#canister of oxygen

[omgkatsudonplease]

cells at work except the red blood cells can actually fight bacteria with oxycytosis

[onthegreatsea]

the problem with 99% of art being shit is its really hard to find that 1% thats actually worth my time

[hey-hamlet]

Hey for a new au we can have Izuku's quirk being he can sew! Like he can make things that helps boost people's emotions and quirks if he added something that resembles their quirks.

Oo, taking that idea a little to the left, how about an Izuku who sees the world like bits of string he can sew and weave together - like an Izuku who can weave the atoms of graphite into diamond, or pull threads of iron from blood, spin it into steel and sew it into his bones to keep them from cracking.

basically just an izuku who can weave atoms like cloth

[albonium]

i think i must be in a coma and i've been halucinating the last 5 years

[yumenosakiacademy]

is this replier stupid or smth. "thts smth u dont do!!" its extremely obvious theyre planning 2 kill their self n the 'bad idea' is the Point shut up if u dont hav an answer dumbass cunt

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Thin Blue Line

Tw: overdose

It was supposed to be a simple bust. Just a hit on a suspected stash house that Narcotics and Metro had been watching for weeks. Tim Bradford had gone over the plan five times with his rookie — you — because he knew you liked to be prepared, and because lately, he’d found himself wanting to protect you more than he probably should.

When you’d pulled your vest on that morning, he’d tried not to let his eyes linger too long. Tried not to think about how your laugh made his chest tight or how he’d started looking for you in every room.

But now, none of that mattered. Not with the way your head lolled against his chest as he half-dragged, half-carried you out of the smoke-filled house.

It had gone bad so fast. One suspect tried to flush the stash, another threw a flashbang — then there was the unmistakable hiss of something aerosolized. You’d been closest when a canister hit the ground and popped. Fentanyl. Or worse — carfentanil, maybe.

“Rookie!” Tim had shouted over the commotion, but your eyes were already glassy. You’d inhaled it before you’d even realized.

Now, out on the front lawn, he lowered you to the ground, cradling your head in his lap as he tore your vest open to check your breathing.

Your eyes rolled back. Your body went rigid — then snapped into violent, uncontrolled jerks.

“Shit — no, no, no. Rookie —!” He fumbled for his radio, pressing the button so hard his knuckles whitened.

“7-Adam-19, I need a bus now — Officer down, possible overdose, she’s seizing — get me a medic here now! Now!”

Your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ground together. Foam pooled at the corner of your lips as your limbs thrashed against him. He tried to hold you steady, turning you on your side so you wouldn’t choke.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you — just breathe, just breathe — please, rookie, please—.”

The seizure broke as fast as it came, leaving you limp and barely breathing. He ripped open the Narcan kit with shaking hands, pressed the nozzle to your nostril, and squeezed.

“Come on. Come on. Come back to me…” He braced himself, watching desperately for any sign that the opioid reversal was working.

A second later, your chest bucked — and you sucked in a strangled, gasping breath before convulsing forward, retching violently.

“Hey — easy, easy, on your side, I got you—” He turned your head just in time as you threw up on the grass, coughing and choking between shallow, panicked breaths.

The paramedics were running toward him now but Tim barely noticed — his entire focus was on you, on the way you sobbed for air and grabbed for his arm like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

“BP’s low, we need an IV!” one medic shouted, dropping beside you. Another slid an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.

“She seized hard, we’ve got airway compromise — give her another Narcan dose IV, keep bagging if she drops,” the lead medic barked to his partner.

Tim didn’t let go of your hand, didn’t flinch when your fingers dug into his wrist like you were scared he’d disappear.

“Rookie? Hey. You hear me?” His voice cracked. He didn’t care. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just breathe for me. Slow — right here. You’re safe. I got you.”

You coughed, lips stained with spit and vomit, but your eyes fluttered open enough to find his. A broken whisper escaped your raw throat.

“I’m s-sorry… messed up —”

“No. No, you didn’t mess up. This isn’t on you.” His thumb brushed your cheek, clearing away tears and sweat and dirt. “You did everything right. I should’ve kept you back — this is on me. Just hold on, okay? You’re not going anywhere.”

The medic squeezed more Narcan into your IV. Your chest rose and fell with shaky, ragged breaths. For a second, you thought you might seize again — your fingers twitched — but then Tim’s hand closed around yours, grounding you.

“You’re gonna be okay, rookie. You hear me? You’re gonna be okay.” His voice was low and raw, and it carried something neither of you had said out loud yet — but that you both knew was true.

The ambulance rocked as it sped through LA’s streets, sirens wailing. Tim sat wedged on the bench seat, gear pressing into his hip, but he didn’t care. His whole world had narrowed to the small space between the gurney and his clenched fists.

You were strapped to the stretcher, oxygen mask fogging with each weak breath. An IV line snaked from your arm to the drip bag swinging overhead. The paramedic was calling in vitals, adjusting your O2, but all Tim saw was you — pale, clammy, lashes fluttering as you fought to swim up through the haze.

Stay with me. Just keep breathing. That’s all you have to do

He’d said those words out loud so many times his throat burned. But now they were a chant in his head — louder than the sirens, louder than the medics, louder than the fear.

Your eyes cracked open, unfocused at first — then darted toward him.

“B-Bradford…” It came out muffled under the mask, your voice hoarse, broken.

“I’m here,” he rasped, leaning closer. He pressed his hand to your calf, squeezing through your uniform pants. A grounding touch — a promise.

Your fingers fumbled weakly until they caught his wrist. You gripped him like you were drowning.

“Stay… stay with me, please—”

God, he felt something split wide in his chest. *I’m not supposed to feel like this. Not about my rookie. Not this much.* But the rules didn’t matter now. Not when your nails dug into his skin like a lifeline.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice breaking. He squeezed your leg tighter, thumb rubbing circles into the fabric. “Eyes on me, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe. We’re almost there.”

“BP’s dropping again,” the medic said sharply. “Heart rate’s bradying — sixty, now fifty-eight — O2 sat’s falling. Damn it, she’s relapsing.”

Tim’s eyes shot to your face. Your breaths were ragged, shallow — the hiss of the oxygen mask too fast, too thin.

Your lips were turning dusky at the edges — a deepening blue creeping across them, staining the cracks in your dry skin.

No. No, no, no.

“Come on, rookie. Hey — look at me,” he demanded, voice hard now, trying to claw you back with sheer force of will. “You’re gonna breathe. You’re gonna fight. You hear me? That’s an order.”

The medic was already drawing up another dose of Narcan. “Her respirations are under eight — bag her if she drops more. We’ll push a second IV dose. Sometimes the half-life’s too short with this much fentanyl.”

Your eyelids fluttered, then drooped. A gurgling sound escaped your throat as your chest stuttered.

Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare leave me.

Tim braced a hand on your shoulder, the other still firm on your leg — a silent anchor. If he could’ve given you his own breath, he would have.

“Push it now!” he barked at the medic, not caring that it wasn’t his place. He just needed you here.Needed that spark in your eyes. Needed the soft laugh he’d replayed in his head at 2 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep.

The Narcan went in. For a moment — an endless, horrible moment — nothing happened. The medic pressed the bag valve mask to your face, forcing air into your lungs.

Then you jerked under his hands — a deep, rasping gasp tearing out of you. You coughed violently under the mask, your chest heaving as bile and mucus dribbled onto your vest.

“That’s it — good, good — keep bagging her, we need to clear that airway,” the medic said, voice tight but steady.

Tim let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His forehead dropped for a second to your knee. He squeezed your calf so hard he thought he’d bruise you.

You stubborn, reckless, brilliant kid. You’re not going anywhere.

He looked up at you again — your eyes half-open, glazed with tears. You weren’t fully there yet, but your fingers twitched like you were trying to reach for him again.

He bent low enough so you could see him through the mask and the blur.

“Stay with me, rookie,” he whispered, raw and hoarse. “I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you.”

The rig hit a bump. The medic called out for the ER on the radio, rattling off vitals and transport ETA. Tim barely heard it.

All he could do was hold on — to you, to the feel of your leg under his palm, to the silent promise echoing in his chest:

You’re gonna come back. I’m gonna make sure of it.

The ambulance jolted hard as it backed up to the hospital bay doors, tires bumping over the curb. The medic braced a hand on your shoulder, checking your pupils with a penlight as the rig rocked to a stop.

“BP’s seventy over forty — heart rate fifty-four, dropping — she’s bradying again,” the medic called out, voice tight over the squawk of the radio. “Get respiratory on standby — we may need to intubate immediately.”

Tim sat hunched on the bench seat, one hand still locked around your calf — an anchor for both of you. Your eyes were half-open, glazed, chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths. He could feel how cold your skin was through the fabric of your uniform.

Stay with me. Just stay awake, rookie. Breathe.

He squeezed your leg tighter. “Hey — hey, eyes on me. You’re okay, we’re here. You hear that? You made it.”

But you didn’t respond. Instead, your whole body tensed under the straps. Your back arched off the gurney, fists clenching tight as your jaw snapped shut.

“She’s seizing again — clear the airway, roll her on her side!” the medic snapped, wrenching your shoulder just as foam and spit pooled at your lips.

Tim’s stomach dropped. He reached over, forcing your chin open so you wouldn’t bite your tongue. He didn’t care that he was probably breaking protocol — he wasn’t going to let you choke in front of him.

“Let’s go — doors open, move, move!” the driver yelled as he swung the rig doors wide. The bright ER bay lights spilled in, harsh and sterile.

“Notify trauma — we’ve got a narcotic OD with repeated seizures, status epilepticus possible — get a crash cart ready!” the medic shouted as they wheeled you down the ramp.

Your seizure hadn’t stopped — your legs were jerking against the straps, arms thrashing until Tim grabbed your wrist and pinned it gently but firmly to the stretcher.

“I got you — I got you — come on, rookie, come on—”

Nurses and techs swarmed the stretcher the moment you hit the trauma bay doors.

“BP’s tanking — sixty over thirty!”

“Bag her, bag her — we’re not moving enough air!”

“Get two milligrams lorazepam IV, stat — push it slow, watch for respiratory depression.”

“Already not breathing — we’re tubing her, we have to.”

One nurse shoved a bag valve mask over your face while another popped open an intubation tray, snapping on gloves.

“Sir, you need to step back,” a nurse barked at Tim, trying to block him from following them deeper into the trauma bay.

Tim’s eyes went wild. “The hell I am! That’s my rookie — she’s still seizing — you are not putting me out there while she’s like this!”

“Sir, we’re working on her — you can’t be in the sterile area—”

“Like hell. I’m not leaving her alone—” He pushed past the nurse’s arm, planting himself right by your side as they wheeled you into the trauma room.

A doctor barely spared him a glance. “Security—”

“No,” another nurse said quickly, recognizing Tim’s badge and the raw desperation in his eyes. “Let him stay by the wall — just stay back, sir.”

Tim flattened himself against the crash cart, one hand never leaving your ankle. He squeezed so hard his knuckles turned white.

He watched, helpless, as they tilted your head back. A doctor slid a laryngoscope into your mouth, threading the endotracheal tube past your seizing jaw.

“Tube’s in — bag her up — sats are climbing—”

“Seizure’s breaking — push that Ativan, get a second line in — we’ll start a Narcan drip to keep reversal steady.”

Tim’s chest heaved with every hiss of the bag valve. He felt like his own lungs were tied to yours — every time your chest rose, his did too.

Stay with me, rookie. Don’t you dare leave me now.

He didn’t care that he wasn’t supposed to be here — that he’d practically shoved a nurse out of the way. Rules didn’t matter when you were on the table, pale and shaking and fighting for every breath.

He caught a glimpse of your hand twitching on the bed rail. He reached out and squeezed your ankle again, voice low but urgent, hoping somehow you could still hear him through the sedation and the tube.

“I’m right here. You’re not alone. Just keep fighting. That’s an order.”

The trauma bay lights were too bright, too harsh — they made everything look too real. Tim kept his hand locked around your ankle, thumb moving in frantic circles against the fabric of your uniform pants, as if his touch alone could keep your pulse steady.

The machines around your bed beeped a steady rhythm at first — until they didn’t.

A sharp alarm split the air, a flat line among the other jagged tones.

“BP’s crashing — forty over nothing—”

“V-fib — she’s in V-fib—”

“Charge the paddles — push one of epi!”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat. He heard the words — knew exactly what they meant — but his brain refused to process them.

*No, no, no. Rookie. Come on. Not like this.*

A nurse tried to push him back again. “Sir, you need to leave—”

“I’m not— I’m not leaving her—” His voice cracked, eyes wide as the trauma team swarmed you, slapping defibrillator pads onto your chest.

“Clear!”

Your body jolted violently. Tim’s knees nearly buckled. Stay with me. Stay with me.

He didn’t even notice Nolan at first — not until he felt Nolan’s hand clamp onto his shoulder.

“Tim. Hey— Tim.” Nolan’s voice cut through the panic, low but firm. “You have to let them work.”

“I can’t— I can’t leave her— Nolan, I can’t—”

“Bradford.” Nolan’s hand tightened, anchoring him. “They’re calling security, man. Let’s not make this worse. Come on — come outside. I’m right here. They’ve got her.”

“I promised— I promised I wouldn’t leave—”

“I know. I know. But right now you’re in the way. You staying here doesn’t help her fight.”

Another alarm shrieked. Someone barked for more epi, more Narcan drip. Tim felt like he was underwater — all the medical chatter blurred into noise, just one long tunnel of white static in his skull.

He didn’t fight Nolan when he felt himself being steered backward, away from the bed. His feet moved but his eyes never left you — pale on the table, tubes snaking from your mouth, chest rising only when the bag squeezed air into your lungs.

They called for the paddles again.

Stay with me, rookie. Please—

They hit the doors backward, out into the hallway. Nolan pressed him against the wall, keeping a hand braced on his chest like he might bolt back through the doors if he got the chance.

Tim’s hands shook so badly he had to press his palms flat against the wall to stop them from swinging.

Nolan pulled out his phone with his free hand, thumb fumbling on the screen.

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” Nolan said, voice low but steady. “I’m calling my wife — she’s on her way. And Lucy — did you call her?”

Tim managed a jerky nod, his chest hitching with a dry, desperate breath. “She’s coming. I told her. She— she’s her best friend. She’s gonna lose it—”

“No, she’s gonna be here. They both are. They’re gonna sit with you until this is over, you hear me?”

Nolan put the phone to his ear, stepping just far enough away to give Tim room to breathe but never letting go of his arm.

“Hey, babe — yeah, it’s me. I need you down here. Tim’s rookie — she’s fighting for her life. Bring Lucy if she’s not already halfway here. Please — yeah, just hurry. He needs you both.”

Tim’s vision blurred, throat burning like he’d swallowed acid. He pressed a fist to his chest, trying to keep his lungs working. Stay with me. Please stay with me.

Behind the doors, he could still hear the muffled orders: “Clear! Pushing one of epi. Bag her again.”

He didn’t know if he was saying it for you or himself — but he whispered it anyway, his voice cracked and raw:

“Stay with me, rookie. Stay with me. Don’t leave me. Please—.”

Tim didn’t know how long he’d been pressed to the hallway wall outside the trauma bay. Seconds felt like hours — his mind replayed every jolt of your body under the paddles, every ragged breath forced through that tube.

He barely registered Nolan’s hand on his shoulder anymore — until the double doors slammed open and a blur of dark hair and frantic footsteps rushed toward him.

“Tim!” Lucy’s voice cut through the haze. He looked up just in time to see her push past Nolan and grab his forearms, searching his face like she expected to see blood.

“Is she—? Tell me she’s okay—” Lucy’s eyes were wide, already glassy with tears. She glanced through the trauma doors but all she could see were flashes of movement — nurses in scrubs, the hum of machines, a barked order to push more epi.

Tim opened his mouth but no words came out. He just shook his head helplessly.

“Oh, God…” Lucy’s shoulders shook. Nolan’s wife appeared beside her, breathless, a big hospital coffee in each hand — she passed one to Tim automatically. He didn’t even notice it spill when his hands trembled too hard to hold it.

Lucy turned to Nolan’s wife. “Can you sit with him? I need— I need to see her. I have to—”

But a nurse blocked her when she moved for the door. “Family only. They’re working on her—”

*Family.* The word stung because Lucy was your family — more than that, really. She’d been your best friend since college. The one who’d dragged you to the academy information session when you said you weren’t cut out for the badge. The one who stayed up all night with you, reading your polygraph questions and laughing at your nerves.

They’d been inseparable. They still were.

Lucy turned back to Tim, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her voice dropped — low, raw, and sharp as a blade.

“You know she only signed up because of me, right? Because I wouldn’t shut up about how much good we could do if we wore the uniform. I swore I’d protect her — I swore,Tim.”

Tim’s chest squeezed so tight he thought he might choke. “She’s tougher than anyone I know—” he rasped. “She’s gonna make it.”

Lucy’s eyes flicked to the trauma doors again, then back to him — and for a moment, the air between them felt like it used to: raw honesty, no bullshit, no walls.

“You love her.” Lucy didn’t ask — she stated it, voice steady despite the tears. “I saw how you looked at her before you even realized you were doing it. I saw how she looked at you, too.”

Tim shook his head, a bitter laugh tearing out of his throat. “Lucy— don’t—”

“No, listen to me.” Lucy’s hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him so he had to look at her. “I’m not your rookie anymore — I’m her best friend. And you love her, Tim. You do. You can lie to yourself all day, but you can’t lie to me.”

Behind them, the doors flapped open again — a nurse calling for another cart, someone yelling to page Respiratory now.

Lucy’s fingers dug into his jacket. “If she pulls through this — and she will, because she’s too damn stubborn not to — you tell her. You don’t wait. You don’t hide behind that that badge and your rules and your walls. If you love her, you tell her, or I swear to God, Tim, you will regret it every single day for the rest of your life.”

Tim’s throat burned. He couldn’t form the words. He just nodded once, jaw locked tight to keep it from shaking.

Lucy’s eyes softened. She let go of his shoulders just enough to pull him into a hug — tight, fierce, protective.

“She needs you, Tim,” she whispered, voice muffled against his chest. “She needs you to fight for her when she can’t fight for herself. So don’t you dare fall apart now.”

Over her shoulder, the trauma bay lights flickered. A nurse stepped out with a grim look — but this time, she beckoned them in.

“They’re moving her to ICU,” she said. “She’s stable for now. You can see her for a minute before they transfer.”

Lucy squeezed his hand so hard it hurt. “Go. Be with her. And when she wakes up — you better tell her.”

Tim exhaled shakily — then pushed through the doors, chasing the only thing in the world that mattered anymore.

The ICU was too quiet. Beeping monitors and the soft hiss of the ventilator filled the sterile room, the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the thin hospital blanket the only thing convincing Tim Bradford that you were still here — still fighting.

He sat hunched in the uncomfortable vinyl chair pulled up right next to your bed. One of his big hands wrapped carefully around yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he could will warmth back into your skin.

You looked small like this. Too still. A tube snaked from your mouth, tape pulling at the raw skin at the corner of your lips. A heart monitor beeped out a weak but steady rhythm that he clung to like a lifeline.

He cleared his throat — voice hoarse from shouting, from begging, from all the words he’d never had the guts to say when you were awake.

“Hey, rookie.” He squeezed your hand a little. “It’s me. Pretty sure you knew that — I’m not exactly subtle.”

The joke fell flat in the silence, but he pressed on. He needed your brain to hear him — needed you to stay.

“They say coma patients can hear voices. So… that’s what you’re getting. My voice. Lucky you, huh?” He huffed out a small laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Could be worse, you could be stuck listening to Nolan ramble about organic coffee beans for hours.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking over your face — memorizing every line in case he had to carry it alone.

“You know, you… you kinda ruined me, you know that?” He gave a soft, broken chuckle. “First day I saw you — you were with Lucy. You had that big, stupid grin and you were telling her you were never gonna pass the physical test. And then you did. Of course you did — because you always do what you say you can’t. Just to prove yourself wrong.”

He shifted in the chair, leaning closer so he could brush a loose strand of hair off your forehead.

“I think… I think I fell for you right then. And I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it ever since. But you just— you *get* me. You know how to make me laugh when I’m being an ass — which is, let’s be honest, ninety percent of the time. You know when to push, and when to just… sit there with me in the quiet.”

The words caught in his throat, raw and clumsy. He hated being bad at this — hated how it made him feel like the same kid who never knew how to say the right thing.

“People think I don’t feel things. Or that I’m made of stone or some crap like that.” He gave a tired half-smile. “But you — you saw right through all that. And you didn’t run. God help you, you stayed.”

He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “And now look at you. Still staying. Only you’re too damn stubborn to wake up, huh?”

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles again, grounding himself in the small warmth of your skin.

“I swear to God, rookie, if you make me tell Lucy you didn’t wake up after I finally admit all this mushy crap—” He sniffed, blinking hard. “I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll haunt me with your ghost and throw it in my face every day. So do us both a favor and just… stay. Just wake up. So I can say this when you’re awake and you can roll those pretty eyes at me and tell me I’m an idiot.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you. I’m sorry it took a hospital bed and a tube down your throat for me to say it. But I do. I love you so damn much it terrifies me.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to your temple, careful not to jostle any wires or IV lines.

“Stay with me, rookie. That’s an order.”

A soft knock at the glass door pulled him back. He turned, blinking, as Lucy cracked the door open. Her eyes were red, cheeks flushed from crying — but she managed a watery smile when she saw him practically draped over your bed.

“Hey.” She stepped inside, voice low but warm. “You mind if your other favorite person gets a turn?”

Tim sniffed, squeezing your hand one more time before easing back just enough for Lucy to slip in beside him.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “She’s all yours. But I’m not going far.”

Lucy brushed his arm gently as she passed. “Good. Because when she wakes up, you two have some things to talk about. And I will be eavesdropping.”

Tim huffed out a soft, broken laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

He stepped back just far enough to watch Lucy take your hand — but he didn’t let go completely. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. And he wouldn’t be until you opened your eyes.

Lucy perched herself on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle any wires or the ventilator tubing. She brushed her thumb over your wrist, right next to the IV line, her touch feather-light — like she was scared she might break you if she pressed too hard.

She could feel Tim hovering behind her, but for this moment, it was just you and her. Like it had always been.

“Hey, trouble,” she whispered, voice catching. She gave a soft, watery laugh. “God, you look terrible. I mean, still prettier than me on my best day, but… damn.”

She let out a shaky breath, her eyes flicking over your face — the bruises on your temple, the tape holding your breathing tube in place, the faint beep of your heart on the monitor.

“You remember when we were, like, nineteen? And you talked me into sneaking into that college pool at midnight?” Lucy’s lips curved into a real smile, despite the tears shining in her eyes. “You swore up and down there were no cameras. And then — of course — there were cameras. And we had to run across campus half-dressed and you still thought it was hilarious.”

She sniffed, blinking back tears. “I swear every bad idea I ever had was your idea first. And I wouldn’t trade any of them. Not one. Because it was you. And me. And it’s always been you and me. You’re my second half, dummy. You know that, right?”

She glanced up at Tim for half a second, then back down at you. She squeezed your hand a little tighter.

“And look — I know you heard him.” She gave a soft, fond eye roll at Tim, who huffed out a tiny huff of embarrassed breath behind her. “Yeah, yeah, he thinks he whispered — newsflash, he didn’t. Guy’s got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.”

Lucy leaned closer, her forehead nearly brushing yours.

“So I’m giving you permission, okay? Because I know you — you’d talk yourself out of it. Or worry about me. Or him. Or the job. But I see you two. The way you look at each other when you think nobody’s watching. You’re made for each other, you know that? You get him in a way none of us do. And he gets you. So when you wake up — not if, but when, because I swear I will drag your ass back from the light if I have to — you better let him love you. And you better love him back.”

She brushed a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand, then sniffed loudly.

“And after you do that,” she added, voice lifting into a soft, teasing laugh, “you are gonna help me find a new guy. Because, newsflash, it’s your turn to drag me to awkward speed-dates and swipe for me on those stupid apps. Deal?”

She pressed a kiss to your temple, careful and lingering.

“So come on, trouble. I need my second half back. I need my partner in crime, my dumb bad-idea generator, my best friend. You stay, okay? You stay, and you wake up, and we’ll figure out the rest together. I promise.”

She squeezed your hand again — and for the first time in hours, she swore she felt the tiniest twitch in your fingers.

She looked up at Tim, eyes wide, a tearful grin breaking through. “Did you see that?”

Tim swallowed, his own eyes glassy. He stepped closer, laying his hand over yours too — his big, steady warmth covering both your hands and Lucy’s.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “I saw it.”

Lucy looked back at you, whispering through a smile: “Atta girl. That’s my troublemaker. Come on home.”

Your hand twitched again under Tim’s palm. Then your eyelids fluttered — a tiny shift, barely there, but enough to make Lucy gasp so loudly it startled even Tim.

“Hey— hey, hey— look at that—” Lucy’s voice broke with a hopeful laugh. “That’s it, trouble, come on back—”

Your lashes fluttered, your brow pinched tight. Then your eyes cracked open — dazed, pupils blown wide, blinking at the bright ICU lights overhead.

“Hey— rookie— hey, look at me,” Tim said quickly, leaning in until he blocked out the harsh glare. His face was the first thing you saw — eyes rimmed red, his expression raw but trying so hard to stay calm for you.

Your chest hitched. The steady hiss of the ventilator made your heart hammer faster — the tube down your throat felt wrong, choking, and you gagged against it, eyes wide as panic flared bright and wild.

A muffled, wet sound caught in your throat — you couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe right, your hands scrabbling at the tube, the tape, trying to pull it out.

“Whoa, whoa— hey— no, no— easy, rookie, easy—” Tim grabbed your wrists gently but firmly, pinning them to your sides before you could tear the tube free. “Hey, listen to me— you’re okay. You’re safe. They had to intubate you, that’s all. You’re still here. Just breathe for me— slow.”

Your eyes darted frantically — from Tim to the monitors to Lucy, who was half crying, half trying to hold your shoulder down.

“She’s panicking—” Lucy said breathlessly. “I’ll get the nurse!” She squeezed your arm once and bolted for the hallway, yelling for help as she ran.

Tim leaned in close, forehead almost touching yours, one big hand pressing your shoulder down, the other still wrapped gently around your wrist so you wouldn’t fight the tube.

“Hey— look at me, rookie. Right here. Right here, come on.” His voice dropped into that calm, firm tone he used on tense scenes — that steady authority you’d clung to a hundred times before. “You’re okay. They’re breathing for you, okay? Machine’s doing the work. Just ride it out— let it help you. You’re safe.”

Your chest heaved. Hot tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as you gagged again, the panic pressing so hard it felt like your ribs would crack.

“I know, I know it feels wrong,” Tim murmured, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I know. But you’re still here, you hear me? You stayed. You did what I asked. You stayed.”

Your eyes flicked to his — glassy, wild, desperate — but you held his gaze, and he felt your hands go slack under his grip instead of fighting.

“That’s it— that’s my girl. Good rookie. Just breathe. In and out, easy. They’ll be here in a second to get this tube out, okay? I’m not leaving. I’m right here.”

A nurse burst in behind Lucy, a respiratory tech right on her heels. They started pulling on gloves, talking fast:

“Let’s extubate her— she’s conscious enough, fighting the tube—”

Tim stroked your hair back from your forehead as they moved in, his voice a low anchor in the flurry of motion.

“Hey— hey, look at me. Just a little longer. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me, rookie. You’re almost there.

And through the tears and panic, your hand tightened around his — just enough to say I hear you. I’m staying.Here’s the next detailed, raw part — your tube removal, your body fighting back, panic, mess, and then all the raw confessions with every cheesy, vulnerable bit.

The respiratory therapist moved fast, gloved hands steady but brisk. Tim didn’t let go of your hand — not for a second — while the nurse checked your vitals again, rattling off numbers under her breath.

“BP stabilizing — ninety over fifty, still low but climbing. O2 at ninety-four with assist.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” the RT said gently, voice calm but efficient as she checked your tube ties. “We’re gonna pull this tube out, alright? You’re gonna feel like you can’t breathe for a second — but trust me, you can. When I say cough, I want you to cough hard, okay?”

Your eyes were wide, still wet with tears. You squeezed Tim’s hand like a lifeline, trying to nod despite the tape tugging at your raw lips.

Tim leaned close, forehead brushing your temple. “You got this. Breathe. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

Lucy hovered at your other side, hand fisted around the bed rail like she’d climb in with you if she could. “Deep breath, trouble. You’ve done scarier things drunk.”

“Alright, ready? On three,” the RT said, voice firm. She snapped the suction tube on. “One… two… three!”

She tugged. The tube slid free in one long, wet pull — you gagged violently, a raw, harsh retch that made your back arch off the bed. You coughed, gasped — the nurse swept in with suction to clear your mouth and throat, but your stomach clenched and twisted.

A second later you lurched sideways, a violent wave of vomit hitting the edge of the bedpan the nurse shoved under your chin just in time.

“Oh, baby, breathe, breathe—” Lucy’s voice cracked, brushing your hair back while you choked and spit. Tim just tightened his grip on your hand, steady as stone, eyes wild but focused only on you.

“Airway’s clear,” the RT said, checking your chest with her stethoscope. “Sats holding — eighty-nine and climbing — that’s good. Let it out, sweetheart. Deep slow breaths.”

You were trembling all over by the time you sagged back into the pillow — skin clammy, lashes wet with exhausted tears. Your voice rasped raw from the tube when you finally croaked out:

“Wh-what… what happened—?”

Tim stroked your hair back, his thumb brushing your cheek. “House bust went bad. Fentanyl. You got dosed. Seized twice, rookie. Scared the absolute hell out of us.”

Lucy leaned in, still holding your wrist. “Narcan didn’t take right away. You gave us all gray hairs. You owe me a salon trip, by the way.”

You let out a wet, hoarse laugh that turned into a cough. Your chest heaved, rattling. You reached for Lucy’s hand, eyes wide and pleading through the haze.

“Hey— Luce— can you— can you go pack me a bag? At my place?” Your voice cracked halfway through. “Stuff for a few days. Please?”

Lucy blinked, eyes shiny but smiling through it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Anything you want, trouble. You want the dumb frog pajama pants too?”

You wheezed a laugh, nodding. “Frog pants. And my blanket. Please.”

Lucy kissed your forehead and squeezed Tim’s arm on her way out. “She’s all yours, big guy. Try not to get her heart rate spiking again, yeah?”

When the door clicked shut, the room felt quieter somehow. Tim leaned closer, his big hand still wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles against your palm.

Your voice cracked as you searched his eyes — raw and open. “I… I heard you, you know. All of it.”

Tim froze. His mouth opened — closed — opened again. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, almost shy for once.

You nodded weakly, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “Yeah. All the sappy stuff. The part where you called me stubborn. The part where you— you said you loved me.”

His jaw clenched, eyes glistening with something he didn’t bother to hide this time. “I meant every word.”

You squeezed his hand, breath hitching. “Good. ‘Cause I love you too. Always did. Even when you were barking orders at me on day one.”

Tim huffed out a broken laugh — part relief, part disbelief. “When I saw you in that house— unresponsive, pupils pinned— God, my heart almost stopped too. Don’t ever scare me like that again, rookie. Not like that.”

You gave him a watery grin, voice still hoarse but warm. “No promises, sergeant. You know I’m trouble.”

He let out a soft, choked laugh and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

“Yeah, well — you’re my trouble now. Deal with it.”

You wheezed another laugh, the oxygen cannula they’d switched you to hissing soft at your nose. “Deal. Now come here. You owe me, like, a thousand more mushy lines. And maybe some bad jokes.”

Tim squeezed your hand, brushing his nose against your cheek. “How about this one — knock knock—”

You rolled your eyes weakly, chest rattling with a soft laugh. “Who’s there?”

“Not fentanyl, because I’d kill it before it got near you again.”

You let out a hoarse bark of laughter, half cough, half giggle. “God, that was terrible.”

He grinned — wide, unguarded, and for once entirely free. “Yeah. But you laughed. And you’re still here. So I’m gonna keep telling them. Forever, if that’s what it takes”.

Lucy nudged the door open with her hip, arms loaded down with your overnight bag, your battered old blanket, and — because Lucy Chen never does anything halfway — a giant neon frog mug with a lid that she must’ve grabbed off your kitchen shelf just because she knew you’d want it.

“Hey, trouble.” She plopped everything on the chair and gave you a bright grin, trying to keep the mood light despite her red eyes. “One bag of pajamas, your stupid lucky blanket, and your toothbrush with the weird unicorn handle. You’re welcome.”

You let out a weak laugh, voice still raw but steadier than before. “You’re the best.”

Lucy shot Tim a look as she peeled a snack bar open for herself. “You, on the other hand — you smell like a wet locker room that’s been set on fire. Go home. Shower. Put on deodorant. Maybe use soap this time.”

You nodded, squinting at Tim through half-lidded eyes. “Yeah. She’s right. You stink, Bradford. Bad. I’m recovering here — have some mercy.”

Tim huffed out a laugh, dropping his chin to his chest like he’d been caught. “Noted. Fine. But only because you ordered me to. Rookie outranks sergeant when it comes to hygiene.”

You reached for his hand before he could stand fully. “You’ll come back?”

He bent, pressing a kiss to your forehead — quick but warm. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

Lucy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh my God, he’s so sappy now. Look what you did.”

When Tim ducked out, promising he’d be back in an hour, you tugged Lucy’s wrist until she perched back on the edge of your bed. For a moment you just lay there, studying her face, trying to piece together the words with your groggy brain.

“Hey,” you rasped. “Before I forget. That stuff you said — about me and him. Did you mean it? Really?”

Lucy blinked at you — then her eyes softened, and she leaned in, brushing hair back from your temple like she had a hundred times before. “Hey. I meant it, trouble. A hundred percent. I know we’ve got history, him and me — but that’s ancient history. You two… you’re something better. He lights up around you. He tries not to show it, but he does. And you— God, you love him so loud it’s almost embarrassing.”

You huffed out a raspy laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Lucy said firmly. “Be happy. Be safe. Be loved, you idiot.” She poked your nose gently. “You deserve all of it. I want you to have all of it. And I want him to have you. Because if anyone deserves you, it’s that stubborn mountain of a man.”

You blinked back tears, your fingers curling tight around hers. “I do. I love him so much it freaks me out sometimes. Like… all the way down to my bones kinda love.”

Lucy smiled, her own eyes misty. “Yeah. I know. You’re my best friend. Of course I know. Now rest, alright? You’re safe. He’ll be back soon to stink up this room again, don’t worry.”

A few hours later

You must have drifted off sometime around the second rerun of Wheel of Fortune Lucy insisted on playing to “stimulate your brain.”

But sleep didn’t bring peace. It never really did, not after what happened in that house. Somewhere in the tangle of IV beeps and the hiss of your oxygen cannula, your brain replayed it all on a loop — the sting of the powder in the air, your chest squeezing tight, the roar in your ears that came just before the blackness swallowed you whole.

In your dream, you were back there — only this time you were alone. Tim’s voice was gone. Lucy’s laugh was gone. No pounding boots, no Narcan slam to the thigh. Just cold silence. And then you saw them — Tim and Lucy — sprawled on the grimy floor beside you, eyes glassy, skin gray, gone.

You shot awake with a wet gasp, chest heaving so hard the monitor wailed a shrill alarm. Your fists tangled in your blanket, clawing at your throat like you could rip the dream out of your skin.

“Nononono—” you sobbed, ragged and raw. “No— don’t— Tim! Lucy!”

The door slammed open so fast it rattled the wall. Tim was there first — hair still damp from his rushed shower, sweatshirt half unzipped. He crossed the room in three strides and had you in his arms before Lucy, right behind him, could even close the door.

“Hey— hey— rookie, rookie— breathe. I’m here. Look at me. Breathe, baby, breathe.”

Lucy climbed onto the bed on your other side, her hand framing your cheek as you sobbed into Tim’s chest, fingers fisted in his hoodie like you’d drown without the anchor.

“I saw you,” you choked out, words tumbling out in gasps. “I saw you — both of you — dead — I couldn’t— you were gone and I—”

“Hey, hey, hey— we’re not gone,” Lucy said fiercely, pressing her forehead to yours while Tim cradled you tight. “I’m right here, trouble. He’s right here. Not going anywhere.”

Tim’s hand cradled the back of your head, his breath warm against your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Nothing’s taking me from you, you hear me? I’m too damn stubborn.”

You hiccuped a shaky laugh through your tears, your fists still curled in his hoodie, Lucy’s hand tangled in your hair.

“You stayed,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “You both stayed.”

“Always, baby,” Tim murmured against your temple. “Always.”

Lucy kissed your damp cheek and gave you a teary grin. “Now, if you puke on his hoodie, that’s on you. I’m off duty for that part.”

You wheezed out a raw, broken giggle that melted into a quiet, hiccupy sob — but this time it didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like being held. Like home.

[huivsharik]

𝑖 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝐻𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦

A hot hand wraps possessively around his neck. Long fingers, like the roots of a tree, you expect them to close around your neck so that you won't be able to take another breath, ever.

Hockstetter evoked contradictory feelings, but passion and desire prevailed.

Overexcitation has accumulated saliva in your mouth, and all you can make at the moment is just a barely audible grunt. You look into Patrick's deep, distraught eyes, which enthusiastically watched as oxygen stopped flowing into your body.

Your hands cling to his fingers, trying to loosen his grip, because you've already started to panic.

Patrick is capable of murder, and no matter how much what you're doing now excites you both, the fear of death won't take away from you.

Patrick loosens his grip, and immediately covers yours with his lips, preventing air from entering your lungs. He bites through his lip, immediately licking the blood off with his tongue, and the way you twitched and the taste of your blood only turned him on more.

After a few attempts, you still manage to push Hockstetter away from you, when ripples have already appeared in your eyes and you feel like you're about to lose consciousness.

Leaning against the wet concrete wall with your hand, you take in greedy breaths. His hands are shaking, his mind is blurred, and Patrick is still standing next to him, doing nothing, but not thinking of retreating.

"You knew what you were doing. If only you'd kept quiet.. — A calm, velvety voice, barely audible echoes through the sewer pipe, reaching the brain only in fragments, in the form of an incoherent babble.

The roof has been going off ever since his image began to figure too often in your life.

You noticed a strange silhouette in the window of your room while you were doing your homework, but when you turned around, it disappeared. You woke up to a flash of light and the sound of a canister with a lighter. At night, you heard plaintive meowing under your windows. You heard someone throwing pebbles at your window. And over time, putting all the associations together, you saw only one person— Patrick Hockstetter. A sick bastard from high school who bullied everyone he could, and sometimes he even overstepped his bounds. A lot was hidden from everyone's eyes and ears, and only you happened to find out about it by accident.

After that, you completely lost your mind, no longer knowing what was right and what was wrong. Patrick, like a parasite, a leech, sucked out all his sanity, leaving behind only a nasty stain.

All that's left for you is to finally belong to him, in every sense. Otherwise, you will die.

You'll die if you try to fight him.

— I was silent, and I will be silent, you know. — you whisper in a strangled voice, coming to your senses after a few minutes.

The clang of a folding knife makes you sober up and immediately turn your head to the guy, but he has already managed to do what he intended by slashing your hand. The knife only damaged the upper part of the skin, but it still hurt, and after a few seconds, red blood began to flow from the wound, dripping onto the wet concrete and your sneakers.

"Patrick, what are you doing?"

"I want you to understand that I will never be the person you want me to be. Your pleas to love you evoke absolutely nothing in me. You know, I've tried, but something that wasn't there in the first place won't wake up in me.

He is approaching again, leaving no chance of escape. Patrick thought you were afraid, but not now, when the boundaries of adequacy and reality are almost completely blurred.

— Let it be so. I won't change my mind, and I certainly won't tell anyone. And even if you don't give me anything in return, I don't care.

Brown eyes stare at you for several long seconds, thinking over everything you said. Hockstetter slowly folds the knife, putting it in his front pocket. He takes your hand and looks down at it now, running his thumb over the cut, smearing the blood. You hiss in pain, barely twitching, and Patrick hugs you tighter, kissing your earlobe. His breath burns, Hockstetter in general drove you crazy with his madness, and you allowed this madness to enter you, to settle inside.

Patrick is not capable of anything gentle, but that's how he covers your face and neck with kisses.

"Someday I'll kill you, too." Just like everyone else. — Hockstetter breaks into his smile, stopping at the level of your face. He watches for reactions, and for the first time genuinely enjoys being obeyed, being exalted. Patrick used to think that fear was the best thing his victims could give him, but it wasn't.

"Why not now?" — you look at him in disbelief, feeling your body temperature rise significantly from his touch. You just press yourself harder against the cold, concrete wall, and besides your conversation with Patrick, the sound of water dripping from the ceiling echoed through the pipe.

Hockstetter doesn't say anything, kissing you on the lips, biting you roughly. His thin fingers are on your neck again, strangling you. You greedily respond to the kiss, because this is what you've been wanting all the time when you met his silhouette in the school corridors, heard his laughter during class, noticed him under the windows of your house. He has become an integral part of your life and consciousness.

Patrick Hockstetter is a high school student with obvious mental problems that are not so difficult to identify, and you allowed him to get closer to you.

You understand what you want from each other.

Loving him has made you a completely different person from what you were before.

Only you and him are real.

[sol-consort]

It’s summer! Any thoughts on seasons for the alien’s?

moisture and how much humans subconsciously seek water to heat regulate in the summer. Ice cream, cold drinks, the beach, frequent showers, playing in the pool, juicy fruits, and just good old sweating.

It's easy to forget we're ~60% water in the winter, it's easy until you absentmindedly recall how no human can ever survive without water for more than 3-5 days. How abysmally short is that? With starvation your body dips into its storage of fat, then muscles when things get really dire. But with dehydrated, there are no water piggy banks tucked under our livers for us to crack.

As for recorded cases, it's hard to find an isolated incident of starvation since if someone is stuck somewhere without food, chances are there is no water fountain around, either. But theoretically you can stay alive for months on water alone—fatigued, malnourished, and mostly likely unconscious, but your heart still beats.

But water? less than 100 hours and you're done for. That's how essential it is to our life. Why we constantly bug each other to remember to drink it during summer.

We're not special in that regard; the body water percentage of animals on Earth usually hovers around the halfway mark. With jellyfish sitting at the top with 95% body water and desert tortoises hanging in the bottom tier with their 20%.

Plants (and whatever the fuck fungi are) are their own breed of eldritch beings so I'm not including them.

Side Note: as a last measure, tardigrades are known to enter a tun state which allows them to survive on only 3% body water and a metabolism of 0.01

The Earth is 71% water, it makes sense. If something is in overabundance why not incorporate it into your biology? All life on Earth has in some way. The dependency on water as a crutch is a common trend, a shared thread in the tapestry of LUCA's descendents.

Well, kinda of shortsighted on our biology's part. Not much water in space :) The Thing We Die Without In 72 Hours

"but" you say "not much oxygen either!"

WELL OXYGEN IS FAR EASIER TO GET THAN WATER!

Much easier to pack canisters of oxygen or repurpose co2 back into a breathable state (just carry a mossball dammit!) than to load ungodly gallons of water into the already heavy spaceship. We shot ourselves in the foot by having water as a mandatory tax of living. Good for a type one civilisation (which we're not even there yet!) not great for a type two.

Actually it's much more worse than that because we don't even use plants to generate oxygen in spaceships! We use water :D we are very clever monkeys. We electrocute the oxygen out of water BDSM style. If you have water, you have oxygen; H2O <-🔍 bada bing bada boom.

At the very least the hanar body can purpose salt water, while the pampered human body will die from dehydrated if given anything but filtered fresh spring water. Maybe their kidneys filter out the salt and makes the water useful somehow? Maybe they use salt glands like albatross or are pumped full of urea like sharks. Maybe it passes through them like jellyfish.

But... the jellyfish are... well, jellyish. And the hanar do have bones, a brain, a skull, and a digestive track. So it's probably more complex. Maybe hidden gills that they flush out the salt through?

Anyway I'm assuming we're using Earth summer as a point of reference?

Krogans

They have radiation storms. Our summer is not only a breeze It's literally a paradise. It only reinforces their believes that humans are weak when we complain about nonexistent problems. Neither of our coldest or hottest temperatures phase them, our deathtraps of arctics and barren deserts are their varren parks.

-

Drell

Would absolutely love it, especially the deserts and dry climates. While we slather ourselves in sunscrean and never touch any exposed metal that's been cooking under the sun, the drell are as happy as a lizard sunbathing on a warm rock. Our sun loves them and they love her back. The seasonal fruits that ripen in the summer are the cherry on top (literally! cherries are a summer fruit)

Whenever visiting, they stay near the equator. Don't enjoy the beaches much tho.

-

Asari

While the whole of Thessia is weather controlled and kept at the perfect temperature, I doubt anything we have to throw at the asari would actually phase them. Like yes they are coddled... much like a greek god is coddled. They are incredibly sturdy and hardy, by human standards at least.

We are nothing in comparison to Tuchanka's blazing wasteland or The turian's radioactive sun. You'd be drowning in a puddle of your own sweat while the asari next to you is literally staring directly at the sun with zero consequences. Like the krogans, it's just another Wednesday to them.

-

Turians

Cute. Absolutely cute how humans think a puny sun like this would do anyone any harm. Look at them and their ozone layer! HAH! Come to Palaven and you'll see what a real sun looks like.

But seriously, you soft skins need... sunscreen? And what is that weird liquid you're exerting from your skin... eugh. Although you've been strangely chipper since we landed, any particular reason w—huh you what?

YOU GET VITMANS FROM THE SUN?

LIKE THE FUCKING PLANTS?

HUMANS NEEDED THE SUN TO SURVIVE? BY THE SPIRITS HOW THE FUCK YOU PUNY THINGS COULD EVEN LAST A SECOND IN SPACE. The sun is an obstacle, something to be protected from, not form a parasitic relationship with! Honestly human get a grip.

Also... actually can I borrow that sunscreen? Been planning a home visit for a while.

-

Hanar

Aquatic seasons are generally indistinct from one another. It makes little difference to deep sea creatures if it snows or if the sun rises in the west. Much like our atmosphere layers filter out the pesky asteroids and space debris, water acts like a secondary safety bubble wrap around anything below its surface.

The deeper down you go, the calmer it gets, until you reach an eerie static void on the ocean floor where a creature could spend an entire lifetime and never cross another living soul. Nothing ever happens where no light could penetrate. The temperature constantly regulating itself by the very equilibrium nature of water.

As for the sea surface dwellers and occasional visitors, there are three distinct seasons: Oceanic, Upwelling, and Winter Storm.

Using "season" very loosely here. They are less of seasons and more of reoccurring phenomenons that are secondary consequences of surface conditions usually present or a result of specific seasons and weather conditions occurring in said seasons.

For example: while the Earth tilting causes the surface temperature to rise because we literally are closer to the sun, the ocean creatures remain indifferent to it, BUT not the air which heates up causing an increase in wind actively during that time.

You ever blew air on a hot cup of tea to cool it off? Did you notice what happens when you do blow the said air? The tea "dips" in a particular spot where the air of our blow meets the surface.

What you're doing is breaking the water tension and pushing the surface tea away and into the back of the cup, creating a gap in the water for a split second in time. And liquid hates gaps more than anything, so the surrounding liquid rushes in to fill it.

That is precisely what the wind does to the ocean during upwelling season. As the name suggest, the deep water is literally welling up to the surface to take the place of the water the wind just pushed away. And those waters are liquid gold of nutritions for planktons breeding ground, creating a rippling effect up the food chain. An explosion of life and food.

And the fishies, aquatic mammals, and sea birdies go haywire breeding and nesting as the room service is set out. An open buffet at the shores! Fuck and Eat speedrun!

So they are unaffected by the major temperature and wind changes, they only care about the side consequences that just happen to work in their favour. Or sometimes, against, as is evident by the season called Winter Storm season or the commonly known as Poseidon Demeter catfight season causing the migration of grey whales.

Lastly Oceanic which is a poetic way of saying "lazy bumfuck season where nothing ever happens and the currents are weak and we should've booked a resort instead and ugh all the food is cold and soggy I don't feel like leaving my warm water bed to go grab a bite and can't believe we got new Deltarune chapter before silk song it's so over skongers."

Also all of the above generally is only relevant to marine life, while the deep ocean creatures remain unbothered, moisturised, happy, in their lane, focused, flourishing, and locked in nibbling on those scrumptious whalefall bones.

Why is any of this relevant?

BECAUSE! HANAR!

THEY HAVE NO CONCEPT OF SEASONS!!

Imagine you spend all your life living in an static environment bubble then suddenly have to walk on the surface just to engage with these weird terrestrial creatures and oh my god what the fuck is a sand storm. This is beyond hell. Chaos! Entropy! What do you mean the sun is a deadly laser! What the hell is a hurricane! Who the fuck is freezing water and throwing it up from the sky! Not Cool!!!! AND WHY DO TEMPERATURES SHIFT SO DRASTICALLY AND SUDDENLY.

Like no wonder they employed the sturdy drell to do their field work. Weather has always been this vague far away concept buried in dusty books and only ever relevant in the infansy stages of spaceship launches.

[sinisterexaggerator]

Is it just me or do Cad Bane's breathing tubes make zero sense

Yes and no. The original explanation is that they are to prevent him from being Force choked, as a Force user very well could cut off his air supply (someone like Anakin, for example), but that the breathing tubes were implants, and there were bits that extended beyond the tubes themselves and down into his throat, bypassing his trachea entirely and feeding oxygen straight into his lungs.

While this sounds cool in theory, if they really wanted to, said Force user could simply crush his windpipe entirely. I had to expand on the idea of the breathing tubes for my own sanity, so to speak, and I will reiterate what I came up with on other posts here.

I am a fan of Bane being a reptilian-like humanoid, which certain biological explanations can tie into that. For one, cutaneous respiration:

Basically, “Cutaneous respiration, or cutaneous gas exchange (sometimes called, skin breathing),[1] is a form of respiration in which gas exchange occurs across the skin or outer integument of an organism rather than gills or lungs. Cutaneous respiration may be the sole method of gas exchange, or may accompany other forms, such as ventilation. Cutaneous respiration occurs in a wide variety of organisms, including insects, amphibians, fish, sea snakes, turtles, and to a lesser extent in mammals. It also occurs in reptiles”—Wikipedia.

Taking this into account, I will quote myself:

It is my belief Cad Bane has tiny, almost microscopic pores that allow him to intake oxygen through his skin directly into his lungs via his cybernetic tubes. Even though he doesn’t have visible “holes” as we see him with his equipment removed, I believe the tubes also help filter out dangerous contaminants in the air within harsh environments, and it does look like he has an oxygen “canister / regulator” attached to his back. This could also be due to the fact his native habitat, before it being horribly polluted, has a different atmosphere in comparison to other planets he visits. We can also consider reptiles do not have a diaphragm, and this aids in supporting him when out on a job where he has to exert himself. 

Note: Since cutaneous respiration allows you to breath virtually anywhere throughout the body via the skin, the tubes may be on his face because he is otherwise suited in a Nashtah-hide tunic and duster, which to me is made of armorweave and meant to be protective, so it may be the only space left available for him to place these tubes. For example, Zam has some, but they are inserted directly into her lungs it seems like via her chest. She is a Clawdite. They are also a reptilian species.

Another thing is, Duros in legends have olfactory organs that live beneath their eyes in lieu of a nose, so the same general area would make sense as far as placement.

Again, quoting myself here. If Bane does breathe pure oxygen from the tubes, we must think about what that could do for him performance wise as well:

What are some of the benefits of breathing pure oxygen?

increased energy levels.

improved concentration.

improved sports performance.

In conclusion, Cad Bane is a fucking genius-level strategist and acrobat. Maybe it’s because of the contents of the oxygen tank, as he breathes whatever is in there compared to any given planet’s good or poor air quality.

So while maybe they don't make complete sense, you have to make it make sense.

[thaisibir]

SEES members react to getting anesthesia: headcanons from a real anesthetist

(Go here for post on Phantom Thieves react to getting anesthesia)

Makoto: the guy who secretly smokes weed, chews through roc every 15 minutes, needs over 1.5 MAC maintenance sevo. (Laymans terms translation: smokes weed so he burns through a ton of muscle paralytic agent (rocuronium) and anesthetic gas (sevoflurane) needed to keep him relaxed and deeply asleep)

Yukari: had her hair and nails done the day before surgery, wakes up from anesthesia asking if she said anything dumb and apologizing if she did. (Complimenting patients on their nice nails is part of my small talk to attempt calming nerves when they're rolled into the OR)

Junpei: would try to fight anesthesia and count past 10 seconds, tries to cheat by counting fast (he loses anyway) (It's so amusing when patients try to challenge anesthesia. Some put up a good fight, but in the end, anesthesia always wins.)

Mitsuru: takes 300 mg of propofol on anesthetic induction, scares the shit out of OR staff when she still reaches for the airway device as the anesthetist tries to insert it. (Redheads tend to need more anesthetic than average. For context, the induction/knock-you-out dose for propofol is about 2 mg/kg. For frail old people, I halve that dose. Most people don't need more than a single 20 ml syringe/200 mg of propofol. I push 200 mg for big tall football/basketball guys. I've seen redheads take at least 2, even 3 syringes. Mitsuru would be a tough one to knock out.)

Akihiko: the extremely athletic ASA 1 guy with baseline bradycardia bordering on need for anticholinergics. Will most definitely wake up swinging fists and knocking out teeth and trying to jump out of the bed if he didn't get enough sedative on board beforehand. (Healthy athletic young patients (HAY patients, I call them) tend to wake up violently and delirious from anesthetic gas. To mitigate this, there's a sedative called precedex that helps smooth out emergence from anesthesia. Good to give for little kids, teenage girls, and big strong-looking guys. As soon as I see I'll be getting an Akihiko/HAY type patient for an upcoming case, I already know to draw up and dilute precedex to have at the ready.)

Fuuka: actually a very pleasant and compliant patient, but has family history of malignant hyperthermia and allergies to practically everything, apologizes for all the trouble. (Malignant hyperthermia is a very rare, but very deadly anesthetic complication if not treated promptly. Many anesthesia providers go through their entire careers without ever seeing MH, but we're trained to know what to do if it ever happens. Anesthetic gases and a muscle paralytic agent called succinylcholine are MH triggers. The anesthesia machine must be completely removed of the gas canisters and flushed through with high flow oxygen for an hour or so, to really make sure none of that stuff is exposed to an MH patient. I like the idea of Fuuka turning out to be a patient requiring an extensive anesthetic plan when she totally wouldn't mean to)

Ken: the rare kid who's cool with getting an IV in preop. (Pediatric patients typically do not get an IV placed before being rolled back to the OR, as most kids are terrified of needles. Induction of anesthesia in the OR must instead be achieved by delivering high flow anesthetic gas through a mask. Once the kid is unconscious from the gas, then an IV can be placed to give medications throughout a case intravenously. Amada seems like the type to be fine with getting an IV placed when he's awake because that's what adults have to do.)

Aigis: is a robot, physically can't process anesthesia. (Probably goes without saying)

Koromaru: Mitsuru or Akihiko, as the oldest members of SEES, act as guardians to sign anesthesia consent forms. Holds out his front leg and rolls over to offer his chest so staff can put on the blood pressure cuff and EKG stickers. Adored by the vet and vet techs for being so smart and adorable.

Shinjiro: the guy you think would smoke weed and drink a lot but actually has a history of post-operative nausea and vomiting (PONV) and prolonged emergence from general anesthesia. (Somehow I like the idea of Shinjiro turning out to be a delicate flower when it comes to anesthetic requirements)

[laughtalelogs]

❄frosted - ace x reader❄

❄ day 5 - cookies, holiday-themed contest, “that definitely looks… interesting?”, “that is exactly why you want a high-quality fire extinguisher right in the kitchen.” —the santa clause ❄ fandom/character(s) - one piece - ace x reader ❄ warnings - no beta reader, modern au, fem!reader, no warnings - just fluff, blurb ❄ word count: 617 ❄ description - you both suck at making cookies, but it's the thought that counts, right?

still working on the robin fic. I would just upload what I have, but I want to do my lady justice she's too fine to fumble

somethin' cute for the girls; this one was actually the 2nd blurb I had locked and loaded ready to go. tomorrow is law, and its about to be long asf too.

check out the rest of the days here

A bead of sweat dropped on your chin. The thick itchy wool felt suffocating as your tense muscles flexed. You grip the bag with a shaking hand. Every second you try willing your digits to stay still, tremors wracked through them more.  

“And....” You exhale, dropping the piping bag onto the counter, sliding down to the ground. One dozen down, another 3 dozen to go. “-done!”

“That definitely looks... Interesting?” A pang of annoyance rings through as you watch Ace glance from his station, a raised eyebrow. He picks up the frosted sugar cookie you just finished, holding the crude drawing up like it was fine china.

“Is this supposed to be a Yeti? It’s kind of sick.” 

You huff exasperatedly, “No, it’s obvious Frosty, dumbass.” 

His smile drops, as his gaze turns to you, the cookie, and back at you. He tries to clear his throat, but fails to cover his laugh. 

You puff your cheeks in embarrassment. “It’s not funny, baby.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t laughing at you, pretty girl, I was laughing at how creative you are,” He tries to fight back, but you reach on the top of the counter and grab the spatula, throwing it at him. 

He dodges with ease, mirroring the same look you had on your face.  “Sorry, baby.” 

“As if,” You scoff back, but an acrid stench burns the inside of your nostrils, a smoky haze covering your apartment. Your heart drops at the sudden beeping alarm.

“Ace! The cookies!”

“Shit-” 

You watch him run to the stove, and as soon as he opens it, a plume of fire fans out, licking at the fresh oxygen of the kitchen. Screaming, you scuttle underneath the cabinet, grab the canister, and pull the pin. A sea of smoke and foam finally fades, and you both sit staring at each other with wide eyes.

“Oh no... The cookies.” You glance back at the ones you just frosted, the frosty-yeti hybrid cookie buried in an avalanche of foam. 

He scratches the back of his head, smiling sheepishly.  “That is exactly why you want a high-quality fire extinguisher right in the kitchen.” 

“But- But-” You feel the whine bubble up your throat, looking at the destruction of the kitchen. Ace sighs, but smiles nonetheless, dropping to his knees beside you. 

“It's honestly my fault for even accepting the baking contest,” He admits, wiping what he can of the foam off his face, crouching to do the same for you with gentle fingers.

 You go to the counter, because, no, it was your fault for thinking you both had the patience for a task like this. Sanji wouldn’t have cared if you both didn’t bring cookies. It was the idea of making them with him that made you so on board with it. Before you could get anything out, his rambling trails off as he looks at you with a coy smile.

 “Has anyone told you look amazing in white?” 

“Piss off,” You burn hot, waving away his hand that cradles your face. You were supposed to be mad. “And now you look like Frosty.” 

“Well, you don’t have to cry, because I don’t plan to melt away,” He cheeses

“Ha-ha, corny ass,” You mumbled, leaning forward to let your head press into his chest, feeling his lips press against the top of your head fondly in response. You hum in content. Maybe it wasn’t the cookies that made the moment. Maybe it's the man who will not let you be upset for a moment more. 

“Why don’t we just buy some really nice cookies..” You offer finally, and he laughs in response, his voice rumbling in your head. 

“Sounds good to me, angel.”

just so you know this is canon! I actually talked with ace, he told me to tell you ‘hi baby’ and to kiss ur forehead<3

liked this? check out my other fics! (x)

[searsage]

Enemy Mine!AU

An AU where humans are at war with the precursor race, a fude that spured from a misunderstanding and culture shock. [We are going with 'the thing' primise in which they encountered mankind and immediately assumed it was okay to assimilate this unfortunate species into the network and due to the lack of understanding between them and humans this act is repelled with drastic and aggressive force, sparking a galactic wide war where both races fighting like they are five and the other just ate their chocolate twinky.

Many deaths and blood shed later Robin a pilot fighter and ex resercher looking to make her name on the boards ends up flundering on her first real air strike, a slip up that results in her teammates being shot out of the sky and the wing of her fighter jet being blown clean off, with literal seconds of power left in her jet the indignant researcher decides fuck it.

And attempts a suicide maneuver, colliding her jet head first into the enemy vessel, this irrational and unpredictable act earns her a collision but also destroys her jet sending her and the enemy space vessel down into the atmosphere below in a flurry of flames.

But unpredictably the crash landing on the planet below doesn't kill her and she wakes up on a cold alien world with rabidly dwindling oxygen.

Ill prepared and with few resources she's forced to pillage the surrounding crash site and enemy vessel or risk suffocating the planet's atmosphere before Alterra comes to retrieve her.

Unfortunately she quickly finds her nemesis isn't dead either, at least not completely yet, and what she assumes is a dead precursor ends up being far from dead and desperatly looking in need of a new vessel.

Said vessel being Robin.

Who finds out its pretty hard to avoid a centauric alien tank dying or not.

Hours later she wakes to find the architect has set up post in her head and demands she restore his vessel, of course this goes about as well as her suicide attempt..

His indignance is met with a big fat no.

Unfortunately the threat of rapidly dwindling oxygen and the potential yo die trapped within his expired host the two are forced to strike a truce, she'll farry him to a precursor sanctuary where he can rendezvous with his own and he will aid her in accessing the alien oxygen canisters littered throughout the planet's surface, thus providing her the means to survive until Alterra arrivals to survey for any human survivores.

It's convenient but not ideal o either party, however sharing a mind with the alien enemy comes with Its perks.

Assimilation.

And Robin quickly finds herself privy to the truth behind the war.

A truth that could undoubtedly put end to a century long conflict.

However not everyone wants such a profitable war to end, and from precursor warpers hellbent on extracting her brain and liberating the architect hostage trapped within, to Alterra marking her as a ran away turn coat corrupted by the enemy to be killed on sight..

Robin quickly realizes a testy head voice with a superiority complex is the least of her worries.

Inspirations : Enemy mine, enders game some other themes im too drunk to recall.

[moobloom-mention]

Day 19 | Forgetting the Big Things (The Dog That Weeps After It Kills is No Better Than the Dog That Doesn't. My Guilt Will Not Purify Me)

Summary: Petey doesn't mean to miss Lil Petey's first art gallery and contest. It's just that everything that could go wrong, went wrong, and that happens sometimes!

But it's exactly the kind of shit his father had pulled with him. And that just makes it a hundred times worse.

Content Warning(s): Brief Descriptions of Violence, Mentions of Past Child Abuse

Word Count: 3662

I'm just as much of a sucker for found family angst as I am for found family fluff <3

----------

He's late.

It's a realization that tears ruthlessly through what had been a shady attempt to glue of his common sense and composure back together, blood roaring in his ears. He's forced to abandon the fire extinguisher he'd been strangling for what had seemed like eternity to clasp a paw to his ears, anything to stop the sudden onslaught of both panic and adrenaline that courses through his veins.

Even the sharp, hollow clang of the canister against the kitchen's tiled floor doesn't feel loud enough to drown that damning word strike, strike, striking behind his eyes.

Late. Late. Late.

The doghouse's front door groans as Petey throws his entire weight against it. In his haste he's grabbed two dress shoes that'd once been neatly set by the doorway but now swing impatiently from his paws by their laces.

One thwacks particularly harsh against his knee. It causes his leg to twitch in reflex and almost sends him buckling to the ground before he catches himself on the front door's knob. It doesn't matter, he tells himself between grit teeth. There's bigger fish to fry.

Instead he throws the right shoe to the ground in favor of lifting his left leg into the air to help cram his foot into its footwear. It shouldn't be this hard to part on a damn shoe but it is.

It's difficult because he's already late and the world seems to treasure every moment it can coerce him into an outburst. But that simultaneously doesn't matter because he's late.

With a hiss he finally chucks the left shoe next to its counterpart. He makes due with sliding his feet into the stiff dress shoes as if they were slippers, uncaring for how his weight immediately folds the heel support flat. They're undoubtedly ruined. And that isn't taking into account the fact that the laces remain untied and tangled together.

But Petey doesn't give it a second thought. He's already swiping his ring of miscellaneous house and car keys from the entryway table and flying out the front door before he can take another breath.

He doesn't dare try to lock the door behind him. He's already fumbling trying to hold onto the larger key that designates it to belong to the car. Trying to find the front door's metal one in a keyring of five identical pairs would waste more time he can't afford to lose.

It’s a point accentuated by how furiously the car key digs into the palm of his paw in his sprint down the hill of the doghouse toward a bright red car parked along the street. A single click and the car’s break lights wink, their light fading quickly as if to mock how slow Petey feels despite his haste. He still has to start the damn thing, reverse it, drive into town, and- 

It’s too many steps for someone already late. 

The car door flings open and Petey shoves the key into the ignition between his lungs’ desperate screams for oxygen and his loud pants to supply just that. 

He should've built a car that let him start it from miles away. Or started jogging weeks ago so he wouldn't be so out-of-breath as spots begin to dance ballets before his eyes. He should've done anything that would be saving him each agonizing moment he's here and not where he's supposed to be.

He yanks the gear shifter into reverse. Slams his foot on the gas pedal.

Fuck. He's such a horrible excuse for an original to be cloned in the image of.

Another yank toward "D". A more violently slam on the gas pedal.

But it's not just that, is it? He's just as much as a horrible excuse for a father.

And it's exactly the type of thing that Ralph would pull.

The thought tastes like ash as it hits the back of his throat. He gnashes his teeth like it'll rid himself of the bitter taste that lingers on his tongue. Shudders as though it'd discourage the disgust that crawls beneath his pelt.

That bastard definitely never felt as bad as Petey does about it, but his guilt won't save him from just how badly he's fucked up. He'll still see that damned orange tabby in every reflection that catches Petey's eyes.

Especially after pulling a stunt like this.

It takes far too long for him to race into the heart of Ohkay City even with the amount of corners he cuts- both literally and figuratively -as activating street lamps zip by him in blurs of orange light. At this point he's convinced he's broken about every traffic law he could in the span of five minutes: the speed limit, turn signals, stop signs, red lights. It's earned him more than a few honks from agitated cars but the sound feels distant, heavy against the pound of his heart within his chest.

Couldn't the city for once accept the fact that this was an emergency? God, he should've begged Dogman to leave behind his cruiser- maybe then he would've been able to to just turn the sirens on and have a clear path toward Lil Petey's elementary school.

But there hadn't been a cruiser in the doghouse's nearby street since seven this morning. No, Dogman had already told both him and Lil Petey that he'd drive straight from work to the event before he left with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Petey hadn't planned to be in this much of a rush either. He was supposed to have left for the art showing and contest an hour and a half ago; something that didn't happen because the world can't just let things go smoothly for once.

It has to stick its disgusting little nose into his business and-

Petey violently shakes his head, fingers drumming impatiently against the steering wheel. There's no time for complaints like that.

He weaves through the city's evening traffic with sickening ease, only having just enough sense to slow down at red lights and ensure he won't run into anyone before he slams the gas pedal to the floor of the car once more.

He definitely won't make the event in time if he crashes the car and has to sprint the rest of the way.

Faintly he registers the dull ache in his jaw from how tightly he grinds his teeth together. Even with his total disregard of traffic laws this doesn't feel fast enough. He'd been in car chases with Dogman way faster than this and those chases hadn't been nearly as high of stakes.

There is a decent chance his stunts might land him back in Cat Jail, though.

But whatever. Whatever. It's not like he agreed to obey all laws when he first said he'd try to be "good" nearly two years ago. And who actually obeys traffic laws nowadays?

Besides, if it lands him in jail then Petey would proudly announce his guilt to the judge so long as he gets to see a portion of the art event. Even the tail-end would be good enough.

He draws a sharp inhale between his teeth, working a claw between them to bite down on. He'll make it. He's not sure what he'll do if he doesn't.

The sun's dipped below Ohkay's skyline when Petey finally catches sight of the familiar red-bricked building of Lil Petey's school. As the car barrels closer he finds the parking lot chalk full of cars- no doubt all belonging to the supportive parents of his kid's peers.

...and a sole police cruiser parked neatly in the spot closest to the school's entrance gate. His heart twists. There isn't a single cell in him that doubts the do-gooder was there before any other parent had left their house.

I'm a piece of shit, he thinks miserably.

Petey doesn't try to find a parking spot amongst the maze of empty cars. He pulls straight to the front of the school and slams on the breaks at the area near the entrance gate, eyes fleeting over a sign claiming it to be a "FIRE LANE. NO PARKING ALLOWED". It's a miracle that the car's tires don't bump into the red-painted curb. Actually, what's really a miracle is the fact he didn't plow straight into the annoying sign in the first place.

The hiss of his seatbelt unfastening and soaring behind the front seat barely registers within Petey's mind when he sees-

His heart thuds.

When he sees them.

Dogman and Lil Petey seem to guide the crowd of parents and students alike that spill from the school's courtyard, Dogman's hand holding gently onto Lil Petey's paw. The hybrid's even slightly bent at his knees to help with their immense height difference.

It looks just as awkward of a position as it is endearing.

A trophy of sorts- it's a little hard to see in the moon's thin rays of light -remains tucked delicately in Dogman's arms, brushing against the nice button-up shirt he'd put on for the event. Petey was dressed similar, if a bit more disheveled than he would've liked.

But that doesn't matter. Dogman is carrying a trophy.

His mind stalls just long enough for pride to bully its way between his lungs. He'd won. His kid had won and there Dogman was, walking Lil Petey to victory and no-doubt bathing the kitten in promises for celebratory gelato.

He can feel a piece of himself carefully collect this moment as yet another reminder why Petey tries so hard to stray from his past life of crime. This is what's worth it, to see a mutt- who he doesn't mind as much anymore -carrying his kid- that he'd never thought he'd have -from a won art competition.

It only takes a second for shame to sink its fangs into his throat and drain his moment of pride from him.

Because Lil Petey's jaw is set tight as he walks sternly through the school's gate. It's a far cry from what Petey would've expected the kid to look like for having just accomplished something grand.

But there the kitten walks, eyes searching the ground like it's his only friend whilst Dogman nudges him toward the expansive parking lot.

Toward the cruiser.

Petey hastily throws the car door open, spilling from the vehicle in a way that definitely doesn't bruise his arm nor his ego. It doesn't matter because he's here.

He's here and trying his best not to stumble in his untied, slipper-fied dress shoes as he takes quick strides toward Dogman and Lil Petey.

Petey thinks he sees the smallest flicker of surprise cross Dogman's face. It's ironically unsurprising; he can't imagine how much of a wreck he looks like right now. But the surprise doesn't linger for long. No, it quickly flattens into something more...unreadable.

The unfamiliarity of it all itches painfully at his skin.

A glance proves Lil Petey's expression to be nearly identical, if a bit more conflicted. Or troubled? Petey tries not to think too hard about it. The important part is that it isn't a smile that could rival the sun's morning rays of light.

And that's one hell of a problem.

"Hey kid," Petey greets with a tight grin. It's flimsy and fuck if that doesn't twist his stomach into knots. He'd gotten away with facades made out of so little material that he forces himself to press on, determined that this one of confidence and joy strung together by tissue paper alone will be enough to break the tension drowning the trio in an air of uncertainty. He needs some sort of break in the fog, anything that'll guide the conversation naturally into laughter and let him brush over the fact that Petey's done something he himself can't believe he'd done.

"Dogman," he acknowledges a little more awkwardly, but it does draw Petey's eyes back toward the trophy tucked in the hybrid's arms. It's an opportunity; a natural continuation of the easy conversation he's attempting to craft. He lets his eyes grow wide. "First place, kid?"

"Second-place," Dogman signs slowly. His arms look too stiff, shoulders tense in a manner Petey feels cowed to realize isn't familiar despite their long history with one another.

It's because of the trophy, his mind urges him to believe. It's a mantra he lets himself cling to like a life-line even if his raised fur screams that it's anger. Rightful anger that Petey deserves to endure.

But for now he's safe from it, if only because Dogman is feeding into the conversation. He's still playing his part.

Petey has to do the same.

He hates how mechanical his eye roll feels. It would've been his natural reaction if he hadn't missed the whole event, but his limbs feel pulled taut, high-strung like a bow wound too tight with delayed hysteria.

"Y'know what," Petey tuts, "Those judges wouldn't know talent if it threw a brick through their window-"

"You didn't come."

Petey's tails droops as identical green eye lock onto one another. He feels like a kitten again, caught by his mother after accidentally crashing a lamp through a window pane. He...yeah, no, he hadn't expected the kid to really address it like that.

It forces him to take a deep breath and ignore his knee-jerk reaction to brush it off as little more than an accident. To say that he'll buy the kid three scoops of gelato if they just drop it.

Because Lil Petey might still hold his typical round, rosy face primed with youth but there's something else. Exhaustion in his eyes. Distrust.

He looks a little too much like Petey's did at his age.

Distantly he can't help the nagging feeling that this is what Ralph saw every time Petey demanded to know the reason why his dad had missed yet another one of his badge ceremonies. Another visit he'd gruffly promised he'd make.

Did he feel just as guilty as Petey does staring into his own childish, wide eyes? Did he let pride consume him by brushing off Petey's disappointment or did he simply not care enough to remember it?

Petey's gaze searches within those familiar green eyes for any trace of emotion. Sadness, forgiveness- hell, he'd even take blinding anger at this point. Anything but this strange limbo of numbness that looks so wrong on his kid's face.

"I tried," Petey says. It tastes vile as it rakes itself from his tongue and he practically has to strangle down the tremble that threatens to tear down his facade of authority. "I tried, kid, I tried so hard."

Lil Petey's mouth draws itself into a firm line. Not hard enough, the expression says. You didn't try hard enough.

Petey can't help but agree.

He's barely given a moment before Dogman takes a step forward. Petey's ears pin themselves against his head, tail twitching once behind him as he chooses to glance toward the parents walking around them. When he refocuses back on his own family he finds Lil Petey waiting silently behind the hybrid's leg.

Petey blinks toward the firm word that Dogman signs toward him.

"Wait."

He looks angry. More-so than he ever did whenever Petey escaped jail. Or taunted him. Maybe even more than he did when Petey had dared to rub Knight's demise in his face.

He looks angry if only because Dogman doesn't actually look angry. His expression remains neutral, lacking that common spark of sympathy he's seen the hybrid give to any who come near him looking anything less than joyful.

This anger isn't the violent type. It won't be frightening to anyone but the person it's aimed toward because-

It's the quiet kind.

The kind that causes the fur along Petey's arm to properly raise in alarm. He almost wants to beat the other to the punch, to insult Dogman before he discovers whatever it is he needs to "wait" for.

But Dogman doesn't give him time to protest. No, he simply turns until his back is to Petey and squares his shoulders. It's as close to a whisper as someone signing in ASL will get.

There's a soft jingle as Dogman sticks a hand into his coat before dropping something into the kid's paws.

Petey remains still whilst Dogman issues some sort of instructions to the other. He lets himself instead try and connect the dots between what little he can make out beyond the hybrid's shoulders.

"...these...be a minute...turn on the heat..."

Oh. Dogman had given Lil Petey the cruiser keys.

After what seems like an eternity Dogman ruffles Lil Petey's head and forks over the silver trophy he had been carrying. The next signed phrase comes out much easier to recognize.

"You did good."

The kid gives a single nod before he's off marching toward the black and white paint-job of Dogman's car. There isn't a single glance cast Petey's way.

Fuck. Is it too late to dig himself a grave and bury himself alive in it? Maybe it is. Or not if this is Lil Petey's attempt to disown him.

Petey did a version of it to Ralph- he kind of wishes Lil Petey will give him similar graces as he did his own father, though.

"...parked...fire lane."

Petey blinks once. Twice. Then focuses back on the practiced sway of Dogman's hands. "What?"

Dogman points toward Petey's bright red car. It's still parked at the curb with its headlights illuminating one of the school's walls. He swears he can hear the thrum of the engine rattling on.

"The fire lane," the hybrid repeats. "You're parked in it."

Petey manages a hollow laugh despite Dogman's lack of humor in his posture. He feels his lungs squeeze as his mind threatens to cast himself into hysteria, if only because the small traffic violation feels so miniscule when compared to the crime of Lil Petey's absence of a smile.

"Yeah," he finally manages with a weak smile. "I- well, it made a better parking spot than the one for-"

Petey glances at the cruiser just in time to see Lil Petey swing the passenger door open. It closes with an audible slam.

"...for your cruiser," he finishes lamely.

Dogman taps his shoulder once, drawing Petey's attention back toward his hands. "But you missed the event."

There's an odd tilt to the hybrid's head. Like he doesn't understand Petey's failure to show up for his kid even though he'd been there to witness it.

He's not sure if this is better than the scolding he'd expected to receive. It's...tamer. A far cry from the shit he would've thrown Dogman if the hybrid had pulled the same trick.

Petey tosses the thought away as quickly as it comes. He'd never get the opportunity to do so in the first place; Dogman wasn't the type of person to jeopardize Lil Petey's happiness even if it meant saving the world from destruction.

He should've done the same.

"I know," is all he manages to say through the laughter of nearby children.

Dogman's gaze remains unwavering. "You disappointed him."

"Disappointed him?" Petey echoes. He feels breathless as he snorts. "I mean I practically dragged the kid's dreams through the mud and spat on them."

Lil Petey had been so excited that he'd practically begun to spark like a live wire when both Dogman and Petey agreed to be in attendance for his event. And Petey had missed it; had broken his promise.

"Do you have a good reason?"

Petey swallows thickly. He does. In fact, he has plenty of reasons, both truthful and deceitful that he could twist together until he's formed the perfect excuse for his fuck-up. It might even earn him a sympathetic whine from the hybrid.

Still, the truth is more than enough to drum up understanding in its own right from both Dogman and Lil Petey. But in two years Lil Petey will hardly remember this as the night "Papa Saved the House From Burning Down".

It'll just be the night "Petey Forgot My First Art Contest".

No matter how Petey tries to frame the day's events and downfall, he will always ontake the role of "villain". And neither he nor the kid need Dogman trying to dissuade Lil Petey from seeing him that way.

His mind set, he crosses his arms and lets himself glare down at Dogman. "Of course I do," he snaps a little too quickly. "What, you thought I'd miss the contest over nothing? 80-HD managed to spill our last gallon of apple juice in the kitchen before the event and I had to fix it."

Dogman's brows furrow.

"Oh don't act like that doesn't take a long time! It took me half an hour to clean beneath the fridge alone, and don't even ask me about how long mopping took. Then I had to get another gallon of juice because otherwise I'd have to listen to the kid whine all night that all we have in the house is cranberry juice."

He forces his tail to rattle angrily against his leg. "And you came, didn't you? The kid doesn't need me constantly supervising him for some dumb ass competition he didn't even win."

Dogman's fists suddenly clench.

Good.

But there's no angry bark that calls out Petey for blatantly crossing a line over something so petty. Instead the hybrid sets his shoulders square once more and signs a single sentence with a disapproving look.

"Lil Petey and I are going out for ice cream."

There's no room for discussion. Dogman pivots sharply on his heel and marches back toward the cruiser hand in his pocket, leaving the cat to his own devices.

Petey's head still bobs in acknowledgement despite the clear dismissal. He could almost smile with how successfully he'd pulled it off- managing to piss of the two most important people in his life until they couldn't bear to speak with him.

A familiar story, he thinks almost bitterly. Like father, just like son.

[absolutelybifurious]

wip whenever

i have been tagged by @tidesreach @eddiebabygirldiaz and @playinginthunderstorms

but i know i am doing it late on sunday and mostly this was for friday and saturday but RULES DO NOT DEFINE ME OKAY.

ANYWAYS. new magical realism fic? one day i'll decide what to post again, but here's this.

He remembers standing in the rain, watching Buck climb up that rig, towards a fire. He remembers feeling the sky like lightning in his chest. He remembers thinking, again and again and again – there is no curse. There is no curse. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, but there’s nothing in his chest – nothing but that lightning strike all over again. For so long, Buck’s been here – for so long, Buck’s survived whatever collateral damage Eddie brings with him. But lately, things are worse – lately it is one things after another after another. There is no curse. “Buck!” Bobby calls, and there’s panic in his voice. “Buck, get out of there now.” “I can’t just leave this guy!” Of course Buck isn’t going to leave someone behind. He’s Buck. He’s a good firefighter. He’s a good everything. Eddie tries to find the rhythm of his own pulse, but it’s all carnage and shrapnel.  He wants to yell over the radio – yell something, anything, to make Buck understand that he has to get out of there. That Eddie can’t let him die – that Eddie can’t kill him like he kills everything else. Eddie isn’t scared. His hands tremble over the hose, and he stares at the house – thinks of the hissing, thinks of oxygen canisters in an upstairs room and an old man on a bed. There is no curse. He thinks of Buck hanging off the harness, unmoving. Thinks of an unbeating heart beneath his hands as he pressed and pressed and pressed. There is no curse. He thinks of sand filtering through his fingers like ash. Don’t look at it. There’s too much heat. The flames crackle and curl in the busted windows. The house is only two stories high. If Buck would listen, if he’d turn around and get out – he could be at the door, he could be out of the damn blast radius. But he’s still standing in it. Like he has been for years. Eddie is the blast radius.

tagging @wildehacked @coldbam @sunflower-eddiediaz @clytemnestraaa

@inell @thatbuddie and whoever wants to do it!!!

[workersolidarity]

[I originally wrote this article using my own translation of the statement, however I have since downloaded the official translation, so my quotes may not be exact]

🇵🇸🇮🇱 🚨 PALESTINIAN RED CRESCENT REDUCING SERVICES AT AL-QUDS HOSPITAL DUE TO LACK OF FUEL, FOOD AND MEDICAL SUPPLIES

According to a statement by the Palestinian Red Crescent Society, the al-Quds Hospital located in the Shuja'iyya neighborhood of Gaza City will be reducing the healthcare services being provided at one of the largest and most important hospitals in the Gaza Strip, due to a lack of food, fuel, and medical supplies at the healthcare center.

According to the statement, the reduction of healthcare services will be implemented Wednesday, November 8th, 2024 with the aim of rationing fuel consumption and to continue providing medical services for the next few days.

The report emphasizes the need to conserve fuel, and declares the following measures for extending the life of services being provided to civilians in Gaza City.

1. To stop the hospital's large generator and to use smaller ones instead.

2. Closing the surgical department

3. Stopping the usage of the oxygen generation station, and instead rely on canisters of oxygen.

4. Closing of the MRI and X-Ray Departments.

5. Creating a schedule for the distribution of electricity, whereby each of the three hospital buildings receive 2 hours of electricity per building per day, beginning at 5pm to ensure displaced civilians can access basic services such as charging devices.

The statement goes on to slam the Israeli authorities for refusing to allow fuel into the Gaza Strip, saying it was only able to obtain limited quantities of fuel from gas stations, however, such options expired about two weeks ago as gas sources inside Gaza dried up rapidly under sustained bombardment by Israeli Occupation Forces.

The statement points out that as a result of these actions being taken, the hospital hopes that they will not exhaust their supplies and be forced to close their doors for at least the next few days. The statement also points to the scarcity of food and clean water as a major problem as well, with nearly 14'000 displaced Palestinians sheltering inside the hospital compound.

The Palestinian Red Crescent also highlighted the fact that it has been isolated from the larger Gaza City area due to road closures for the third day in a row from Israeli bombing and shelling, making it that much less likely the healthcare center will be able to acquire further resources.

Lastly, the Palestinian Red Crescent statement accuses Israeli Occupation Forces of targeting Humanitarian Aid convoys bringing aid to the various health centers in Gaza.

"Yesterday, the Israeli Occupation Authorities targeted the humanitarian aid convoy of the International Committee of the Red Cross in Gaza City which was carrying life-saving medical supplies to health facilities, including the association's Jerusalem Hospital, as the expected aid did not arrive until this moment," the statement reads near its end.

"Accordingly, the Palestine Red Crescent Society appeals to international bodies and organizations working in the health and healthcare sectors to bring in aid urgent humanitarian, essential needs, medical supplies and fuel for Al-Quds Hospital and the Gaza and North governorates."

According to Gaza's Ministry of Health, 10'305 Palestinians have been killed since October 7th, with another 25'000 injured, including 4'237 children killed in Israeli air strikes, and another 2'719 women and 631 elderly people. Another 2'350 civilians are missing, likely buried under the rubble that was the Gaza Strip.

#source1

#source2

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[greeeengoblin]

“I can’t believe you! And I’m not crazy! I’d prefer a regular prison,” Hood shot back as he threw crates at Nightwing. He couldn’t understand why Batman and the others were so set on locking him up in Arkham. After all, escaping from Arkham was easier for him. He was more suited for a regular prison. He wasn’t insane—he didn’t have ridiculous, harebrained schemes, unless you counted the occasional severed heads of crime lords’ second-in-commands in gym bags. And he definitely didn’t belong anywhere near Joker because he wasn’t Joker. “Just leave me alone! I’m helping you, and you don’t even see it!”

“This isn’t helping! You’re going to hurt people, and I don’t care what you say—you’re insane!” Nightwing easily dodged the crates, as they were being thrown haphazardly without focus, making it easier to evade them. “You could get better care in Arkham! You could get therapy to stop your urge to kill people, trust me!” Nightwing was practically shouting now, frustrated that Hood refused to listen and kept trying to escape.

“Like Joker and the others? Their sadism never went away, their madness and resolve never faded! Arkham’s not a place that helps anyone! IT’S ALREADY A ROTTING HELLHOLE THAT CONTAINS PEOPLE WHO’VE ALREADY LOST TO INSANITY!” Hood yelled, firing his gun at a crate covered in gas canisters. He slammed the door shut, locking himself in the basement below. Nightwing, realizing the gas was spreading, quickly put on his oxygen mask and started pounding on the door.

“Hood! Ja- HOOD! OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!”

Hood slammed the door with frustration. He could hear Dick’s angry shouts and the pounding of his boots against the walls echoing through the thick barrier. Hood removed his helmet, gasping in deep, uneven breaths as he looked around the basement. He’d never been down here before. The room was lined with mirrors—more than he’d expected. But it wasn’t the sheer number of mirrors that unsettled him. 

It was the fact that none of them showed his reflection.