Cosmic Funnies
RMH
Xuebing Du
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

Origami Around

shark vs the universe
Mike Driver

Love Begins
Keni
🪼
No title available
almost home
No title available

if i look back, i am lost
KIROKAZE
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

No title available
occasionally subtle
Monterey Bay Aquarium
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Belarus
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Belarus
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from New Zealand
seen from Peru

seen from Malaysia

seen from Netherlands
seen from United States

seen from New Zealand
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seen from United States
@res177us
I love the thought of being taken care of in a particular kind of way. Sometimes, I just don’t want to put the effort into breathing, into living. I adore the idea of being in bed and wrapped in someone’s arms. I love the idea of them gently pinching my nose shut and they lovingly breathe into me. All I can do is lay there and exist, and they take care of me with so much love and warmth. They do it for as long as they want to, simply breathing into me and pressing kisses to my lips between every other breath. They keep doing it until I feel good enough to take the steering wheel again.
This very epic drama written and commissioned by @birdofcauthon14 of their characters Ylva (rescuer) and Dani (rescued) in which a truck smashes into the side of a hospital building and starts a chemical fire, resulting in a pretty intense rescue
So, you want me to take you by the throat, squeeze your carotids until your heart fibrillates to arrest, then place you in the ground and do CPR on your naked chest until I revive you or help arrives with a defibrillator, right?
Is that not a perfect date night, or what?
Re: what that last doctor was doing by himself, maybe he was putting a hand on the stomach as it jerked under the LUCAS, letting it ripple into his palm as he watched the piston jam into his sternum again and again. Maybe he was checking the pulse in his wrist and slid his fingers into between the webbing of the patient's own, tracing his lips against his cold knuckles. Maybe he stopped the machine a time or two to make use of those paddles. Sure, no sense shocking a flatline, but what's the harm when he's so far gone? Getting to watch his arms jerk off the gurney and his legs twitch up, shifting the blanket so more of him is exposed. Maybe he kept a hand on his femoral as the LUCAS forced a pulse through his limp body, occasionally shifting to cradle his pale cock and work it with his fingers and palm, even though it remains soft and unresponsive, just like the rest of him. Maybe once time is called, he's the one who insists on taking him to the morgue so as to not let a pretty body go to waste
mmmmmm, yes. hot hot hot.
I love when a practitioner gets a little handsy.
hands wrapping around either side of the patients lithe waist, feeling how muscles have stopped fighting, stopped giving resistance against the LUCAS's efforts, stomach soft and unguarded. bulging. maybe he imagines his cock adding to the assault, imagines feeling his cock adding to that rhythmic pulsing of his stomachs. or maybe just the work of the LUCAS is enough.
little kisses pressed around. maybe the doctor is being particularly gentle after all the work he has forced on this beautiful body. fingers stroke back curls from half lidded eyes, and he shuts them with a kiss to the kids that refuse to stay fully shut. kisses to the pulse point that are still outside of mechanical effort. even his femoral, kissing along the cut of his illiac furrows, until his nose is all but buried in dark curls, before pulling back. kisses to the corner of the lips, beside the tube filling the boy's lungs with breath. going oh so gentle. giving this boy all the kisses he will otherwise miss out on.
he might run the ECHO again, if the machine is still in the room. just to see that pretty heart get pumped. it's such a beautiful oddity to him. it's such a beautiful heart. outside of the fact it refuses to pump, it looks pristine. the theory is that the arrest had to due with something electrical. no Joel's of reversal. so seeing that pretty heart is a joy.
when he stops the LUCAS, or more so, when he lets it run to death and then removes it. carefully letting down purpled and bruised wrists from the straps, kissing them oh so softly, before laying them on the bed. then he rubs that destroyed chest. it feels far too soft. it's been pulverized. he doesn't doubt that nearly every rib has been broken. the sternum shattered. it's bruised a myriad of swirling colors. not to mention how the greying of his skin has taken effect. his chest pulses with breaths still being given by the ventilator, the imitation of life still vaguely present. his belly is soft and still, slightly distended from all the efforts force onto his body, aid and fluid collected there over the course of hours.
his thumbs rub over soft nipples and his knuckles rub into that sternum one last time, as if to try and will the beauty from his eternal slumber, paired with some... extra stimulation... as his hand finds the soft cock between his legs. a Hail Mary... of sorts. that's what he calls it anyways.
he technically hasn't called time yet, so maybe he gives a few compressions of his own. just to know that he did. that he tried. that he felt that body breaking under him. that chest submit to him. the sternum sinks in far too deep. he's working on a corpse, but he doesn't stop he pumps away. he compresses over the breaths still entering his chest. the effort gets his hard, cock aching in his pants.
it's not helped when he slathers the boy's lurching chest with conductive gel— the glistening substance has always been more satisfying than those frankly ugly pads. and he's all alone with time to spare to fetch the bottle —using more the necessary. he watches the still monitor for a moment as he presses the paddle into the boy's chest. asystole still. that hadn't changed. he cranks the defib up to it's max settings. pressing the paddles even deeper, ensuring contact is never broken.
he shocks him once. the body spasms hard. his back arches. his hands squeeze shut and his arms pull up to his chest. his face flutters with a false expression of pain, throat spasming to buck the tube. he's so reactive. it's gorgeous. the doctor is even more disappointed they never managed to truly shock him. he would have reacted beautifully when there was still a whisp of life in him.
he shocks again and again, never lifting the paddles. they press into broken ribs relentlessly, sending shock after shock after shock into the dead little heart inside. frying it beyond saving. it never had been. but now he knows for a fact it is done. and watching the body beneath him pulse again and again, spasming violently, is worth it. he goes again and again until the defibrillator is spent and can't independently recharge. soaking up every second of this that he can.
he calls times when he himself is too exhausted and worked up to continue.
and then maybe add a little groping while they get all the gear off too. pulling IVs first, and gently kissing and bandaging each site. soft words cooed as a comfort to the still body. chest wiped of all that gel, a rough towel rubbed over that shattered, bruised chest, but left still glistening. the monitor shut off and leads removed, along with the BP cuff and clip.
finally the ET tube. first he disconnects the ventilator, shutting it off, and then he assesses the tube. it's full of fluid. edema. the gauze ties are cut and the cuff is deflated and it slides out without resistance, dripping, the patients throat gurgling slightly. a little pressure the chest has pink-tinged fluid spilling from his mouth and nose. his kindeys have beyond failed. all that fluid pooling in the lungs. maybe the doctor will spend some time on that, if he had the energy, working the patients chest and abdomen with his head to the side, to pump fluid out, before suctioning him dry. just to have an excuse to spend some extra time with him. groping and assaulting his soft chest and softer belly, working it all out of his patients chest, thrusting hands into him. he can imagine how nice it would feel to have his way with the still body.
with the tube out, maybe he gives some mouth to mouth, kissing the boy firmly, taking in the feeling of his cold, wet lips. of his warm breath entering cold lungs. his hands gently cradling that pretty face and head of curls.
and once he's done have most of his fun, he can formally assess him for death. he knows he is, but it is procedure after all. he looks at the patients chart, his name is Noah. beautiful name for a beautiful boy. he calls his name, rubbing his chest, first with the soft heel of his palm, then again, more firmly, calling them name louder, then a third time, pressing knuckles into the broken sternum, name all but shouted. nothing. no reaction to stimuli. the body remains still and limp. it's unnecessary, and is even frowned upon in other cases, but he does a final stimuli test, squeezing the soft brown, now grey-tinged, nipple of the boy, feeling them between his fingers. he squeezes hard with a twist. no reaction.
then he takes out his stethoscope and listens for a heartbeat. pressing the head of the stethoscope deep into the flesh at each auscultation point. there's nothing. he feels for a pulse in the femoral and carotid, fingers pressing to the latter and his whole hands groping his illiac for the former. he waits longer then he has to, enjoying the sensation as the skin rewarms beneath his hand. still nothing.
there's no effort of respiration, but he waits for that too, passing the moment he is supposed to watch by groping the still chest. listening with his stethoscope, hearing his the chest reacts to a compression, hearing fluid filled lungs gurgle. how the pressure changed causes a miniscule little breath in. and as with everything else. there's nothing. nothing of Noah's own accord anyways.
then it's pupils. he pulls open those grey kids to expose lifeless blue eyes. there's no reaction to the penlight. not a flicker. they don't even roll back. they just stare up at him.
he makes the necessary notes.
"all done beautiful"
he covers him in a sheet. not before giving him one last feel over. one last gentle caress to the face. fixing his curls one last time. covering up that gorgeous nude body. and wheeling him out. his hard cock is hidden where he presses against the bed. he just needs a moment in the morgue to handle himself, to send this beautiful boy off.
he can't risk cumming in him, he's sure to be autopsied due to the sudden and unexplained death. but the doctor will stand next to his bed, uncovering him the second they're alone and the door is "locked for maintenance", taking in that beautiful body, before jerking off over the boys sunken belly with hand hand and feeling his cock with the other. it takes only s few strokes to cum, getting it all over the boy's bruised chest and soft belly. he wishes he could get Noah off one last time, it would she only been fair, but no amount of tugging at his now-warm cock will achieve anything. but maybe he'll go at it just long enough with some cooed words to feel like he could have achieved something had the boy been alive. only then will he say farewell. laying his cock down. wiping his abdomen off. giving the final kisses. covering him up. and leaving.
what a way to end his shift. such a shame such a young man had to die. but by god was he the perfect little toy. he'll live in that doctor's mind for a while.
blood splattered surgical gloves are a sort of lingerie in a way
Girlfriend performs lifesaving CPR
open for trades
i just think blorbo looks good gasping for air is that so wrong
CPR and bagging her
The Roleplay
Inspired by the work of @resus-girl-2 , whose posts helped shape the tone and premise of this story.
The building didn’t look like a clinic from the street. No waiting-room posters with smiling lungs and pastel heart diagrams. No sign, no hours, no promise of legitimacy. Just a clean brass number on an unmarked door and the kind of quiet that felt curated, as if sound itself had been asked to behave.
She paused with her hand on the handle anyway, letting the last second stretch. This had been deliberate. The profile. The negotiation. The careful exchange of boundaries and safewords. The shared understanding that tonight was fiction, structured and contained, but immersive enough to feel dangerous if she let herself believe in it too much.
A lock clicked from the inside.
The door opened.
He didn’t look theatrical. No exaggerated authority, no costume-shop props. Dark trousers. A pale button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. A real stethoscope resting at his collarbone, the kind that wasn’t purchased for atmosphere. He looked competent. Composed.
Believable.
“Miss?” he prompted, voice warm but measured.
She gave her first name only, as they’d agreed.
“Right on time,” he said, stepping aside.
Inside, the suite was small but meticulously arranged. An exam table with crisp paper. A countertop lined with neatly organized instruments. A blood pressure cuff coiled with quiet precision. A folded gown placed at the edge of the table like an invitation that didn’t pretend to be innocent.
The lighting was soft, but not dim. Clinical enough to make exposure feel intentional, not romantic. It sharpened everything: the clean surfaces, the faint antiseptic scent, the awareness of her own pulse.
He closed the door behind her. Unlocked.
Before she could decide whether that mattered, his tone shifted, subtle but unmistakable.
“Before we begin,” he said, “you’re in control. You can stop at any time. Safeword pauses the scene immediately. Understood?”
“Yes.”
Her pulse was already climbing. She wondered if he could hear it without the stethoscope, whether he could read it in her throat the way it flickered there.
He indicated the chair with a small nod. “Have a seat.”
She sat. He took the chair across from her, not crowding, and clicked his pen, settling into the crisp cadence of someone who knew how to wear professionalism like armor.
“So,” he asked, “what brings you in today?”
She held his gaze longer than necessary. “It’s… embarrassing.”
His expression softened with practiced patience. “You’d be surprised.”
“My heart,” she said. “It skips. Loses rhythm.”
“When?”
She let the silence stretch on purpose, tasting the edge of it. Then she gave him the line they had built this whole scenario around.
“When I orgasm.”
His pen stilled for half a second. Not shock. Interest.
He repeated it neutrally, as if it belonged in a textbook. “Palpitations associated with sexual climax. How long has this been happening?”
“A few months.”
He asked the standard questions and she answered them cleanly: chest pain, fainting, medications. Each answer felt like a brick in a wall they were building together, a structure strong enough to hold what they both wanted without collapsing into chaos.
Then he set the pen down.
“I’ll start with a basic exam,” he said. “Heart and lungs first. I’ll need you to undress to your underwear and put on the gown. Opening in the back. There’s a screen.”
He said it plainly. No flourish.
That made it worse.
Behind the folding screen, she moved with slow care, buying herself seconds. Blouse, skirt, folded neatly. Bra and panties left in place as instructed. The vulnerability pressed against her skin more than the cool air did. The gown was thin cotton, impersonal in a way that made the moment feel sharper rather than safer.
When she stepped out, his gaze didn’t roam.
It assessed.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Up on the table.”
The paper crinkled as she climbed up and sat at the edge. He wheeled his stool closer, warming the stethoscope between his palms before placing it against her collarbone through the thin fabric.
“Cold,” he murmured anyway.
She inhaled sharply as metal met skin.
“Deep breath in.”
She obeyed. The gown pulled lightly across her chest.
“And out.”
He moved methodically. Upper lobes. Lower. Around her back. Each placement precise. Each pause long enough to make her aware of how close he was, how his focus narrowed until the rest of the room felt like it vanished.
Her breathing changed. He noticed immediately.
“Heart rate’s elevated,” he observed.
“Is that bad?” she asked, trying for steadiness.
“It’s honest.”
The word landed heavier than it should have.
He straightened slightly, the stethoscope lowering from his hands like a curtain falling. “For an EKG, I’ll need better access,” he said, tone clinical again. “I’m going to lower the gown and place electrodes on your chest and sides. I’ll have to remove your bra. Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
He untied the back gently, easing the fabric down with efficient restraint. The gown pooled loosely at her waist. He removed her bra in a swift, practiced motion that was almost too careful, as if he understood that slowness would read as indulgence and speed would read as entitlement. He chose the only middle ground that felt like consent: competence.
“Arms up briefly.”
She obeyed. Adhesive pads pressed cool against her ribs. Near her sternum. Along her side. His fingers were steady, impersonal in technique but warm, and that contrast made her throat tighten.
Wires followed, thin and orderly. He attached them with quiet focus, eyes flicking between her skin and the monitor.
“Lie back.”
She did. The machine came alive in soft green light.
Baseline.
Her heart betrayed her immediately.
He studied the tracing and let the smallest pause gather, the kind of pause that made anticipation feel like pressure.
“Anxiety?” he asked mildly.
“Excitement,” she corrected.
A flicker in his eyes, quick as an EKG spike. “We’ll document both.”
He rolled closer, still watching the line. “Now,” he said, voice lowering slightly, “to reproduce the symptom.”
Her pulse jumped at the phrasing alone, as if her body liked being spoken to like a case study.
“I need explicit consent to proceed with stimulation as part of this scene,” he said.
“Yes.”
He didn’t rush into it. He framed it, the way a good clinician frames a procedure, and the way a good dominant frames a boundary. He offered the choice anyway, because power without choice would have turned the room sour.
“Do you want to touch yourself while I monitor,” he asked, “or do you want me to maintain control?”
The question tightened something in her chest.
“You,” she said.
He positioned himself beside the table, one hand braced lightly near her hip, not possessive, simply grounding. He narrated the next steps like a procedure, but his calm voice carried a quiet edge that made her skin feel too awake.
“I’m going to move the gown higher,” he said. “So you’re not fighting fabric.”
“Yes.”
The cotton slid upward to her thighs while he kept her covered above the waist. The restraint was intentional, almost cruel in its gentleness. The slow reveal of skin felt louder than anything explicit could have been.
His palm settled at her knee first.
“Breathe,” he instructed.
She tried. The attempt didn’t last.
His hand moved gradually upward, never abrupt, never crude. Measured. Deliberate. Building in small, controlled changes, as if he were turning a dial one click at a time and listening for the response. The attention was almost clinical in its thoroughness, but the goal was not hidden. He was watching what she did when she was pushed, how quickly her composure thinned into honesty.
On the monitor, her heart climbed in tidy increments.
“One-ten,” he murmured.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused softly, breath already uneven.
“I’m collecting data.”
He adjusted pressure, adjusted pace, never rushing her. He held her at the edge longer than felt fair, coaxing her up in slow steps instead of letting her tumble. Every time her body tried to chase the sensation, he steadied her with a quiet reminder, keeping the tracing clean, keeping her caught between wanting and obeying.
The EKG line became its own kind of narration. A steady climb. A tightening rhythm. The machine turning her into proof.
“One-twenty,” he noted, as if pleased by the number and not by the way she shivered when he said it.
When he asked what she felt, her answer came out like a confession. Heat. Pressure. An unbearable awareness of being watched by something that couldn’t be charmed or lied to.
He didn’t devour her with his eyes. That was the unsettling part. He was studying her response, tracking the moment her breath fractured, the moment her body began to move without permission from her pride.
Then the monitor shifted.
“There,” he said quietly. “Rhythm change.”
She felt it too, a flutter beneath her ribs, brief but unmistakable. A small betrayal that made her go still.
He didn’t rush her. He paced her. Increased intensity in careful increments. Adjusted tempo with scientific calm.
When her hips tried to move, he stopped her with a soft warning, voice low but absolute.
“Hold still. Clean tracing.”
The authority went straight through her.
The crest hit her like a sudden wave, not described in mechanics but in aftermath: her breath breaking, her fingers curling into the paper, her face turning helplessly honest. The monitor scrambled. A skipped beat, then two in quick succession, then a shaky return toward something steadier.
He stayed calm, voice grounding.
“Breathe. Slow.”
She trembled through the aftershock, eyes unfocused. He watched the line smooth out as if he could will it into obedience.
“There’s your arrhythmia,” he said softly.
She managed a weak laugh. “Diagnosis?”
“Highly responsive to controlled stimulus.”
“And treatment?”
He capped his pen with a click that sounded too final in a room like this. “Observation.”
She thought it was over.
It wasn’t.
“Replication,” he added. “One data point isn’t sufficient.”
She looked at him through heavy lashes, still flushed, still caught. “You just want to do it again.”
“I want reliable results.”
Consent was checked again. Clear. Steady.
The second round built faster, not because he rushed, but because her body remembered. Her heart climbed sooner. The tracing tightened. The flutter arrived again, stronger this time, and instead of resolving, it lingered, the line wobbling in a way that didn’t feel playful anymore.
His expression changed first. The calm didn’t vanish, but it sharpened into something real.
“Stay with me,” he said, voice suddenly edged with command.
Her smile faltered. “Doctor?”
The rhythm didn’t settle.
It escalated.
The playful atmosphere evaporated so quickly it felt like someone had turned off the oxygen in the room. His hands moved with urgency now, the “procedure” snapping out of fantasy and into triage. He stopped the scene with a single sentence that carried no negotiation.
“We’re stopping.”
He checked her, quick and efficient, eyes flicking from her face to the monitor. “Any dizziness? Chest pain?”
“My chest…” she started, and the words thinned into breath.
The monitor spiraled. The line became chaos.
Then flat.
Silence, except for the machine’s merciless tone.
He moved without hesitation.
He lowered the table. He began compressions with brutal steadiness, not performative, not hesitant. No theatrics, just work, his breath controlled while hers was gone. He cleared space, prepared the shock, did what had to be done with efficient precision.
Her body jolted. The monitor flared, then slipped again into refusal.
He didn’t plead. He worked.
Time fractured into effort and denial, the room reduced to a loop of motion and assessment and the awful, stubborn insistence of the flat line.
“Come back,” he muttered, no longer performing for anyone, voice rough around the edges. “Not like this.”
And then, finally, the screen flickered.
A beat.
Another.
Ugly. Uneven. Alive.
He froze only long enough to confirm it, then leaned in as if he could pull her back with proximity alone.
“There you are,” he breathed.
Her eyelids fluttered. Air scraped back into her lungs like it hurt to exist again. He stayed close, one hand braced at her shoulder as if anchoring her to gravity.
“What happened?” she whispered, voice raw and small.
“You lost rhythm,” he said evenly. “You’re back.”
No teasing. No mask.
Her fingers found his wrist and held on, tight. Like she didn’t trust the world not to take her again.
“You didn’t panic,” she said, and it sounded like disbelief.
“I did,” he answered quietly. “Just not outwardly.”
The room felt altered now, charged differently. The props were the same, the table was the same, but the fantasy had been burned thin enough to show the structure underneath: consequence. Fear. Relief so sharp it almost felt like anger.
He brushed hair back from her forehead, gentler than before, and his voice, when it came, was not dominance. It was truth.
“You could have died,” he said.
“But I didn’t.”
“No.” His gaze held hers. A pause heavy with what almost was. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
Her hand tightened around his. “I’m here.”
He studied her face as if memorizing proof of life, as if he needed to know every detail of her being awake.
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
Not hungry. Not theatrical. Urgent in its relief. A kiss that tasted like survival more than desire, fear threaded through it like a wire.
I feel like when it comes to my favorite scenario, I’m much more interested in a more half-conscious state rather than being unconscious during a full cardiac arrest. I’m MUCH more into the victim being aware but in a twilight of consciousness, struggling to stay awake and breathe. They can feel their heart struggling and they can hear their broken gasps for air.
I’m crazy about lungs struggling to inflate, and the victim feels as their nose gets pinched and as lips seal over theirs to give them a rescue breath. They can feel their chest expand with every breath and feel as it deflates. When the rescuer stops to see their condition, the victim has a clearer mind, but they’re still struggling. The breath offered a brief moment of respite, but not enough to strengthen weakened lungs. So, rescue breaths continue with the rescuer timing their rescue breaths every time the victim attempts to breathe on their own.
I’m obsessed with the victim being aware of how much their heart is struggling. They can feel how close their body is to giving out. However, the rescuer prevents that. They apologize as they position their hands on top of the rescuer’s sternum, their sputtering chest meeting the rescuer’s hands, and the victim can feel the heat of their hands against their cold skin. They can feel as their chest begins to bend under the pressure of chest compressions, their body jerking to each one as the rescuer helps their sick heart finally beat properly. They can feel as every bit of air still in their lungs gets shoved out of their body. Their body’s in pain and their head becomes light as it’s even more difficult to get air in. The rescuer notices, provides more rescue breaths, and then continues with compressions to keep someone alive who is nearly gone already.
The victim can hear the rescuer the entire time. They can hear soft curses, words of encouragement, gentle praises, desperate pleas for them to hang in there. Their vision swims in and out, but they can still make out the form of their rescuer. Is it someone they know? Someone they don’t? Who are they, and why are they fighting so hard to keep them alive?
The shocks come in soon to try and restart their heart into a proper rhythm. It hurts much worse than anything else they’ve come to experience. Their body jerks as it feels like they’ve been struck in the chest, their back arching as the shock runs through their body, a strangled breath of air being forcefully squeezed from their body. They go limp, and as their vitals are taken, rescue breaths continue.
I have so many thoughts and I’ll be sure to add more when it’s not 4am