affectionately named due to her wide dual antennae and Rough Collie color scheme. Ratchet kind of loves it, but don’t tell Aid. He’ll get ideas.)

Wheelie (one of his med drones, also named by Aid. big surprise,) flits around overhead, actively taking visuals of the figure and digitizing partial schematics based off those. He chirps inquisitively from the side, systems whirring as Ratchet jams a hastily-assembled sandwich in his mouth (he forgot to eat it on the way.)

According to Ratchet’s initial assessment, the figure appears not to have any sort of respiration system — sure, there’s external vents on the figure’s upper torso, but there’s no circulatory air flow or chest rise and fall to indicate lungs. That, fortunately, takes two major concerns out of play.

Having finished his sandwich, Ratchet jumps off the log to reassess the mouth and airway. The airway’s still patent, and Ratchet’s pleased to note that the pink liquid dripping out of the mouth and nose seems to have clotted on its own.

And the fact that the liquid stopped flowing on its own indicates that the being likely has some type of clotting factor, or self-diagnostic repair system — which in turn indicates some type of independent processes, and a partial measure of intelligence. And while it might be a new branch of A.I. programming or something similar he hasn’t come across yet — he gets the feeling that isn’t just a new software. (Honestly, either way, he still notes it down with a carefully restrained glee.)

No, something in his gut is telling him that this — this figure, being, or whatever it is — is simply just different. True, it could be some experimental military hardware or equipment, like a remote-controlled mecha suit (which was his initial hunch) but this thing? No. This thing’s alive — and he thinks it’s sentient.

(And this thought, if verbalized to anyone else, might have them look at him like he’s crazy and send him in for a couple rounds of psych. And like, he loves Chromedome and his sweetheart of a husband, but he’d rather not, thanks.)

He doesn’t know how to explain it. He just knows. However, based on that hell of an assumption — he’s currently making a lot of choices that could and will come back to bite him later. (Such as not reporting whatever the hell happened in the last two hours to someone who can actually do something about… well, whatever this thing is. Patient? Yeah, patient works.)

He shakes his head, forcing himself out of it. He’ll have more than enough time to second guess his decisions later. Right now, he has a patient, and that’s all he’s ever needed to know.

Having already felt the being’s neck earlier to try and detect any type of pulse (and come up with nothing,) he moves on to assess and neutralize any major fluid leaks as best he can before transport. He marks down the worst bits of exposed internals and hot spots as he does.

The figure’s broken shoulder joint will have to be stabilized before he can even think about transport, and when he shifts the being’s right arm (with the help of Wheelie,) he finds deep lacerations running through the upper abdomen. (And it. It looks bad. Like it was shredded — like someone took claws to it.)

Ratchet’s not going to even begin to unpack that. Unfortunately, there’s not much he can do for the abdomen at the moment without a welder, but he clamps torn fuel lines and caps exposed wiring in an attempt to buy time.

He takes a moment and sends out an alert for the rest of the med drones to meet them at the site, inputting coordinates with one hand and grabbing a sample jar with the other, an easy confidence in his posture that radiates experience.

And meanwhile the glee from earlier keeps coming back, growing up his spine the more he examines the being’s mechanics (mechanics that someone, somewhere) crafted and poured into them. He runs his fingers down a seam, featherlight in a kind of reverence — even bashed and dented to high heaven, this figure is a vision.

He drops his hand as he catches himself — he still has a patient here, and they’re not getting any better out here exposed to the elements. He really needs to get his priorities straight — he hasn’t slipped like this at a scene since his very early days, when everything was still new, fresh, and stimulating. His entirely professional mechanic’s awe (and mild jealousy) over the being’s construction can keep.

He carefully takes a sample of the pink liquid, catching it in the sample jar as it drips directly from an open line in the being’s dislocated shoulder just before he binds it closed. He tucks the jar safely in his bag, wrapping it in shop towels just in case it decides to corrode its container. It hasn’t shown any signs of corrosion to the nearby environment or his work gloves so far, but you can never be too careful.

(The incident at Jasper Base II comes to mind. Some people could benefit from basic lab rules. Why, yes, he is looking at you, Wheeljack.)

That taken care of, he grabs some construction grade rebar and an extra tarp he had lying around to use as a temporary splint. With Wheelie’s help, he ends up being able to stabilize the shoulder relatively easily, despite the being’s size (and current state of unhelpfulness.)

And once that’s complete, he decides he’s finished what he can, quickly packing up the site. The figure’s as stable as they’re going to get before transport, and the drone squad is almost here — there’s absolutely the concern of more going on with the figure internally that he can’t ascertain, and he needs to get them in for extensive scanning like, yesterday.

He puts in another call to Orion while he waits — but just like earlier when he called at the garage, Orion still doesn’t pick up. And while Ratchet’s never been one for paranoia (that was always Red Alert’s thing,) he’s starting feel something chewing away at the back of his brain. Something feels off about this whole situation (aside from the huge, hulking metal figure,) and he’s never been one to discount his intuition.

(Mostly because it’s hard-earned — but also because he has the skills, knowledge, and temperament to back it up.)

He taps the figure’s undamaged shoulder carefully (as if to acknowledge that they’re still there and very much real,) sighing loudly. The whole shift of his body changes as he does, exhaustion coloring his bones for the first time since he stumbled across a figure in the woods. He glances up at the figure’s face a second later, looking for any hint of consciousness, something to tell him that they’re alive, and listening.

“Hey. I don’t know if you can hear me, but,” and he pauses for a second. “Well, weirder things have happened. Hopefully you’re just out cold — you better not be in a coma or something, because I have no idea how to pull you out. I do not get paid enough for that.”

He watches Wheelie flit around Lassie, her antennae moving up and down as she tracks the drone’s movements, and if Ratchet didn’t know better he’d say they were playing like a couple of kids. Cute, carefree, and oblivious to the world around them that witnessed upheaval only a few hours ago. He continues.

“I hope you’ve got a name. Mine’s Ratchet, in case you were wondering. It’s military,” (and that part is said longsufferingly.) “I’ve just been calling you Scrappy in my head. I hope that works for you, because until you wake up, or come out of stasis, or whatever, that’s what you got.”

He absentmindedly starts brushing dried mud and old paint off the being’s arm as he talks. “And you better wake up soon, kiddo, I got questions. My best friend isn’t answering my calls, which means you’re gonna be stuck with ‘em; so please, be prepared. I’ve got a notebook stash to rival Alpha Trion’s and a 82 year old whiskey cellar on hand, so you better have some answers,” and here, he uncovers some gray paint, voice trailing away as he brushes off more dirt. His eyes widen, eyebrows raising as he reads.

“D34D106K, huh?” and he lets out a whistle. “Hell of a name, if that is, actually, your name. Well,” and he shrugs, “gives me somewhere to start, I guess.

He pats D34D106K on the arm consolingly. Damn, and if that isn’t a mouthful — Scrappy’s better, honestly.

“Can’t make any promises, of course, kiddo, but I’ll do my best to find out what happened to you.” He glances down at his PADD, glaring at Orion’s contact without any real heat. “That is, if my best friend ever feels like calling me back.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

thx again for reading !! appreciate each and every one of you. <33

disclaimer :: i am not an engineer, a mechanic, or a programmer; i know nothing of which i speak. but i do happily take feedback, so if something seems wildly off, pls let me know and i’ll go bother my mechanic relatives until i figure it out.

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• character credits belong to hasbro, idw comics, and the respective transformers franchise. all works enclosed are solely my own, and are purely fictional and meant for the enjoyment of the reader. please do not republish, steal, or likewise pass off my works as your own in any manner, otherwise you will be blocked and reported. ty !! •

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

⚕️ Gallifreyan Paediatric Emergencies

Little Gallifreyans are a bit different from their adult counterparts. Here's how to assess them in an emergency using G-PEAS, if you please.

BIGGER - Google Drive: PDF / Image JPG / Image PNG

This guide is for use on Gallifreyans only. Always seek your human advice from human health providers.

📖 Introduction: Why G-PEAS?

Gallifreyan children differ significantly from adults in metabolism, cardiac function, telepathic control, and physical resilience. Their bodies are still developing key biological functions, making standard emergency assessment tools unsuitable. G-PEAS (Gallifreyan Paediatric Emergency Assessment System) provides a structured approach to identifying life-threatening conditions in paediatric Gallifreyans (ages 0-100).

Unlike adults, young Gallifreyans:

✔️ May only have one heart (Oldbloods develop their second heart upon first regeneration).

✔️ Have higher metabolic activity, resulting in higher normal body temperatures.

✔️ Exhibit psionic instability, leading to false positives in standard consciousness tests.

G-PEAS allows quick identification of critical conditions without the need for secondary tests like artron or Z-cell counts.

📊 How to Perform a G-PEAS Assessment

A Gallifreyan paediatric emergency is scored across five categories, each rated from 0-3, with higher scores indicating increased severity. The total score determines clinical urgency and escalation requirements.

1️⃣ Airway & Breathing (RR & Effort)

Assess the child's respiratory status without assuming respiratory bypass ability (which only develops in adulthood).

Normal respiratory rates: 0-16 years: 14-40 breaths per minute 17-100 years: 12-30 breaths per minute

Signs of respiratory distress: Nasal flaring, retractions, abnormal breath sounds, cyanosis.

Key concern: Young Gallifreyans cannot voluntarily regulate oxygen usage—watch for signs of impending failure.

2️⃣ Circulation (HR & BP)

Determine if the child has one or two hearts and evaluate heart rate accordingly.

Normal heart rates & BP: 0-16 years: HR 50-150 bpm, BP 80/40 – 110/60 mmHg 17-100 years: HR 40-120 bpm, BP 90/50 – 120/80 mmHg

Signs of circulatory failure: Cold extremities, weak or absent pulses, severe tachycardia (>200 bpm), hypotension.

Key concern: Children with one heart are naturally tachycardic compared to dual-hearted children.

3️⃣ Temperature & Metabolism

Metabolic instability is a common paediatric emergency due to higher energy demands.

Normal temperatures: 0-16 years: 16.5-20.5°C 17-100 years: 15.8-20.0°C

Signs of distress: Hypothermia <15.5°C or hyperthermia >21.0°C.

Key concern: Hypothermia in Gallifreyan children impairs psionic and neurological function faster than in adults.

4️⃣ Level of Consciousness (AVPTU & Psionics)

Assess using physical response first—psionic misinterpretation is common in young Gallifreyans.

Signs of concern: Psionic leakage, uncontrolled emotional outbursts, delayed response to verbal or pain stimuli.

Key concern: Unresponsive children may be suffering from telepathic overload rather than neurological failure.

5️⃣ Visual & Physical Examination

Look for signs of injury, vascular instability, or metabolic distress.

Signs of concern: Bruising, petechiae, cyanosis, poor muscle tone.

Key concern: Skin integrity is higher in younger Gallifreyans—visible injury suggests significant trauma.

🔢 G-PEAS Scoring & Interpretation

0-4 (🟢 Stable): Monitor, reassess every 30 minutes. No immediate intervention needed. 5-8 (🟠 Concern): Increased monitoring and assessments, prepare for escalation. Consider sepsis. 9+ (🔴 Critical): Immediate intervention required, activate emergency protocols.

🚨 When to Escalate

HR >150 bpm (0-16 years) or >120 bpm (17-100 years)

Temperature <15.5°C or >21.0°C

Severe hypotension (BP <70/30 mmHg)

Unresponsiveness despite physical stimuli

Psionic seizures or uncontrolled telepathic feedback

📌 Key Points to Remember

✔️ G-PEAS is an adapted assessment system for Gallifreyan children.

✔️ Do NOT assume respiratory bypass is present—children lack the control needed.

✔️ One vs. Two Hearts Matters—heart rate and BP should be assessed accordingly.

✔️ Young Gallifreyans have higher metabolic activity—their normal temperature is higher than adults.

✔️ Psionic responses can be unreliable—false positives may occur in younger children.

Medical Guides These are all practical guides to assessing and treating a Gallifreyan in an emergency or medical setting.

⚕️💕Gallifreyan CPR

⚕️👽Gallifreyan Assessment Scoring System (GASS)

⚕️👽ABCDE Assessment

⚕️⚠️Sepsis Emergency Response (SER)

⚕️⚠️Severe Trauma Protocol

⚕️🌡️Gallifreyan Thermoregulation and Emergency Response

⚕️🔮Psionic Emergency Pathways

⚕️✨Post-Regeneration Management

⚕️💤Gallifreyan Healing Coma Management

⚕️🩸Interpreting Gallifreyan Bloodwork

⚕️👶Gallifreyan Paediatric Emergencies

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features:⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[moonspirit]

Again, on the topic of Armins hair cuz why not? Anyway, so we all know that Annie listened to Armin while she was in her crystal, she became accustomed to his voice changing and all, but…the last time she saw him was when he still had long hair, so naturally she would expect him to have the same hairstyle, right? What do you think were her first thoughts when she saw his short, luscious hair? 👀

HAHAHA HELL YEAH, THIS IS ONE OF MY MOST FAVOURITE MOMENTS OF S4!!!!

The fact that Mappa gave us THIS visual of Armin from Annie's POV is more than enough explanation. I mean LOOK:

Literally the first thing Annie sees is N E C K. The second thing is Super Sharp Jawline. The third thing is ArMAN.

okay he's still a silly boy but still.

Of COURSE she had whiplash! Who would've expected that glossy bob cut little boy to end up glossy undercut BIG BOY? He's taller! His shoulders are wider! This is the guy who's been sitting at her feet and talking for hours? THIS IS THAT SOF VOICE ARMIN NOW?!

Tbh I'd say she struggled to swallow her pie because her airways had squeezed so tight she couldn't move a muscle in her body.

(have to also mention that Annie was basically spoiled rotten since the first half minute - the first sighting of her Armin has after 4 whole years and his first reaction is to protect her from Connie's snickering. Boi. Tone it down.)

[starfxkrinc]

Need my face fucked by Barry so bad.. Like I don’t have any visual but like.. he’s the type to slap your face couple times, tilting it backwards just so he can slide in easily.. Also the type to shove his dick in whole before pulling it out on repeat.. He’s nasty and I am a messy bitch please, I’d call him my uncle too

and he'd be the type to do it til you're unconscious too. completely plugging your airways and watching your face grow slack as you cover his dick in a combo do snot and saliva. if you puke oh fuckin well that just makes the whole thing wetter.

[jollmaster]

Are the silk bandages purely visual to not gross people out or do they do something for him sensory-wise?

Also, as someone who lost my sense of smell because of a painful chemical burn of the upper airways, but has no big scars from it, it's a little funny to me Val got to keep the one thing I didn't. No strong feelings there, just funny.

mostly not to gross; Valentino used to be handsome when he was alive, and now he tries to keep his last dignity and not to show burn scars

and yep, I can understand :D in Val's case, his keen sense of smell is due to his moth "state" and antennae (he also relies more on hearing due to vision loss)

[covid-safer-hotties]

Reference saved in our archive (Daily updates)

An interesting preprint looking at a new imaging technique that can detect covid in the body non-invasively.

Abstract The COVID-19 pandemic has caused nearly 780 million cases globally. While available treatments and vaccines have allowed a reduction of the mortality rate, the spread of the virus is still evolving quickly, resulting in the emergence of new variants. Despite extensive research, the long-term impact of SARS-CoV-2 infection is still poorly understood and requires further investigation.

Routine analysis provides limited access to the tissues of patients, necessitating alternative approaches to investigate viral dissemination in the organism. We addressed this issue by implementing a whole-body in vivo imaging strategy to longitudinally assess the biodistribution of SARS-CoV-2. We demonstrate in a COVID-19 non-human primate model that a single injection of non-neutralizing radiolabeled [89Zr]COVA1-27-DFO human monoclonal antibody targeting a preserved epitope of the SARS-CoV-2 spike protein allows longitudinal tracking of the virus by positron emission tomography with computed tomography (PET/CT). Convalescent animals exhibited a persistent [89Zr]COVA1-27-DFO PET signal in the lungs, as well as in the brain, three months following infection. This imaging approach also allowed detection of the virus in various organs, including the airways and kidneys, of exposed animals during the acute phase of infection. Overall, the technology we developed offers a comprehensive assessment of SARS-CoV-2 distribution in vivo and provides a new approach for the non- invasive study of long-COVID physiopathology.