#blisters and chaffing

[silveragelovechild]

Six years before appearing on Space 1999 as Maya, Catherine Schell went to outer space in Moon Zero Two (1969). The movie was not well received. The Guardian newspaper called it "dreadfully made from start to finish”. And Variety said it "never makes up its mind whether it is a spoof or a straightforward adventure yarn”.

James Olson played the main character but I think he was mis-cast. He was average looking and balding. And had very little charisma.

The suitsuits used in the movie look like they were made of hard plastic and rubber. One actor described the moonsuits as "sheer hell" and he received blisters from chafing and back problems from the air conditioner installed to keep him cool. Meanwhile Schell lost 13 pounds from sweat wearing the suit on the hot soundstage.

[science-hoes]

I neeeeeeed your prone bone thots on everyone

Prone bone thots for Charlie Reid, Pope Cody, Jack Abbot, and Michael Robinavitch. Here we gooooooo

Charlie is a fan of prone bone because it’s the best position for breath play. He’ll be buried deep inside you with a large hand around your throat. His thumb will compress against your trachea, and he can hear your staggered breaths until there aren’t any. He can perfectly time when you need to breathe again without hurting you. “Come on, baby girl, breathe for Daddy.” He’ll come in you that way, too, a hand gripping your hair and his fingers nearly leaving marks on your throat. “You want me to fill you up? Yeah? Think you deserve it?” You’ll come before he does, he makes sure of that, but the position leaves you feeling so full and cock drunk, leaving a drooling mess on the comforter of his bed.

Pope likes prone bone because it’s the closest he can be to you, closer than missionary. He keeps his forehead pressed against your temple, rutting viciously, making the bed rock with every snap of his hips. His sweet whimpers are right in your ear, and that gets you off more than anything. “I feel you. You’re almost there.” He’ll speed up, never slipping out too far, just enough to slam back into you with a bruising force. “Need to feel you come.” He needs to know he made you feel good, and of course you feel good. It’s apparent by how hard your walls convulse around his thick cock, springing him into his own release.

Jack actually prefers prone bone, especially after a long shift. He doesn’t wear his prosthesis any longer than he has to or else he could end up with chaffing, blisters, etc. But sometimes he still ends up with chaffing on his kneecap from the metal or prosthesis sleeve, so being on his knees is incredibly painful. Enter prone bone. He can lay on top of you and treat you like the queen you are. “So fucking good for me, baby doll.” He’ll kiss your neck, your shoulder blades, your ears, all while railing you into next week. The fat tip of his cock is slamming into that spongy spot inside you, and you can only see stars. “That’s right, give it to me.” You’ll come harder than any other position, especially as he continues to thrust until he reaches his own climax.

Robby loves prone bone. He’s so much taller than you that he has no issue keeping your back snug against his chest, his head tilted down so he can whisper sweet nothings into your ear while his hips piston into you, pressing wet kisses against your lips every now and then. “So good for me, kid.” With that height also comes length, and he has never slipped out of your pussy in that position, it would be nearly impossible. “Is it too much? Need a second?” He hits your G-spot over and over, and you’re a whimpering mess under him. Usually, you need clit stimulation to come, but not with him in this position. He gets you there, and he gets you there fast. It’s also the position that you conceive your first child in.

[kstewdeux]

@inuvember | Prompt: Kagome | Ao3 | FFN

“No one needs to pee this much! I call horseshit Kagome!” Inuyasha snapped as he fidgeted and huffed and glared into the canopy to give the girl some ‘privacy’, “Maybe drink less. No one needs to drink that much water either.”

Kagome rolled her eyes and went about the very awkward business of having to utilize nature because the luxury of modern plumbing was centuries away. She still hadn’t gotten the full hang of it either and half the time she was left with the stale stench of urine hitting her at the most inconvenient moments - usually when they were about to talk to someone important because she didn’t feel insecure enough. Wasn’t like she could carry non-biodegradable baby wipes that might survive and become an archaeological nightmare which left bathing often and lots of nasty chaffing. Thank god diaper cream existed otherwise she’d be in tears all the time with no nice, safe way to explain why she needed to stop. Inuyasha was already impatient and snippy with her. Why add more to the pile?

But, for all the grossness, death by dehydration was way worse. She wasn’t about to forgo hydration just to avoid having to pee. Seemed a very dumb way to die.

Cleaning up best she could, Kagome tried her best to hold onto what dignity might still exist as she headed back over.

“Took you long enough,” Inuyasha groused as he started walking and she fell in line, “You always find ways to waste my time. Breaking the jewel, getting kidnapped, just always something.”

“Well excuse me for taking a minute to pee,” Kagome huffed as she shouldered her backpack and flexed her hands around her bow, “Not exactly used to roughing it so it takes me longer. Sorry not sorry.”

Inuyasha made a face and glanced at her in confusion.

“Roughing it? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have been to my house. You have been to my world. You have  seen what I’m used to and having to relieve myself outdoors and in the open is a bit out of my comfort zone,” Kagome snapped as she turned and faced him, “I am dirty. I am tired. I hurt. I’ve got blisters, cuts, scrapes and bruises. I’m doing all of this in a skirt because my school uniform is the sturdiest item of clothing I own. I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve been given and it would be nice if you could maybe appreciate that I haven’t simply thrown in the towel and gone home where life isn’t miserable.”

“Ah, you really are weak then," he tsk'd while making the oddest face, "Fair enough. Makes sense."

Kagome’s face contorted in anger at the flippant insult and she began marching forward again. Inuyasha hesitated for a moment before catching up.

“Well, well, what would make being here better?” Inuyasha asked before looking thoughtful, “You ever bathed a hot spring? That’d help with the pain and stuff. It’d be nicer than the rivers you’ve been using. You’re the one making your own life hard stupid.”

Kagome sent him an annoyed look.

“Not like I know where to go to find one Inuyasha. No Mapquest or Google to guide my way,” she clipped bitterly. Inuyasha rolled his eyes.

“Don’t know what that means but you have me idiot. Just tell me when you want a hot spring and I’ll find you one. You don’t have to go home for nice things. There are plenty of nice things here,” Inuyasha huffed.

Kagome sent him a skeptical side eyed glance.

“You’d do that?”

”If it’ll make you move faster, sure,” Inuyasha groaned in exasperation. Kagome set and reset her jaw.

“I would like a hot spring,” she muttered after a moment, “Will you please find me one?”

Inuyasha smirked. If providing a few luxuries was all it took to keep her here and on task, this whole quest might not take that long after all.

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 9)

CHAPTER NINE: DUNKIRK

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʀᴇꜱᴄᴜᴇ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇꜱ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ

THERE HAD NOT been a second wasted between the five of them, determination driving them. 

When they broke out from the forest, finding themselves in yet another city’s ruins, the crashing of waves accompanied their arrival this time and he had not felt the emotion which welled in his chest ever in his life.

With a mixture of sleepless nights and blistering feet, he was relieved to be encroaching on the location that had not seemed too far initially. Hell, he'd walked further than the distance he had covered since leaving Nancy and, still, he felt as though the days prior dragged painfully so. Had he been told that they had actually been travelling for years at that point, he would have been inclined to believe such a blatant falsehood.

The days passed had been bleak, significantly so, and he found his eyes occasionally drifting to the Captain in front of him. Typically, when walking, Simon had noticed his hands would always grasp the straps of his rucksack. A while back he'd complained of chaffing, stating that they would irritate him, that it was bound to do more damage than a gunshot would if he didn't keep his bag from shifting with every step.

He progressed with a hobble, limping as though he had been wounded. One arm held the strap of his rucksack, whilst his other hand hung limply at his side, fingers curled, almost forming a fist.

It was as though he was holding something.

But, there was nothing there, leaving his hand waving about in the empty air.

The sound of the water, the ride home that had been promised was right at their fingertips, granted, he imagined the feeling would have been much more dramatic had the little girl with doe eyes been there to hear the crash of the shore with them.

It was where she should have been: with her sister, jumping, dancing, laughing, bounding excitedly towards the sandy shore.

Instead, she lay still, silent, confined to a dirt tomb for the rest of eternity. Her existence had hardly made a mark, she had so much to learn, so much to do.

Time had moved faster than her little legs could manage, that fact left him seething. The tension in his jaw had not soothed since he had laid that lonesome daisy atop the smallest grave he had ever dug in his life.

A part of him wished that he too had died when she had, all to spare him the shame he felt every time he looked into his lovers eyes. The coldness, the detachment — everything — he had only seen in the eyes of soldiers who had served during the first world war.

You were shellshocked.

There was no other way to put it and he wished he could look into your eyes and see the light he had saw upon your initial meeting. To see you smile as you had done when he’d offered you a slice of apple would have been enough to solve the bleeding of his heart, courtesies the wound and stitch him back up. He’d have healed so quickly, everyone would be shocked by the speed of his recovery. But, no. It was not going to be so and he knew better than to trick himself into thinking that you would be in the condition you had been prior to such a horrific tragedy.

You’d lost so much in a week.

Too much. 

He hadn’t much to begin with, his background in comparison to yours night and day. Yes, he had a mother, a father (regrettably so), and a loyal brother in the form of Tommy. But he hadn’t experienced softness until he had experienced you. It was not in the words you spoke to him, hell, he’d never been any good with words or writing, he couldn’t have given a fuck about stupid words. It was in everything else, embedded deep within your soul.

The closest to God a man like him could ever hope to get was when he embraced you in his arms and listened to the gentleness of your breath as you slept. Like a sirens tune, it lulled him into a state of serenity and, for the first time since the war had started, he slept soundly. To have encountered such taught him all he needed to know — you didn’t deserve an ounce of the suffering you had endured. If anyone did, it was him. 

You hobbled beside him, locks matted, eyes glued on the blueness of the ocean in the distance. Your lips were chapped, pupils dilated, the bags under your eyes worsening with every second that passed you by.

Still, you looked pretty. He wished he could have said so to you, told you verbally in a way you would understand. There would be time for that, he thought, considering the fact that you had made the choice of abandoning France to come back home with him. He’d visit the library, pick up a book for the first time in his life and read until he went crosseyed if it meant that he could sit down and have a conversation with you.

The thought of visiting a library excited him more than he cared to admit, imagine being able to ask you all the basic questions: what’s your favourite colour? What’s your favourite animal? It was the little things, the tiny things. It almost made the entire hardship of war worth it. His hand slipped into yours and he squeezed your hand tightly. In response, you squeezed his back, your hold slightly lacklustre. He paid no mind to it, smiling ear to ear as he continued to daydream of the future that awaited you beyond the boats.

‘Almost there,’ said Kyle, slightly breathless, ‘been the longest week of my life this.’ 

‘Tell me about it,’ said Johnny, wiping the sweat from his brow, ‘about time we got some good fuckin’ news though, ain’t it?’ 

He looked at you and then at Simon. ‘You’re doing a good thing, Lt.’ 

‘Wasn’t gonna leave her here to rot,’ he answered. ‘Not what she deserves — not at all.’ 

‘You oughta pick up a book when we make it back home, Lt.’ 

‘Planning on it, Johnny.’ 

The man grinned in a similar fashion to Simon, and they fell into a comfortable silence as the ebbed closer and closer to the promise land. When they were a couple of streets away from the pier, the hollering of soldiers filled their ears.

They were boisterous and loud, full of life and excitement as they chimed out a jaunty tune, sounding almost careless. Had he not a single clue of the happenings just on their doorstep, he would have thought it was a seaside fair they were approaching, not the evacuation of the armed forces. The tune grew louder and louder and his heart was thudding in his chest. He hold your hand tighter, your hands sweaty from the summertime heat. Neither of you attempted to pull away from one another, however.

No, he wouldn’t dare to do that. Not with you. 

‘They’re excited,’ remarked Johnny. 

‘No Serg,’ Price said, ‘they’re drunk.’ 

‘Ah,’ said the Scot, ‘even better!’ 

The Captain rolled his eyes at the man’s words, and Simon noticed that he walked with a prep in his step, almost skipping towards the pier. His excitement was infectious, as was the excitement of all the soldiers he could hear just an stones throw away from them. He hadn’t attended a party so loud since he had been back home in Manchester, and what he had went to was hardly a party, rather, a brief drink in the pub with his old man and his brother.

It was short lived — the joy that is — as it died as quickly as his sobriety when he placed his lips on his first pint. Nothing was ever simple with his dad, he always seemed to have an issue with something. It didn’t matter what it was. It could have been the best day ever: the sun high in the sky accompanied with a cooling breeze, no lines at any of the establishments he tended to, and he could have been let out on a half day at work, and that man would still hunt for something to be mad about. His search never strayed much further than Simon, however. Keeping his son at arms reach so he would always have something to blame for his shortcomings. 

Simon was only able to shake off the thought of his old man when he felt you press against his arm, losing your footing as you stepped onto the sand of the beach. The sight beyond was straight out of a dream as hundreds of men stood around, sitting in the sand, laughing and joking, many nursing bottles of wine that they had found on their travels.

They were as rowdy as teenage boys — most of them were that — sticking out like a sore thumb in a uniform which was much too big for them, the sleeves and pants having been rolled up. To the left, further down from the main part of the beach was a small hut. The groups of men seemed to disband the further they got and the Captain remarked that it would be a good place to stay until the boats showed. Silently, everyone agreed and moved towards the wooden hut. 

Upon making it there, Simon assumed that it must have been a changing room prior to the war. The sun shone down on the golden sands and it was much too hot to stay and sit out in it for he was conscious of the possibility of you burning.

So, he held your forearm, keeping you close to him as they stepped inside. The pair of you sat against the back panel of the hut, back pressed against the splintering wood. Upon sitting down, you rested your head against his shoulder and he looked at you in the corner of your eye.

Your exhaustion saddened him terribly, knowing there was nothing he could do to take away the pain you were feeling at that moment. The weather was scorching, almost feverish and it showed itself on your skin. You were hot. Very much so. In noticing such, he moved his hand and took out his canteen, all to find it empty.

He turned to Johnny and said, ‘you have any water left?’ 

The Scot turned his head up, lips wrapped around a bottle of liquor he had pulled out of thin air. He nodded, not taking his lips off his bottle as he grabbed his own canteen and held it out to him. Simon took it gladly, unscrewing the lid of it, turning his body so you were now pressed against his chest. You moved a little, beady eyes looking up at him as he pressed the canteen against your bottom list, insisting, ‘have a drink, sweetheart.’

Turning the canteen up, water flowed out of it and into your mouth. You lapped it up greedily, as though you had been thirsty for days and he wondered why you never bothered to ask him for something to drink. The water which didn’t make it into your mouth slid down the curve of your chin. You drank until the canteen was empty, not that Johnny would have minded as he was much more interesting in his bottle of booze. When Simon pulled it away from your mouth, he used his hand to wipe your chin and smiled at you. 

Beneath your breath, you mumbled, ‘Je suis fatiguée. Je veux dormir.’

It was slurred as your tongue seemed sluggish and when he turned his body so his back was against the wall, you placed your head back against his shoulder.

The party on the outside raged on as all of you sat in the hut, the faint smell of urine filling his nose with each breath he took. He’d smelt worse, he thought, and it was worth it so long as you were kept out of the sun. He’d never encountered such heat, partially due to growing up in the North of England.

Taking you home and allowing you to see his home town had his heart throbbing in his chest. By no means was it as pretty as the countryside the pair of you had explored together, full of tall grey buildings — probably mostly ruined after the Nazi’s efforts.

Even then, he gleamed at the thought of taking you there, having you on his arm as you sat in some mediocre cafe. You’d remark that the pastries were lacklustre, the ones you had back home were so much better. And he would nod his head, agreeing that they were disgusting, even though the only remnants of his food would be the crumbs on his plate and on the table. 

It would all be so perfect when you made it back to Britain and, while sitting in the silence, listening to your gentle breaths, the hollering of the soldiers outside and the crashing of the waves on the beach, he thought of what he would say to you when you had your very first, proper, conversation with one another.

Would you talk about the weather? Would you discuss your favourite foods with him? Anything and everything, he thought to himself: he would be read for anything you were to say to him. In the midst of his mind, he was brought out of his trance when you grabbed his arm, closing your hand around his wrist. He looked down at you expectantly.

Your tongue pressed against your chapped lips and, with a sleepy smile, you said, ‘Je t'aime.’

There was a sorrow in your words, the grief you had experienced the past couple of days clearly making its way from where it had rested in his chest.

Simon stared at you, tongue heavy in his mouth, his stomach churning as he smiled so brightly his face ached.

And, with pride beaming in his chest, he said to you, ‘Je t'aime,' bringing your hand up to his mouth and pressing his lips against the top of your hand.

You settled against him after saying that and he wrapped his arm around your shoulder resting his head atop of yours. You stayed like that until, after what must have been an hour, the drunken conversation of the soldiers outside shifted to cheering.

He’d thought it was gunshots at first with how firm their hands joined together in clapping, yet, his fear was laid to rest when he head the honking of a horn.

Garrick was the first one who rose up from where he had been sitting, remarking that he was going to go and find a bush to piss in before they boarded a boat and Johnny staggered to his feet, slurring that he also needed the toilet, rushing out behind him.

Price shook his head at the pair as they left the hut, standing up and putting his rucksack back on his shoulders. He offered a look to Simon, then turned his attention to you. Simon had thought he seemed happy to see the pair of you together, such an idea springing to mind as he nodded his head. Then, he turned around and left the hut.

As the calls of more ships horns edged closer and closer, he turned his head to find that you had fallen asleep on his shoulder. With a careful nudge, he grinned. 

‘Wake up, love. They’re here — we’re going home.’ 

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

Restless

Imogen can't concentrate.

(standard procedure for up to a couple weeks ago, now it wears a different guise.)

She fidgets, sits with her legs crossed on her bedroll, backpack in her lap, removes, itemises, arranges its contents, huffs stray hairs out of her face, hands still twitchy, mind still scrambled, organises it all again. Repeats. 

It's early, the fact given away by the low-lying sun and crisp smell on the air that has not yet been burned away by its sustained and blistering presence. 

The blisters on her ankles, the friction of leather that is still not fully broken in. Imogen delays in pulling on and lacing up her boots, calves restless but exhausted, thrumming if they remain still too long (too long being only a moment).

She falls back heavily onto the bedroll. 

Overhead, in the weave of vines and branches, birds sing. They're mocking her, surely, the awkward and bound to the ground sack of flesh and fat and bones that she is, hair frizzed and sticky from the humidity, her inner thigh chaffed and perspiring where the contact of her dagger's harness coils around it like a constricting snake.

She loosens it a few notches

The pathetic and inconsistent touch of it frustrates her more, so she buckles it tight like a tourniquet. 

She exhales, deflates, heavy as she is, runs the back of her forearm over her brow, spreading the salt and sweat, breathes in, feels the connective tissue holding together all of her joints, exhales, arm to ground, along with every other limb, the back of her knees, her spine, her shoulders (there's a rock digging into one through the mat, did she sleep on that last night?), her neck, her ass, wishes they were all gelatin, that she could become one with the floor and not collide with every edge and corner and texture of it, stop being so reactive. 

She inhales, skin pulling away, wishing it would continue, peel, lift, blanket, canopy (closer than the trees), shade, but it would drip with blood, hot and sizzling as it rained back onto her exposed bones. 

Shadow, the dark tatters, the veil. Molasses of ichor. Dull, hazy, sharp, thorns. Don't touch, don't approach. Space. Wail, scream, chorus, silence. That would chase the birds away, feathers dislodged from sudden movement re-lodged into black tar, carried off, away, down sluggish stream, no contact. Barbed like a briar.

The thread of the bed roll is itchy, the weave of it too thick and open, rough spun from fibrous burlap, it splinters bare skin where it makes contact, nape of her neck, backs of her forearms, thighs, knees, and calves. 

Delicate, cool, billowing lace that accommodated to the pads of Imogen's fingers, to her palm, fractured by magic, calloused and freshly wounded, it dulled even the rows of needle teeth beneath. Imogen imagines it her bedsheets, the ground would not matter - could be rivers of lava jutted by shattered glass, it would not matter, sure, cool billowing lace, Imogen would sleep well. 

Easier to tell now, how restless her hands are. They pluck at the gauzy linen that makes her dress, the more rigid weave of her waistcoat, following stitching as if it were pathways, movement, roads to get her somewhere, them, skin to skin contact barriered like the rock digging into her shoulder. Her touch meanders to her chest, unintentional, she swears, in promise and obscenity, a winding path with sides towered by hedges and trees that block the horizon, a shock carried from the point of touch to manifest as an ache between her legs and a weightless haze in her head, body rolling, shoulders leaving the mat, leaving the rock that digs, a breath to a sigh to a gravelly moan, sends a bird or two scattering away, a leaf or two falling behind them. 

Fuckin' birds. Relax. More touch. Touch is good? Barbed. Thorns. Restraint. Maybe she should grow her nails, maybe then the touch won't feel her own. Laudna - fuck, the name gets a reaction from her again, the jolt in her core as she feels the heat pool at the surface of her face, her neck, her chest, crimson damming, damning, acid rising to her throat carried by the guilt of it. 

She kicks and squirms, side of a fist like hammer to nail on the bedroll beside her, other covering her face from the shame of it, it being the burn, the rolling simmer, the violent boil of want and guilt and acid and sting and she is so restless, boiling over, she can't concentrate, the contact of the ground and the fabrics and the atmosphere all feels wrong, scalding, now she knows what to compare it to, how it could feel, what she could be touching. 

Could be death calling, alluring, maybe, how long she flirted with it. Cold with head empty, sounded nice, still does, though the delivery and means maybe different now. A face to an end, ends her, finishes, acid in her throat again, hand bunching the rough fabric under her hips. 

It moves of its own accord to her thigh, takes a fistful of cuff and flesh and she sobs, eyes scrunching shut so tightly that she starts to see colours in the dark, blotches of crimson in a grey dream, her body in the butcher's cart. 

Dreamlike, hazy, drunk (this must be how it feels), she moves without thought, groping herself through the crotch of her shorts, writhing, the floor is too hot against her back, sweat gathering at her hairline and salt beading down into her eyes, again, breath short, short, when did it get so shallow, dizzy. How long could she hold it (hold herself), heat, radiating into the cup of her hand, squirming, a worm under boot, squashed before it gets to dine on the corpse. She pushes firmer against herself, shudders, the feel of the floor leaving, rolls her hips onto the press of her fingers, barriered, dulled, not enough, as they fumble, clutch at the shorts and wrangle the inseam of them in frantic pulls against uncomfortably undulating heat, heat, damp forced through from the close contact onto the pads of her fingers and Gods she's gonna have to prestidigitate that, what the hells is she doing, Laudna could return from her morning forage or whatever it is any moment and

fuck the thought doesn't quell the need at all, her hips spasming and knees shaking as she holds them suspended and trembling, working herself up, frantic, frantic and desperate. How did she get here? she followed the woman at the market, the woman followed the yellow bird, the birdsong silenced for pathetic needy moans, her hips raised so high her shoulders are pushed further into the cut of the offensive rock, princesses and mattresses and beans or whatever that fairytale was Laudna had mentioned about ladies and their proper behaviour. 

Proper, right, she should stop, get it over with, fumbles with the fastening of her shorts, hand making its way beneath fabric before it's fully undone, now registering coarse curls, then slicked, heat, heat, heat, hot, wet, eager, soaked, soft, the glide of her intensity, betrayal, soaking. fuck. Touch is not enough, hers, fuck. Not right, the feel of callouses and scars and heat and a barely registrable thrum shit what happens if she gets away from herself, gets too excited. magic fried uncontrollable she is out of control fuck the heat of the bedroll on her back and the push of the rock imbedding imbedded scars wrapping tangled suffocating sinew silvered skin nightmares burden and guilt guilt guilt storming-

Imogen rolls over onto her front, the rock through the bedroll pushing into her chest, against her sternum, aiding to evacuate the bile that has been suspended in her oesophagus but the guilt won't leave her thighs slicked and hot and tacky and uncomfortable and the chaffe of the itchy fabric of the mat burning them, restless, as she removes her fingers from between her legs, wipes the evidence of a pathetic and failed and just and just wrong attempt onto her shorts, prestidigitates it all clean as if she can wash herself of her impurities and intentions, dares to think of the occasions the purple glow has evaporated the rain from Laudna's clothes and skin, now a selfish act, was then too, maybe, always selfish. 

[mukuspukus]

The Harvest Below

Spider Morris

By the time the Vaults opened, the world had forgotten its own name.

They had called it the Climate Fallout, a polite term, as if history might be soothed by euphemism. In truth, it was a collapse. A thermal exodus. First the crops failed, then the livestock cooked in their pens. Oceans rose and then boiled. When the bunkers sealed, the rich whispered promises of return. “Rebuild,” they said. “Recover.” As if Earth were merely scorched, not devoured.

But while they hid beneath the steel and air filters, time forgot them. Above, something else emerged.

The radiation came quickly after. With no one to caretake and regulate power plants and nuclear stations against the warming, it soon overheated and had begun to spread. But it did not kill all the stragglers. It mangled them. Children born into the ash grew strong in the wrong places. Bones twisted for primitive function, not form. The bodies adapted for survival against the harsh. Limbs would be turned the wrong way, some grew more appendages, some didn’t form them at all. Eyes doubled. Skin blistered into carapace. Intelligence withered, but strength did not. When food ran out, they consumed the weak. Then each other.

And then came the Pure.

The Vaults reopened 182 years after the first lockdown. Clean-blooded, well-fed, minds honed in isolation. They called themselves “the Continuation.” They believed they were the last stewards of humanity.

They did not expect to be prey.

From the observation tower at Haven Station, you could just make out the treelines beyond the perimeter. Spindled, black, half-dead forests—and beyond them, Ferals. They moved in packs. Always at night. Always hunting.

Elias adjusted the scope, his fingers shaking. Not from fear, but from hunger. The protein ration had been halved again. The technologies that made their synthetic foods were aging quicker than expected and the infinite shelf life of the synthetic protein biomes had proved to be a false promise from their forefathers.

”Anything?” Asked Captain Varis behind him.

“Movement near grid six,” Elias said. “Could be a scout. Could be a trap.”

Varis grunted. “It’s always both.”

There were only 104 of them left in Haven. There had been closer to 200 when they’d first opened the doors. Half were murdered. The rest had been taken—not just killed, taken. Bled. Bred.

Bred.

The word echoed in Elias’ skull with the dry horror of fact. They’d found camps. Breeding pens. Pure women chained beside Feral studs. Children raised in steel cage, labeled by generation and weight.

Ferals had learned to farm them.

The science team had tried to explain it once—something about genetic desperation. Radiation-twisted bodies trying to purge the sickness through hybrid reproduction. Hoping enough generations down, the children might be ‘clean.’ They were wrong. The offspring were always worse. Hungrier. Smarter. So, it seemed, the Ferals abandoned the idea and chose the next best use of them. Food.

“They call us ‘kept meat’,” Elias said suddenly.

Varis stiffened. “What?”

“It’s what they call us, I heard one of them say it. Kept. Like the Old Men kept cattle.”

“Don’t humanise them.”

Elias didn’t respond. There was nothing human left about the creatures that lived outside the fence. Except the need. Except the hunger. He knew this, he’d seen it first hand. Saw the way their bodies split and shifted in odd ways. How bones poked in strange places. Blistered skin had chaffed on the extremities that bursted from their torsos but served no function so they’d flail, dead and useless. But that wasn’t what terrified him the most, what made his skin prick when he was scheduled outside the wall. What made his blood chill was their eyes. Hollow… until they zoned in on one of the women.

———————————————————————

The records said that once Earth reached a two-degree rise in average temperature, areas the size of whole nations became ��physiologically uninhabitable.’ But the heat didn’t only kill. It mutilated.

Cities turned into death zones. Vaults were built beneath mountains, or deep under the ice that was left, sealed tight with oxygen scrubbers and synthetic food labs. Each country was equipped with bunkers to house new colonies of up to 800, those capable were urged to construct their own so that entry to the government asylums could be given more fairly. No one in Haven knew if equitable admittance was honoured, they’d lost contact with anyone outside Haven Station the moment the doors closed and any discussion on the selection process in the Last Days was never spoken about without punishment.

The Surface Adapted—or ‘SA,’ as the Continuation’s science corp called them—were no longer counted as human under Protocol 8. To call them people was to suggest obligation. But the truth was, they were descendants of the left-behind. Warped by heat, famine, radiation, and inbreeding. They were products of consequence.

And they were winning.

In the outer grids, the SA had built structures. Not homes—corrals. Metal fenced bunkers with reinforced locks. Barriers with intravenous drip systems. ‘Feeding pens’ for Pure captives. An entire caste system built not around power, but capability. They were still theorising how the SA came about medical equipment, how to properly use it, where they acquired the sedatives and hormones they used. It wasn’t a comfort to consider they may not be as barbaric in intelligence as the Continuation had first assumed.

Elias had seen a harvest once. A raid team, out scouting for seeds, caught and dragged through the dark. When they found survivors days later, they were hooked to intravenous sedatives and fattened with IV feeds. Their muscles had been injected with stimulants. One of the women still lived. She begged them not to rescue her. 

“They’re saving me,” she whispered. “They’ll let me give birth soon. They say my children might be Clean.”

She’d died on the way back to Haven, vomiting the moment the IV was removed. Elias stayed for the autopsy. They’d cut out her baby. He still had nightmares about its thin skin that looked vacuum sealed against too large jagged bones.

Inside Haven’s Hall of Continuation, the council argued about tactics. Elias sat at the back, helmet still on, ancient gun still warm. He listened.

”We can’t sustain another breeding harvest,” said Dr. Sora. “We lost fifteen women last month.”

“We can’t move,” said Varis. “They’ll find us before we resettle. The soil here still grows moss, and the water’s filtered.”

“The soil grows nothing,” Sora snapped. “We eat chemical paste. They’re growing people.”

Varis’ voice drops low. “And if they find us, what do you think they’ll do to our children?”

Silence.

‘They’ve begun eating our dead,” Sora continued, her voice softer but still authoritative. “We tracked bodies stolen from the chutes. They’re efficient now.”

Elias stepped forward. “We’re not dealing with monsters. We’re dealing with farmers.”

The room turned to him.

“They’ve solved the climate problem the only way they could. They built their ecosystem around us. We’re the last sustainable crop.”

“Enough,” said Varis. “We’re not food. We’re civilisation.”

“Then do something.” Elias’ jaw ticked. “Or die proud and starving.”

———————————————————————

Outside the gates, the wind burned dry. A convoy hadn’t returned for a week. They sent Elias and two others to investigate.

The terrain had changed again. Scorch-lines from solar flares scarred the cracked asphalt. Pylons drooped like wilted skeletons. Trees he’s sure were green once now stood brittle and bare, shrivelled branches reached to the sky like begging hands. The heat was rising again.

They found the truck by the riverbed—ripped open, boxes empty, engine still warm. A Pure woman, one Elias couldn’t recognise, sat beside a dented cargo box. Her legs were bound, her eyes wide and unfocused. Elias’ stomach churned, one of her arms looked like it had been ripped from its socket and messily cauterised. Her stomach was swollen. Pregnant.

“They said I could go back,” she murmured. “They said I tasted wrong.”

Elias knelt. “What do you mean ‘wrong’?”

She blinked, looking past him. “They wanted pain. They wanted strong blood, suffering. It’s backwards now. Too soft. It’s diluted.”

He felt nausea curl and coil up his spine and into his throat. He didn’t understand what she meant, her words were slurring together. 

The heat shimmered. The two men behind him shifted, their guns up. Elias thought he saw shapes in the treeline—long-limbed shadows, watching. Not attacking.

Studying.

Learning.

———————————————————————

By year five since the doors had opened, another 20 women had been taken and women had been banned from working the walls and travelling beyond them. They attempted to search out other Vault colonies, some private ones marked on a map by the Old Men, but they were all empty. Some still had skeletons inside, appearing to have failed from resource collapse, psychosis, coups. Others were harvested, evidenced by the only corpses left being the men, some of their limbs hacked off and dried blood stains dragged to their entrances. The Ferals moved with purpose now. They avoided traps. They used bait. They bred decoys.

Their leaders were rarely seen. But sometimes, before a raid, red banners would be staked close to the walls. Stained old biohazard signs and bones, symbols in blood. A signal. A warning. Or a taunt.

Some said the SA remembered what came before. That they kept stories. Not of love or glory—but of abandonment. Of betrayal. Their hunger wasn’t just for flesh. It was retribution. A ritual devouring of those who had left them behind.

The apocalypse hadn’t ended the world.It had split it. In the primordial soup of the newborn earth, the first single-cell organism split and became two, a primeval Adam and Eve, and so came life, from that first bipolarity. And so there they were again, humanity, a splintered thing in the garden, unearthly in its delights, what worlds will come?

[herbirdglitter]

Something that irks me in movies is not when period costumes are inaccurate, but rather when they’re perfectly fine and then the writers write about them in a way that’s batshit crazy

Like take Pirates of the Caribbean for example. Those movies were met trying to be historically accurate, why would they be? Yet still 98% of the outfits are at least historically possible for some decade in the 18th century and so it all feels believable.

Then came the writers with Elizabeth being tightlaced into stays (not physically possible) and she isn’t able to breathe (stays don’t work like that) and that smashing line “you like pain?try wearing a corset.” Ooooooh the drama. Girl they were not called corsets then but also, ???? It’s all comfortable walebone that molds to fit your body and it’s fitted perfectly to you? You’re the governors daughter, you can’t convince me your stays don’t fit you properly?? Why would it hurt??

And then there’s Bridgerton. Obviously Bridgerton’s costumes are purely based on vibes and in no world are they trying to be historically accurate which means I could easily forgive their lack of anything under their stays,

EXCEPT they made a point of showing the cruel marks and sores left by the patriarchal stays. How horrible. PLEASE. THAT’S WHY THE SHIFT IS THERE. It protects the stays from you and you from the stays. Nevermind you’re sweating directly into your stays and it probably smells like a swamp, you wouldn’t have the chaffing if you wore something underneath like you’re supposed to.

It’s like wearing sneakers without socks, going hiking, and then blaming your blisters on the cruel torture device that is your shoes.

And don’t get me started on the tightlacing scene. Yes, it doesn’t make any sense because you can’t see her waist in a regency gown, but again NOT PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE. METAL EYELETS WEREN’T INVENTED YET. YOU’D JUST RIP THE FABRIC.

I know it’s all just lazy writing shortcuts, tightlacing scene=tradition and oppression etc. but for the love of god, write a scene that’s at least physically possible

[cuddlepilefics]

Summer hike

Fandom: P1Harmony

Sickie: Taeyang

Caregiver: Keeho

Taeyang gets lost on a hike...

Taeyang’s POV.:

Considering how busy we had been lately, I had been looking for something relaxing to do the next time we’d be on a break. I loved fishing hut hadn’t be able to do that for an eternity because we were usually too busy and when we weren’t, the weather would ruin my plans. That was why I had to make sure the next time would be perfect. We’d get a one week long break soon and I planned to go on a hike around a lake beforehand, so I could find the perfect spot. Once I knew the spot, I’d have multiple days to choose from, so y chances of having good weather would be better than usual. It simply had to work out for once.

No one’s POV.:

On the first day of their break, Taeyang got his backpack ready, making sure he had a lunchbox and water bottle because he had no idea how long his walk would end up being. It was cloudy, so he only put on a thin layer of sunscreen as part of his morning routine but decided against wearing a hat. After having it styled all the time, he wanted to give his hair and scalp a chance to breathe.

Taeyang put on comfortable shoes and bid his dongsaengs goodbye before heading out for the day. The members had asked him whether he wanted any company as they couldn’t imagine walking around in circles would be any fun, especially not alone but the oldest insisted that it was just what he needed to breathe and clear his head.

He had found a river a little out of town, that would feed into a lake, so he decided to follow the river before circling the lake to make sure he had checked each and every single fishing spot. Sure, he had known that he had quite some distance to pass but he had the time to. About five kilometers into his hike though. Taeyang realized his ‘comfortable’ shoes weren’t all that comfortable. It took another two kilometers for him to stop and pull a pack of blister patches from his backpack. At least he had come prepared.

He was already starting to lose his motivation because his feet hurt and hadn’t seen any good fishing spots yet. To make matters worse, the clouds had vanished the sun now mercilessly beating down on him. The back of his shirt was completely drenched with sweat, where the backpack covered it and the straps of his backpack chaffed against his shoulders. Yeah, he was starting to regret this.

Thinking he’d have better luck if he strayed off the beaten path just a little, Taeyang deviated his planned route and found himself walking and walking and walking, his mood deteriorating. It didn’t take long for Taeyang to completely lose his sense of orientation and just like he couldn’t find his way, he also couldn’t find any shade. Needing to collect himself, he took a seat on the ground and pulled out his lunch box. It helped raise his mood a little to not be hungry anymore but he didn’t have much water left and the food only made him thirstier.

Taeyang tried to refrain from chugging down all of his water and only had a few sips to wash his lunch down. His head was starting to hurt a little, so he relented and pulled out his phone to use GPS. Looking at the distance and time it’d take him to get back, Taeyang gulped and slung his backpack over his shoulder. His back was tense and ached, despite the backpack not even being all that heavy. Just as he went about backtracking his steps with GPS to make sure he wouldn’t get lost again, Taeyang made another frustrating discovery.

“Hey, in case you don’t hear from me for a few more hours, I got lost”, Taeyang explained, recording a voice message to Keeho, “I’m on my way back, so don’t worry, but my phone is dying. Could you maybe put some lotion into the fridge? My arms are burned from the sun and I’ll really need it once I get back. Currently regretting all my life choices, haha. See you later tonight, no promise when.”

With that, Taeyang trudged on, his head pounding. He could feel the skin on his face burn and wiped the sweat off his forehead. This had been a shitty idea. With his throat so painfully dry, Taeyang soon stopped again. This time, he couldn’t stop himself from downing the rest of his water. He could hear it gurgle as he continued on, his stomach already starting to cramp after only a few sips.

Every step was torture, his stomach churning and his head thudding. It didn’t take long for Taeyang to double over on the side of the path, painfully retching up the precious water he had saved for so long. Losing his balance for a second, he had to crouch and brace his hand on the hot gravel to keep from falling into his own sick. He didn’t want to worry anyone, so he refrained from calling anyone. Besides, he should really save his phone battery, so he could look at the map.

To be entirely honest, Taeyang had started to doubt he’d make it home at some point, so he almost cried with relief when he arrived back at a bus station. He had to wait for quite a while till the right bus came but he didn’t care, as long as he didn’t have to walk anymore. It did mean more time in the sun though but he figured the damage was already done anyway.

Keeho gasped when the oldest stumbled through the door, his face bright red, hair dripping with sweat. Sluggishly dropping his back pack, Taeyang shuffled over to the fridge to get some water. “There’s some soda at the bottom”, Keeho informed, figuring the older would prefer something carbonated. To be frank, Taeyang didn’t have a preference anymore at this point. He just needed a drink.

“Take it slow! You’re going to make yourself sick”, Keeho warned as he watched Taeyang chug his drink. It didn’t seem like the older had heard him, so he made his way over and grabbed his wrist. Taeyang’s head spun as he breathlessly gulped down more water until his stomach lurched. Leaning over the sink, the oldest shuddered as the water gushed right back up. Keeho wrapped his arm around the other’s waist to steady him against the increasing dizziness. “Shit. I told you this would happen”, the leader scolded, though his tone was more concerned than anything else. Weakly clutching the kitchen counter, Taeyang panted: “Need to s-sit. Gosh, ‘m so dizzy.”

After easing the older to the floor, Keeho frowned: “Don’t pass out on me, okay?” Taeyang nodded, cradling his head in his hands. “Did you get sunstroke? I listened to your message…”, the leader hummed, brushing the damp hair out of his friend’s face to get a proper look at him. Taking a shaky breath, Taeyang winced: “I don’t think so but I definitely got pretty close to that.” His voice was hoarse from being sick and his throat ached. “Think I just need to cool down and get rehydrated”, the oldest muttered, massaging his temples, “Fuck, I feel awful.”

Though Keeho worried the other might need a trip to the hospital, he let his hyung make his own decision. He could still intervene later if he got any worse. “Since your stomach can’t seen to handle a drink right now, how about I run you a cool bath”, the leader offered. Grimacing, Taeyang mumbled: “I can take a cold bath myself.” – “Exactly, you’ll take a cold bath and make yourself much worse because you cool your body down too fast”, Keeho sighed, offering the older a hand to pull him to his feet, “We need to take this slowly, okay?”

Taeyang eventually let the other take over and sat on the closed toilet lid while the tub filled. When it was full, Keeho left so the older could get in. The leader returned with a bottle of sports drink, explaining: “You don’t only need water, you need electrolytes too. Try sipping this but take it easy, yeah? No chugging. I mean it.” Taeyang gave a weak nod and complied, only taking small sips to not overwhelm his stomach again. “I’ll go and turn the AC lower in our room, so don’t drown. Yell when you’re done and I’ll bring you the lotion from the fridge and a pair of shorts”, Keeho instructed, leaving the older to soak in the bath.

Keeho sighed, he should’ve inquired about the circumstances when he got Taeyang’s message and not just laugh it off. Maybe someone could’ve come to get him. He placed another bottle of sports drink onto Taeyang’s nightstand before adjusting the AC. Opening the other’s closet, Keeho took his time to pick a pair of shorts. He figured Taeyang’s skin would be incredibly sensitive with a sunburn like that, so the material would have to be really soft.

When Taeyang called for Keeho, he sounded absolutely exhausted, his voice so quiet the leader barely heard him. At least he had finished his drink at a slow pace and it seemed to settle alright so far. “Here’s your stuff. How do you feel now?”, Keeho hummed, placing the shorts and lotion onto the sink. The older shrugged, rasping: “My stomach is still cramping but I’m not nauseous anymore. Aside from that my head hurts and yeah, so do my feet and skin. You have no idea how much I regret this walk.” – “True, I can’t imagine”, Keeho agreed softly, “Take care of your skin and come lay down, yeah? You look like you really need the rest.”

Taeyang did just that, sluggishly lathering his burned skin with lotion before putting on his shorts. Dragging his aching body to his room, the oldest collapsed on his bed and grimaced when the impact snet shockwaves through his skull. Keeho winced in sympathy as the other lay down properly and whispered: “There’s more sports drink on your nightstand in vase your still thirsty. Can I get you anything?”

Since the older didn’t reply, Keeho decided to take matters into his own hands. He fetched an icepack for Taeyang’s head and returned with badaids and blister patches to take care of his sore feet. Keeping his eyes closed, the oldest sighed in relief when the icepack touched his forehead. “Thank you”, Taeyang breathed, his throat still aching after finishing the second bottle of sports drink. Whispering that it was fine, Keeho set about patching up his friend’s feet.

“Could you get me more, please?”, Taeyang rasped when the leader was done patching him up. Taking the empty bottle from the older, Keeho hesitated for a moment before frowning: “I think, you should wait a little. I’ll get you another bottle, of course, but you should wait a little before you drink it. How about I also get you a popsicle? It’ll soothe the dryness in your throat for the time being because I don’t think it’ll go away, no matter how much you drink now.”

He placed the fresh drink onto the nightstand while Taeyang tiredly sat up. Handing the older the popsicle, Keeho quickly atacked up the pillows because it didn’t look like the other had the strength to sit on his own. He was completely spent.

Taeyang’s hand trembled as he lifted the popsicle to his chapped lips. Sighing in relief, he closed his eyes and breathed: “You’re right. It helps more than the drink did.” – “Glad it’s helping”, Keeho smiled, taking a seat next to the older, “If you want, you can rest your head on my shoulder. By the way, did you at least find the proper fishing spot you were looking for?”

The hoarse huff of frustration was enough for Keeho to know not to ask.

[benydikta]

offers her an apple.

     ･     𝚄𝙽𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙳    :     @telamn !

two weeks after she can move again without the pain lodged in the side of her skull, off-balanced in her ribs, cid unlocks his solar door——there's a lecture and a half about trust, about making her way through life the way she might want, about dreams that are attainable if you reach hard enough for them, but cid is a sentimental fool and she thinks mostly he's tired of finding his room in a mess when he returns, the curl of her mouth self-satisfied when he picks papers off the floor the dozenth time.

it's petty. it's spiteful for no other reason than to see his exhaustion pull at this crow's feet harder than it used to, every act of her punitive resistance a way to soothe the hummingbird trappings of her heart. she doesn't know this cid.

in waloed, in the space between not knowing he was leaving and knowing, she'd catch him up on those high-rise balconies with cigarettes in his mouth, the shadows to him long and stretched in the lean of his body. he couldn't be interrupted then, and he couldn't be interrupted even less when he was five jugs of mead in, his eyes glassy but as if saying they were never quite glassy enough, laughter a spilt stain on wooden grooves of pub tables.

she did intrude on him once and only once——took the cigarette right out of his mouth. "if it bothers you so much," she said, her tongue full of smoke, "why not just leave?" as if you would was the implication behind it, though sometimes she did think on the still water days of it just being the two of them——how little she had known of the world and how much he had seemed to know the whole of it, the palms of her hands full of blisters and camp firelight punctuated by the worst cooked food you had ever tasted, his electric outline leftover static in her breastbone.

she didn't know then how close she was to the breach in his hull; the very start of all their wreckage, driftwood on an ashen beach. back then, he just treated it like she caught him in a secret, his hand palming his hair in that usual exasperated way of his, always half into a complaint before knowing better. "what, and give up this dream we both care so much about?"

when he hunted around for another cig, she had taken that one too. there was always an affection to him a hair's breadth from his annoyance that she always dared to pull out——never tiring of seeing it there, and him never tiring of showing it. the conversation didn't really matter to her as much then as disrupting the thundercloud of his thoughts, to have that untroubled, warm and drowsy air back into the slots of her fingers.

benedikta thought that weight to him was war. she thought she could soothe it out of him as he soothed it out of her, gingerly tracing the knobs of her wretched, flight-weary spine.

"no more running?" she had murmured when they had both still believed in barnabas' promises——while he was still a king with a brightly-shining, comet-streaked dream, and they could taste the starlight.

"no more," cid confirmed, in that constant deep grumble of his, her eye of the storm. she should have told him she loved him on that day more than any other, when they could taste the sea-salt in the air and there was mud on both their boots and the drizzle had matted all of benedikta's hair to her cheeks. the day had been innocuous, but that was kind of the point, sandwiched between points of no return and youth-like naivete.

but she didn't, and she couldn't, for a thousand little reasons but mainly: how his gaze was forever locked on some point over the horizon, and hers on his profile, stubbled with the casual carelessness of travel and that self-assured knowledge he knew his smile could do all the work.

so she just grabbed his hand instead. "still not tired of that, are you?" he said, chaffing, but his fingers had curled around hers.

at the hideaway, cid comes less than he goes, which isn't all that different to when they had both been laboring for waloed, red-cheeked and weary and grateful to collapse into each other on the rare chances they were both home at once. now, however, benedikta is always stuck waiting and resentful towards the peace he carries, her one familiar tether even though there are parts to him she no longer knows.

there is less callousness to him. his shoulders buckle like they used to, but he doesn't carry that all alone——he's happy to have his knees bent, shoulder to shoulder with his charity cases, an open dam overflowing with belief. she shadows him at first, pinched and taught with suspicion, until they're looking up at her too with that undiluted hope so palpable she bites and chews and spits it back out at them.

she doesn't want to be here. she can't be anywhere else. cid is all beseeching eyes and self-sacrificing and he's a person with a hundred people to soothe his ills now, and hundreds more to protect. ultimately, it all boils down to, she's not an irrefutable, untouchable and integral existence to him anymore.

he's doing just fine——and she's breaking and shrieking and sleeping in minutes. "i'll bear all your rage, benedikta," he tells her, long after the lacerations have turned red along his arms and his skin is flecked between her nails, "if that'll soothe you."

it doesn't. it does. it's an unspoken, 'as long as your rage doesn't bleed onto someone else', so she bites into him so deep its his blood dribbling down her chin. she grapples with his large immoveable body and wishes he'd be even the slightest bit malleable. "it won't," she doesn't promise but she swears and she feels him sigh beneath her, sagging.

see, though, that her promises and swears mean nearly nothing——she's fundamentally a liar, after all, and when she's stopped wearing bandages and the scars are all new, freshly healed red flesh, she finds herself weary from resistance, her flashes of outrage lapsing into a strange watchful silence.

they all treat her like a livewire. they should. she fears if she is touched again she might explode, the shrapnel she leaves behind a festering wound of her existence. but cid is stubbornly accepting as he is, as he always has been, and maybe there are things that won't change, threaded into him as tightly as the canvas of his wide open arms.

"apple?" he offers, off-handed, the infamous thing postured precariously in his fingers: and it's a silent peace offering; it's her insurmountable walls letting light seep through.

she takes his apple. rips it from his hand even, snapping it from his hands and pressing it to her mouth before she can have second thoughts. and it's bitter. it's so bitter, with the slightest tinge of sea-salt. "this tastes like shit," she mutters, but there are angry tears in her eyes and she eats it down all the way to its core.

all these years, and she will never tire of his barking, sloppy laughter, the sun streaked in her wings.

[pogaytosalad]

There are people reblogging the kink at ikea post and saying they want to wear the horrifically uncomfortable looking Ikea kink gear. Like. Bro you're gonna get so chaffed. And blistered.

[zooweemummie]

december 9th.

ive been catching the train to go into town. i'm telling everyone its for "independence", but really - i cant afford ozempic or my adhd medication. so instead to drop down 10kgs, i'm subjecting myself to an independent high noon adventure packed with sweaty, chaffed thighs and blistered toes because i haven't worn my shoes in.

i look at the tracks, i look at powerlines, i look at numbers, i look at graffiti. i look at the thongs that man is wearing, at the potholes, the grass in the gutter, look at the time. look at the blisters, look at the ads, look at the women in the cafes. i look look look, until i get home and i pause outside the door. then i open the door and i see myself in the mirror.

is there a word for sonder but for everything? not just people existing in their own complex lives, but the word to describe the complexities of everything all at once? or do i skip the 6 month waitlist for the overly aircon'd, overly priced 35 minute appointment and diagnose myself with another acronym.

i never want to look at another thing again.

[o2shoes]

O2Shoes casual sneakers can help you avoid the risk of getting your feet overheated and sweaty. It also minimizes the chances of getting effects like chaffing, blisters, odor, and so on. Order now & get hassle-free delivery all over India.

[luckyluan]

The Man Who Stopped Time, Pt. 1

January 1, 2024 - 12:49am

The room dipped into silence. Using nothing more than a clap of his hands, Canan Amari Blanchard stopped time. He puffed out crisp tendrils that coiled around each other as they floated toward the ceiling. The air chaffed his nostrils as he inhaled a low breath. He felt an enormous weight pressing down upon him as he shifted in his seat. The air did not want him to move. Canan pressed his body against the stiffening air and moved through its gelatinous field. Each move a task, he reached for the tea cup falling into his fiancé’s lap. Coffee, the color of oil, posed in its falling form; suspended well between rim and khaki pants. The white cup, like everything else, was gathering snow. The dim lights of Dino's Diner flickered rapidly as time trickled past like fine dust falling from a high shelf. 

“it’s like moving through water.” Canan thought. “time does not want me to move at all.” 

The sugar shaker clattered to the floor in a crash too loud for the forced quiet of the dimming diner. The misplaced sugar began to vibrate—moving as if dancing a top a loud speaker. The granules vibrated until they formed a perfect circle and then began to levitate. The sugar granules arranged themselves in a pulsating sphere and expanded. The sugar granules pushed outward in every direction encountering no obstacles. The force of the granules grew dense against his body until he dug his heels into the ground and pushed back. The tidal force granules flowed over him as if allowing him passage. Canan spun around to see the sugar particles doubling the size of the sphere as it encased the diner and continued out into the streets of Morgan, Louisiana. 

“No. Time wants me to move forward!” Canan said aloud. 

He glanced quickly at the wall to see the last of the sugar particles pushing past the flickering street lights and onto the neighboring buildings. Canan tugged at the collar of his stiff white shirt and took his seat across from Drake. He closed his eyes. He pictured the sugar particles retreating back into the shaker and there was an immediate freezing wind at his back. The expanding sphere collapsed in on itself until it fell unceremoniously into a dishelved pile strewn across the black and white floor of Dino’s Diner. 

Canan felt the air warming against his skin and he freed the dinner napkin holding his hastily cleaned silverware and jammed it under the falling coffee before it splashed Drake’s pants. There was an audible groan and the world resumed. The sound of sugar shaker breaking against the marble floor rang through the diner like a canon and the shards ricocheted off the thick walls finding purchase in the walls and cracked leather cushions of the linoleum covered booths. The fabric scorched Canan’s hand as the now boiling liquid spilled into the white napkin and he dropped it instinctively. He looked up in time to see Drake leapt sideways out of the small booth. The blue bench where he’d been sitting moments were now a puddle of thick coffee. 

“Wow, babe, you got some quick hands.” Drake chattered breathlessly.  

Canan forced a twitching smile as his hands began to blister. The scalding coffee singed his skin as it dripped onto the table. 

“Oh, God, Canan, your hands!” Drake exclaimed. “How the hell did this—we need some help over here!”  

Drake’s voice rang through the hum growing in his ears. Tears stung the back of Canan’s eyes as his hands went numb and his vision grew dark. 

<- end of transmission ->

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (604): Sat 11th Nov 2023

I was on the tug machine again today and as a result I have two blisters on the soles of my feet and I was chaffing all over my groin so walking was just torture. It’s a shame I can’t sit on this cunting machine and drive it around the warehouse rather than have to drag the cunt. I really wish I could do a Freaky Friday with the owner of this company and make a company-wide announcement that from now on the use of headphones will be permitted and we will be allowed to sit on the tug machines and get an extra half hour break a day then sign an ironclad contract that prevents anyone including myself from reversing this ruling….then I’d go and beat Iain Duncan Smith to death with a kendo stick safe in the knowledge that the next morning is switch back to my old body and be in the clear.

The new OSW dropped tonight where the lads reviewed All In at Wembley Stadium. I was at All In and I thought about wearing my OSW shirt in case I bumped into them so I could get a picture with them but in the end I felt too shy so just went for my regular AEW shirt. The lads provided a great review as always and posited that the reason the building wasn’t filled to capacity was because of the shithead ticket touts. I never considered this but it would explain why the number of tickets sold was over 81000 whereas the turnstiles only reported 72000. They also expressed doubts about AEW being able to draw as many people to next years show but I think if next years show features the culmination of an 18 month plus storyline between MJF and Adam Cole then I think they could potentially draw as many people this time next year too. 

[shaverlake]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: NWOT Women's Compression Socks / Running Socks (15-20 mmHg).