#psionic system

[ex--astris--scientia]

Qui'lari

According to the Deep Space Nine episode "the Muse" (season 4, episode 21), the telepathic openings within a Vulcan's psionic system are called "qui'lari". These are commonly also referred to, though mostly in fanfiction or beta canon, as "meldpoints" due to them being most often used for melding. But just what are qui'lari? Based on canon and my own musings, I've come to the conclusion that they are a type of telepathic chakra. They are a pinwheel of psionic energy that can be opened in order to facilitate deeper telepathic linkages and mental mingling. They act as sluice gates for kash-tepul (mental energy) and the proper health, alignment, and care of the qui'lari assists in the flow of kash-tepul throughout the Vulcan psionic system as well as keeps them healthy and skillful enough for melding. While the entire Vulcan body is open to telepathic touch, the true depth and breadth of it comes from the stimulation of the qui'lari.

In traditional Vulcan religion, there is an emphasis on the Inner Chorus, a grouping of numinous beings that seem to represent the inner emotional landscape of any individual Vulcan. These beings are named for the planets in the Vulcan solar system, which leads me to believe that the solar system itself is the Outer Chorus with which the Inner Chorus is meant to be aligned. Thus embodying the idea of one's inner life being just as ordered as the mechanisms by which planets find their orbit. The harmony that is produced between the Inner and Outer Choruses is the song of C'thia ("reality-truth" or the religious doctrine of logic that Surak preached). It is my belief (which is to say, not backed by canon or beta canon or anything of the sort), that the Eridanic solar system therefore plays a strong symbolic role in Vulcan thought and religion (due to the realities of pon farr and its homeward draw, as well as the tendency of Vulcans toward tradition, I believe the hearth plays a central role for them and once they'd become aware of their planet as the ultimate hearth and the way it's situated in space, the entire system, with its mathematically clean and organized movements of the cycles of the celestial bodies, would represent the ultimate proper ordering). Due to this, I've decided that it's pretty likely that the qui'lari would be organized and named for the celestial bodies.

This is completely of my own invention but the qui'lari system is as follows:

1. Alam'ak. Named for the primary of Vulcan's three suns, this meldpoint is located around where the third eye is, at the center of the forehead. Since Alam'ak is the deity of divine illumination and inspiration, this qui'lar is the one used for connection with the Econ, the universal mind or the mind of God.

2. Behr'ak. Named for one of the suns that are in binary orbit, this meldpoint is found on the left temple.

3. Czar'ak. Named for the other binary sun, this meldpoint is found on the right temple. Both of these temple qui'lari are indicative of mental revelation and inspiration that is a little more enfleshed and closer to home. These are the primary receptive meldpoints, typically passively accepting kash-tepul and mind connection.

4. Ket-Cheleb. Named for one of the planets, this qui'lar is found in the mouth, under the tongue. Ket-Cheleb is known as the Destroyer and is a violent deity aligned in the Inner Chorus with emotions such as rage and anger. This meldpoint is the one that is most hidden and the cultivation and health of it has to do with the Vulcans' belief in sacred privacy. The keeping of ones thoughts to one's self (keeping them under the tongue, as it were).

5. T'Khut. The left hand. While technically made up of a system of minor qui'lari which are all located on the fingertips, due to their closeness and the tandem in which they work, the hand meldpoints are taken as one.

6. T'Khasi. The right hand. Alongside T'Khut, these two qui'lari (or systems of qui'lari if you want to be technical) represent the active meldpoints, as opposed to the passive ones found at the temples. It is through the fingers that Vulcans touch another mind (as opposed to being touched).

7. Valdena. Located at the heart and named for the deity aligned with feelings of love and joy, this meldpoint is the emotional center. Thoughts flowing from Valdena tend to be wordless and more emotionally charged. This meldpoint is meant only to be utilized, therefore, by bondmates or other close relationships.

8. Tel-Alep. While the other meldpoints are typically a single point (such as a fingertip or one place on the skull), this qui'lar is the entire length of the twin tentacle-like organs near the Vulcan genitals that are called fra'als. These are the most telepathically sensitive locations on a Vulcan's body and melding with them is the most telepathically erotic.

9. Kal-Apton. The left ankle.

10. Kir-Alep. The right ankle. Both this point and the previous one are the primal meldpoints. Typically unused for connection with another humanoid mind, they are instead meant for mental focus and rootedness. Essentially anchoring one's thoughts to the ground they walk on. The connection to the living web of a planet. A Vulcan may self-stimulate these points in meditation in order to achieve emotional and mental grounding.

[shuvva]

tfw you keep accidentally making your characters plural-coded through different forms of transhumanism, multiple timeline, and supernatural/possession shit

[tertiaryunit]

I was looking at a DX walkthrough and turns out Psionics are actually referenced - although in the sci-fi definition of the word, it's more about using technological means to achieve abilities that would be considered "paranormal".

Although I think this is an ironic conversation (I don't think a regular Versalife employee would be able to know about secret research like that), I would probably tie this with how in my lore Bob keeps testing on Lawrence to find a way to try and translate his Psychic abilities (which he can use naturally, without tech) to some device he could implant to his non-ESPER agents to make them able to use similar powers.

Interestingly enough, another employee at Versalife is called "John Smith", similar enough to "Johnny Smith" from Stephen King's "Dead Zone" which is about a psychic protagonist with Clairvoyance.

[folykill]

i like that voidrot isnt specifically defined in canon. it gives me a lot of wiggle room to figure out what kind of an affliction it is

[dogboyforzen]

i know the divorce wars was cancelled but im suddenly thinking about it again and i want to give a big ass fistbump to whoever suggested benry and forzen for it.

[primarining]

the left is alexandria she's a trans mtf peacock and the right is victor he's a hyena he's not necessarily trans but he's a guy because he doesn't care

reblog this post with ur fursona(s) i wanna see ur creatures

[sylestine-redacted]

Something Else

f!reader x astartes

A/N: wanna be part xenos and bred by an an astartes? shamefully needed to get this idea out.. it took all day..brb will be studying all night now

Cw: NSFW, dubcon, size difference, belly bulge, implied psychic bonding?

They told you to stay out of the upper decks.

Too close to the kill-teams. Too many eyes. Too many minds that might see through your skin.

You went anyway. You always do.

The lower decks are stifling. Cramped. Filthy with sweat and old oil and human desperation. But the upper levels? There's air there. Still recycled, still metallic, but laced with ozone and war-blood. And something else. Something… cleaner.

You stood alone at the observation port. The void shimmered beyond the blast-glass—distant stars smeared like crushed gems across velvet. You pressed your fingertips to the cold surface and tried to breathe in the silence.

Then the door opened.

You didn’t need to turn. You felt it.

His presence rolled in like heat before a fire. Weighted. Hungered. The scrape of ceramite against the deckplate was almost polite—he didn’t stomp like the others. He glided. Like a predator conserving energy.

You turned.

Astartes.

Tall. Black-armored. Helmet off. Face carved from the worst kind of beauty—cruel, immortal, inhumanly symmetrical. His gaze snapped to yours.

And held.

He looked at you the way predators look at prey that shouldn't be here. Something flickered across his features. Not surprise. Something more intimate.

Recognition.

You lowered your eyes. But it was already too late.

He took a step forward.

You didn’t move.

Another.

His voice slid in—low, rough, unfiltered by vox. "You don't belong here."

You said nothing.

"You smell like them," he murmured. Not loud. But the words sank in deep. “Not these wretches. Something older. Finer. Rotten through with psionic stink.”

Your throat tightened. You felt the skin between your shoulder blades prickle—useless vestigial instinct screaming run, even as your legs refused.

He took another step. Now he was close enough for you to see the fine web of scar tissue across his jawline. The flecks of dried blood near his throat. The dilation of his pupils.

"Not a psyker," he said softly. "Not human. Not quite."

His gauntlet rose—not to strike. To touch. A finger brushed your jaw, tipped your chin up. The leather of his glove was tacky with someone else’s blood. It smeared your skin.

“You’ve been hiding,” he whispered. “Pretending.”

His hand dropped to your throat. Not choking—just holding. Measuring.

“Did you think no one would notice? That I wouldn’t smell the xeno in your blood? Feel it under your skin?”

You tried to pull back. He didn’t let you.

His face lowered. Breath washed hot over your cheek. “Do you know what happens to xeno filth when we find it?”

You nodded. He smiled.

“Then why,” he said, voice rasping now, “do you smell like desire?”

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

His thumb stroked the hollow of your throat. You shivered.

He laughed. Quiet. Mean. “Oh. Oh, little heretic.”

His other hand came up��pressed flat to your stomach, possessive. “Maybe I’ll study you. Personally. Find out just how human your cunt really is.”

You gasped. His grip tightened.

He didn’t move to fuck you. Not yet.

But his armor was hot now. His body against yours a wall of heat and pressure, and you could feel it rising—between his legs, thick and wrong and hard.

“You’re mine now,” he said.

And the door closed behind him.

...

His other hand still rested on your throat.

Not crushing. Not yet. Just... holding. Like he was gauging your fragility. Watching the pulse beat against his fingers, the tremble of your voice box as you tried not to whimper.

You felt him. Every inch of him. Pressed close. The reek of sweat and sacred oils. The hum of armor systems still active. And beneath all of that—flesh. Heat. Something thick and hard that had no right pressing up between your thighs like that.

And then—his voice. Not cold anymore. Ragged. Low.

“I should end you.”

You nodded. You wanted to. You didn’t.

“But now…” He leaned down. Breath hot against your temple. “Now I just want to see if you can take it.”

His fingers flexed. Not on your throat—lower. Between your legs. Palm flat against your mound, pressing in, not gentle. Testing.

You cried out. He smiled.

“Mm. Soft. Alien.” He pressed harder, grinding his palm over you in slow, cruel circles. “But you’re wet. Little whore.”

“I—I can’t—”

He laughed. Brutal. Sharp.

“You can. You will.”

Then he lifted you.

No warning. Just metal hands on your thighs, lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing. Your back slammed into the wall. You scrambled for purchase—his shoulders, the thick collar of his armor. But there was no control. He had you caged, legs spread over his hips, and between you—

Throne.

You looked down and saw it.

His cock.

Not out yet—but straining, monstrous, behind his undersuit. The sheer size of it shocked something in your core—shame, yes, but also a heat that made your stomach clench. It throbbed visibly. Long, thick, impossibly wide. And it was aimed right at you.

He saw your face. Grinned.

“You understand now.” He pressed forward, letting the sheer mass of it rub against the soaked crotch of your uniform. “You feel how big I am. You feel how badly I want to ruin you.”

You shook your head, but your hips betrayed you—arched toward him. Grinding. Needy.

His eyes darkened.

“Oh. Look at that. The little xeno bitch wants it.”

He bit at your throat—sharp, a mockery of affection—and tore your uniform open with a flick of his gauntlet. Fabric shredded like paper. Cold air met hot skin. His hand cupped your bare cunt, fingers sliding through the slick already pooling there.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered, almost reverently. “Your xeno cunt wants to be split.”

He pulled back. Undid the clasps at his waist.

And then it was out.

You gasped.

It wasn’t a cock. It was a weapon. Veined. Flushed dark with heat. The tip already drooling thick strands of precum, heavy and angry with need. He lined it up between your thighs, not even trying to enter—just dragging it along your slit, letting the head bump against your clit, then lower… lower… until it pressed against your opening.

You weren’t even stretched yet. He was testing your edge.

You shook your head again. “You’ll break me.”

He smirked. “Good.”

You shook your head. Your body trembled. Your cunt clenched around nothing, a fluttering panic—and yet your hips rolled forward. Seeking. A traitorous little tilt. You hated yourself for it.

He felt it.

"Filthy xeno cunt. You’re greedy."

Then, with a low sound—almost a groan—he pressed.

Just the head. Just the first inch.

Your body fought. Muscles locked. Slick flooded out of you. Your breath hitched so high it felt like you might faint.

And still he pushed.

Slow.

Inexorable.

The wide, blunted tip forced your opening to spread wide—too wide. You whimpered. Your legs kicked against his sides, reflexive, desperate.

He didn't even flinch.

"That's it," he growled, voice like gravel dragged over steel. "Open for me. Let me in."

You felt the stretch. Felt it around the head of his cock—hot, slick, but unrelenting. Your lips parted around him like a mouth forced too wide. You couldn’t stop it.

And then—he passed the ring.

That tightest point. The one that meant you were no longer just brushed or tested.

He was inside.

And you felt it everywhere.

Your cunt sucked around him in a spasm of terror and heat. Your back arched against the wall. Your fingers scrabbled at his shoulders—no armor now, just the muscle-hard press of ceramite-threaded skin.

You tried to say something.

It came out a sob.

He grinned.

“There,” he hissed. “That’s your limit, isn’t it?”

He didn't push deeper yet. Just let you feel him. Let your body twitch and quiver around the sheer mass lodged inside. He held still—but his cock throbbed, thick pulses that made your inner walls tremble involuntarily.

“You're clamping down so tight,” he said, almost admiring. “Like you're scared I'll go further."

You opened your mouth. “You—can’t—”

He leaned down. Licked the sweat from your cheek. Whispered:

“I haven’t even started.”

And then—just a little more.

A half inch.

Enough to make you cry out again, your body trying to accommodate, your cunt fluttering wildly as it tried to pull him in and push him out at once. Conflicted. Overwhelmed. Alive.

His hands slid up your sides. Held your ribs like they were fragile armor plates. He looked down again—where you were joined. Where your pussy stretched around his girth like a ring of slick velvet, and your belly began to swell with the pressure.

And then he pressed his palm there.

Flat to your stomach.

And pushed.

You screamed. He moaned.

"Look at that," he whispered. “You're bulging for me already. Beautiful.”

He hadn’t bottomed out. Not even close.

And he wasn't going to stop.

...

You could feel your pulse through your cunt. Not in that soft, aching way that comes with arousal—but like it was being crushed, your blood forced around something impossibly thick. Him. Still barely inside.

He hadn’t moved. Not yet.

Just the head and a little more. Enough to split you wide and hold you there, trembling, open, shaking.

His breath steamed against your neck. You heard the hiss of his inhale through his teeth, the tension in his muscles as he restrained the full thrust he so clearly wanted.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, almost thoughtful. “Like you’re afraid of what happens when I go deeper.”

He tilted his hips.

Just a centimeter.

And your body twitched around him like it was trying to expel him. But it couldn’t. Your entrance was wrapped tight behind the thick flare of his cock’s head. You were locked. Pinned open. Caught in the worst kind of stasis.

“You should be scared,” he whispered, hand returning to your belly.

His thumb pressed into your abdomen. Right over the firm bulge distending your flesh—his cock. Not imagined. Not symbolic.

You were stretched so deep, you could see him in you.

“I can feel myself,” he murmured, rubbing your skin like he was stroking your womb through the outside. “Right here.”

You whimpered. He smiled.

“And I’m not even halfway in.”

His hips drew back. The shaft dragged through you like it was tearing through layers of resistance. You sobbed. But the sound had no strength. You were sweating, soaked, dripping around him—and clenching, helplessly, like your body wanted to trap him.

"You can feel it now, can't you?" he growled. "The way your alien cunt wants this. Wants to keep me in. Milk me. Breed."

"No," you gasped.

He laughed.

"You say no," he hissed. "But your body’s dripping like a fucking slut."

Then he slammed forward.

One brutal thrust.

All of him.

You screamed. Your body arched against the wall, nails scraping against his shoulders, legs twitching. You didn’t think he could do it. You were sure he’d never fit.

And now he was buried to the hilt.

And your belly—Throne, your belly—bulged full and high, his cock a grotesque shape stretching your flesh tight. Your womb felt bruised. Your mind white-out. Not pleasure. Not pain. Something worse. Something better.

He didn’t move right away.

He just held you there. Full. Split. Claimed.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your pulse fluttered in your throat, in your cunt, in your mind.

And then his voice—low, guttural, close to coming apart.

“That’s it.”

He rocked his hips once. Just a little. Enough to make your belly shift under his cock.

“You took it.”

He moaned. Honest. Low. Shameless.

“Oh fuck, you took all of me.”

Your mouth opened—but nothing came out.

Your cunt, impossibly, squeezed again.

And he felt it.

"You're gonna keep doing that," he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. "Over and over. Clenching down like you want to milk my cock. You’re starving for it, aren't you?”

You couldn't nod. But you didn’t say no, either.

You just whimpered.

And his smile turned vicious.

“Good girl.”

Then he pulled back. And slammed back in.

You screamed.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

Fucking you against the wall like you were just something to use. A hole for heresy. A sleeve to empty his hatred and hunger into. And with every thrust, your body broke more rules.

You should have torn. Should have passed out. But instead… you adapted. Gripping him. Pulling. Begging.

You weren’t just taking it.

You were hungry for it.

And that’s when he whispered it—low, cruel, hot against your neck:

“You’re mine now. You’ll never take another cock again.”

Then he bit you. Not gentle. Not love.

A claim.

...

Your world had gone white.

There was no more resistance. No more fight.

You were full. Beyond comprehension. His cock seated deep inside you like a relic driven into corrupted stone. You felt him everywhere—every pulse, every twitch, every breath—as if your cunt had grown nerves in places it was never meant to feel.

You didn’t think you could survive another thrust.

But he hadn’t moved.

He was still inside. Still hard. Still pressing so deep you swore your lungs ached.

And then—something changed.

Not movement.

Pressure.

Inside you.

A slow, subtle stretch—not from him thrusting, but from your own body. The rippling tremor of inner muscles adjusting. Fluttering. Twitching. Welcoming.

You gasped.

He felt it instantly.

His eyes snapped to yours. The look in them changed—from hunger to something darker. Possessive. Reverent. Like he’d found divinity in the shape of your cunt.

“Oh,” he breathed. “You’re not human.”

You shook your head, weakly.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t move.

He just watched your body ripple around him. Slick walls spasming gently—no longer clamping, no longer resisting. Just… flexing. Milking.

You could feel it. Each roll of muscle pulling at the girth inside you. A rhythm. Not yours.

Your body had made a decision.

“Throne,” he whispered. “You’re meant to take me.”

His hand found your belly again. Pressed hard. You could feel his cock throb inside you in answer, like your womb had wrapped itself around him, drawing him deeper. Holding him there.

“I should kill you,” he rasped, breath catching. “I should purge you for this.”

You whimpered—but the whimper twisted into a moan.

Your cunt squeezed.

His eyes rolled back slightly. His fingers clenched. You could feel his restraint fray—every muscle in his body tight as a bolter cable.

“You’re not fighting me anymore,” he said, breath hot on your throat. “You’re feeding off me.”

Then—

A spark.

You didn’t mean to.

You didn’t know you could.

But something unfurled inside you—psychic. A pulse. A ripple of emotion and pheromone and bond, raw and unschooled, but alive.

He felt it.

His entire body jerked.

His cock throbbed, painfully hard, swelling inside you.

And he growled.

“You bonded to me.”

You blinked. “What—?”

His hand closed around your throat.

“You tied yourself to me, little whore. Xeno trick. Biological witchcraft. I felt it. Your fucking womb tried to latch.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but he slammed his hips forward, grinding his cock even deeper, punishing, brutal.

Your body welcomed it.

Your belly swelled again.

You moaned.

“You wanted me to breed you.”

His voice was breaking now. Fractured. Lust-drunk.

“Wanted me to fill your cunt with gene-seed and blasphemy.”

He pressed harder against your stomach, both hands now, watching the obscene bulge shift beneath his touch.

“I should tear it out of you.”

You nodded, eyes brimming.

He thrust again.

You shuddered. Slick gushed out around his cock, dripping down your thighs, soaking his hips.

“I should cut it out,” he snarled again.

You moaned louder.

His head dropped against your shoulder. Breathing ragged. Jaw clenched.

But he didn’t stop.

He rocked into you once more—slow, deep, devastating.

And whispered:

“…but I want to see what hatches.”

...

You didn’t think he’d move again.

Not after what he said. Not after the bond. That strange, pulsing pressure that flared in your gut and brain like some biological sin awakened too soon.

But he did.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he didn’t want to waste a single second of the way your cunt gripped him now.

He began to pull out—inch by inch. You could feel every ridge of him drag along your walls, every bump of vein and flare of girth that your body had adapted to just enough not to break. Your belly deflated slightly, the obscene swell relaxing—

—and then he thrust back in.

You screamed.

The stretch renewed, ripping a fresh moan from your throat, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. You were still so tight, still barely fitting him, but now you clenched to hold him in. Your body betrayed you. Again and again.

“That’s it,” he hissed, one hand bracing your hip, the other gripping the meat of your ass. “You feel that? That’s how a heretic worships.”

He pulled out again.

Slower this time.

Letting you feel the long, punishing drag of his cock through your pulsing cunt. Your legs shook around his waist, muscles locking. Your insides spasmed. The empty stretch made you whimper.

And then he thrust back in with a brutal, grinding roll of his hips—hips made for war, for battering, for sieging, and now they were fucking you open like a battlefield.

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe.

Each stroke left your insides molten, your clit throbbing untouched, slick pouring down your thighs as your body begged for more. Not pleasure. Not yet. Just pressure. The terrible, addictive fullness of being used by something bigger than you.

He grunted—low, guttural, losing control.

“You like that,” he growled. “You fucking like this.”

You tried to deny it—but your hips bucked. Your cunt squeezed again.

And he felt it.

He pressed you harder against the wall, both hands on your hips now, dragging you down onto his cock like a toy. “Say it.”

You shook your head.

He thrust hard. The wet slap of his hips against yours echoed in the chamber, filthy and rhythmic.

“Say it.”

You choked on your moan, tears running hot down your cheeks. “I—I like it—”

“Louder.”

“I like it—! I l-like being fucked—”

He cut you off with a savage thrust.

You nearly blacked out.

Your belly stretched so taut with the bulge of him you looked pregnant with cock, your insides rearranged by his length, his shape—a perfect mold of ruin.

And then he slowed again.

Pulled out until only the fat, swollen head of his cock remained inside—pushing just at the entrance, your cunt clinging to it like it didn’t want to let go.

You sobbed.

He watched.

Watched your hole flutter and twitch, desperate to be filled again.

“You’re gonna cum for me,” he said, voice low and shaking. “You’re going to soak my cock like the little xeno fuckpet you were bred to be.”

You shook your head—no words now, just shock.

He leaned forward, voice in your ear, breath hot.

“You’ll cum when I do.”

Then he fucked you in earnest.

Savage thrusts. Brutal rhythm. One hand clamped around your throat, the other around your waist, forcing you down onto his cock again and again. Flesh slapping. Wet squelch of your slick with every impact. His cock bruising your womb, grinding your clit with each forward drag, your belly bulging and bouncing with the force.

You couldn’t speak anymore.

Couldn’t think.

You were just a body. A hole. A sleeve wrapped tight around a cock built for devastation.

And you were so close.

So fucking close.

You felt it rise—hot and sharp and unforgiving, like a chain snapping. A need that went past pleasure and into something primal.

And he felt it too.

“Cum,” he growled. “Fucking cum on me.”

You did.

You screamed through your orgasm, body convulsing around him, cunt spasming so tight he moaned, slamming deep one last time—his cock buried to the root, locked, twitching.

And then he came.

It wasn’t a spurt.

It was a flood.

You felt it rush into you—hot, thick, copious. Your cunt overflowed immediately, hot seed pouring around his cock and dripping down your thighs, your womb cramping, struggling to hold it.

And your body… tried.

It closed around him. Sealed. A clenching suction like your insides wanted to drink him dry.

His head fell to your shoulder.

He growled. Moaned. Laughed—low and wrecked.

“You were made for this.”

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t.

Your cunt held him too tight. Greedy. Needful.

And he just breathed against your skin.

Waiting.

You couldn’t move.

Your legs wouldn’t answer. Your arms hung limp, shoulders trembling against the cold steel of the wall. Your head lolled to one side, sweat-damp hair stuck to your cheek

And still—he was inside you.

Fully seated.

You were so full.

The weight of it pressed down, thick and warm and wrong, his seed sloshing inside you with every twitch of his cock. You couldn’t hold it. Could barely even feel your pussy anymore—just the endless, aching stretch, the trembling walls slick with spend and spit-slick friction.

You’d passed pleasure. Passed pain.

Now you were just ruined.

Your belly bulged, high and round, his cock still buried to the root. You could feel it pulse again, another lazy shot of cum spilling out and adding to the mess inside you.

And he watched.

Hand on your stomach.

Thumb stroking the obscene swell of his own cock through your skin.

“Look at you,” he whispered, reverent and cruel. “You kept all of it.”

His voice was low. Thick. Wrecked.

“I didn’t think you could. But your slutty little hole just keeps sucking it in.”

He rocked his hips—just an inch—and you whimpered, slick and seed gushing out around his cock, flooding your thighs.

“Listen to that,” he breathed. “Fucking dripping. You’ve got no room left, little heretic. I filled your womb, your cunt, your guts. You’re a leaking mess.”

You whimpered.

You should have been ashamed.

You were soaked. Filthy. Pinned to the wall by his weight, held there by nothing but the thick shaft plugging your ruined hole.

But you didn’t want him to move.

You wanted him deeper.

He leaned close. His mouth at your ear.

“You want more, don’t you?”

You nodded. Barely conscious. Barely human.

He laughed.

“You don’t deserve it. You should be on your knees with your mouth open, cleaning your own filthy little cunt off my cock.”

You moaned.

“I should fuck your throat next. Make you gag on the taste of your own breeding. Make you beg for what’s dripping out of you.”

He gripped your thighs tighter. His cock twitched again. More seed spilled out, thick and heavy and endless.

“Look at it,” he growled, dragging a finger through the spill leaking out of your stretched entrance. “You can’t even hold it in.”

He smeared it up your slit. Over your clit. You jerked—too much. Far too much. Your nerves were shredded, spasming, too tender to touch, too ruined to resist.

And still—your hips bucked.

He smiled.

Then—he pulled out.

Slow.

And everything came with it.

A flood of hot cum poured from you, thick and white and endless, drenching your thighs, the floor, your ruined cunt still twitching open like it was trying to find him again.

You sobbed. You twitched. Your belly finally deflated, your pussy gaping, lips stretched wide and raw and emptied.

And then he looked at it.

Bent down. Spread you open with two fingers.

“Look what I did to you.”

You whimpered.

“I wrecked it.”

He leaned in.

Licked the mess off your cunt.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

“Ruined little thing,” he murmured, his tongue flicking over your twitching clit. “You’ll never stop wanting this.”

And your body agreed.

Because your cunt clenched, even now. Even empty.

Still hungry.

Still his.

---

When he leaves you—legs shaking, pussy raw, his seed cooling on your thighs—he doesn’t say goodbye.

He just looks back.

Smiles.

And says:

“Next time, I’ll knot you.”

-----------------probably will be continued----‐----

Unintelligible noises... yep... yep... idk who gave me hands...

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 (late tag sorry!!)

[outofgloom]

THEY REMEMBER

His eyes hurt, his legs hurt. His arm...it all hurt. The distance hadn’t seemed all that long on the way, but he’d had a vehicle then, and his core hadn’t been exhausted from battle. Now...now the true scale of the Great Basin was made real to him. Kio on torturous kio. Even his farthest psionic senses couldn’t yet detect the minds of the workers that labored on the rim above.

Another step. His bad leg dragged, and he tottered, thrusting his good arm out for balance. His other arm poked uselessly at the air: a stump above the elbow. It didn’t help, and another pulse of telekinetic energy was needed to steady himself. He would’ve fallen headlong otherwise. That’s what it had come to.

The bad arm itched, and he was obliged to go back inside, back to the psionic corner where pain impulses filtered in from his limbs, deactivate the alarms again. Just an empty numbness now. That was better.

He continued on. He was at least halfway by now, and was that a whisper of a thought he heard? One of the dry responses of the automaton-workers, perhaps? They were always talking to the System in their heads: “Confirm this” and “Acknowledge that”. Regular, predictable. Easily tweaked.

Unlike Their minds. Down there, behind him. Theirs had been...unexpected, but he had tried, in spite of it.... Tried to do his duty.

The infestation grows, his masters had said. Down in the pits, between the foundation-ribs. Our scrying shows more hole-boring and tunnels. Toa Orde, it is time for something to be done. 

He had tried to do what his masters asked, but it had not been what he’d anticipated. A thousand eyes had looked upon him from the pockmarked cliffsides, where the creatures had gnawed away the bones of the world. A thousand minds had turned their attention to his approach, as his sky-sled dropped out of the pale light above and landed in their dim realm. He’d extended his mind to them confidently, establishing the required connections, in order to start his work. 

<<Great Beings…?>> 

The first thoughts came through. Questions, even curiosity. About him, about his masters. That was to be expected. He widened the link further, calculating population numbers. So many...a vast number of minds...but it shouldn’t be a problem.

<<Great Beings know...>> 

<<They...remember...>>

<<Remember...us?>>

He focused on the nearest of the creatures, a pair of eyes in an opening several bio above: the strongest link. He called up the mental schematic that had been provided to him, reviewed the changes required.

<<They...have not...forgotten...?>>

<<They...remember us>>

Simple enough: just a matter of finding the right mental threads to pull, the right pathways to re-wire. And then...Even these aberrants shall be brought into the grand design, as his masters had said. Even these. 

All set. He made the first change.

<<What...?>>

Confirmed. The threads yielded to his will, with only a little resistance. It was going well. 

He made the second change.

<<But...>>

Confirmed again. Pathways reshaped at his command, a little harder this time, but no problem. 

He held the threads taut for a moment to suspend the target’s behavior, re-checked the schematic. Right, all correct.

<<Why…>>

Now he made the third change. This was the most difficult, bringing the final components into conformity. More resistance, but he was almost done. Afterward, the alterations would be propagated throughout their network. Simple enough, if his calculations were—

Shock. The mental link snapped off, like a limb breaking. It stunned him, disoriented him, but only for a second. Then he was back in his own throbbing head, feeling sick.

There was a noise in the dark space above, and something smashed heavily into the ground before him: A body, all spines and serrated claws. Now broken.

It was the creature he had linked with.

It was dead.

Confusion. What had happened? He had followed the schematic, all the proper directives. The task had almost been complete, but then.... The creature.... Had it…? No, surely....

Eyes were moving, up in the darkness. Crawling and scuttling. 

He took a step back toward the sled, tried to reestablish his connection. He’d simply try again and then—

<<Rage>>

<<Resentment>> 

He felt his breathing stop. He clutched his head, clenched his jaw involuntarily. 

<<Wrath>>

<<Betrayal>>

A wall of chugging, pulsing malice struck him, and he reeled. 

Thousands of minds bent on him in unison, overwhelmed his weakened defenses. And each one felt the same thing—the same feeling of fury, of violation—all feeding each other and consuming each other in an endless psychic loop.

He’d made a mistake, somehow. These were not like the automaton-minds of the workers above. These were—

<<RAGE>> 

<<RESENTMENT>>

Not simply a web of threads and commands to be altered at his whim. They were...They were like him. How?

<<WRATH>>

<<BETRAYAL>>

Did his masters know?

<<THEY KNOW>>

Eyes moving. Voices croaking. Spines clacking. Closer now.

<<THEY REMEMBER>>

A barbed spear hurtled out of the dark, skewering his sky-sled and showering him with a cascade of sparks, and in the brief flare, he saw Them with his real eyes.

<<WE REMEMBER>>

He raised his hands. Closer.

<<WE WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER>>

*  *  * * * *

The basin-rim stood another few degrees higher now, and he was certain that he could catch a few strands of thought on the psy-fields. Almost within range, and then he could summon another sled to carry him the rest of the way. His arm throbbed. He’d not been able to keep the pain down for the last stretch. 

Teeth gnawing, claws raking at his armor, a shriek shattering the air as his telekinesis tore another of Them limb from limb. And still more piled on. More bodies. 

More wrath. 

More betrayal.

Maybe he deserved to feel the pain.

On a whim, he looked back over his shoulder, saw the vast wasteland sloping downward behind him. His feet left faint tracks in the fine protodermic dust that covered every sio of the Great Basin. The trail led for many kio, showing the haphazard route he had taken after emerging from the deep defile, still pursued by the creatures. He had killed more of them on the plain. He’d had to.... They wouldn’t stop.... He wouldn’t stop.

Turning back toward the distant rim, he considered for a moment simply reporting success to his masters. They trusted him. Maybe they wouldn’t truth-test the message. And then...then the last complication would be resolved. Everything in order. The valve-gates would be opened, and silver water would pour into the Great Basin.

All part of the grand design.

And down there, in the pits, down between the foundation-ribs...the flood would sweep in. And maybe that would be the end of it. 

No bodies. No traces left.

<<Rage>> 

<<Resentment> 

<<They know>>

Except with him. In his own memory. He would remember.

<<Wrath>>

<<Betrayal>>

He would always remember.

[bikenesmith]

Despite [Xavier’s] previous insistence that he is only whole when able-bodied, he comes to terms very quickly with his return to disability: “My back is shattered, a parting gift from the Shadow King… It appears… if I am ever to achieve my dream… I will need all of you… to walk me there” (Nicieza 23). In the span of a single panel, Xavier acknowledges that he is once again disabled, accepts it, and asks his teammates for help. Due to his previous elation at becoming able-bodied, one would think he would require more time to adjust, to shift his identity once more from “able-bodied” to “differently-abled.” The ease in which Professor X resumes his disabled identity lends itself to the notion that being able-bodied, not disabled, is a plot device. He takes more time to adjust to using his legs than he does to losing them, a pattern generally reversed when other characters become disabled. This smooth transition back to disability implies that his truest identity is as a disabled man.

crippled crusaders: disability representation in the superhero genre by cassandra nicol is a central inspiration to my reading of charles xavier's disability (as is the text itself). is charles ever "re-abled”, or is his disability a chronic illness that dramatically waxes + wanes?

(this is a rewrite/expansion of a previous post that includes many more textual examples + visual aides! also posted on twitter here)

(also check out this amazing xxplastic--cubexx commission ouchpotatoex gifted me that is related to this concept 🥹)

the dominant, most objective[?] read is that charles becomes abled, is disabled, + becomes abled again ad nauseam. yet this narrative trend has also licensed a reading where charles’ disability is, functionally, a chronic illness that flares due to outward stimuli.

whether charles’ paraplegia is due to physical injury or a brain/astral issue isn’t clear, having been complicated over the years by the many ways the text chooses to able + re-disable him. in any case, his paraplegia began after his spine was crushed by a giant rock.

what makes the most sense to me is leaning into that ambiguity. its both — either mental or physical injury/ailment can cause him disablement. the back + forth of charles’ paraplegia signifies he’s uniquely in danger of that specific symptom — paraplegia/spine issues.

like injury or damage to the spine, injury or damage to the brain can lead to quadriplegia or paraplegia. the brain + the spine, the central nervous system, they’re basically extensions of each other, and are some of the most important parts of your body.

from this one can extrapolate that charles has a particularly “weak” spine, and it’s likely to give out if he experiences intense physical OR psionic injury. and as an x-man, he risks that quite often.

before i go further, here's a list of all of charles xavier's ablements + disablements & how they happened. 😭 yes that's an ELEVEN POINT LIST. re: resurrections i counted both his x-force + inferno resurrections as one item. let me know if i missed anything.

methods of disablement + re-ablement

disabled by spinal injury

abled* from new body cloned from tissue

disabled by spinal injury

very briefly abled by contraction of techno-organic virus

disabled by fading of techno-organic virus

briefly abled** by xorn's healing

disabled by xorn removing healing

reabled by wanda's depowering

killed by cyclops

transfers soul into fantomex's abled body

resurrected into abled clone bodies

*: unable to walk for a time due to psychic disablement

**: requires cane to walk

the strongest evidence for charles’ disability as psychic/neurological AND physical chronic illness exists in his story beats post-brood saga, during which his body is destroyed and his soul is transferred into an abled clone-body made from his tissue samples.

however, charles finds that he is not able to walk/walk consistently, despite the fact that there is nothing "wrong" with this new body. in these panels (and in the ones in the coming tweets), charles + lilandra discuss the mental/neurological element of his disability at length.

charles goes through an arduous physical therapy process trying to circumvent the mental barrier, which causes him excruciating pain, and experiences sharp fluctuations in ambulatory ability. it’s basically outright said that his disability is not just in his body, but his brain.

(interestingly, soon after, his health is a central subject once again, after he survives a violent hate crime & hides the injury + resulting health issues. those health issues are then exacerbated by another severe injury at the hands of the strucker twins. thus headmaster mags)

i also think the “ease” with which charles moves from ability one state to another that nicol mentions is important to this. to be clear: we have seen charles agonize over his disability, and especially losing his ability. it’s undeniable that it impacts him emotionally.

but charles doesn’t go through the intense “grieving” process many newly disabled ppl do — the kind he went through himself while recovering from his first spinal injury (see uncanny x-men #309). as nicol points out:

In Xavier's next appearance two issues later, he is seated in a golden wheelchair and seems insistent that his disability not hinder his participation in X-Men adventures. Instead he emphasizes his usefulness with his telepathic powers, declaring, "I too shall be coming. Though I am crippled once again, my particular talents may be needed there" (Portacio and Byrne 6). His disabled status is stressed through a visual weight of the word "crippled," both bolded and italicized in the comic panel, similar to how "whole" was stressed when he became able-bodied in 1983. But here, "crippled" is not laden with judgment. It is merely an acknowledgement of Xavier's condition. This smooth transition back to disability in some ways rectifies his description of "able-bodied" as "whole," as Charles insists that even paraplegic once more, he is still more than capable of being an X-Man, and he is still the most powerful mutant in the world. Regardless of the state of his physical body, Charles knows that his disability need not impose limitations on his actions; he harnesses his role as leader of the X-Men and his disability is, effectively, relegated to background information.

of course, this is in part because charles had already been paraplegic for years, but it can also be read as him just being ready for it. seeing it as an eventuality, a familiar state that he will return to throughout his life. a chronic disability that exists whether or not he can walk.

There is one more major instance in which Professor X becomes able-bodied. In 2002, a mutant named Xorn restores Xavier's ability to walk (Morrison, "All Hell" 32). This is the most short-lived instance of Xavier being able-bodied. Only a year later, Xorn is revealed to be Magneto in disguise, one of Professor X's oldest enemies; Xorn removes the nano-sentinels that had been holding Xavier's spine together, crippling him again (Morrison, "Planet X" 19). Later, once freed from captivity, Xavier reappears in a chair with alien-like legs, giving him 21 autonomous movement (Morrison, "Phoenix Invictus" 27). This time, he makes no mention of his return to paraplegia. He is in full command of the X-Men, and has again made a smooth identity transition from "able-bodied" to "differently-abled." The fact that this occurs once more stresses that to be disabled is part of Charles Xavier's truest identity, and that being able-bodied is a temporary plot point rather than a character trait.

so what does this mean in the krakoan age, the most recent and recognizable instance of charles' "abling"? we've already been shown that a newly grown physical body doesn't necessarily mean that it does not come without his disability.

is the disability a “symptom” of charles' telepathy? is it imprinted in his mind/soul/whatever you want to call what cerebro catalogues, or the form charles takes when transferring into new bodies? is a krakoan-made body uniquely "stronger" than past ones? (R-LDS notwithstanding)

throughout all of krakoa era, there’s never been any mention of what charles feels about making his bodies ambulatory. the closest thing we have to that is the knowledge that he brought his own wheelchairs with him to krakoa (which somewhat supports a "chronic illness" reading, at least).

the fact that charles brought his wheelchairs with him to krakoa.....in a paradise allegedly free of death or sickness he still prepares for his needs to change, as if its an immutable part of him that could resist miracle drugs + literal resurrection.

(but isn't it SO classic x-men bullshit that we only get that insight in the backdrop of an ableist plot where a villain is punished and humiliated.....by being dis-abled? lmfao. in duggan's marauders, disability is considered a punishment worse than death.)

via xuân’s resurrection in new mutants, we know that its possible to have your physical disability preserved when you’re resurrected. so it must have been an active choice of charles' to be resurrected into an abled body.

personally, i find charles' choice to be resurrected in an abled body to be in-character. he's done it before, he frequently mourns his ability to walk, & has always enjoyed running + abled sports. the lack of discussion and attention to this choice is the problem.

imo the best outcome for charles, an iconic disabled character w/ a long complex history w/ his disability, is to canonize this complexity by revisiting the aforementioned story beats and reframing his disability as an intrinsic part of him that he experiences whether he is ambulatory or not.

understanding charles xavier's disability as a chronic disability that simply has fluctuating presentations + support needs is a far more compelling idea than continuing with this on-off-switch thing that only serves to trivialize + erase disability.

some last points:

beyond charles' specific issues, telepathy can by itself already be seen as a disability as it causes issues that are similar to neurological disorders (migraines, fatigue, fainting, pain, visions/hallucinations, etc).

the serum plotline in xmdofp (2014) is clowned on for not making sense but i guess this lowkey works as an argument that it does??? charles' physical disability being connected to his telepathy has precedent. "well in the comics — ☝️🤓"

end of post! if you want to read cassandra nicol's paper check it out here! (if you don't have access to it through a library or institution, message me for a pdf!)

[the-weeping-dawn]

'#i like to imagine that overdosing tadpoles#like you had at least 6 or so#would have changed enough of your brain that you would have attunement to psi magic.#gale is now a psychic mage#lyth is a psiknife-rogue on top of shadowdancer-thief from a century ago#drow are magically attuned enough that if minthy still has her lover around she will figure it out#and then have the deep comfort of knowing always shes not alone#that she need never be alone with her thoughts ever again'

So what you're describing is actually more or less an aberrant mind sorcerer! With yes, extended time having a parasite in, likely still replacing part of their minds during the all gone at once removal of the ending* it feels like a legitimate source.

And more importantly, the level 1 feature Telepathic Speech would be right there to fill in (quite limited at lv 1 and in general, but either handwaving or accepting yes they naturally would have more limited psionics even with the much better spell further in, Rary's Telepathic Bond)

Starting at 1st level, you can form a telepathic connection between your mind and the mind of another. As a bonus action, choose one creature you can see within 30 feet of you. You and the chosen creature can speak telepathically with each other while the two of you are within a number of miles of each other equal to your Charisma modifier (minimum of 1 mile). To understand each other, you each must speak mentally in a language the other knows. The telepathic connection lasts for a number of minutes equal to your sorcerer level. It ends early if you are incapacitated or die or if you use this ability to form a connection with a different creature.

do not think about how much it would shatter Minthara post tadpole to have that trust shattered though.

[vixensdungeon]

Alright, kids, time to explore our first topic on how stuff in D&D has changed and how that affects a setting's history, also known as the Qwerth series because that's the silly name I've decided to give the world. And what is that first topic, decided by you the reader (assuming you answered my polls)? None other than

The Druid

So here's how things are going to work, and will probably work for future topics as well. I'm going to make posts on a reblog chain about each suitably distinct edition of the game (Chainmail will count as part of the original game for this purpose), and then end with a rough setting historical rundown. Sound good? Good. So let's get kicking!

Chainmail

The druid makes no appearence in Chainmail.

Dungeons & Dragons

We first see the druid as a monster in the Greyhawk supplement, and finally as a full class in Eldritch Wizardry. In its first appearence the druid uses both clerical and magical spells (the latter at a lower level), but we won't interpret them as any sort of prototypical mystic theurge. Instead we'll regard it as simply a mechanical contrivance because there's no point making a special spell list for a monster you might encounter in some dungeons. And yeah, they're part of the dungeon encounter tables now. So they don't just stay up in the wilderness!

In their later appearence as a subclass of cleric, they have their own spell list with a bunch of nature-type spells, and several that indeed would be more at home in a magic-user's spellbook than a cleric's (clerics used to have spellbooks in the very beginning). While they seem to lag behind clerics in the area of healing (and in that regard they are indeed weaker), a druid gains the use of magical spells earlier than clerics, and actually get access to cure light wounds at the same level as a result.

Here is introduced also their peculiar system of ranks. A druid starts as an aspirant, before going through several circles of initiation before finally beocming a druid. At this point they become limited in number, with a mere four Druids in existence, two Archdruids, and a singular Great Druid. Those wishing to advance when there are no vacancies must challenge a current holder of a title.

Druids are of a Neutral persuasion, and remain so when the five alignment system is introduced later. They serve not a deity but Nature itself. They cannot possess psionic potential, implying that there is something unnatural about such abilities.

[st-just]

Well, as long as the right one wins in the end.

Wildbow Protagonist Tournament round one

[melodi-jackson]

🌌~✨♾️Paragon♾️✨~🌌

I made another tsams/leas/ and an eaps oc

Meet paragon! They aren’t an astral being and is NOT related with star power. They do have a very deep connection with the astral bodies and other celestial entities. They are VERY ancient. They are an eldritch cosmic entity with the ability to create and destroy life. This isn’t there original form, they look like a dca attendant model which they are very fond of but why do they look like a dca attendant model? There’s a WHOLE lore story behind it.

Pronouns: they/them

Gender: none

Age: ??? (Ancient, immortal)

Alignment: lawful neutral

Personality: ???

An ancient eldritch cosmic entity which they are known to represent “the pillar of creation, balance, perfection and destruction”

There are more pillars, they only know a few other pillars and some of those they are familiar with and have a close bond. There’s only two pillars who they know and relatively close to and have a special bond known as the pillars of Suns and Moons :)

Very fond of dca attendant models and obsessed with advanced technology

They are responsible for every aspect of existence and responsible for everything to exist that’s yet to die eventually.

They know everything.

♾️✨Powers/ Abilities✨♾️

Has the ability to create all life for those in misfortune and the ability create destruction and rain down despair and misery to cruel, unforgiving souls

Can naturally produce and absorb energy

Has an infinite digestive system

Regeneration

manifestation

Divination

Purification

Restoration Magic

Gravitokinesis

spatiokinesis

realitokinesis

Astro-Psionics

Astrokinetic Combat

Astral Manipulation

Astral Projection

Black Hole Creation

Black Hole Manipulation

Constellation Creation

Inter-stellar travel

Cosmic Awareness

Cosmic Concentration

Cosmic Constructs

Cosmic Conversion

Cosmic Creation

Cosmic Defense

Cosmic Deformation

Cosmic Destruction

Cosmic Earth Manipulation

Cosmic Element Manipulation

Cosmic Empowerment

Cosmic Energy Absorption

Cosmic Energy Manipulation

Cosmic Fire Manipulation

Cosmic Generation

Cosmic Immunity

Cosmic Manipulation

Cosmic Medium Manipulation

Cosmic Pressure

Cosmic Projection

Cosmic Radiation Generation

Cosmic Solidification

Cosmic Storm

Cosmic Telekinesis

Cosmic Warping

Cosmic Water Manipulation

Cosmic Weaponry

Cosmic Weather Manipulation

Cosmic Wind Manipulation

Cosmic-Electric Manipulation

Cosmological Force Manipulation

Esoteric Cosmic Manipulation

Galactic Energy Manipulation

Galaxy Attacks

Galaxy Creation

Galaxy Destruction

Galaxy Manipulation

Gyrokinetic Combat

Heliokinetic Combat

Infernal Manipulation

Magic Portal Creation

Magical Telekinesis

Planet Creation

Planetary System Creation

Planetary System Destruction

Planetary System Manipulation

Plant Destruction

Platform Creation

Solar Energy Manipulation

Solar Generation

Solar Manipulation

Space Energy Manipulation

Space Wind Defiance

Star Creation

Star Destruction

Stellar Energy Manipulation

Stellar Generation

Stellar Manipulation

Stellar Manipulation

Stellar Pillar Projection

Void Manipulation

White Hole Creation

White Hole Manipulation

telescopic vision

morphing

soul creation

soul destruction

(power list is very LONG im still writing it 🥲👍)

[janearts]

I know Roisia didn't think much of Gortash's offer to rule the world together, but what were her thoughts on the Steel Watch? Using humanoid brains to power robots seems at least a little necromancy adjacent

[Ask refers to this previous ask.]

At some point I'll need to distinguish that Roisia is not a Dark Urge character. Her dark urges cackle and gurgle and trot along behind her. Anyway, the whole Steel Watch is not just necromancy-adjacent, it is Myrkulite necromancy... just flavoured with Illithid psionics. Reanimate a corpse, tadpole the poor sod, cut off its head, put the reanimated body into a Steel Watcher shell and the tadpoled brain into a jar, and wham, bam, thank you ma'am you've got yourself a Watcher.

Just because it's necromancy doesn't mean it pleases Roisia, though. Roisia is all about the wondrous nature of the organic form. The meat, the guts, the nerves, the intricate and complex systems that allow a body to function. Despite the fact that it was a Necromancer (Balthazar) who helped design the Steel Watch, she would think he missed The Whole Goddamn Point of necromancy and, essentially, nerfed the most powerful organ in the body and implanted a sophisticated organism into one that, while stronger, is far more primitive. She didn't feel there was anything particularly Myrkulite about the construction of the Steel Watch, but what the hell does she know?

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

⚕️GASS (Gallifreyan Assessment Scoring System)

Sick Gallifreyan just crossed your path? Here's how to assess their condition using the Gallifreyan Assessment Scoring System. Just remember, 'Gallifreyan life's a GASS'.

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

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

✨ What is GASS?

The Gallifreyan Assessment Scoring System (GASS) is a tool designed to rapidly evaluate a Gallifreyan's condition. By monitoring vital signs and unique Gallifreyan indicators, it prioritises emergency responses while accounting for their distinct physiology, such as dual hearts and regenerative abilities.

Just remember, Gallifreyan life's a GASS.

📈 What's New in GASS?

This updated version of GASS includes critical refinements for more precise assessments. New categories have been added, such as Heart Rate Differential (HRD) to flag discrepancies between the two hearts and T = Responds to Telepathy in the level of consciousness scale. Adjustments to thresholds for vital signs and regenerative glow visibility also improve detection of emergencies like fibrillation or post-regenerative trauma.

📝 How to Use GASS

1️⃣Initial Observations

Ensure the environment is safe (e.g., no stray Daleks).

Observe for immediate signs of distress: skin colour, breathing effort, or lack of responsiveness.

2️⃣Evaluate Vital Signs and Assign Scores

Refer to the GASS table to assess each category:

🌬️ Respiration Rate: Count breaths per minute. Adjust for respiratory bypass if present.

🫧 Supplemental Oxygen: Note if oxygen support is in use.

🌡️ Temperature: Measure orally.

💓 Systolic BP: Record using a normal sphygmomanometer.

💖 Hearts Rate (Combined): Count the total bpm across both hearts.

🔄 Hearts Rhythm: Sequential beats (thud-thud, thud-thud) are normal; synchronous beats (thud-thud together) indicate fibrillation.

⚖️ Heart Rate Differential (HRD): Calculate the bpm difference between hearts; large discrepancies suggest possible singular heart failure.

🧠 Level of Consciousness (AVPTU): A = Alert, V = Responds to verbal stimuli, P = Responds to pain, T = Responds to telepathy, U = Unresponsive

✨ Regenerative Glow: Check for visible energy on the skin.

3️⃣Check for Healing Coma

If 8+ healing coma criteria are met:

Cease active interventions.

Monitor closely for changes.

Avoid premature waking to prevent neurological damage.

4️⃣Calculate Total GASS Score

Add up the scores from all categories:

0: No concerning changes. Continue routine monitoring.

1–4: Mild to moderate changes. Perform an ABCDE assessment and increase monitoring.

5–8 or 3 in single score: Severe changes. Perform ABCDE, escalate care, and consider sepsis.

≥9 or Glow = 3: Extreme changes. Initiate emergency intervention, constant monitoring, and prepare for sepsis protocols.

5️⃣Reassess After Interventions

Following each intervention, reassess the GASS score to adapt care and ensure stability.

🚨 When to Escalate

Critical signs: Synchronous heartbeats, extreme HRD, or GASS score ≥9.

Sepsis or Specific Emergencies: Use respective protocols for management.

📌 Key Points to Remember

Combine GASS results with clinical judgement.

Healing comas are protective states—let them run their course.

Escalate care if in doubt.

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

⚕️💕Gallifreyan CPR

⚕️👽Gallifreyan Assessment Scoring System (GASS)

⚕️👽ABCDE Assessment

⚕️⚠️Sepsis Emergency Response (SER)

⚕️⚠️Severe Trauma Protocol

⚕️🌡️Gallifreyan Thermoregulation and Emergency Response

⚕️🔮Psionic Emergency Pathways

⚕️✨Post-Regeneration Management

⚕️💤Gallifreyan Healing Coma Management

⚕️🩸Interpreting Gallifreyan Bloodwork

⚕️👶Gallifreyan Paediatric Emergencies

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

[burr-ell]

"Matt trying to create a kinder world" yeah! Yeah, that's it! This fact alone is one of the reasons I am so frustrated with the fervent calls to burn it all down. Of course Exandria has its complexities and Matt is not infallible but I can't help but see these people calling for complete destruction as stomping on sandcastles. Trying to paint the characters as "revolutionaries", as though there is some kind of rebellion. There isn't! It's just the worshippers of Predathos.

Right, and these are primarily calls that weren't coming from...really any corner up until January 2023. There were similar burn-it-all-down calls during Campaign 2, but they were aimed at the Empire and the Cerberus Assembly, and whether you think burning it all down should have been the solution or not, at least the Assembly was demonstrably causing oppressive systemic harm.

The "revolutionaries" thing is especially silly for the same reasons I've found it silly coming from other fanbases. Ludinus is the ultimate presiding authority behind an empire that spans half of Wildemount; if he wanted to, he could have instilled reforms to make people's lives better and instead he's signing off on brainwashed child soldiers. Bell's Hells were scrappy for about five minutes before they had a rich benefactor and then the ear of one of the most powerful druids on the planet and, to a lesser extent, her equally powerful friends, and that's before they were absorbing shards of titans and awakening their psionic moon magic. Bell's Hells are nepo babies who think having to work to get things and take responsibility for their own actions is the fault of "the system", and Ludinus is the system. Revolutionaries my ass.