#shoulder exercises for mass

[fitnessmantram]

Exercise for Back and Shoulder Muscle || Best Shoulders Exercises #shoul..

Preparing back and shoulders around the same time is perfect for super setting. You can superset your shoulder exercises with your back exercises if you're short on time without taking a lot of rest.

Read More : Long Head Triceps Exercises

[aliceindykeland]

it is another day of not fucking understanding what kind of body i want

[iamasaddie]

lessons in control

Joel Miller x f!Reader

summary: after you witnessed the conflict at the dance, you tried to comfort Joel as best as you could, too bad you weren't really good with words. warnings: PWP, just the tip, mentions of a belly bulge, mentions of cockwarming, creampie, emotionally awkward reader, sex as a distraction, fat girthy age gap (reader late 20s-early 30s, Joel 61. don't like don't read i am planning to write some more stuff about them <3) wc: 1,7k a/n: episode came out weeks ago and i just finished the fix-it fic. i love being on time. divider by @/saradika-graphics

You were already warming up your shared bed when Joel's heavy body plopped next to yours. The matress squeaked pathetically, or maybe those were Joel's knees. He silently scooted closer to you, hugging your body from behind and inhaling your scent.

“I’m sorry that happened,” you reached and blindly found his cheek, scratching the stubble with your thumb in a gentle gesture.

“I can’t seem to control myself when I feel something might happen to her, you now?" You did know. Joel's hyperprotectiveness over Ellie was the thing that brought you together in the first place. And that was the only time when it didn't cause mass distruction. Almost. "I just get filled with rage and I lose it.” Joel sounded like a beaten dog, you knew exactly how much pain his eyes carried. You wished you could say something that’d take his mind off things. You wished you had a better way with words. But the only thing you felt you could offer was your body, so you press your back harder into his t-shirt clad chest; you pushed your ass a bit out to meet his cock that was still soft in his boxers.

“I can help you with the control thing.” You whispered, your breathing soft and calm.

“Yeah?” There was a tint of humor in his voice, a half-smile creeping up on his face. “Gonna walk me on a leash?”

“No,” you grabbed his hand and brought it up from your belly to your tits. Joel barely squeezed the supple flesh, waking up the sleeping beast that was your need. “Let’s start with something less dramatic.”

“You know full well I’m not able to control myself with you either.” As if proving his words, his hips bucked, teasing your ass with his hardening dick. His voice dropped lower, the honey thick cadence you grew to know very well. Joel’s grown out stubble brushed your ear as he moved his lips closer. “If I can have you, I devour you fully.”

You breath caught in your throat. Whatever this turns out to be, you knew you at least gave him shelter from the dark thoughts for the night. “You can have me, but,” your ass kept grinding on him, bringing Joel’s cock to the full potential, “just the tip.”

He barked a soft laugh, fanning your face with his whiskey breath. “Sounds like you’ll be the one struggling, baby,” his thumb and pointer finger pinched your nipple, already taut with excitement, and you bit your cheek to hide the moan. “Since it’s you who always begs me harder, more, deeper.”

Goosebumps erupted on your skin as Joel started nipping at your neck, dragging his teeth along the tender column. His hands enveloped you in a hot cage, forearms squeezing your boobs as he pressed you even tighter to his chest. You couldn’t move—not that you wanted to—but you didn’t think it’d be great for that exercise in control you wanted to give Joel. He bit in the juncture between your neck and shoulder and you gasped. You were so responsive, it drove Joel mad. His hips kept humping your soft ass, and you knew a wet stain already bloomed on the front of his simple underwear. 

“Come on, Joel, let me help you.” You moan was breathy, and you tried to gather some composure to no avail. Feeling his hard length fit between your asscheeks made your core burn. You desperately wanted to have him stretch your pussy around the veiny shaft, even though that wasn’t what you planned in the beginning. You guessed that both of you could learn something.

His hand let go of your tits, dragging down your body to tug your panties down. You fumbled for a moment, helping him get rid of the damp garment. His own he only shoved down enough to let his hard cock out, the elastic of the band sitting tightly under the heavy ballsack. 

Your wet pussy was sheilded from the cold of the room by the blanket that covered you both, and when Joel’s tip finally kissed the slick lips of your cunt, sweat started gathering on the back of your neck. 

One of Joel’s palms rested on your thigh, his almost fully grey happy trail that lead to the coarse pubic hairs tickled your ass and back. His finger dug into the meat of your leg, dragging it up and over his own hairy thigh, so he had a better access to your weeping pussy.

Joel’s teeth grazed your ear, low voice rumbling through you.

“Sure you don’t want me here?” His hand left your leg, and he pressed into your lower belly, making you shiver. “Don’t you love feeling me in your tummy, baby? See how my cock bulges your little belly?”

You moaned, squeezing your eyes shut. You did love that. Loved seeing how big he was, in every aspect, and how well you could still take him. Seeing how much of his cock was in you when he told you to suck your tummy in. 

“N-no,” your whimper lacked any confidence, and Joel only chuckled darkly. “Just the tip.”

“Whatever you say, darlin’.” 

He moved, grabbing the shaft of his cock that was throbbing with the absence of needed contact. With tortuously slow movements, he teased your slit, making sure to nudge your clit every time. The fat head of his cock spread your lips, mixing your arousal and his precum into one cocktail of need and despair. You felt his spongy tip knock on your hole and it took everything you had in yourself not to push down, taking as much of him as you could in one go.

You shook with desire against his body, and Joel finally allowed you to have some of him. Gently, almost mockingly, he pushed the leaking head of his cock in your tight heat. Even this small fraction of his dick felt overwhelming without proper preparation. When your walls hugged his tip, both of you exhaled sharply.

“Fuck, Joel, good, that’s good.”

“Yeah? Already full?” 

“Mhm.”

“I need you to play with your clit, baby. Want you to squeeze that tight little pussy around me as I fuck you with just the tip.”

Shaking, your right hand found your pulsating clit, but before touching it, you pushed your fingers lower, blindly feeling where the tip of his cock split you apart. You grazed his shaft with the tips of your fingers and immediately heard Joel suck air through his clenched teeth.

“If you don’t want me to turn you over and fuck you into this mattress with my whole dick, better keep your fingers on your clit, baby.”

You’d giggle if only he didn’t choose that exact moment to slip out and immediately punch into you again, this time a bit further, but you kept your mouth shut.

Your fingers expertly danced over your throbbing bud, gathering slick that generously seeped out of you. Joel was uncharacteristically quiet, all of his concentration focused on not thrusting his hips and burying himself to the hilt in your welcoming pussy. Sweat dripped down his temple, thighs screaming, but he kept feeding you just the tip, enjoying your breathy mewls. 

Having so little of him when you knew what the whole deal felt like resembled a punishment that you brought upon yourself. He stretched you good, but he couldn’t reach that magic spot he usually pondered into whenever he sunk his cock inside you. That made you work on your clit harder, already desperate to cum when it’s barely been ten minutes. 

“I can hear how wet you are for me,” Joel nipped at your neck, his tip continuously thrusting in and out of you, teasing. “D'you hear that?”

The sounds were loud, vulgar. You’ve heard the wetness of your cunt welcoming Joel with an obscene smack, like when you pat the surface of still water with your opened palm. The waves of your upcoming orgasm rippled from your core and out, like those same disturbed waters.

“Grippin' me tight, darlin’,” he groaned, you could smell his sweat and it made your mouth salivate. “Grippin' so good I can barely pull out.”

Your hand started faltering, rythm failing and Joel, sensing your trouble, left the tip of his cock inside you while his own hand started working on your clit. The simple touch of his fingertips, rough and gentle at the same time, pushed you tripping over the edge. You kept choking on air, inhaling more and more until your lungs burned and your mouth opened wide in a silent scream. 

Joel felt your little bud throbbing under his fingertips, your pussy squeezing his cock so hard he could barely hold off his own orgasm. He found your hand, bringing your slippery fingers back to your spent pussy.

“Keep touching your clit.”

“I can’t,” you whined back, voice barely audible, “it’s too sensitive, Joel.”

“Keep playing with it or I will,” the thought of his big rough fingertip on your sensitive bud again sent a chill down your spine, though it was far from fear that you felt. “I want your pussy choking and crying around me when I fill you up.”

You tried to steady your breathing, your trembling fingers started to work gentle circles on your pussy again. It felt raw, and every extra touch felt like a shock wave shooting through you. But it did what Joel wanted, every swipe made your pussy clench around him with extra strength and he just kept his tip inside you, stroking his shaft that was covered in your cum with his thumb and two fingers.

“Doing good, baby, keep going.”

“It’s too much.” You whined, almost breaking apart from him, but his hand kept you in place.

“It’s not, you can do it for me, can’t you?”

You could do anything for Joel, he was right there. So your fingers kept torturing your poor pussy, bringing as much pain as pleasure, and you kept squeezing around Joel’s cock, bringing him to his own release.

In one long unexpected thrust, he pushed the rest of his cock in you, growling as he spilled rope after rope of his cum inside you. The sudden movement ripped another orgasm out of you and you wailed, tears of pleasure tickling the corner of your eye.

“Sorry, baby,” he sounded everything but sorry, “had to make sure I don’t spill a drop.”

“Does it mean you’ll leave it in for the night?” There was hope in your voice, and you didn’t try to hide it. Whenever Joel kept himself snug in your pussy for the night, you had the best dreams, and the horniest mornings.

He hugged you close to his chest, making sure his softening cock was still plugging you. “I don’t think I got that much control, sweetheart.”

[snoopyearss]

When jjk characters call you ‘clingy’

Feat. crybaby-ish!reader

Gojo, geto, toji

Cw: hurt, guilt, angsty

This is inspiration from a mini series i read a few days ago by user @fumekara. It was so good, I love me some angst to hurt/comfort.

But i also wrote this from personal experience too, my bad yall i treat this like my own personal diary

Anyway, enjoy!

Satoru Gojo

He was pissed. He doesn’t typically show it much, but when he does, he gets kind of scary. He’s more quiet, his voice gets deeper, and his whole body language just shifts. So when the higher-ups piss him off after a very long meeting, the last thing he needs is someone to pounce on him. He usually loves it when you greet him at the door when you’re home for work. But today, he just wanted to strip off his clothes and hop into bed.

Gojo huffs as he leaves the elevator of your shared apartment and grabs his keys from his pocket to unlock the door. As he opens the door, he sees you in the kitchen grabbing ingredients for dinner. “Hi baby,” You softly greeted him. “Hey.” was all he said back. It confused you for a second because he’s never greeted you like that before.

“Is everything okay?” You walk up to him to try to kiss him on his cheek. “God- Y/n, please.” He grumbled, walking right past you and placing his briefcase on the table. “I’m just trying to help,” you defended, walking up to take his coat off for him. “At least let me take your coat-” That’s when he snapped. Something he’s never done to you before. “Y/n, I fuckin’ got it! Geez, you’re so fucking clingy!” He aggressively shrugged your hands off his shoulder. It scared you a bit, to see him so angry at you. You were confused, all you wanted to do was make him feel better. Were you really that clingy?

“I-I’m sorry.” your voice came out shaky and defeated. Hearing how small your voice sounded in response to him lashing out made Satoru’s heart shatter into thousands of pieces. He wanted to turn around and apologize, but the words weren’t coming out. By the time he turned to face you, Your back was already facing him, preparing dinner for the both of you as tears rolled down your face.

Suguru Geto

It was 2 weeks after Suguru deflected. 2 weeks since he committed mass murder in that village. 2 weeks since he left Satoru, Shoko, and the others. It was weighing on him and you could tell. Nothing but him, his two adopted girls, a few people who believed in his cause, and you.

You promised him you would go wherever he would go, and he was so grateful for it. He loves you deeply and would do anything for you. But some days just threw everything on him at one time, today was one of those days. Monkeys non-sorcerers begging him to exercise curses left and right, Nanako and Mimiko begging him to take them shopping, missing payments from those begging for his service. It was all too much. And the guilt was eating away at him.

He genuinely wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying and it annoyed him how much talking you were doing in his ear at that moment. You were both sitting outside watching the two girls play in the yard. “Y/n,” He interrupted you. “Don’t you have something better to do than to just bother me?” He sighed sounding so condescending. “What do you mean?”

“Must you always cling to me? Isn’t there something else you can do besides following me everywhere I go, at all times of the day?!” His voice raised a bit as if he was talking to a non-sorcerer. “I didn’t realize I was. I was only trying to tell you about what me and the girls did today,” You defended. “You’re always so busy, I rarely get to see you anymore.”

“Yeah, because you’re always underneath me. Sometimes-” He stopped mid-sentence because of the saddened look on your face. His eyes softened a bit. “Sometimes I just need my space.” He sighed. You only nodded and started to walk back inside. “Ok, I understand.” Your voice cracked. Leaving Suguru alone to think about what he had just said to you. As if he didn’t feel guilt then, he definitely feels guilt now.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji was a bit frustrated today. He was cheated out of his money after doing a side job, the bet he placed on the race he kept constantly telling you about fell through, leaving him with zero, and to top it all off, the child support payment was coming up. You being an empath and knowing your boyfriend so well, you wanted to help him any way you could.

He was sitting in the chair by the island in the kitchen with his fingers combing through his hair. He was on the phone with multiple people at once, trying to solve his money issues. “Shiu, you guaranteed me way more money than this! How am I supposed to cover this months child support with this amount?!” You walked up to where he was, wondering what all the commotion was about. “Baby?” You softly called out. You could hear Shiu on the other line trying to calm him down and explain the situation.

“That sounds like a bunch of bull and you know it Shiu, you better have my money by next week thursday or else I’m taking it myself.” He grumbled and hung up the phone. “Baby,” You gently placed a hand on his broad shoulder.

“What, Y/n.” He sternly said. You merely blinked a few times. “I was just checking to see if you were okay. What’s with the attitude?”

“I’m fuckin’ frustrated okay? Please leave. You aren’t helping right now.” He waved you off.

“I barely did anything, I just wanted to know if you needed help with anything-”

“Jesus, I said enough! I don’t need your help. Fuck, you’re so clingy.” His voice booming caused you to remove your hand from his shoulder in fear. Seeing your reaction caused him to think about what he said and how he said it. The last think he wanted to do was scare you. He wanted you to feel safe around him. But with the way you jumped at how he raised his voice, it saddened him a bit.

“Y/n, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” He was cut off by the sound of his child wailing in the background. “I’ll take care of it.” You said in the smallest voice, not even leaving him time to protest against it and apologize.

“Fuck.”

Part 2

[youryanderedaddy]

Pandora

tw: female reader, non-con, free use, sedatives mentioned, prolonged captivity, meta

You often think about your old life, even though you promised yourself - and keep promising yourself, that you won't. You think about all the little joys and freedoms you took for granted - the small, cozy flat you were renting for cheap in a shabby, but hip neighbourhood. Choosing whether to go to a lecture or skip it, those hazy mornings when you'd wake up with your head pounding and a cold compress plastered on your forehead by a caring friend after a wild night. What a privelege it is, you realize now, to be at the center of your own life. To have sugar for breakfast or coffee at midnight, to fuck whoever you want and go out every weekend - to hold your friends and your loved ones close, and to have the option to be picky, very picky, to choose who gets to be in your life. Because for normal people, for all those other star-eyed 20-something year old girls, freedom is the default, a statement of enpowerment, liberation, living the life - for the first time, as an adult.

And you want to spit at their pretty faces. You feel the same way towards yourself from the past - you want to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some wisedom falls off, because she, they, don't know how good they have it. That autonomy is not always a mere state of being, but a continuous figh against the forces gripping it with tooth and nail, making you a slave, a shell of your former self. And he is no different.

He crawls onto the bed with a complete lack of grace, making it creak, the soft foam sinking in under his weight, and you fight a tired groan, imagining the same heavy, sweaty mass of a body laying over you, drowning you in a sea of pretend-softness, of pillows and bloodied feathers, into a dip that could be both a sex hollow, and your personal coffin, eventually. And although you wish you still had the tact to find your own bleak thoughts distateful, the severe repetitivness of this little "exercise", you're assured, would turned even the most sensible into cynics.

"Shh, it's okay." He whispers, covering your mouth with one warm, sweaty palm, muffling all the little sounds you can't help hissing through your already fried vocal cords, while the other strokes your hair gently, but all you can think about is grease. Grease, because he hasn't let you leave the bed in approximately eight days, give or take, ravenously hungry for your flesh. Grease, because he's still wearing that wretched blue uniform, soaked in machine oil - because if you close your eyes, you feel like it's dripping down onto your face and into your mouth through the gaps of his thick crooked fingers.

"It's okay, baby, be good now. It will over in a second. Just lay back and relax." Matt explains slowly as if you're stupid, as if you haven't been in this situation before, in this exact position on your back like some animal in heat, and God, you really hate his name. It's so simple, so honest - sounding, almost sweet, and it makes you want to reach out and claw his eyes out.

Now that you think about it, you hate his eyes too. They are brown, if slightly warm when the sun hits, but no matter how you look at it, there is nothing extraordinary about them. Or about his nose, or his lips, or his ears, or his cheeks; through and through, he's completely ordinary just like every other man on this planet. And perhaps you hate that the most, because in your dreams, in your nightmares, monsters are inhuman. Either inhumanly terrifying with big ugly horns and teeth as sharp as a dagger, or inhumanly beautiful, with hands so soft they pull you in before they devour you. Monsters are not boys like Matt. And things like this don't happen to normal, ordinary girls like you. And yet.

"Shit, you're so tight, n-ngh." In the heat of the moment he grabs the fat of your thigh, squeezing it for leverage - and it allows him to thrust into you harder, harder, pumping in so fast it almost frustrates you.

He's completely obsessed with you, keeping you tied down to his bed day and night, trembling over the possibility of you somehow breaking free. He fucks you as much as he wants, whenever he wants, because there is nothing you can do about it, besides lay there and take it. You'd scream if his hands weren't in the way. You'd fight if you weren't numbed down to your very bones with sedatives, unable to move an inch. But despite all his twisted efforts, the sadistic thrill of seeing you fully at his mercy, only a tad more human than a blow-up doll, he's never satisfied. Never slows down, never tires - over and over and over again, and you're exhausted.

"A-angel, you have no idea h-how perfect you look like this. F-fuck, I want to be inside you forever." Matt moans, breathing into your hair, staring at you forehead-to-forehead from above, and for a split second, you stare back.

And just for a second, you let your hell break loose. Somehow rehearsed, somehow repetitive, familair tight warmth washes over you, starting from your abdomen and spreading well into your lungs, making it hard to inhale. It's as if your throat muscle clamps down, refusing to let the tears go, to let them pop in and show their ugly heads to the world that, frankly, can't see you anyways, because he took you and hid you deep into his tower. And no one can see them now.

"I can't believe I found you, my love. I am never, ever letting you go. We never have to part again. Now we can truly be together forever." He mumbles feverishly, shoving into you with sloppy frenzy as he always does when he's close to climax. He pushes your whole body down and brings your legs up, bottoming out just to jut in again with newfound ferocity. And then he kisses your temple softly, very, very softly, as if to apologize for the entire thing. But it hurts nonetheless.

As the tears gloss over your eyes, burning your retina with acidity, you wish you could scream. Alas, dolls can only sing when their key is turned - and yours already sinked to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found again.

[dmitriene]

cw: tooth rotting fluff, comfort, shameless smut, established relationship, obviously ooc simon, domestic things, cuddling, intimacy, simply getting off to simon, pinv, pet names, praising, creampie, brief mention of multiple orgasms and overstimulation, aftercare. pairing: bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

simon riley is a bulky man.

a large mass of pumped up muscles that he has honed with diligence and hard work, wide biceps and thighs, a large chest that looks proudly forward when he folds his arms behind his back and straightens, bulging veins, rippling muscles with every movement, full pack of chiseled abs, a beautiful back and strong shoulder blades.

but he's also a soft man.

a small, accumulated over the years layers of fat on his sides, gathering into small folds when his body turns sideways or leans down, a slightly protruding, soft belly that is covered with a slight scattering of blonde hair and white, pale pink scars, his chest and shoulders still wide, but paired with the acquired softness, look softer, and feel the same.

he eats well and feels comfortable in his body, not stopping to exercise in the morning and swinging in his free time, but nevertheless not losing weight, but only continuing to gain, and this is definitely to your credit, because he cannot refuse a plate of steak and vegetables held out from your hands, standing before his eyes in your charming apron and murmuring so sweetly — “made this for you, si, i noticed you liked the meat last time„

and simon can't refuse, especially when you like his new body shape so much, where your hands gently stroke his sides, and your head is almost always on his soft belly uf you're relaxing on the couch, and once you're in bed, you can't get away from his chest, snuggling up and nuzzling against his body until you fall asleep, letting his hands squeeze you harder than gently because you asked for it — “don't be afraid, si, i like it„

and fuck, you would be the death of him, especially when you bend so sluttily to arch your back for him and rise your plush ass to the air, pleading him with sweet mewls and tiny wriggle of your hips so he would fuck your dripping pussy from behind, just so you would feel how the fat on his stomach rubs against your back with gentle drags as simon curls on top of you, his hand intertwined with yours, his meaty cock bottoms in your weeping cunt fully as he hisses cursed praises — “good, good fucking girl, feel so nice and snug for me„

your eyes fly to the back of your head immediately as he picks up the pace, fucking in to you fully and knocking your cervix with each sharp thrust as his broad hips and soft thighs snap against your reddening ass, cunt clenching around his meaty shaft rapidly, sucking him in snuggly as you fuck yourself back on him vigorously, just so simon would pin you down with his soft, big body against the messy sheets, rolling his hips and taunting you when you drool beneath him — “fuck, look a' you, drooling and clamping on me like that, that's wha' i do to you, lovie?„

and you just nod dumbly, brain is a mush that he fucked out long ago with each drag of his fat cock inside your gummy walls that try to milk him for all his worth and each spurt of thick milky seed, letting it leak out just so simon would fuck it back, his body sweaty, muscles constricting and thick, bear like palm squeeze your breast, almost crushing, as you mewl and whine pitifully, begging him not to stop — “yea — yeeah, pleasepleaseplease, d — don't stop, sii!„

and simon wouldn't, until you lay unmoving beneath him, gargling some delirious moans when he pushes his cum deep in you even through his cock aching from overstimulation, till he slips out to wipe you both and tuck your naked body against his under the covers, letting you nuzzle satisfiengly against him with soft sighs.

that's more than enough for simon to never think for once to start lose weight, because fuck, he sees what it does to his filthy girl.

✎ 𝘮���𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

[lvmimis]

cw: minors dni. smut but softcore. unedited. food mention.

your teeth sink into something sweet - a strawberry, ripe and succulent from the spring harvest, its juices dribbling gently down the corner of your mouth. senku’s thumb gently swipes the drop away and while you can’t see it from your forward facing position in his lap, his commentary makes it evident where his finger has ended up.

“these are pretty good this year,” he muses, his voice a slow tickle in your ear.

“mmm, agree,” shifting slightly in positioning, as you scribble another note in the crossword before you. he’s supposed to be helping you, but instead you can tell he’s thinking about a million other things at once, possibly another invention to ameliorate your lives together even further, although by now this village is as close to modernity as the pre-petrification farmlands you were acquainted with growing up. how else can you explain this moment of leisure, pressed this intimately close together while you exercise your brain and he exercises his ability to stay focused with his cock, warm and erect inside you.

with every unintentional (or intentional) movement, even just the happy wiggle of good fruit, one of his multiple trains of thoughts peters to nothing, and he should be frustrated but that’s the entire purpose of this exercise. testing his limits.

“seven letter word starting with i,” you start, moving again slightly with a slow breath, indulging yourself in the drag of his cock against the front wall of your vagina. you’re allowed to have fun with this. your hand reaches for another strawberry while he bites his lower lip. “a strip of land connecting two larger masses or part of the thyroid gland.”

“isthmus,” he replies immediately, trying to hide the strain in his voice. you giggle to yourself, moving his hand to press onto your left breast as you scribble the word in. it fits perfectly, just like the two of you.

“correct.”

senku tries to distract himself from the sensation of your nipples pebbling under his fingers, and the soft curve of your breast in his palm with a complaint.

“this is like the fifth medical clue, your friend needs to do a better job with these.”

your hand holds senku’s still on your body as you raise yourself off his shaft and don’t slam but slip yourself down brisker than usual.

“be nice, it’s hard to make good crosswords.”

you tap your pencil on your cheek as he loses another concurrent train of thought. you can feel his thighs tense under the backs of yours and you smile to yourself.

“don’t cum just yet.”

you can tell he’s getting annoyed now when he quickly hisses, “what’s the next clue?”

“i thought you were only going to help sometimes.”

“can you not-“

you interrupt him quickly but don’t move this time. “7 letters again. starts with an l, i on the first letter. clue: uses few words.”

“something i wish you would do right now,” he quips.

it’s a good time to do a kegel, you decide.

“jesus christ, woman,” he groans, his chin digging into your shoulder. “laconic.”

“what?”

“the word is laconic,” he ekes out.

“ah!” you scribble the word down, gleefully, then let your back rest your back against his chest, setting the crossword down.

“i didn’t peg you for a religious man, senku.”

you can feel him glaring at you, but he gives up quickly in favor of a playful act of aggression, letting his top teeth graze onto the skin of your shoulder.

“when demons like you exist…”

“demon?” you repeat, mock offended. his hands shift to wrap around your belly.

“angel if we give this up for a bit and do something different for a moment.”

“like what?” you reply, letting your hand find his cheek behind you.

“guess.”

your grin is wide, triumphant.

[transformers-spike]

Since you were so graceful to deliver us that magnificent Optimus (and autobots) x Human in their heat cycle, another question arises. What are the autobots' thoughts on eating pussy? What about their styles?? Please and thank u

Good god, I’m going to assume this is general TFP pussy eating and nothing to do with the heatverse. For now I’ll stick to the main cast and add Wheeljack/Ultra Magnus/Smokescreen when I get a better feel for how I want to write them. (also fuck making gifs, thank you for existing, Tenor)

Back when he went by Orion Pax, he was as chaste as a lily. Not from lack of fuckability, oh no. His small frame at the time made him especially cute to onlookers, but it was nigh impossible to hang around him when he was too busy working as a clerk or researching Cybertron’s history in his downtime. There's certainly a possibility he ate at least (1) valve back on Cybertron. Whose? Who fucking knows. My bet would be on Megatronus, but he wouldn’t have horribly fumbled the bag if that was the case. Maybe cunnilingus could have saved their planet… Having, to an extent, merged his consciousness with the thirteen primes, he has gained their wisdom and become something akin to a demi-God by Cybertronian standards. Except with none of the praise, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Anyway, let’s cease philosophizing about his nature as a Prime, what we’re looking for is how good he is at eating pussy with that extra knowledge. Answer: it depends on the receiver. Considering the size difference, he makes it work without catching your clit between his glossa’s mesh plating. He prefers supporting you in his massive servos, carefully wrapping his digits around your frame in case you start squirming too much and fall off. He applies slow languid licks between pauses, waiting to gauge your reaction in case he’s hurting you. It’s sweet of him, but please Optimus, you need to make your partner cum else they’ll die.

Ratchet has been alive for Primus knows how many slutty millenia. Of course he can eat valves. And if he can eat valves, he can eat human pussy just fine. The hard part is dragging him away from his workstation. Don’t get him wrong, he would love to bury his face between your legs, but he’s got things to do, nevermind a whole ass team to keep alive on top of manning the ground bridge and fixing whatever alien technical bullshittery Raf can’t help with (seeing as the little guy only takes care of the human technical bullshittery). He’s perpetually exhausted, and if Cybertronians had an equivalent to coffee, you’re sure he’d be downing it like a single father after losing everything in the divorce except the kids. So when he gets the chance to eat pussy, he takes his damn time with it, pressing his face against your groin for so long you think he’s fallen into recharge. When he gets to work, he’s savoring every inch of you, making a point to complain there isn’t enough energon to mass displace and taste you completely. The size difference is especially annoying to him, but he makes due nonetheless by slipping the tip of his glossa between your folds, pushing it as far as it can go without hurting you. His engine growls from desperate hunger as he grinds his spike against the ground, grunting and scoffing against your pussy as he has to contend with the smallest sample he’s ever received. Ratchet is going to kill Megatron.

Bulkhead is a complicated case. Yes, he’s tried valves. Any wrecker worth their weight in energon has eaten valves like no tomorrow. But the point is, when you look at his jaw, things get a bit complicated. An overbite in humans is mildly bothersome for a giver, but it gets even worse when you look at Cybertronian anatomy and realize that oh, he’s going to do some major jaw exercises to stick his glossa out properly and eat you out. Thank fuck you’re so small in this case, you have no idea much easier this makes his job. To be fair, his main worry is hurting you. Optimus is careful, yes, but Bulkhead has known destruction for the vast majority of his life, not only as a career, but as a way of life. So when he finds you naked in his servos, smiling up at him, his spike retracts into his panel from anxiety alone. If he so much as bruises you, he will shrivel up and offline. He can handle humans just fine, but during interface? He already has to take a breather before he tries anything in the Cybertronian equivalent of a panic attack. His cooling fans are screeching, and if he could sweat, he’d be causing a major flood in Nevada and all its neighboring states. In conclusion, yes, he can eat out. Not perfectly, but he puts in some valiant effort that’s sure to pay off sooner or later.

At first glance, you may exclaim “Wowzers! Bumblebee doesn’t have a mouth! How can he eat pussy without glossa or lips?” – well guess what! Take a vibrator and stick it between your legs. That’s Bumblebee right there. They should add him as a synonym for it in the dictionary. He may not be able to lick up your juices, but he can buzz incessantly against your groin at a near illegal setting until you come undone. He is so proud of himself. And for his own sake, let’s hope he never got to experience valves before he lost his oral equipment. He tries to be comforting, beeping words of encouragement that you absolutely do not understand but get the gist off anyways. Chances are, he’s either helping you balance on top of his face to get the full hitachi magic wand duct taped to the floor experience, or you’re both lying down while you’re cupped in his servos as he buzzes excitedly between your legs; equal parts cute and overwhelming. You feel bad for using him like this, but he beeps reassuringly and urges you to lie back in his servos and enjoy the ride. He’s such a hitachi toy it’s not even funny anymore. You start giving him setting levels which he eagerly follows like the boyscout he is, keeping the same vibration pace even as you start humping his face plate. You pray to Primus Raf isn’t looking for his guardian, else he’s going to overhear things you would rather die than explain.

Arcee is… way too good at eating out. On Cybertron, she could eat a valve like her life depended on it, sucking on the anterior node and wiggling her glossa inside of it well after her partners would overload, begging her to stop from overstimulation alone. Nowadays, she still has it. With her two-wheeler frame type, she can easily access a human pussy without any trouble, treating it like the cutest minicon valve she’s ever seen. She’s all rapid licks and wandering digits, stuffing you to the brim when she’s busy torturing your clit between her lips, then circling around it as she pushes her tongue between your folds. Arcee’s a fucking menace. She leaves you a crying hyperventilating mess as you plead with her to let you breathe. Yes, she’ll take your words into account and stop at some point. Key word: some. You get a break whenever she fancies. This, or you go into cardiac arrest and she has to deal with your metaphorical blood on her juice-soaked servos, all from eating pussy too good. No one should have that sort of power. But Arcee does, because she’s an unstoppable force. Prepare yourself from some light pillow talk after she takes mercy on you, stroking your cheek and leaning in for a kiss. You can taste yourself on her intake, and she wants you to contemplate the flavor as she wraps her arms around your squishy body in a protective hug, the blue glow of her optics dancing over your skin.

[our-ftm-experience]

A brief guide to Testosterone HRT

If you’d like the one for Estrogen HRT, ask in the comments and you shall receive.

Image from the Transpeak Discord - unsure of actual source (a clinic?) (if anyone knows, please tell!)

Alternate text under the cut

Alt:

What is the goal of testosterone therapy?

Testosterone has two main jobs: It causes masculinizing changes to occur throughout the body, and it suppresses the production of estrogen. Some of the changes caused by testosterone are permanent (they would remain if testosterone was stopped), and other changes are reversible.

How is testosterone administered?

Testosterone is available as injections, cream, or gel. Injections are administered either every two weeks intramuscularly (into the muscle) or every week subcutaneously (under the skin). Nursing staff provides injection training here at clinic. Creams and gels are absorbed through the skin and applied daily.

What are the irreversible effects of testosterone?

Testosterone causes voice deepening, clitoral growth, body/facial hair growth, and sometimes male-pattern balding (also influenced by age and genetics). Testosterone may irreversibly affect fertility. Desires for fertility should be considered prior to starting hormones, and for those seeking fertility preservation (or education about fertility preservation), referrals can be made to Lurie’s fertility preservation team.

What are some of the reversible effects of testosterone?

Testosterone causes increased muscle tone, fat redistribution (hips to stomach area), skin oiliness and acne. Mood changes (often irritability, having a “shorter fuse”) and heightened sex drive may occur. Menstrual cycles will change and eventually stop after some time. There may be genital changes caused by low estrogen levels.

What are some of the known side effects and risks of testosterone?

Testosterone may increase your metabolic risk profile — that is, the risk for conditions such as heart disease, diabetes, high cholesterol or blood pressure. The risk for heart disease is higher for people who smoke cigarettes, are overweight or have a family history of heart disease.

Testosterone causes hematocrit, the proportion of red blood cells in a volume of blood, to increase. This blood thickening, at high levels, can be life-threatening, causing stroke or a heart attack.

Testosterone can also cause increased appetite, headaches, and acne.

A low-detail diagram of the upper half of three bodies is displayed. From left to right, the bodies represent having been on testosterone for little to no time (a month or less), a medium amount of time (six to eight months) and a greater amount of time (a year or more).

The diagram is a visual representation of testosterone effects on the body. Hip mass shifts to the stomach area, The adam’s apple grows. Muscle mass grows and shoulders become broader. Facial and body hair grows on the arms, face, and assumably the legs not displayed in the image. The skin gets oily and acne appears on the face.

Testosterone affects: skin, muscle mass, body fat, body hair, voice change.

Increased skin oiliness and acne starts within 1-6 months of testosterone. Its complete effect can be within 1-2 years.

Increased muscle mass and strength starts within 6-12 months of testosterone. Its complete effect can be within 2-5 years. This effect is highly dependent on the amount of exercise one does.

Voice pitch deepening starts within 6-12 months of testosterone. Its complete effect can be within 1-2 years.

Body fat redistribution starts within 3-6 months of testosterone. Its complete effect can be within 2-5 years.

Facial and body hair growth starts within 6-12 months of testosterone. Its complete effect can be within 3-5 years.

Monthly periods stop within 2-6 months of testosterone.

Clitoral enlargement of 0.5 inches to 1 inch begins within 3-6 months of testosterone. Its complete effect can be within 1-2 years.

Male pattern hair loss starts when you have been on testosterone for over a year. Its complete effect date is variable. It depends on age and genetics, and can be minimal.

Sex drive also increases.

How do we monitor for safety?

Labs (bloodwork) are collected prior to starting hormones and every three months for the first year of treatment. In the second year, labs are checked every six months. Tests that are monitored include cholesterol, liver tests, hematocrit, and hormone levels. These labs can be drawn at Lurie’s or a local facility.

How quickly will changes develop?

Remember, it’s normal to want to see changes occur rapidly, but (just like in puberty) these changes take time! Most changes start to begin around 3-6 months after starting testosterone and take years to fully develop.

Will I look like my friend _____?

Remember, everyone experiences puberty differently. Factors other than testosterone (such as genes!) affect appearance. It’s impossible to predict exactly what changes will develop.

It’s important to take the prescribed dose of testosterone. Taking more increases health risks.

Always tell your health care provider if you have questions or concerns about your health.

[radioactiverats]

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader

This is a mashup of all the timelines basically (._.) Starscream has been on the brain recently... In the firsts of a long journey, I have gotten my first two blokees from blind boxes (Grapple and Ironhide). Let's see how long it'll take me to get Starscream TvT

-----------------------------

Ever since you joined the Vosian Air Academy as a young cadet, Starscream had been there. Everyone knew who Starscream was. How could you not, when he was such a high-profile cybertronian? You thought that the most you would ever see of him at the academy was his printed frame on the glossy posters stuck up everywhere - some with motivational slogans, some showing off some genuinely impressive flying maneuvers, and some advertising the war effort against the Quintessons.

Understandably, it came as a surprise to learn that he would be personally taking on your first year tactical maneuvers class.

Even before your first class, rumours ran rampant. Starscream is very strict, your fellow cadets whispered, in tones of both fear and admiration. You're fragged if he picks on you. Better avoid his punishments. Didn't you hear what happened to the bot who failed to execute his instructions the first time?

Your apprehension, however, was definitely outweighed by admiration and curiosity. No matter how snappy he seemed, your future instructor was still the Air Commander of Vos, which was no small feat. Unlike several other government positions which required the right connections rather than skills, Air Commander was not a position one could hope to take on without truly having mastered the skies.

The first time you see him, you, as well as many others, are instantly in awe of his commanding presence. He's taller than you thought, frame polished and his beautiful wings a shimmering white. The sharp lines of his faceplate and the delicate point of his chin exemplify his graceful form, and his optics flick over the new recruits in a calculating manner. The expression on his faceplate is severe, as you expected, but not cruel. He barks out a command for you to get in a line, snarling when inexperience clashes with the rush to obey, several of you crashing clumsily into each other.

"Finally," Starscream snaps, when you eventually arrange yourselves in a semi-straight line. "If you lot cannot execute even the simplest of commands, how do you expect to survive the war?"

It sounds harsh, but he's not wrong. It sinks in again that you are here because, despite all propaganda saying otherwise, it seems that the war against the Quintessons is not going well. Why else would there have been a mass recruitment exercise? You, and the rest of your class, are going to be shipped straight off to war when you graduate the academy. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Starscream's words suddenly seem less like a scolding and more like a warning. You straighten your frame a little more, shoulders back, chassis out. If the Air Commander himself is giving you tips on how to survive the war, by Primus, you're going to listen.

Starscream announces waspishly that you are going to learn how to do a breakaway maneuver today.

"Everyone," Starscream threatens, "and I mean everyone, is going to perform this maneuver successfully within this solar cycle, or there will be consequences. Understood?"

There are only a few weak "yes sir's" from the line, but Starscream simply scoffs and chooses not to waste his time enforcing a show of authority. It's clear from the wide optics fixated on him that he's already won your admiration.

"Watch," is all he says, before he's smoothly transforming before you into his alt-mode and, with a cacophonous boom, blasts off into the stratosphere.

All of you can't hold back your shouts of amazement as you scatter from your haphazard line to get a better look. The F-15 dips and twirls though the sky, slicing through fluffy clouds like butter before slowing to a stop. Then, as all of you watch with mounting excitement, Starscream begins his demonstration - the F-15 begins to gain speed, faster, and faster again, until you're certain he's going to break the sound barrier and blip into nothingness - when suddenly, the jet swerves at a supremely clean ninety-degree angle without losing any of its speed.

All your classmates are shouting and hooting at the frankly incredible demonstration, even as Starscream transforms back into bot-mode and comes to a smooth stop in front of you. It might have been your imagination, but his plates are drawn less tight around him, and he exudes a breathless, self-satisfied air. This you can understand - all seekers would agree that the feeling of flying is second to none.

You're dreamily replaying Starscream's demonstration in your processor, and startle when a finger jabs into your field of vision. Your optics cycle, and you freeze when you realize that none other than Starscream is towering right over you, a calculating sneer on his faceplate.

"You," he snaps. "Seems that you have a very clear recollection of my demonstration, have you not?"

You nod, unable to speak, and watch with rapt fascination as his intake curls into a smirk.

"In that case," Starscream drawls, "you should have no trouble going first, hmm?"

You stiffen. The upperclassmen had warned you about this - Starscream tended to choose cadets he could make examples of, for better or for worse. But as you meet his optics, it's not cruelty you find - but a challenge.

"Well?" Starscream says. "We don't have the entirety of the solar cycle to be standing around like idiots."

The rest of the cadets have fallen into an almost horrified silence - yet, you can feel the relief emanating from the others that they haven't been picked. You prickle at that. You've not been picked to take the fall - you look at Starscream again, full in the faceplate, a simmering defiance beneath your plates. A hand on his cocked hip now, his optics boring into yours, daring you to accept. You remember what you saw in his faceplate the first time. Severity, sure, but not cruelty.

What if, you wonder, it's all been a misconstrued. Starscream doesn't pick on the weaker ones. He picks the ones who look like they're up to a challenge - and by Primus, you are going to impress him or die trying.

You stride up to a patch of open land, engines thrumming as you prepare to take off. The initial feeling of leaving the ground behind, launching yourself into open space always thrills you. You transform, and waste no time in accelerating with a sonic boom - soaring higher and higher and higher, engines warm and your processor humming with the ecstasy of flying. Slowing to a hovering stop, you take in the tiny figures of your classmates below you, so small they look like dots.

You accelerate, slicing through cloud after cloud after cloud and, it's now or never - your engines scream as you twist as sharply as you can to your right, narrowly avoiding careening off balance as a burst of speed aids your recovery. Energon thrums through your frame with the adrenaline of it all.

"Not bad," comes a raspy voice from your left. You almost tumble out of the air in shock. Starscream, in his alt-mode, soaring alongside you. Had he been here the whole time? "Descend, cadet."

Both of you reach the ground in tandem, with you still reeling from the shock of Starscream flying beside you, staggering ungracefully as soon as your pedes hit the ground.

"Our first volunteer was able to execute the maneuver on their first attempt," Starscream says. His optics are still fixed on you, appraising. If you look really hard, you might detect a hint of satisfaction, dare you say, at your performance. "I expect that the rest of you will have no trouble following suit."

And by some minor miracle, your entire squadron does manage to pull the maneuver off by sundown, even if Starscream does lose his temper here and there.

"Primus, he's a slavedriver," one of your classmates moans. "I can barely feel my wings anymore." And it's true - your own frame screams from exertion, but you've accomplished more in a single day with Starscream than with any other instructor. The ache in your frame is well-earned, and your respect for Starscream has only grown - he might be snappy on the outside, but the careful way with which he'd guided each cadet through the maneuver did not go unnoticed.

The first stellar cycle passed by reasonably uneventfully, but you were proudly able to say that you'd distinguished yourself as one of Starscream's top pupils - his optics would soften ever so slightly when it came to you. Unfortunately, the rest of his hard work would go abruptly up in flames. An unexpected Quintesson attack on the Air Academy had left you the sole survivor of your entire squadron. And before you even had time to take in this shocking loss, the miner Orion Pax had exposed Sentinel Prime for the fraud he was and been reborn as Optimus Prime. Just like that, the Cybertron you had always known split into two factions. The Quintessons had always been a common enemy - but now, this looked grimly like civil war.

In the aftermath of Sentinel's downfall, Starscream had searched for you, first thing, something akin to panic in his optics. "Thank Primus," he muttered. "Come, we have no time - " And you looked around you as Cybertron split before your eyes, seekers taking to the skies to follow the bot now known as Megatron. Starscream seems to sense your hesitation, and pauses.

"I-" he begins, servos clenching into fists as his wings hitch upwards. "I will not question your decision." You can see it though, in every trembling iota of his frame, that he wants you to come with him. And, glancing behind you at a crumbling Cybertron, the only thing familiar to you is Starscream - you decide right there and then that you would follow him to the ends of the earth.

You meet his optics as you launch yourself upwards, and are nearly knocked back by the overwhelming relief that you find. No matter what the uncertain future holds, you are certain that Starscream will always be there.

Megatron, your new leader, dubs you the decepticons. A few vorns pass as your exiled group finds its feet - Starscream has been made Second in Command. You expected no less. And you suspect that the reason you've made it so long without major incident is that Starscream has been secretly shielding you from the worst of your leader. However, with each stellar cycle you grow restless - you miss Cybertron, your homeworld, and you begin to question Megatron's cruelty. That was where he and Starscream differed - Megatron's harshness stemmed from outright cruelty, whereas Starscream's severity was never without reason. Did you choose the wrong side, after all? You find yourself disagreeing with most of your leader's bloodthirsty ideals - yet, Starscream is still here. And surely, you couldn't go wrong by staying at his side?

Watching Megatron make an example of a fellow seeker is the last straw for you - he'd forced every decepticon to watch as he pummeled dents into their delicate frame, ripped wires and leaking energon and battered wings when he was done. You'd turned away and shot off into the skies without a second thought as soon as he'd left. Heel thrusters screaming as you push yourself further, you rocket though the atmosphere until you see the twinkling of the stars in deep space - so close to zero-gravity, every inch of your frame screaming at you to get as far away as possible, when suddenly, you're thrown off-course by a large servo clamping onto your pede.

You shriek, but what's even more shocking is the fact that it's Starscream who has a death grip on you.

"How- how did you-?"

"I trained you, in case you've forgotten," Starscream snarls. "Of course I know your maneuvers."

Both of you fall silent for a few nanokliks. "If I let go," Starscream says, "are you going to jet off?"

Silently, you shake your helm. Honestly, you can't remember the last time that it was just you and him. Megatron's been very demanding - the air commander looks ragged, plates pulled tight with anxiety every time you see him, which was rarely.

Starscream lets go of you with a ragged ex-vent, both of you hovering in place.

You're genuinely not sure where to go from here. You processor spins with the implications of the future at the hands of a violent warlord, at a war that has no end in sight. A war is something you want no part in, but it seems your choices are limited - the battered frame of the seeker flashes through your processor, and your desperation surges once more - you are this close to leaving everything you've ever known behind, if it means escaping the horrors of the war.

"Stop running," Starscream hisses. There's a pinched look on his faceplate, and your wings droop for a nanoklik - guilt sparks though you as you consider the fact that Starscream has been on the receiving end of way worse treatment. Your duty is to him - you feel ashamed that you even considered leaving him behind. But unexpectedly, Starscream ex-vents, and he looks more tired than you've ever seen him.

"I don't want this, either," he mutters. "You - you're all I have left. I understand wanting to run from the war, but..."

It goes unspoken, but you hear him loud and clear.

Don't run from me.

"I can't... I can't help you if you turn away," he says, eventually. You move a little closer, enough for your EM fields to brush - there's guilt there, as if he's blaming himself for putting you in this position - protectiveness, too, and you realise for the first time that Starscream genuinely sees you as his charge.

You're deep enough in the fighting as is, but damned if Starscream isn't determined to see you through this war unscathed.

"Anything happens," he rasps, an oddly open look in his optics. "You come to me. Understood?"

Caught in a war you want no part in, you're aware that Starscream is trying to shield you from the worst of it while he attempts to make the best of a horrible situation. At the very least, you know he has your back, and you hope he knows that you have his.

"Yes, sir!"

Next

[duck-a-doodle]

COD Headcanons: Soft Intimacy

SFW thoughts on what would unravel the COD boys. This is my first post for this fandom, and my entry point to it was the MWII campaign and a few comics, so it might be slightly OOC. In the meantime, I will keep doing research and I hope this brings you joy! :-) -CH

Masterlist 7/14/2024

Simon "Ghost" Riley silently relishes light scratches. The kind that runs slowly, gently down the scalp or round the ears, feathering across his scapula over the thin fabric of his shirt and the underside of his arms. He shudders at getting his spine or ribs traced, head spinning at the idea of fingers so tender taking long, tantalising hours to outline all of himself, the electrifying comfort flickering his heavy eyelids. Heavy as he is, the man is quick to persuade that you rest your weight upon him during such domestic ministrations; he curses, however, at your much more compelling affections, falling prey to the charms of your worship. Slowly, but surely, he leans forth — first dropping his head to your shoulder while languid nails crawl down his cheek, then falling to his hands and soon, his elbows — gliding his head down your collarbone and onto your beating chest, where he recognises that you are most ardently obsessed of him as he is of you. “Obsessed” is much too simple a word  and “reverent”, too large an understatement. His skin is yours, his mind is yours, his breath, his tongue, and every crevice of himself he can count; a gift and homage to your hands, his temple. As he finally sinks all of himself into you with a groan and a sigh, he gingerly lifts his heavy hands, resting them warmly by your sides and over your ribs, in hopes to return all your love with the altogether humble gesture. On days which he stubbornly wishes to do the same for you, he mimics the way you touch him, in every precise manner and every exact order, seeking nooks and crannies that warm your skin or hitch your breath. He will weakly protest, however, moments which your hands reach too close to him outside of these intimate instances, causing light, inadvertent whimpers from the back of his throat.

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Captain John Price likes using his hands for carrying. “Brutish” is an adjective familiar and frequent to his bear paws, trained to caress cold, carbons steel and paint itself in red, smelling only of matches and rust.  The warmest things his hands have known are the arms and backs of his fallen men and the barrel of his heartless iron, the touch of it comparable to a Londoner’s December. You, in place of the metal, you, strong yet brittle and you, lighter to him than a C4, grenade or flashbang, are his respite, reprising over the smoke of his numerous deployments, where his hands took more than they gave. He cannot help the pliant hips and waist that fit his palms seamlessly, more harmless than the many miry grounds he trekked before — a kind, relenting texture which spoil his weathered, calloused digits with the knowledge that they are utterly malleable to you, benign to you, void of all menace. Coarse fingers drag and curl your silhouette as your mass rests weightlessly on his arms and shoulders, yielding to his calculated strength. That he can evoke a laugh or an exclamation of surprise is a source of endless pride; a gentle nudge that the Captain John Price can tickle fancy by exercising a fraction of his brawn on something worldly. He could lift your groceries, the couch, your books — but  he likes to sweep off your feet the most. Trailing your thighs, calves, the small of your back are the hands that seek reminder of his humanity, tendons and phalanges flexing with every curve it meets, venerating eyes never leaving yours which watch his display of muscle with great wonder. For you, he would carry the world. Thus, in his words, “my back is strong enough to carry both our weights for a lifetime, if you’d let me.”

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John "Soap" McTavish has developed a habit of pawing. The abundance (if not exclusive presence) of tough military equipment, smoking alloys and dogged combat routines necessitated his use of hard, impenetrable gloves. Its rugged, protective textile has unwittingly sensitised his hands to various surfaces, including bare skin. He hesitated to touch you, timorous from his own want, curiosity and the unknown. Gone are his inhibitions when graced with your guiding hands, easing the earth-riddled cowhide off his palms. Aimless hands follow your lead, pressing into you over his Henley you borrowed. Finding purchase upon your stomach, he gradually grows accustomed to the fondness of your abdomen, shortly braving his way to your chest with sturdy yet clumsy paws. A current crackles down his body as he toys with the ripples of fabric adorned by your skin, indulgence rapidly surging from his fingers to his giddy head — he is soon to be all over you, his newfound contentment switching into overdrive. Respiration turning laboured, those once shy hands grow ravenous and wayward, roaming under the influence of his enthusiasm; every sharp inhale and strained noise he extorts from you only serves to encourage him further, inciting cheeky gropes at your sides, inner thighs and behind. What would eventually drive his mind over the edge, when you finally decide he is too much, is your folding a very surprised McTavish down onto the couch over you, keeping his head to your tummy and his hands tucked to your sides, imploring him to behave himself. Chiding him to act proper was an error on your behalf; his demeanour shifts, mischief clear in his eyes as he unabashedly explores all of you, pawing at you with every naughty intent fathomable.

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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is crazy about being sat on. By no means a foolhardy nor gormless soldier, he holds himself to high decorum with immense discipline, ever an air of diplomacy about his person. None would have imagined that a simple act as sitting on his lap would send him reeling, rendered silent for fear of speaking with neither form nor cohesion. He turns light-headed watching your thighs pool like molten lava, quads sweltering from mere contact, let alone the pleasurable tension of your weight balancing precariously off his trembling knees. Worried that his legs would tire, you made to rise, wanting to relieve him of your own gravity but you were firmly held in place; two large, veined hands anchor you resolutely onto unmoving thighs, and any attempts of persuasion, made in the interest of his own comfort, faced flat rebuffal. Gratitude towards Lady Luck nearly spills from his lips, numb with inadvertence, as you nestle your heft upon him, for want of better comfort. You mistaking his lap for an empty stool was akin to setting his legs on fire, but to make yourself comfortable against him? For a man who prided himself for his class and propriety, he quickly found himself immensely burdened with sin, and subtlety became a language long forgotten. Had he any sense left in him that was not knocked out of the ballpark by your charming self, he would not be finding himself gently playing with the hem of your shirt, folding funny shapes with the fabric between his clammy fingers. Savoury dreams of you enticed him, swimming behind his glossy eyes that are unresponsive to the lights that danced across his features. Oh, you were so much trouble to him, colouring him brazen and so very warm. He loves it, however, and you will soon find what a fiend and a devil you can be when you later use this against the soldier's poor heart.

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Alejandro Vargas will die for your scent. Tantamount to a hound, no vaquero could catch the winds of change for miles around the way he could. The smell of burning tyres against the asphalt of the streets, the oils and perfumes of the same shop houses, the settling dust of his own base, and the routine spritz of air freshener that now smelled of lemon instead of mint ever since the new hire came on duty. Where Alejandro worked, the bittersweetness of gunpowder that sweeps his olfactory is his peace, and the constant heatwave that boils a Proust phenomenon out of the hanger persists in the back of his senses, subtle yet certain. No delicate change challenged his sharpness. He has a full bible to list it all, memorised from the front to back — and though he may not be religious, he is a madly devoted man. A hypervigilance that cannot be removed must find a reprieve, and only a single odour, long seared into his mind, pulls at him not first from the mind but from the heart. You, who smelled of his blankets, you, whose shampoo and T-shirt he recognised not from the brand but from its lingering aroma, and you, who could never surprise him with your presence because the scent of you would enter the room before his name falls from your lips, and before his eyes could reach yours. You remain the only person who turned his head with such impassioned and obsessed vigour, and he knew he was done for ever since. He would press his nose deep into your cheek, your neck, or the back of your nape and find himself at home as he stood in a room full of coldhearted artillery. No proper explanation was ever given when you find a shirt or two missing over the months of his deployment, but secretly, you had always known. And like the cheek you are to his mischief, you bask in the darker colour of his cheeks when you find that mysterious missing shirt hidden in the pile of laundry from his deployment.

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Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra likes soft whispers. Such light, airy and vertiginous words that kiss the shell of his ears — they would rob the man of his joints. Everyday exchanges of each other’s day ground him and ruin him, discernible only by both your ears. While he lends his body to the field, bloody and savage, in his heart there stands a single white flag signed in your name, by his hand; in a head overrun with sounds of distorted infrared voices, caterpillar tracks crushing against gravel and of heartless iron shells dropping at two hundred rounds per minute, your quiet words remain. A man of few words must have so much thought that weighs on his tongue, until it becomes too heavy to express. Surely, you must be a godsend. The way you effortlessly loosen the words from his hardened teeth, clenched too tightly still lest a bullet comes to bite, pulls shivers from his lips and down his watery lashes. Something about your bottom lip renders him helpless, and he finds that he must rest his thumb on your lower lip to lessen the giddiness that threatens to beat his heart out of his flaming chest. Permanently latched onto the rich timber of your voice was a man desperate to preserve you, so much that he keeps all your voicemails to him and labels them by the topic, just so he can find exactly when he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it. Moments of quietude in his bunk led one thought to the next, and he often ended the day with your voice embracing the deepest parts of his soul through an old, wired earpiece, wondering if you knew what gravity you had upon him. Perhaps you do know, he believed decidedly — because when he played a new recording you sent him during his deployment, his fingers violently mashed the volume-down button of his device at your rather unique choice of words, spoken at a careless whisper. You knew he had listened to it, as the first thing he did when he returned was to hold you in your place, and return all the salacious whispers he received right back to the bane of his heart. Ten-fold.

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König has an obsession with trapping. Hugs come rare to a man of his nature; imposing, wild and unacclimated to the civilised world. When arms do find their way around him, his own snakes around them, encircling the sensation, holding it close and praying that it seeps into his skin, permeating his senses to remain seared in his remembrance. Yet, more than once, he finds the same arms, over and over, routine the way the birds must sing and the poets must write. Always your arms, by his initiative. Greed will be his downfall and he knows, and he gladly embraces his defeat, relenting to your winsome self without remorse. Never would he deem himself a small man, albeit despite the notion, he shrinks; younger and younger he becomes with you, compressed to his front as much as your skins would let, as much as his strength allows without colouring your flesh a bluish-purple, until he is but a boy cradling his most dear Bärchen, unwilling to let go. He watches with blooming gratification, the exhale that falls from your lips as you press together, eyes drooping from the pleasant pressure that grounds you to earth, all because it is he who holds you. He drinks the sight and lets the view inebriate his already intoxicated mind. On the occasion when he becomes the bear-trapped, he will amuse himself with your too-small arms that fail to close around him, and will quickly turn the tables, subjecting you to his drunken coos with an onslaught of “mein Schatz”es, “Schnuckiputzi”s and “liebling”s. Greed will be his downfall, but you must be his renaissance.

P.S.: Can you tell that I read Pride & Prejudice before writing the TF141's and König's parts? I can. :'-)

[vernyhore]

hello there! can I ask for some shen headcanons?

He actually goes to therapy, journals semi-regularly, and uses guided meditation apps (the calming British voice is his favorite). His locker has a laminated grounding exercise taped on the outside, and after some initial teasing, no one makes fun of it anymore — partly because it works, and partly because no one wants to admit they’ve used it after a bad case

His parents gave up a lot to build a life in the US, and he’s always felt the weight of needing to make that sacrifice mean something. He grew up translating everything from tax documents to medical bills as soon as he was old enough to read

He survived a mass shooting when he was in high school. He doesn’t talk about it — only a few people even know — but it shaped him deeply. He wasn’t injured, but he was locked in a classroom for hours, listening. The helplessness stuck with him. Medicine became a way to fight back against that helplessness, to make it so that in some small way, he could always do something.

Shen always has granola bars, ginger chews, and dried fruit slices stashed in his scrub pockets and has a habit of handing them to people who clearly need them. He doesn’t even ask — just walks up, hands one off, and says, “Eat something.” It’s gotten to the point where people joke that if you start spiraling, Shen will materialize out of thin air with a granola bar and all will be well

What started as a one-off bet with Ellis during a slow night shift turned into a full-on scoreboard that’s been taped to the back of the nurses' station whiteboard. Their bets range from “how many minutes until Walsh and Abbot start bickering” to “how many jellybeans fit in a specimen cup.” It's become part of the rhythm of the department. Frank pretends to be annoyed by it, but always ends up as a tiebreaker.

A god-tier Apex player with inhuman reflexes and aim. He once beat Ellis, Abbot, and Frank in a team deathmatch. They haven’t let it go and later discovered that he’s a minor celebrity in the gaming community, with entire Reddit threads dedicated to figuring out who the hell this guy even is.

He can quote entire scenes from The Two Towers and once gave Ellis a 10-minute lecture on Klingon honor codes during a night shift lull. He’s also really into Star Wars, especially the original trilogy, which he insists still holds up better than most modern sci-fi.

Shen is the person who catches the signs others miss. He notices when Ellis hasn’t taken a lunch break, when Abbot’s shoulders are tighter than usual, when Frank’s sarcasm is covering something sharp. He doesn’t confront — he adjusts. Hands off a snack, switches assignments without a word, gently redirects a conversation to take the weight off someone’s chest.

He’s good with kids. Not in a cutesy way, but in a respectful, chill, deeply non-patronizing way. Kids trust him almost instantly. He once sat on the ED floor for 45 minutes with a scared ten-year-old explaining what a CT scanner was by comparing it to the Millennium Falcon. The kid later named their hamster after him.

[revelboo]

may we please get another chapter of skin and bones please 🙏

Skin and Bones is next up

Invisible Monsters Pt 4

Lost Light Megatron x Reader

• “When do I get to knock you down?” Megatron fights back a smile at your complaint, reaching out a hand to pull you back to your feet. As gentle as he’s been, he’s still winced in sympathy every single time he’s knocked you off your little feet. The exercise making it quickly apparent just how useless this is. Especially as you rub your hip and shoot him an almost sullen look. Even mass displaced, you’re just so small compared to him and your arms are already discolored with darkening splotches. Bruises you’d called them. From his hands.

• He’s frowning again, still has your hand in his where he pulled you to your feet and you go still as he turns your palm over in his hand. Using the servos of his other hand to manipulate your fingers. You’re not sure if he’s just curious or realizing that you’re hopeless at this. His hands are shockingly, distractingly, warm against yours. “I think it’d be best if you rely on a Cybertronian for protection,” he finally says. Hopeless it is then. Not really a surprise, but it startles a laugh from you and his expression is oddly blank when he lifts his head from his study of your hand and embarrassed warmth spreads through you as you realize he meant himself. And you’d laughed.

• “Rung is hardly a fighter. I’d suggest Rodimus,” he growls under his breath, the words hard to get out because you’re just staring at him. “Not Whirl or Swerve. Maybe Skids or-“ his words falter when you lay a little hand on top of his, making him aware that he still has your other hand trapped in his. Holding on to you.

• “I trust you, not Rodimus,” you say, chin lifting to offer him a smile. Because you do trust him, but also because you’ve sat in his sessions with Rung and suspect he needs this. Someone who can trust him, believe that he’s not going to just go back to his old ways. And as he stares at your entangled hands, his shoulders ease just a bit. The moment catching you by the throat as his jaw works.

• Such a small, fragile thing, trust. But it means so much to him. More than you can ever know. Venting softly, he reluctantly lets go of your little hands. Looking down as you reach out to touch his arm. Wanting to thank you, but unable to, wanting to reach out in return because he will protect you and that precious trust. No matter what.

Previous

Next

[artvaris]

I shared my full beginner workouts on bsky since some folks asked about them. This is an example of a beginner program where you train 2 times per week, alternating these 2 full-body routines. Rest between workouts for a few days. Low-impact cardio, such as walking, can help with recovery during your rest days (active recovery). With 2 full-body workouts per week, you're hitting all the major muscle groups at least twice a week, which is often recommended if your goal is hypertrophy (growing muscle) even as a beginner. Always remember to warm up both your upper and lower body before working out to avoid injury. You can do mobility exercises with a resistance band and a stick to warm up your upper body. With lower body, you can warm up with movements such as leg swings, ankle & heel raises, box step-ups etc. This workout has a slightly bigger focus on the upper body since my goal was and is to achieve a more masc-reading physique. It also has a bit higher volume per workout compared to some workouts since back then I tried to squeeze in a lot of upper body exercises into two days. You can lower the amount of sets if you wish to do 2-3 sets for example. Workout 1 ✦ Lat pulldown 4x10 ✦ Shoulder press (dumbbell) 4x8 ✦ Glute kickbacks 3x10 ✦ Single-arm cable rows 3x10 ✦ Leg Extensions 3x10 ✦ Leg curls 3x10 ✦ Pec fly 3x10 ✦ V-ups with a dumbbell (moderated if needed) 2x15 Workout 2 ✦ Leg press 3x10 ✦ Chest press 3x10 ✦ Back extensions 3x8 (use plate weights for extra resistance) ✦ Bicep curls (regular) 4x10 ✦ Bicep curls (hammer) 4x10 ✦ Rear fly 3x10 ✦ Single-leg calf raise 2x15 (each side) ✦ Prone IYT raises 3x8 (you can use small weights if you want/can) To grow muscle, use challenging weights - but make sure your form is still good, don't try to lift too heavy at the expense of technique or risking injury - and aim for progressive overload. The last few reps should feel rather hard, especially when it comes to your last set, and give you that muscle burn sensation. This is a good indicator that you’re training hard enough for hypertrophy (muscle mass growth). Remember to rest enough between sets, about 1-3 minutes depending on the exercise. With this program, I recommend doing progressive overload by increasing your weights as you get stronger. With some movements - such as back extensions, V-ups, calf raises, and prone IYTs - you can add both weight and reps if you wish, so for example, at some point you would do V-ups 2x20 and also increase the weight you're holding in your hands.

[hoseoksluna]

THE BALL OF LIGHT, ii. | jjk

pairing: friend!jeongguk x fem!oc

genre: angst

word count: 4.2k

summary: inside jeongguk's apartment is where you meet the possibility of life.

pin: ball of light / taglist: join / discord: join / masterlist: run

cp: ao3 / wp

warnings: mentions of smoking and vaping, described nudity, oc feels a lot of emotions and she's overwhelmed, guilt.

note: i really enjoyed writing this chapter and it opened my eyes actually to where it's going. i hope you like the chapter as well. writing about jungkook is my biggest comfort. i feel at home. i love you, guys. happy reading. don't forget to tell me what you think. i'd appreciate it if you tell me ur expectations. <3

side note: i also want to update my taglist because i feel like most of the people i tag haven't allowed themselves to be tagged on this app. if you want to be tagged in my works, let me know. in comments below or my askbox.

It seems as though Jeongguk is still turning your words over his heart once you arrive at his apartment and the sullen grayness of his personal space greets you. A certain pensive look, embellished with a wrinkle between his brows, paints him in the shades of stark reclusiveness, the unapproachability of that façade the blue highlights that make the current inertia of his usual hyperactivity uncannily animated. It’s an oxymoron, the stillness of his being, despite the fact you very vividly sense the turmoil happening inside his chest.

Turmoil must be second-nature to him. Almost like a friend.

You don’t know what to say. The downturned corners of his mouth are so engraved into your vision that when you look away, you can still see them. Sad and pouty, caused in most probability by the truth you uttered. War happens, Jeongguk, if Yoongi and I see each other outside of the walls of our home. Those were the most heart-felt, authentic words that were flung out of the chambers of your heart because—yes, if Yoongi were to know that you smoke one cigarette a day with a boy with a nicotine-addiction, a motorcycle and a tendency to go back to people who have spread agony down his lungs like the white fumes of his cigarettes, he would get up from the kitchen table and grab the nearest knife, start a war for your dream that, according to him, got interrupted by temporary, meaningless things.

But Jeongguk isn’t meaningless. You thought for the longest time that he was temporary, but his lingering presence through high school and now through uni convinced you of the opposite. You believe now, now as he bends at the waist to place a pair of pink, fuzzy slippers with a yummy fried egg on top in front of your icy-cold, socked feet, that he has more shape—the eyes of an angel born wrong, born human, the mouth of a saint that fears to say the wrong thing—than your dream does.

Your dream doesn’t have a face.

Your dream doesn’t have a meaning, either.

Yoongi knows this, pretends he knows the contours of that dream when he tells you to go study. Pretends he knows the color of its flesh, all the greens, purples and blues, when the only words he throws your way are of commanding nature. Come eat. Go shower. Go study. Don’t. You can’t recollect the last time you had a genuine conversation with him that did not include those very words.  

It’s exhausting. Your bones are burdened by it—by being treated as a student and not as a human being. But you ignore this because you respect him, hold him in high regard because of his own burden, laid heavy across the length of his shoulders that have become too thin, too skeletal, that have once been broad, beautiful and ogled by those, who had the luck to encounter him. 

He doesn’t go to the gym anymore, to fill the mass of his muscles with exercise. He works long hours doing food delivery to fill your tummy instead. 

And it’s hard—balancing your respect for him and your ostensibly inner desire to go in search of the things you read about in your books. You can’t help but expect to dig them out, selfishly, in Jeongguk. The kind, now somber, boy who has been by your side for so long. With words and simultaneously without. 

Would Yoongi understand? Doesn’t he, also, have a need for company? 

You push those thoughts away and focus on the clandestiny. On Jeongguk’s frown, on his adorable pout, on his emotions. Because perhaps in it you shall find your destiny. 

Jeongguk walks forward and you swell with the guilty need to fix what you’ve broken, to glue back the pieces that put together his traditional cheer. The tree in you shivers in cold. Your own bones are still frosty like that bus stop you both escaped from. But glancing at the span of his shoulders, drooped and rolled forward, the guilt expands, making you think that maybe you shouldn’t have said something, despite the fact the truth made a dent in the birdcage you have been dwelling in since the death of your parents. 

He empties out his pockets. Wallet, keys, phone, a pack of cigarettes, lighter and a pink, fat vape that you’ve never seen him smoking before. He places those essentials on the kitchen counter, stretching his hands backwards and ridding himself of his beige hoodie. The T-shirt he wears underneath rides up, exposing the smooth and muscled skin of his back, and your throat dries up at the sight. The tree stills, pacified by the movement of his shoulder blades. It puts a spell on you, this innocent yet consumingly heated view of a male’s body, one that continues burning down your body even when he grabs a hold of the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it down. 

Somehow, the act made it hotter. 

Your fingers wrap around your throat, a habit of yours that helps you compose yourself, ground yourself in the severity of the moment. Jeongguk reaches his hand towards the kitchen counter again and as you swallow with great difficulty, he fills his lungs with that scented fume before discarding it.

It isn’t until your breath comes out in pathetic staccatos that he turns around. Large eyes heavily lidded, clouded by that white smoke as he exhales. He purses his lips, dimples on full show, in order to make the smoke thinner. And that, the eye contact while blowing out the fumes, his full attention on you, the element that you’re here—in a boy’s apartment, all alone, for the first time, that warms up your bones, the frost melting away. You feel your body form little pearls of perspiration, overwhelmed and so suddenly overheated by his boyish beauty. 

He’ll never know—just like Yoongi. He’ll never know what he does to you. 

“I’m gonna make you some tea so you can get warm,” he says, softly, and shuffles his feet towards the brightly lit kitchen. You hear the water running, the clapping noise of the kettle being shut and then the boiling bubbles, but you’re frozen—red-hot and frozen—in the place you’re standing, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to be a normal human being. “You’re free to take a shower if you want.” 

A headache pierces through your undeveloped frontal lobe. Nothing about this is normal to you—being over a guy’s place, using his shower and his towel, drinking his tea. Being at home all the time never prepares you for this and while you feel so out of place, it also evokes the feeling of thrill. 

This is thrilling. 

And it should stay feeling that way, but your guilt eclipses it so quickly. Your guilt and your self-pity. Due to Yoongi, due to the fact that this should feel normal and that you should act normally. How many girls must’ve been in your place and how well they were able to talk to him and accept his kindness and hospitality without being weird about it. 

You run a hand down your face. Feel like crying. Feel like screaming. Feeling like slapping yourself so you snap out of it and act normal. Yoongi flickers in your chest, however, and you’re reminded that you should let him know where you are. Usually, at this hour, you’re settled in your cage. Right there in the corner, the only warm spot because you sit there all the time. But you’re not there. You fit your body through the slivers, your feet rubbing against the different, more warmer floor than the one inside your birdcage, while your wrist remains chained to the center. 

Your bus, the number 59, never came. Jeongguk’s, number 60, was the last one that came due to the thickness of the snow and he said that you should get on with him so you don’t freeze on the bus stop. I’ll drive you home on my bike, he promised. I got a helmet for you. And you agreed, despite the fact your thumb was ready to dial Yoongi’s number, because it came natural to you to follow a male’s order. 

You scratch your fingernails through your scalp, waking yourself up from the stupor, and you take a deep breath. You’re here and you’re safe. Jeongguk is the safest person you can go behind Yoongi’s back with. These are the words you internally repeat to yourself as you lift one leg and the other, watching where they take you. 

You wind up at the very edge of the counter where all of Jeongguk’s essentials lay scattered. You go to study all the charms hung over his keys when your fingers, somehow instinctively, take a hold of his pink vape. Light and pink, fitting just right in the palm of your hand. Your clandestine habits are invariably seen by Jeongguk, however. 

“Don’t puff on that,” he says, pouring the boiling water inside the kettle over your cup of tea. A Christmas-themed one, evidently for adults only. The taupe Gingerbread man has a raging, bare boner that sticks out to the side whilst his hands are lifted, cheerfully, in the air. Your mouth parts, blush coloring your cheeks in dusty pink, and your brain, bizarrely, connects the Gingerbread man’s emotion to Jeongguk—both emotions, in fact. So bizarrely that anger begins to grow in you because a picture of Jeongguk’s own happy boner pops up before your eyes. Big, hard, leaking. Your stifling heat descends to your lower regions and you have to rub your eyelids in order to stop seeing it, your cheeks scalding, embarrassingly hot. “It’s not good to mix it.” 

Without asking, he places one spoon of sugar inside that obscene cup, stirring it diligently. And the clinking noise rams a clapping monkey inside your brain. 

You’ll die. From this headache, from the heat, from how irresistible this boy is. 

You’ve never felt this way before towards him. Never seen him in this lustful light before. And you don’t know what to do—it’s towering you, so much bigger than you and you have very little strength to stand up to it. 

It’s not good to see your so-called friend like this. 

Jeongguk brings the cup over to you, placing it before his stuff. The Gingerbread man faces you, smiling ever so gleefully, and the blush of your cheeks deepens within this proximity. Jeongguk takes his vape from your hand and puffs on it—and your brain remembers what he just talked about. 

“But you mix it,” you say, your words dripping with confusion, and Jeongguk places the device back into your palm, the tips of his fingers brushing against your flesh. You regard it as intimate, that brief physical contact, and it speeds up your heartbeat. 

That touch-starved you are. 

“I shouldn’t, but I do,” he responds, his pretty eyelashes static, unblinking, those macadamia chocolate pools of his penetrating your pupils. “I try to stick to just one from time to time, but my nerves are asking for more.” 

You look down at the pink device, imagine it’s his hand that you’re closing your fingers over. Think his explanation has zero backbone, and so your confusion drips on. 

“Nerves?” you inquire, a wrinkle appearing between your brows akin to his, even though his has been smoothed out. It seems his act of service to you is slowly easing his sombreness. 

Jeongguk doesn’t want to elaborate, though. He flicks his eyes towards the cup and nods, just once, encouraging you to drink. You let out a quiet huff of a scoff. Consider it strange that he’s so unwilling to expand on this matter when he has shared with you in the past the reason behind his smoking habit. Trauma from his relationship with Ka-eun and the difficulty of his field. What else is behind those nerves of his that you can’t know about? 

You follow the trace of his gaze towards the cup, feeling smaller than you are. Incompetent, inexperienced for the vivacity, immensity of his life that looks nothing like yours. Your pointer finger pokes out, clicking against the emerald green handle. 

“Am I supposed to really drink from this?” you murmur, meaning it as a joke that would fix what you cooked in this situation, but it comes out much sadder than you planned, the hollowness from all of your lacks coating your vocal cords. 

Jeongguk scowls and turns the cup around, his brows springing upwards as he glances at the naked and aroused Gingerbread man. You begin to anticipate his laughter that would make you feel worse about yourself, but it never breezes through. 

Actually, Jeongguk apologizes. Makes a big deal out of it. 

“My God,” he sighs, adding your name, running his fingers through his hair before he puts the cup away, but you stop him by enveloping your fingers across the warm, naked skin of his forearm. His eyes widen en route to yours and he holds the misting cup in his hand, immune to its hot temperature. The good ones don’t get burned, your mother would say with hatefulness whenever your fingers would get burned by steaming cups and hot running water in the sink, and she proves you right in this moment. You bet she smiles in her grave, seeing from the afterlife that you are indeed bad while the others are good. “I didn’t notice. I have one just like this, but he’s dressed. I thought I’d pulled out that one. I’m sorry.” 

But you’re not scandalized by it. As a matter of fact, you like the little Christmas man—there’s something oddly comforting about his own comfort in his sexuality, smiling as gleefully as he is. What you said was a stupid joke, one that shouldn’t have left your mouth. 

“No, I don’t mind. It’s fine. It was just a joke,” you say, hurriedly, sweeping your eyes over his in the same pace whilst he remains calmly staring at you, a steady stream of thoughts filtering through those features of his that you wish you knew the contents of. 

You always said you’d die for knowledge, and right now you’d die to discover what he’s thinking about, looking at you the way that he is. 

He flattens his lips. “I’ll make you another one.” 

He turns around and you yelp your disagreement, cupping your hands around his. And the greater intimacy of this physical contact consumes you whole. 

The heat grows, your spine wet with perspiration. Jeongguk swivels his head back, the shorter pieces of his hair swooshing past his forehead, landing on those pretty, pretty eyelashes. And it’s his turn to part his mouth, for blush to creep up his pale cheeks, and your heart—it melts. 

You’ve never held hands with a boy before. And right now, you’ve come very close to doing it. In fact, the tender grip bears the resemblance of hand holding and you can’t take it. 

A pained, indistinct pout quivers on your lips. A characteristic expression of yours, which conveys that something has hurt you. Your mother would give you a hard time because of it and that’s how you learned that you do it. That’s how you learned how to fleetly hide it, too. 

This is the closest you’ll ever get. 

Tears rush to your waterline. You blink it away, stretching your lips into a little, neutral smile. The scent of cinnamon and cloves from the tea hits your nostrils and from the edges of your palms, you feel how hot the cup really is. It sobers you up quite rapidly. 

“It’s hot, set it down,” you breathe and don’t let go of his hands until Jeongguk complies, the pensiveness back to shadowing his face, but he’s not unapproachable, not at all. The entirety of his dispirited and contrite aura is welcoming, pastel blue instead of that grayish undertone, and he looks at you as if you held the entire world in your palms and he was content with just being near it, silently hoping you show him grace and give it to him. 

But that’s not you. You’re too small to cup this world. Too stupid, too unfledged. 

It’s him who’s flown around it, deeply acknowledged with it. Who’s smart, who’s a full-fledged bird, unlimited and unhindered. 

It’s you who should be looking at him like that and drinking from his vulgar cup. 

And you shall. 

“I’ll drink it, it’s cute.” 

He doesn’t trust it, though, and that’s the scar Ka-eun carved into the flesh of his mind. You brush the pads of your fingers across it, however, when you take the scalding cup to your lips, blow on it and take a small, hesitant sip of it. And the wintry taste of cinnamon and cloves, it is the sap to your tree. 

You hum in delight, taking another sip, even though the temperature burns the tip of your tongue. You watch as Jeongguk’s brows twitch and as a certain glimmering glint of endearment laced with unbelief fills his eyes with the canvas of stars. He straightens his spine while you swallow, his lungs inhaling and exhaling slowly but surely. 

It is a sight to behold, the entirety of his boyish beauty. And you hate that you regard him this way, that your forced visit caused this because you’ll walk out of this door with a longing entwined around your heart.

A longing for him to be yours. 

You set the cup down, cradling it in your palms, your sweat clinging to your body. Jeongguk averts his gaze and rubs his chest, roaming his eyes everywhere but on you, landing on the pink vape you placed on the counter before almost-holding his hand. 

But he doesn’t take a puff of it. Not this time. 

And you want to heal that scar of his even more. Only because he pushed you very close to the things you read in your books and always wanted to experience. 

“I think the tea tastes so good because you made it in this cup,” you chirp, tenderly, giving him a genuine smile, one that Jeongguk doesn’t reciprocate. That one corner of his mouth doesn’t lift, the long cleft of his dimple doesn’t appear. Your heart trembles for a brief moment. In a foreign kind of emotion that feels like fear but isn’t because the turmoil in him rages on and you’re useless. Completely and utterly useless in your efforts. 

His stare is deadly, marked by the depth of his thoughts. 

“Why did you say war happens if you and your brother see each other outside?” he asks, his tone low and grumbling. 

A frightening question. Because no one has ever asked you that. Because you’ve never had the chance to answer such an intimate, personal question. Because no one has ever cared about your home situation. 

The trembling of your heart reaches your entire body and you hide your hands behind your back. Lament that you can’t cradle the cup. Lament that you can’t drink it and postpone your response. Lament that you don’t have a normal life. One worth talking about happily, that is. 

You don’t know what to say. How to begin, how to string the words together in a way that he would understand. And it’s not that you fear that he will judge you; it’s that you fear that the way he looks at you, regards you will forever change. 

You were never the cool girl and you never were the weird girl, either. Somewhere in the middle you stand, solitary and detached, regardless. 

You open your mouth, willing the words to spring out of you on their own, without any careful thoughts to cover them. 

“Yoongi wants me to live a life that doesn’t look like this,” you start, mirroring his tone, unable to look him in the eye. You sense the demons of your guilt and your ungratefulness cornering you, coming closer and closer—and you can’t walk away, you can only speak.

Jeongguk, however, is quick and curt with his following question.  

“Like what?” 

The pearls of your perspiration thicken on the planes of your throat, which constricts. You blink, thinking that you don’t wish to offend him with any formulation of your sentences. So you go around it, hoping he understands. The demons inch closer—and you can’t breathe. 

Jeongguk doesn’t blink, focused intently as he is on the emotions written on your form. It creates a delicate, yet protective ring around you that keeps the demons outside. And he lessens your strange fear owing to that.

“He wants me to focus on school and focus on my dream while he takes care of everything else. It was a deal he made between us. I study, he works. Nothing else,” you continue, and Jeongguk bites his lip, nodding in understanding as he glides his eyes down your face to your sweat-coated neck. For some reason, that little act of his acknowledgement dispels those demons—and you no longer feel guilty, you no longer feel ungrateful because Jeongguk validated those emotions, didn’t scrunch his nose at them. And that heals, little by little, your wounded, flightless bird wings. 

“What does your dream look like?” he asks once again, and you wonder at the formulation of his question. It’s not what’s your dream; he’s asking for a description of the biggest mystery of your life. 

And you chuckle, humorlessly. Jeongguk flicks his gaze back to your eyes, seemingly not knowing what to expect.

“That’s the thing,” you say. “I don’t know what it looks like, and Yoongi doesn’t know either.” 

The roundness of his eyelids spasms, as if the truth you just uttered irks him. The validation grows and buds of blossoms sprout open, in the middle of this sunless winter, upon the twigs of the tree within you. 

“He doesn’t know what your dream is and yet he decided how you should live,” Jeongguk scoffs, shaking his head, and you marvel at the light bursting in your sternum. It is the sun to your growth, to your tree’s growth. 

A moment of bliss that is too brief, for you begin to sense an uncompromising responsibility to stand up for your brother. He means well—he’s doing it out of the love and kindness of his heart as the root of this declared problem is literature. 

And literature is your life. It’s all you know. 

You begin to say these words, but Jeongguk interrupts you. 

“I understand, but you need to live a life that you want to live,” he rasps, standing taller than he was a minute ago, greater and powerful than he ever was. That confident and assured he is in his opinion and you gawk at him as if he were a cult leader, about to change the course of your life. Maybe, just maybe, the cinnamon tea was the kool aid—and you want to drink again, but you’re ashamed of the trembling of your hands. “And if you feel like you’re indebted to him, you shouldn’t. You’re an adult. It’s your life, it’s not his just because he’s older.” 

Your throat dries and you risk it all, enveloping your fingers around the cup. Jeongguk’s all seeing eye notices your movement and his powerfulness drops. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

Bare, bare you are all for him to see. For anyone for the first time in your life—and at this point, you don’t even know how it makes you feel. 

Where light and so many emotions were inside you, emptiness falls like fine dust. You’re reminded of that one sentence in White Nights and, quietly, you reflect on it while your fingers tremble on. 

My God, a moment of bliss. Why isn’t that enough for a whole lifetime? 

Jeongguk makes space, like the ring of protection he created around you, by taking a few steps back and leaning against the counter. He crosses his arms over his chest and simply looks at you, reads your body language, and lingers at your hands. At the fact you don’t drink. At the fact you don’t speak. At the fact that nothing will ever be the same after this conversation. 

When he asks his last question, he softens his voice. His demeanor, too. Allows his arms to plummet down to his sides. Sags against the counter. 

“He doesn’t know we’re friends, does he?” 

Something that resembles a cry leaves your mouth and you’re so shocked by the freedom of your emotions that your hand leaps to cup your mouth, as if to hold back any more outpouring. That is your reaction. 

Jeongguk’s is more earth-shattering. 

By his instinct, he lengthens his spine and his hand… his beautiful, strong and veiny hand jerks towards your direction, as if to catch your hand, prevent it from hiding your outpouring—or as if to catch your outpouring alone. 

And it is so heartbreaking to you that you mutter the first thing that comes to your mind and run away. 

And you don’t realize where you are until you get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. A mascara tear stains your cheek in blackness, and the smallness of the bathroom encloses around you. 

You want to wash it away. Feel like the decision is yours to make, a right one at that. Feel like it’s the first step in the new way Jeongguk bestowed over your life by his wise words. And so you undress. 

And you don’t lock the door. 

And you don’t hear your phone ringing ten minutes later. 

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[arkangelo-7]

Okay, but, the Bats and their chronic pains.

Bruce has a bad back. Like, it’s horrible. Technically he “recovered” from that fight with Bane, but once you obliterate every vertebrae in your spine, there’s just no going back to how you were before. Most mornings he has trouble getting out of bed because of the pain, and after particularly long, stagnant patrols he has to ice it or the pain will be unbearable. Bruce is good enough at controlling his body language to that most people can’t tell when his spine starts to lock up—except, of course, for Dick, who sees through all of B’s bullshit. It isn’t uncommon for Dick to give Bruce an impromptu back massage after a mission, though Bruce’ll deny it till his dying breath.

Dick has severe tendinitis. He’s a highly trained, professional gymnast but there are still times when he pushes himself to far. The inability to do acrobatics, to fly is what really gets him, though; Bruce has medication to curb the symptoms, the pain of overextension, the strain in his muscles, and the inflammation—but what really hurts is being stuck on the ground for days on end.

Jason gets growing pains. Don’t forget, his body went through absolute hell when he was dunked in the Lazarus Pit; he came out of that acid bubble bath two feet taller and carrying muscle mass that his nineteen year old body can’t always handle. When the aches and pains hit, there isn’t much he can do except lay down and do the old breathing exercises that Alfred taught all those years ago.

Tim… well, “shoulder problems” is probably the best way to put it. He naturally carries stress in his shoulders (he gets it from his mother) and so after years of being an anxious conspiracy theorist and putting up with a grieving, unpredictably hostile Batman, he’s strained the hell out of his upper body. His primary method of treatment is chiropractic therapy—the amount he pays to Dr. Hansen to crack his shoulders on the regular is astronomical, but Hansen keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t ask questions, so he’s worth every dime.

Damian has focal dystonia. His hands cramp and contract regularly, it’s a product of having spent so many of his fundamental years with his fingers locked around the hilt of a sword. He’s so ashamed that he tells no one, but Alfred finds out, so every night there is a tray with a bowl of hot water, a cup of tea, and potassium vitamins.