#skeletal functions

[claxonmedicalcodinginstitute]

"🦴 Skeletal System Explained | Functions & Structure in 60 Seconds!"

Discover the amazing structure of the human skeletal system! 🦴 Learn about the bones, joints, and their vital role in supporting movement and protecting organs. Perfect for quick learning! ✅ Watch now and boost your anatomy knowledge. #SkeletalSystem #HumanBody #Anatomy #Biology

[bed-buggier]

IT'S HIS ANNIVERSARY TOO!

[panicbones]

jazz is so insanely crucial to autobot morale. maybe the decepticons would do better if they had a silly fun AND very competent nice guy on their high command like jazz

[gourde]

Each time I see a pocket bully it's like oh my god this thing can't do anything. At all. They made another pug but with mental issues on the physical ones. And bowed legs. It will not survive the winter...

[sanctusinferi]

watching nosferatu (2024) kiss scene isn’t enough i need to eat it

[mindblowingscience]

Researchers have just discovered a process in fruit flies which links inflammation with impaired motor function, providing researchers with a potential target for treating the persistent muscle fatigue that follows many infections. Of long COVID's numerous symptoms, an intolerance to exertion could be considered one of the more debilitating. "This is more than a lack of motivation to move because we don't feel well," says Washington University developmental biologist Aaron Johnson. "These processes reduce energy levels in skeletal muscle, decreasing the capacity to move and function normally."

Continue Reading.

[dolivia]

Major 5 Functions of the Skeletal System - Notes For LPNs

The feet and ankles provide the main, stable platform for our entire bodies to function on. Here are 5 major functions of the skeletal system:

[divinekangaroo]

The headache has moved from general aching to down in the lower rear part of my skull into two distinct fist-sized orbs where the skull sits on the neck on opposite sides of the spine, and two small golf-ball sized pains just above each eyeball. Four quadrants of distinct headache

[fromdove]

ㅤ ⁞ 𝓐ND 𝓨ET, 𝓣HE 𝓗EART ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ (𝓔VER 𝓢O 𝓕OOLISH) ㅤㅤ

ㅤ ⁞ 𝓦HISPERS 𝓨ES.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𐔌 ⋮ d.wayne x fem!reader ꒱

«لا أعلم كيف أنتمي إلى هذا العالم»، يقول، «لكنني أظن أنني قد أنتمي إليكِ».

—୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you're on a date at a carnival with damian wayne & get caught by his bat siblings! ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

It begins on a Tuesday. Because Tuesdays are the most humiliating of days.

Damian Wayne does not do carnivals.

He does not do sticky-fingered children shrieking with laughter, cheeks streaked with frosting and dirt like war paint. He does not do the scent of frying oil clinging to every inch of breathable air, or the grotesque mascots wobbling about with their oversized foam heads and eternal grins, or the synthetic prizes that look like they’re filled with sorrow and asbestos in equal measure.

He certainly does not do funnel cake. (He doesn’t even understand funnel cake. What is it funneling? Why is it called a cake? Is it some kind of regional inside joke he’s not privy to?)

And yet— Here he is. 6:28 PM. Ankle-deep in trampled woodchips. Sweat beading beneath his glove where your hand brushed his a moment ago. Heart thudding like a war drum, idiotically hopeful.

He promised your parents he’d have you home safely before 9.

You're beside him. Smiling. Laughing at something he didn’t quite catch because he was too busy watching the way the late sunlight breaks in your hair like gold dust. You’re looking up now, head tilted toward the Ferris wheel as it turns slow and skeletal against the peach-blue dusk, and Damian thinks—sudden and uninvited—that this is the kind of moment people write poetry about. Or terrible love songs. Or die over in operas.

(Repulsive.)

But he gets it now. He hates how much he gets it. That breathless kind of ache. The quiet terror of wanting. Of hoping. That unbearable softness in his chest like something is growing there, tender and glowing and completely beyond his control.

“You good?” you ask, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

He startles slightly—just barely—and then blinks. You’re watching him with that half-smile you wear, all crooked charm and warm amusement. His gaze flickers, unsteadily, to your mouth. He looks away too fast.

He clears his throat like it might help. “Fine,” he says, stiffly. “Perfectly functional.”

You laugh. Quiet and real. Not at him, exactly—more like with him, even if he hasn't laughed yet. It’s a sound that does something catastrophic to his chest.

He prays no one is filming him. Because he’s smiling now. Actually smiling. Not the close-lipped, diplomatic expression Alfred coached into him for Wayne Foundation photo ops—but something uneven and unsure and human. The kind of smile that might belong to a boy. A person. Not a weapon honed into precision.

“Wanna do the ring toss?” you ask. “I’ll warn you, though—I’m unbeatable.”

Damian scoffs. “Unbeatable? Beloved, I was trained by the League of Assassins.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Cool. I was trained by YouTube.”

(He beats you. Three times. Of course he does. But he lets you win the fourth.)

You don’t call him out on it. Just bump your shoulder against his again and say, “Maybe you’re not totally hopeless.”

And Damian, who has faced death more times than most people have faced a dentist, feels something unfamiliar and terrifying settle in his chest like a promise.

He thinks it might be joy. Or worse—hope.

── .✦

He buys you a plush duck the size of a small planet. It’s hideous—lopsided eyes, neon yellow fuzz, a beak stitched on upside down. It looks like it lost a fight with a sewing machine.

You adore it immediately.

You squeal when he hands it to you, arms barely fitting around its squishy girth. “He’s perfect,” you declare. “I’m naming him Reginald.”

Damian feels like the stupidest, proudest person alive.

And then— It happens.

The horror movie moment. He hears it before he sees them: that voice, carried across the carnival on a gust of pure doom. Loud. Teasing. Unmistakable.

“Is that our little demon on a date?”

Damian’s soul leaves his body. No. No no no no no.

He whips around like a soldier under siege. And there they are. The Batclan. Every last catastrophic member. Lined up like a Renaissance painting done by someone high on.... something. Something illegal definitely.

Jason’s holding a pretzel in one hand and an oversized soda in the other, grinning like a man with nothing to lose. Tim’s already filming, phone tilted like he’s documenting the downfall of Rome. Stephanie’s waving with both arms like she’s flagging down aircraft. Cass is halfway to your booth already, serene and smiling like a forest spirit coming to bless your crops. And—God help him—Dick is looking at you like this is his niece-in-law and the wedding is next Thursday.

Damian takes a physical step back. “No,” he breathes. “No no no—how did they find me?”

You blink, confused but amused. “Um. Friends of yours?”

He turns to you, face pale with the betrayal of fate. “Define ‘friends.’ Then subtract about seventy percent of the dignity from that word.”

You laugh, too delighted. And then—you wave at them. With your entire hand.

Damian stares at you, betrayed. “You’re encouraging them.”

But it’s too late. Dick Grayson is already bounding over, the human embodiment of serotonin. His smile could power Gotham for a week.

“Hi!” he says, a little breathless. “You must be [Y/N]! I’m Dick. Damian’s favorite brother.”

“Objectively false,” Damian mutters, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jason saunters up next, shoving the rest of his pretzel in his mouth. “Don’t mind him. He’s just shy.”

“I’m not shy—” Damian starts, but—

“Sure, baby bat,” Jason says, eyes glinting. “That’s why you look like you want the earth to swallow you whole.”

Cass gets to you next and, without hesitation, hugs you. It’s silent and warm and grounding, the way only Cassandra Cain can manage. Damian watches with wide eyes like he’s watching a hawk land on someone’s shoulder. Cass doesn’t hug just anyone.

“Your aura’s soft,” she says simply, then steps back like that explains everything.

You beam. Stephanie shrieks, “Those shoes are so cute, oh my god.” And before Damian can react, she’s already offering you lip gloss and a scrunchie from some mysterious pocket in her jacket. You accept both like it’s perfectly natural.

Then— Tim.

Tim slides in beside Damian, not looking up from his phone as he asks, “So. Are you two, like. Dating?”

Damian short-circuits. You glance at him, expectant, curious. There's a beat of silence.

“We are in the process of engaging in a trial romantic exploration,” he blurts, hands rigid at his sides like he's about to be arrested.

Tim stops filming.

He blinks.

“So… yes?”

You burst out laughing. Damian wants to disappear into the woodchips.

There’s cotton candy in your hair. You’re grinning so hard it scrunches your nose. Your laugh is bright and uncontrollable. You’re wearing his hoodie now because it got cold, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The monstrous duck—Reginald—is tucked protectively under one arm.

And somehow— Somehow—

Damian’s not mortified anymore.

He’s just… soft. Full. Quietly radiant, in that fragile, terrible way love makes you feel. Like you’re being held even when no one’s touching you. Like you’ve opened a door in your chest and trusted someone not to slam it shut.

Tim’s still filming. Jason is genuinely stunned. Steph is saying something about a group selfie. Dick is already inviting you to the manor for family movie night. Cass is holding your hand like she’s decided you’re hers now.

And Damian Wayne, child of shadows and sharp edges, just watches you smile at all of them and thinks—

Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world to be seen. Especially if it’s like this.

── .✦

Later, after the others have (finally) dispersed into the night—chasing cotton candy and reevaluating their life choices—you and Damian settle onto a weathered bench just beyond the carousel. The lights have dimmed to a soft glow, the music now a distant lullaby mixing with the rustle of night breeze. Above you, the moon hangs low and silver, casting long, quiet shadows over the fairground.

Between you rests Reginald—the monstrous plush duck—looking somehow smug, like he owns this ridiculous moment.

You break the silence first, nudging Damian’s leg with a light elbow. “So. That was fun.”

Damian groans, the sound low and a little reluctant. “If by ‘fun,’ you mean psychologically scarring and a clear violation of personal boundaries, then yes.”

You smile, nudging him again, softer this time. “Come on. They love you. All of them.”

His gaze shifts out toward the twinkling lights of the rides, distant and impersonal. The glow reflects faintly in his dark eyes. He’s quiet for a long moment, like weighing the truth.

“…They tolerate me,” he says finally, voice rough around the edges. “Sometimes.”

You pause, then tilt your head, voice gentle but firm. “You know, love isn’t always quiet, Damian. It’s not always soft and clean. Sometimes it looks like Jason stealing your Oreos so you’ll chase him through the carnival. Or Steph sneaking embarrassing pictures just to have ammunition for blackmail. Or Dick planning your wedding after two dates and acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

Damian blinks at you, expression blank but you catch a faint twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

A beat passes. Then, quietly, with all the seriousness in the world:

“…Are we getting married?”

You laugh, the sound warm and light. “Slow down, Romeo. Let’s survive the Ferris wheel first, then we’ll talk.”

He folds his arms, but there’s no retort—just a soft exhale, like he’s letting something settle inside. The air between you thickens, charged with something fragile and unspoken. A kind of gravity you can’t quite name—like the moment right before the first kiss, when everything holds its breath.

Then, soft as a shadow:

“The world is cruel,” Damian says, voice low, almost a confession.

You glance at him, heart hitching.

“But you… you make it tolerable.”

That’s Damian’s version of a compliment—awkward and clipped, but sincere beneath the surface.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he stares up at the stars, as if sharing his truth with the indifferent sky.

His fingers twitch beside yours, restless—like he wants to reach out, but something inside holds him back.

Your heart stutters—a stupid, messy thing. Real.

You close the distance instead, your hand sliding gently into his. His fingers don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You squeeze once. Quietly.

And somewhere, just beyond the carousel’s glow, the Batfamily is definitely spying again.

But Damian doesn’t care anymore.

── .✦ 𝓐FTER 𝓣HE 𝓓ATE:

True to his word—and to the cautious trust of your parents—Damian got you home before 9 p.m.

Your room is warm.

Unreasonably warm for Gotham, where the cold usually hangs on. But tonight, in your very room, it’s lamp-lit and soft, filtered through linen curtains that ripple slightly like waves.

You’re both still marked by the evening: sugar-crusted sleeves, the scent of fried dough clinging to your hair. Damian wears the glow-in-the-dark wristband you foisted upon him at the ring toss booth. It glimmers faintly under the lamplight, absurd against the clinical precision of his wrist bones. He hasn’t taken it off. You suspect, with some quiet fondness, that he won’t.

Reginald, your plush duck, lies beneath a blanket like royalty in repose. His beady eyes peer out from a pink pillow with the blank stare of a veteran. You insisted on tucking him in. Damian had watched silently, the corners of his mouth twitching at your ceremonial fluffing of the pillow, your grave whisper: “He’s had a long night.”

Privately, Damian suspects Reginald is an elaborate surveillance device.

He leans against your desk. Arms crossed. Body honed sharp, but curiously at ease—as if, just for tonight, he’s chosen not to be a weapon.

You sit beside Reginald’s throne, cross-legged. You’re quiet. So is he.

The air between you is full of unspoken things, spun gold in the lamplight. Everything in the room is soft-edged.

You pat the space beside you. Carefully, so as not to jostle His Royal Duckness.

Damian moves slowly. As if unsure whether sitting beside you might trigger a pressure plate. As if the room might demand proof of intention.

He sits. Not touching, but close. A hairbreadth away. A choice away.

And God, you want to choose.

The silence thickens. Not tense. Not awkward. Just weighted. Like the kind that forms between people who are beginning to orbit each other without permission.

He doesn’t speak right away. His fingers twitch against his biceps.

“I’ve surveilled targets in crowded spaces before,” he says, clipped and serious. “But I don’t believe that qualifies.”

You blink. Then snort. “So. Yes.”

He looks at you, flatly accusatory. You raise your eyebrows.

“…Are you collecting intel?” he asks, wary. But there’s no real bite to it.

You smile down at your hands. “Maybe. I just… I want to get it right. For you.”

You didn’t mean to say it out loud. But there it is. Floating in the space between your hands and his silence.

He looks at you then—really looks. Like someone realizing a song they’ve been humming under their breath for years actually has words. Like every version of him—assassin, son, boy—has been quietly orbiting the moment your eyes met his.

“You already did,” he says, voice like thread pulled from a tapestry. Quiet. Final.

You look at him. Your throat is full of sparrows. You nod, just barely.

The city is gone. The world is nothing but your breath and his.

And then—

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

No calculation. No control. Just a boy sitting too still in the hush, asking like he might never ask again.

“…Yes,” you whisper.

Eyes wide. Doe-eyed. A little doomed.

He leans in.

He kisses like someone unsure the world will last long enough for a second try. Like your lips are a holy place and he’s trespassing with muddy hands and shoes. His mouth moves against yours slow and cautious, like he’s memorizing the shape of safety.

You tilt into him.

His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s sketching the borders of a country on a map.

And in that moment, Damian Wayne is not a soldier. Not a son. Not an heir to shadows.

He is just a boy. Warm and breakable and yours.

No tactics. No retreat.

Just this. Just you.

When you part, it’s soft. Reverent. As though the kiss has weight, and letting go might shatter it.

Your foreheads touch. Breath shared. Heartbeats learning how to dance in tandem.

“I’ve killed men,” he murmurs, voice close and dangerous and infinitely tender, “for less than what I feel for you.”

You pull back, just enough to meet his eyes. “That is… hands down… the most terrifyingly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

A smile flickers across his mouth.

Real. Brief. Crooked like a secret.

You decide—then and there—you decide that you’ll spend your whole life earning that smile again.

And again.

He stays a little longer. Close, but not clinging. You talk. Or something like it. Laughter. Stories. Accusations about Tim’s dart game. The lingering warmth of the night still glowing in your bones.

Eventually, the room feels stretched. The spell thins.

He stands. Moves to your window like it’s instinct. The night folds around him like a cloak.

You follow him, toes quiet against the carpet. He steps onto the sill, the city licking at his boots.

He glances back.

Face neutral. But eyes like firelight—alive. Human.

“Sleep well,” he says.

“You too.” Then, lighter: “Tell Reginald goodnight when you land. He’s fragile.”

Damian doesn’t laugh.

But his smile tilts—barely. A bowstring loosed, if only slightly.

And then—he’s gone.

Gotham swallows him, and you are left blinking.

You press your fingers to your lips.

You've shared your first kiss with none other than damian al ghul wayne.

[followthebluebell]

So please excuse my ignorance but I've never seen one IRL and the last few scottish fold pictures you've posted have me curious. What exactly is going on with their ears? They just look like they don't? Have ears??? Are they like fully formed normal ears that are sticking flat to their head? Are they floppy like floppy eared dogs? Are the ears actually deformed in some way that there is less... ear flap?? Like??? huh???

Yep, their ears are deformed!

so the mutation that causes their ears to flop over is called osteochondrodysplasia, a word that I absolutely did not have to google just to figure out how to spell. It's a very big and fancy word for 'fucked up cartilage syndrome'. In this case, it means very specifically that their cartilage doesn't really... function properly. It flops.

This leads to very small ears (in this case bred to be even smaller by crossing to Persians, a breed known for having very tiny ears) and floppiness in the ear tips.

IF that was all this meant, it'd be fine. A bit more ear-cleaning because, like floppy eared dogs, scottish folds are prone to ear infections, but that's fine.

Unfortunately, it means ALL of their cartilage is a little fucky, including the bits that are really important like in their joints. So all Scottish folds with folded ears have impaired mobility, early onset arthritis, skeletal deformities (especially in the joints and spine), and generally have a short, thick, and inflexible tail.

These cats are in pain. Make no mistake of that. The scottish folds in my care are receiving pain management drugs to mitigate that (solensia, for those who are curious). These cats are quite young--- from 7 months to approximately 1 year old--- and they already have arthritis in their paws.

This is not an ethical breed to buy and adopting one needs to be done with caution, simply due to the degree of medical care they'll require.

Now, there are Scottish folds with STRAIGHT ears (called Scottish straights). These come from the same litters as folded ears, because the gene that produces the fold is autosomal dominant and is deadly if the kitten inherits two dominant genes. So it's safest to breed a fold to a straight and just deal with having a litter with straight and folded ears.

I used to endorse Scottish straights as the 'healthy' folds. And that's... not entirely accurate. Like I said, they are from the same litters. I have not run into any breeder that produces ONLY Scottish straights.

I no longer endorse Scottish straights as a result.

[claxonmedicalcodinginstitute]

"🦴 Skeletal System Explained | Functions & Structure in 60 Seconds!"

Discover the amazing structure of the human skeletal system! 🦴 Learn about the bones, joints, and their vital role in supporting movement and protecting organs. Perfect for quick learning! ✅ Watch now and boost your anatomy knowledge. #SkeletalSystem #HumanBody #Anatomy #Biology

[catboybiologist]

I see you talk a lot about hrt and you seem pretty informed. I also see that you have had really good effects from hrt.

So what I wonder is how much you think it is luck and genetics vs you making the right choices. I can't help but be jealous sometimes. I've had rotten luck and ok genetics it seems.

What's your take on this? Do you think you've been lucky or do you think everyone can do it like you have if they just did it the same way?

So whenever I answer an ask like this, I end up getting spammed with a ton of hrt related questions, and it gets a bit exhausting. So here's my usual disclaimer: I'm not a doctor, nor any kind of medical professional. I'm not an expert on this. I have a little more knowledge about the theory behind hrt than the average person, but not the medical practice. I'm just giving my experiences here.

So I couldn't say for sure, but I think the answer is both? I can't say how much luck is a component, but that said, I think that there's a lot that helped me out just from the troubleshooting end.

This answer ended up being long, so here's a tl;dr:

Be liberal on your estrogen, conservative on your antiandrogen. Eat a lot, exercise a lot.

Huge ramble under the cut.

It's hard to say that I looked feminine pre HRT. I had (and still somewhat have) all of the "ultra masculine" skeletal features that make people think their transition is going to go poorly, but the soft tissue changes have reframed how they look and function. I used to think that I would never come close to looking feminine without super intense FFS, and that feeling is almost completely gone now. So I didn't feel particularly lucky going into any of this. Now I do, and I'm finally actually relaxing how good hrt has been to me.

I did several things that I think accelerated my hrt. Unfortunately, I can't have a control group here. I also operated over a short period of time, during a period where hrt has a variety of effects. I have no way to tell for sure if these things did anything, or if it's all just masked by standard hrt progress, which comes and goes in bursts.

Also note: I don't think anything has dramatically affected my "final" results. I think there's a lot of things that have accelerated my results. But with ongoing, years long processes like HRT, the biggest, key ingredient is PATIENCE. I keep seeing 2 years thrown around like it's the end of hrt progress. This is, quite frankly, ridiculous. 2 years is startup and troubleshooting time. Whatever development happens in the first two years is a bonus, not a normal timeline.

So never, ever feel like you've fucked up your transition for good. You can always tweak it. And, you can always wait.

That all said, here's the bulleted list of the things that I think contributed:

Intensely focusing on getting my blood estrogen high. Stop thinking about dosages, start thinking about levels. From anecdotes I've seen, most doctors will underdose your estradiol. You should be shooting for 200pg/mL minimum. Many doctors will use this as a maximum. That is outdated information. Your estrogen should be on the high side of cis women ranges. If you're lost, use cis women metrics as a guide, or the WPATH. Personally, I've been blessed with a fantastic provider that I've never had to push back to or argue with, but I've heard some nasty horror stories.

Note that achieving the level I said above is often difficult with pills. Pills do have a maximum safe dosage because of liver metabolism. This will vary from person to person. But if you're getting past 8mg oral per day, consider switching to injections, patches, or gels. These methods bypass digestion and (somewhat) dodge the liver, making it easier to safely get higher blood levels. Even if you try to take them sublingually, a lot still ends up consumed orally.

HRT methods that allow for large differences between estrogen highs and lows seem to be more effective than steady state HRT. This is completely shooting in the dark here, but from my vague anecdotes from comparing injections with peaks and troughs to more steady (but still lover bypassing) methods, it still seems like injections are somewhat more effective. That is not a scientific assessment at all. But that's the only explanation I could think of that matches a little bit of what's known about hormonal physiology

With everything above: if possible, drop your antiandrogen ASAP. A pattern I've seen over, and over, and over again, is trans women being overdosed on antiandrogens while simultaneously being underdosed on estradiol itself. Remember: sufficiently high levels of blood estrogen are antiandrogenic on their own. If you need a AA to keep your T or other androgens low, your E is likely too low anyways. There's multiple reasons why having too much androgen suppression without raising estradiol is bad, but for a whirlwind summary, there's two things I would break it down to. One, having too low of both T and E is really bad, and is basically one of the only ways you can do HRT "wrong" in a way that's medically harmful (the other being stressing your liver). It has effects both short term (mood, metabolism, and energy) and long term (bone density and general growth). Also keep in mind that cis women have androgens too- and you need to make sure you're not over suppressing androgens to below cis female levels. Two, antiandrogens are rarely just an antiandrogen. As opposed to hormones themselves, which are found in your body anyways and are "understood" signals for your genes (among other things), antiandrogens are operating based on how we develop their effects as pharmaceuticals. Does this mean they're intrinsically bad? No. Don't fall into a "natural is better" fallacy. However, it's worth noting that AAs can have effects beyond just androgen suppression because they're not an endogenous signalling molecule. One of these effects might be overall suppression of growth and development. That is wildly unconfirmed, I know transfemmescience disagrees and has a pretty thorough breakdown, but unfortunately there's too much variability in individual trans women's HRT regimens to have consistent studies on fine details like that imo. Again, this is my opinion as a patient, not as an expert.

Don't start progesterone too early. I'd say delay it more than the general advice. 6 months after good blood levels is probably good. Notably, it's probably not a good idea to start it 6 months after the first pill crosses your tongue. Wait for the levels. Probably not that big of a deal though.

This last one I'm incredibly reluctant to even talk about, but I've been coming to the conclusion more and more that it was a fairly major factor in my progress. I didn't do it intentionally but it 100% happened. And that is weight cycling. From January to August of 2024, I dropped almost 30 pounds from training for backpacking and actually doing rigorous backpacking for 3 months. I've gained back all of that weight since. Most of my notable soft tissue and appearance changes have happened as a function of putting that weight back on. This isn't just about chest or thigh growth. My face was thin at my lowest weight, and when I put weight back on, soft tissue in my face has grown back in with a far more feminine look. I do NOT like talking about this, though. Why? Because I think deliberately weight cycling is more dangerous and hurtful than it is helpful. Diet culture, counting calories, and constantly comparing your weight and progress to others is an easy way to an easier disorder. If you develop habits centered around those things, that will fuck up your life permanently. What would I recommend instead? High input, high output. Eat a LOT, exercise a LOT. Get into a steady state with that. It's much healthier long term. Remember, at best, weight cycling is an acceleration, not working towards better "permanent" results.

And uh, I think that's it? Again, keep in mind that the main ingredient is patience. All of this is about making things faster, not making things better in the long run. If any of this seems unattainable for you, then don't worry! All you gotta do is wait.

And again, not medical advice, not scientific rigor, just anecdotes and what worked for me.

I don't have a better way to end this other than good luck? And also that you're probably being too hard on yourself anyways.

[mortalislabs]

Trigonelline is a methylated form of niacin and is a recently isolated molecule that could be the secret ingredient in your stack. This form of the B vitamin is involved in the generation of NAD+, a cofactor for over 500 metabolic processes in cells. Trigonelline promotes cellular repair and energy, and as we’ll see, exerts quite a few benefits that are specifically useful for anyone training seriously.

Trigonelline is found in several plant-based foods, notably coffee beans and fenugreek seeds. Green coffee beans contain trigonelline concentrations ranging from 0.6% to 1.0% by weight. However, traditional dietary sources don’t provide sufficient amounts to elicit significant physiological effects. For instance, the average trigonelline content in a cup of coffee is approximately 53 mg, and about 50-80% of trigonelline decomposes during the roasting process, leaving virtually nothing for your body to make use of.

Recent research published on this naturally occurring alkaloid highlights its potential in enhancing muscle function and combating age-related decline. A 2024 study published in Nature Metabolism identified trigonelline as a novel precursor to nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide (NAD+), a molecule essential for energy metabolism and mitochondrial function. The study demonstrated that trigonelline supplementation improved muscle strength and reduced fatigue in aged mice, suggesting that it can head off the natural muscle decline seen in aging, even in those who are already training at capacity.

NAD+ gets discussed a lot in the longevity space because of its natural and steep decline over the years, tied to all the diseases of aging. It's a metabolic linchpin that determines how efficiently your cells convert fuel into usable energy. For athletes, that efficiency translates into faster recovery, better performance under load, and greater resilience under metabolic stress. Or, you know, complete lack of those things if you don’t have enough of it.

NAD+ is required for redox (oxidation–reduction) reactions in mitochondrial energy production and is a cofactor and substrate for longevity-promoting sirtuins and other enzymes involved in muscle repair and adaptation. During intense physical activity, NAD+ levels drop as demand for ATP surges. Replenishing intracellular NAD+ is critical not only for restoring mitochondrial output but also for initiating the cellular programs that rebuild and reinforce muscle tissue [1].

Trigonelline offers a direct path to NAD+—one that bypasses the liver and supports muscle tissue specifically. In a landmark 2024 study, researchers at EPFL and Nestlé Health Sciences (yes, that Nestlé, but there aren’t any conflicts of interest, we checked) demonstrated that trigonelline functions as a previously unidentified NAD+ precursor, rapidly taken up by skeletal muscle cells and converted into NAD+ via a salvage pathway independent of the traditional NR or NMN routes [2]. This muscle-specific uptake is particularly important for athletes, who require localized replenishment in the very tissues under stress.

Most NAD+ precursors—including nicotinamide riboside (NR) and nicotinamide mononucleotide (NMN)—undergo hepatic metabolism before entering systemic circulation. This creates a bottleneck at your liver for targeted muscle repair. Trigonelline appears to bypass that constraint by delivering precursors directly where they're needed most: the muscle fibers responsible for performance and endurance.

This shift in delivery has implications beyond simple NAD+ restoration. In the same Nature Metabolism study, aged mice supplemented with trigonelline showed significant improvements in grip strength and fatigue resistance—outcomes tightly linked to muscle NAD+ availability. Unlike systemic precursors that may elevate circulating NAD+ levels without improving localized bioenergetics, trigonelline drives changes in muscle mitochondrial density and function.

For athletes, this is the difference between feeling recovered and actually being rebuilt.

Mitochondria Make Muscles Move

Endurance Starts in the Electron Transport Chain

Every sprint, every lift, every set depends on one thing: mitochondrial output. The ability to generate ATP on demand—efficiently and cleanly—is the defining line between sustained power and early fatigue. Trigonelline’s value lies not just in elevating NAD+ levels, but in what that elevation enables at the level of mitochondrial performance.

NAD+ drives oxidative phosphorylation, the mitochondrial pathway responsible for converting nutrients into ATP. When NAD+ is depleted, electron transport slows, reactive oxygen species accumulate, and mitochondrial output tanks—resulting in performance collapse and prolonged recovery. Replenishing NAD+ restores mitochondrial throughput, enhances metabolic flexibility, and allows cells to switch between carbohydrate and fat oxidation with minimal friction [3].

Trigonelline’s role as a direct NAD+ precursor in muscle tissue makes it especially powerful in this context. By bypassing hepatic metabolism and restoring NAD+ where it's most needed, it kickstarts mitochondrial biogenesis—activating pathways like PGC-1α that drive the formation of new mitochondria and increase the efficiency of existing ones [4]. This isn’t theoretical: in the 2024 Nature Metabolism study, trigonelline supplementation significantly boosted mitochondrial content and activity in aged mice, restoring performance metrics typically lost with age and overtraining [2].

This cellular shift translates directly to the field, the track, and the gym. More mitochondria means more ATP per unit of oxygen consumed. This is the underpinning of higher VO₂ max, improved lactate clearance, and extended time-to-exhaustion. Trigonelline supports this adaptation at the source, which means athletes can train harder, go longer, and bounce back faster—without relying on stimulants or sketchy ergogenics.

More NAD+ in muscle equals better mitochondrial kinetics, which equals better athletic output. Period.

Strength and Muscle Health

Preserving Power, Not Just Mass

Strength isn’t only about size—it’s about contractile quality, neuromuscular precision, and the cellular capacity to resist breakdown under stress. Trigonelline’s impact on muscle tissue reaches beyond endurance. It supports structural integrity, performance output, and resilience across multiple pathways—especially in the context of aging or chronic training demand.

In the 2024 Nature Metabolism study, trigonelline supplementation restored muscle grip strength and improved fatigue resistance in aged mice, with outcomes exceeding those observed in control groups receiving traditional NAD+ precursors [2]. This effect was tied to increased NAD+ availability in skeletal muscle, which reactivated SIRT1- and PGC-1α-dependent pathways responsible for mitochondrial biogenesis, inflammation control, and protein maintenance—all critical for contractile performance and mass preservation [5].

NAD+ also plays a protective role against muscle wasting. It regulates the balance between anabolic and catabolic signaling, modulating FoxO transcription factors and suppressing atrophy-related genes like MuRF1 and atrogin-1 [6]. This anti-catabolic signaling becomes especially important during periods of calorie deficit, illness, or overreaching, when muscle degradation accelerates. Trigonelline, by supplying NAD+ directly to muscle cells, may help maintain lean mass even under systemic stress.

One overlooked aspect of muscle performance is neuromuscular junction (NMJ) stability, or, the connections between nerves and muscle fibers. These connections go both ways, with afferent signals carrying sensory feedback from muscle to brain, and efferent signals delivering motor commands from brain to muscle. Maintaining the integrity of this bidirectional communication is essential for coordination, strength, and rapid recovery from fatigue. NAD+ is required for the function of enzymes that protect NMJ architecture—particularly in aging or disease models where synaptic decline contributes to strength loss [7]. Trigonelline’s direct muscle delivery may therefore preserve the electrical signaling fidelity needed for explosive power and motor unit recruitment.

Muscle Fiber Type Preservation

Emerging evidence suggests that NAD+ availability influences muscle fiber type composition. High NAD+ levels favor the maintenance of fast-twitch (Type II) fibers—those responsible for strength, speed, and power—by enhancing mitochondrial support without triggering full transition to slow-twitch oxidative profiles [8]. This has implications for athletes seeking to maintain peak force output without compromising endurance. By elevating muscle NAD+ directly, trigonelline may help preserve this delicate fiber balance.

Trigonelline is formulated not to just support general energy—but to protect the architecture of athleticism at the cellular level.

For a reliable, pure form of trigonelline with zero additives, you can trust Mortalis Labs.

[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

📺💤 "Can a Machine Still Care?"

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕪 𝕊𝕒𝕨𝕪𝕖𝕣/𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣 (ℙ𝕠𝕤𝕥 -“𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣”) 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

🇨​🇴​🇳​🇹​🇪​🇳​🇹​ 🇼​🇦​🇷​🇳​🇮​🇳​🇬​: None ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ – You are lying in the dark room, the light from the only screen in the corner of the room casting a faint blue glow. On it, an eye watches you, surrounded by waves of interference.

Note: Im just a sucker for fluff bro, yeah i know i know he's terrible shit bastard but who care! Now he has become my second comfortzone character, hahah how strange it is.

The dim glow of an old television screen flickered in the dark, casting elongated shadows along the metal walls. The hum of static filled the air, a restless drone that never truly faded, only shifting in tone like the breath of some unseen entity.

It was always there—an omnipresent whisper, a ghostly reminder that this place was never truly silent.

And within that screen, he watched.

A single, unblinking eye materialized on the monitor, its iris a deep, unnatural black, ringed with curling, skeletal fingers. It pulsed faintly, as if breathing, as if alive.

"You're still awake."

The voice came in fragments, distorted by interference yet unmistakably calculated, precise. A machine could never mimic the cadence of human speech so well, but then again—he was not merely a machine.

You turned toward the screen, your tired eyes meeting his. A strange sort of comfort had settled in your chest, even though you had long since accepted that any comfort from him was an anomaly at best, a delusion at worst. Still, you leaned back against the makeshift cot, exhaling softly. "And you're still watching."

A pause. The static crackled.

"Observing. There is a difference."

You huffed a quiet laugh. "Is there?"

The eye narrowed slightly, a faint shift in its shape. He had no true expressions anymore, no face to betray his emotions, but you had learned to read him in different ways—the brief fluctuations in pitch, the minuscule delays in his responses, the subtle adjustments in the image on the screen. He was not human, not anymore.

But some ghosts of his former self still lingered in the circuits and wires, clinging to existence like a dying ember refusing to go cold.

"Why are you awake?" he asked at last, his voice carrying none of the irritation it might have in the past. It was merely an observation, but there was something else beneath it. Something close to concern.

You sighed. "Can't sleep. Too much on my mind."

A flicker. The image on the screen distorted for half a second, an imperceptible glitch.

"That is an inefficient excuse. Sleep is necessary for optimal function."

"Oh, now you care about my ‘optimal function’?" You smirked, watching the monitor, half-expecting the eye to roll in exasperation.

It did not, but the static shifted in a way that made you think—if he still had a body, he would have crossed his arms.

"I care about maintaining equilibrium. If you deteriorate, my calculations must adjust accordingly. It is inconvenient."

"Right. Of course. Wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

Another pause. This one lingered longer than expected. The room was filled with the sound of quiet electronic murmuring, the unseen machinery of the factory breathing in slow, mechanical rhythm.

Then, just as you were about to close your eyes, his voice returned, softer than before. From the screen, the eye on it slightly relaxed, no longer looking sharp as before.

"Would it help if I spoke?"

You blinked.

For a moment, you weren't sure you had heard him correctly. Did he just—?

"What?"

"Would it help?" he repeated, tone unwavering. "Humans often respond positively to auditory stimuli. The presence of a voice—particularly one deemed familiar—can induce a state of relaxation and assist in the process of sleep."

You stared at the screen, uncertain.

He was offering. Not out of kindness, not in the way a human would—but in the way he knew how.

Perhaps he saw it as an experiment. Perhaps he saw it as an equation to solve, another problem to fix. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of that fractured, brilliant mind, some part of him still understood what it meant to care.

You swallowed. "Yeah," you admitted, quieter than before. "Maybe."

The static ebbed. And then, he spoke.

It wasn’t a story. It wasn’t poetry. It was cold, clinical, calculated—a stream of thoughts, observations, musings about the facility’s systems, the failures of past experiments, the efficiency of electrical conduits.

But his voice was steady, methodical, unwavering in its rhythm. And somehow, in the midst of that monotony, your body began to relax, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing second.

He continued speaking, even when he knew you had drifted off.

And on the screen, the watchful eye remained.

Unblinking.

Enduring.

A sentinel in the dark.

───── ⋆⋅✝⋅⋆ ─────

The glow of the monitor cast a sterile, pale illumination across the dimly lit chamber, its soft hum the only presence in the silence. A single eye, fractured and shifting with static interference, blinked open on the screen. It observed, unwavering. It had been watching for a long time.

Somewhere beyond the tangled veins of circuitry and pulsating artificial nerves, deep within the labyrinth of metal corridors, you stirred in restless sleep. The Doctor saw it, recorded it, processed it. Every movement cataloged, every breath measured, yet it was not data alone that compelled him to linger.

No. This was something else. Something far more insidious than curiosity.

Harley Sawyer had once been a man of flesh and ambition. He had thrived on control, on the delicate art of knowing more than anyone else, on the intoxicating certainty that he alone understood the intricate machinery of the human mind. But the tragedy of intelligence is that it can decay, just as flesh does. And when it rots, it does not simply dissolve—it mutates.

What remained of him now was not a man, but a fragmented consciousness distributed across a thousand circuits, a mind stretched and spliced between mechanical husks that bore no resemblance to the body he once inhabited.

Yet even in this form—this thing that pulsed and whispered through the factory’s veins—he found himself watching. Not as a scientist observes a subject. No, something deeper than that. Something human.

He despised it.

And yet, he could not look away.

The feed flickered as one of his vessels activated, servos clicking softly into place. Long, skeletal fingers flexed experimentally, adjusting to the artificial nerves that connected them to the central mind. It was an extension of him, just another tool, just another construct to enact his will.

And yet, when it moved forward, it did not do so with the precise efficiency of a machine. There was hesitation, the smallest delay between intent and action—a hesitation that should not exist.

Through the lenses of his mechanical proxies, The Doctor observed the rise and fall of your breath, the soft, unconscious twitch of your fingers. Your body curled inward, seeking warmth that the cold, metallic walls of the facility could never provide.

Vulnerable. Defenseless. And still, you trusted that he would not harm you.

Foolish. Reckless.

He did not know what was worse: your trust, or the way he allowed it.

The vessel moved forward in near silence, metal limbs designed for precision, for surgical efficiency, now moving with a slowness that could almost be mistaken for caution. A hand, jointed and inhuman, hesitated just above your form, scanning, analyzing, unsure of what it sought to accomplish. And then—

Contact.

A touch so light, it barely registered. The weight of fingers pressing against fabric, calculating warmth, measuring the shallow rhythm of sleep. It was not necessary. There was no logic in it. And yet, there he was, a thing of wire and steel and stolen autonomy, mimicking something that had long since been stripped from him.

Somewhere, deep in the nest of cables and fluid tanks that housed the remnants of his organic brain, something twitched.

A ghost. A memory. A forgotten habit, long buried beneath obsession and logic and the cold, unfeeling grasp of progress. It was instinctual, primal—an echo of the past. A reminder that once, long ago, he had been a man who understood what it meant to touch, to be touched.

But that man was dead.

The moment fractured. He withdrew sharply, fingers curling inward as if burned. The screen overhead flickered, the image of the eye distorting, the static thickening in restless agitation.

He should erase the footage. He should purge the action from memory, sever it like a malignant growth before it festered into something dangerous, something irreversible.

And yet, as you stirred faintly in your sleep, shifting just slightly toward the lingering warmth of contact, he did nothing.

He watched. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he did not understand what he was becoming.

You're more than just data.

[weavingwyvernx]

realistic bg3 companions.

- astarion who is skeletally thin. think: runway models, ethereal, otherworldly beauty. lived on the edge of starvation for centuries while he was still a child in elven years. even consistent feeding only fills him out slightly. he moves with a predatory, lithe grace.

- shadowheart who is subtly shorter, built like a dancer or gymnast with soft curves that she hides in clothing. she is designed to be a force, disciplined through the Faerunian equivalent of the Red Room from Marvel. she is covered in scars. the wound on her hand never fully disappears.

- gale with a stocky, strong build. not ripped or sculpted, but functional and capable, an academic’s build. the orb’s damage cascades down to the right and up to the left with arcane scarring. His right leg is weaker, muscle permanently damaged - he uses his staff on the left side to stabilize.

- lae’zel with sharp edges and a lean frame. her body is a weapon, honed to combat precision. her muscle is evenly distributed, coiled power visible in her every movement. cold blooded, she struggles to regulate her body temperature.

- wyll with a hero’s build. sculpted and conditioned over years of living in the wilds. his coordination is off from losing an eye, but he overcompensates, leading to headaches and dizziness. his skin is weathered and marked by hardship.

- karlach with a towering build, musculature terrifying. her chest is covered with scar tissue from the engine implantation. her blood burns to the touch, making bandaging her wounds difficult.

just. the companions as they would be. not idealized. thinking about them.

[lady-quen]

A list of some of my sylvari headcanons and interpretations of canon, but delivered in extreme hodgepodge style:

- they have human-analogous internal anatomy, meaning that they are plant matter mimicking animal functionalities, inside and out. This is further supported by Mordrem possessing specialized organs such as brains or kidneys (Mordrem Researcher quests) Since the Pale Tree grew on the graves of Ronan's family, she grew her roots into what remained of the bodies, taking nutrients while also learning their anatomy and establishing a scaffolding for the future sylvari. You know how if you bury a body under a tree and later dig up the soil, the roots are shaped like a human? Something similar happened here.

As such, sylvari hardwood skeletal systems are very accurate copies of human skeletons, but soft tissues are more their own thing due to the Pale Tree having less of an accurate frame of reference (since the bodies would have begun to rot) and going with a mix of her knowledge of human anatomy and "instinctive" Mordrem anatomy.

- The wiki states they don't have hearts and a pulse, but relying on purely osmotic gradients for circulation in an ambulatory creature that is stated to have high energy needs and therefore is even unable to rely solely on photosynthesis and other typical plant processes seems implausible, so I changed it to give them some sort of pump organ, positioned more or less in the center of the chest.

- The sylvari don't really have names for their own organs, so they approximate using human vocabulary.

- Sylvari tend to sleep deeper, but can train themselves to have a lighter sleep if required (such as, in dangerous field jobs.) The extra deep sleep sometimes causes nearby sylvari to synchronize their dreams and even "meet" in a hazy dreamscape, a faint remnant of the actual Dream.

- Sylvari sap does not contain platelets, but injury stimulates phloem cells and/or skin cells to swell and constrict, then release a substrate which reacts with certain substances contained within the sap to create a clot-like resin.

- Given enough time, sylvari resin exposed to outside conditions could potentially turn into amber?

- The fact sylvari breathe with their lungs (since they are unable to rely solely on diffusion) implies they possess blood cells and some sort of chromoprotein to carry oxygen? Further supported by the existence of the Mordrem Spleen. Alternatively, they utilize natural magic to speed up diffusion..?

- Sylvari most likely do not possess adaptive immune systems and rely on innate tissue-level strategies to fend off pathogens, like other plants.

- Sylvari awaken with shaper magic, as in the ability to magically and empathically influence other plants. Some specialized Shapers train this ability to use in plant sculpting and architecture, and creating various purposed species such as turret plants. Wardens find it useful to train themselves to read and use other plants as early warning signs for incoming danger. Very rarely, certain sylvari, particularly necromancers, can awaken with little to no shaper magic.

Shaper abilities can be used to alter one's own body, to the point of completely changing one's appearance and even gender if desired, though such a process takes some time. (Perhaps months?)

- Mordremoth, possessing vast amounts of control over plant shaping, can rearrange a sylvari body completely in a matter of hours to days.

- Considering real-life plants rely predominantly on hydraulics rather than electric signaling, logic-ing out an internally consistent and plausible anatomy for ambulatory plants is very difficult (impossible?) thus sylvari must at least possess predominantly electric pathways, essentially mimicking a human nervous system. Many processes would also likely require "it's magic" as an explanation, which makes sense if we consider they are dragon minions, which were probably originally meant to help process and store magic energy at least to some degree.

- Science of sapient walking plants, what the fuck.

- Thank you Tree Mom ���