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boyfiechan · 4 months ago

Text

[Softest Ruin]

...or the one where the song won’t come together, but you might.

Bang Chan x Reader Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, graphic and mature language, reader described as AFAB, rough unprotected sex, fingering, dry humping, creampie, slight cum-play, semi-public setting, dominance and control dynamics, light overstimulation, slight oral fixation, dirty talk, light possessive behavior. [5.4k words]

The hum of the studio filled the air, low and constant, a steady vibration that didn’t just echo off the walls but seemed to live beneath the skin as it thrummed through the floor, a pulse that pressed into bone, something felt as much as heard. It wasn’t just sound—it was weight. A presence that lingered heavy in the corners, clinging like smoke, like breath caught too long in the chest, like something that refused to let go. It wrapped around the room, thick and suffocating, filling the empty spaces between you and Chris, stretching the silence until it felt solid, something to be broken through. Waiting.

He sat there, tension carved into every line of him. Shoulders tight, hunched beneath frustration like it was a physical thing pressing down, spine rigid as if it might snap beneath the strain. His eyes were sharp, shadowed under furrowed brows, locked on the clutter of the room—the mess of tangled cables, the glow of stubborn screens, the scattered fragments of a song that refused to fall into place. It's not coming together, he muttered, voice low, rough. Sounds flat. Dead. Like I'm missing something and I can't—.His hands flexed against his thighs, fingers twitching, restless, like they ached to tear the problem apart, to rip the sound into shape by force. His jaw was locked tight, the muscle jumping beneath his skin, holding back words that burned sharp against the back of his throat, words that wanted to tear loose, words that tasted like defeat.

And you watched him, quiet. His mood pressed into you, sharp and heavy, until it rooted itself somewhere deep, beneath your ribs, low in your belly, a weight that wouldn’t shift. You could feel it—his frustration, his hunger for something just out of reach, something that refused to bend, no matter how many times he twisted the sound, pulled it apart, tried to force it into shape. It was a battle, and he was losing it, piece by piece. You stepped closer, slow, unhurried, each movement careful, until you were standing between his legs, the heat of him brushed against you, close and tangible, stirring something deep and heavy. You didn’t speak, not at first. You let the silence settle, thick and full, letting it stretch until it almost hurt, until it was brimming with things unspoken but understood. Then, soft, like you didn’t want to break the moment, you did. You're too close to it. Maybe you just need to step back.

His eyes lifted, dark and unreadable, but they didn’t just land on you—they caught, snagged, held, like a hook under the skin, like you’d said something he didn’t want to hear but couldn’t ignore. He didn’t answer right away, just watched you, gaze slow, dragging over your face, your mouth, like he was turning your words over, measuring them against the frustration clawing at his ribs. Old habits die hard, and this was his hardest battle—he couldn’t give up, didn’t know how to, didn’t know what to do with the fight once it was gone. It looped through him, constant and biting, the need to keep pushing, to force something to break. You’ve been at it too long, you murmured, stepping in, close enough that the warmth of him reached you, curling in the space between. You're burning yourself out.

His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. It stayed on you, heavy, weighted with something unspoken, the kind of look that settled in your stomach, slow and twisting, something almost too much. His hands lifted, rough palms skating over your hips, then curling firm, holding. And then, without a word, he pulled you down, guiding you into his lap. The shift was studied, unhurried, like he wanted you to feel every inch of movement, every second of his grip on you.

His arm wrapped around your waist, solid, grounding, pulling you in, pressing you close. The other hand found your thigh, fingers spreading, warm, certain, the weight of it making your pulse jump. You settled against him, but the air between you didn’t, it stayed charged, stretched thin, buzzing beneath the quiet. You could feel the tension in him—not just in his body, but in the way he held himself back, something sharp coiled tight beneath the surface. His hand moved, dragging slow along your thigh, up, lingering, then slipping beneath your shirt, finding bare skin, heat. His breath brushed against your cheek, heavier now, a little uneven. His voice, when it came, was low, rough, threading through the space between you. You're so good to me, you know that? Maybe it wasn’t a question at all—maybe it was permission, an unspoken invitation to step into the closed-off reality he’d locked himself inside.

It was always like that with him. You pulling him down when he got too lost, too locked in, too tangled inside his own head. Grounding him when the weight of it pressed too heavy, when he forgot how to come back to himself. And maybe you didn’t need words for it—maybe it was already there, in the way you leaned closer, in the quiet pull of your body toward his, like gravity, like you were giving him an answer without speaking, one he could feel beneath his skin. And he was grateful for it, even if he didn’t always say it. Grateful for the way you knew when to reach in, when to catch him before he fell too far. He was learning, slow and rough, how to let you, how to open the door just enough for you to slip inside, to let you hold him still when everything else felt like it was pulling him under.

And his gratitude showed in the way his hand lifted to your face, slow and careful, fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he was committing it to memory, carving the shape of you into something permanent beneath his skin. His thumb lingered at your bottom lip, a pause thick with meaning, a breath caught in the charged space between almost and enough, between wanting and having.

He didn’t press, not at first, just traced, slow, testing. As if he wanted to feel how close he could get before you broke, to watch the tension stretch and pull. His gaze didn’t leave yours, dark and focused, and maybe that was worse because you felt it everywhere. In the weight of him, the way he watched the falter of your breath, the way his eyes tracked the parting of your lips like it meant something.

Then, slow and purposeful, his thumb dragged along the soft seam of your mouth, tracing down until it pressed just inside. A slow, provocative tease—he was daring you, and you let him, lips parting, breath catching, your tongue brushing against the pad of his thumb, soft and wet. A sound left him, low and rough, something that felt like approval, like hunger held back by a thread and you knew himwell like this, knew how he grounded himself on you, on your presence, your body—how it steadied him, anchored him when nothing else could. And still, neither of you spoke, and it didn’t matter. The silence said enough, said everything.

Because when he kissed you, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow, but sharp—searing, consuming—like a question asked and already answered. Like inevitability, his mouth claimed yours, rough and hungry, tasting you like something he’d been starved for. His hands weren’t gentle when they caught your waist, fingers digging in just enough to hold, to mark, to keep as pulled you closer, closer still, until there wasn’t space left between you, until it felt like he was burning through you, heat pressed skin to skin. And you let him, wanting to be taken, to burn. Wanting him.

His fingers found the edge of your shirt, slipping beneath with a slow, dragging heat, palms rough, fingertips tracing over bare skin, up the curve of your back, along the dip of your waist. His hands moved like he owned you, like he was learning you all over again, savoring every inch. When he pulled back, it was only enough to breathe, to let his mouth hover just close enough to feel. His voice was rough when it came, low and thick against your lips. So sweet. The words ghosted over your skin, made your breath catch, made heat curl low in your belly.

And then his hands were lower, fingers sliding beneath the loose hem of your shorts, dragging slow along the soft skin of your thighs. His touch was light at first, a whisper of sensation that made you twitch, hips tilting toward him without thought, seeking more, wanting more. He smiled against your skin, the sound a low, dark hum, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm and heavy.

Pretty, he murmured, fingertips tracing higher, slow, measured, edging closer to where you ached for him most. Always so pretty for me. The words sank deep, stirring heat under your skin, and you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, not until his thumb pressed down, slow and firm, circling where you were hottest. The friction made you gasp, made your body jolt, hips rolling into his hand, needing the pressure, the touch, the heat, as he chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. Mhm? he rasped. Like that? And nodded, breathless, but it wasn’t enough, not for him. You felt it in the tension of his hands, the way his grip tightened, the way his breath stilled. He wanted more, wanted to feel you fall apart under him, against him, because of him, and you wanted it too.

He shifted you, guiding you deeper into his lap, settling with your back pressed firm to his chest, until you could feel the heat of him everywhere. His arm curled tight around your waist, steady, possessive, holding you close like he wasn’t about to let go, other hand slid lower, fingers tracing along your thigh, slipping beneath the delicate lace edge of your shorts, fingertips brushing over sensitive skin, finding you again—hot, slick, ready. A low curse slipped from his lips, rough and breathless, pressed to the curve of your shoulder. Already wet, mhm? He murmured, voice low and rough, edged with hunger.

His fingers pressed deeper, slow and sure, sliding inside you with a steady drag that made your breath hitch, spine arching instinctively as his arm held you steady, tight, anchoring you to him. Keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His lips grazed your skin, a soft, dangerous whisper against your shoulder. Easy, baby, he soothed, voice a low promise. I’ve got you. Words that sank deep, that burned low, wrapping around you like his arms.

He moved his fingers with purpose, slow but certain, curling them just right to catch the spot that made you tremble, made your legs tense. His thumb pressed down, slow and steady, circling over your clit, coaxing you higher with every stroke, every calculated shift of pressure. The rhythm was patient, merciless, his hand moving like he knew you better than you knew yourself, feel every sharp edge of your need and wanted to stretch it out, make you feel every second of it.

And his voice. God, his voice. Low and rough, a steady murmur of praise, words spilling warm and slow against your skin. That's it, he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Just like that. Let me feel you. The way he said it made your pulse stutter, made heat coil tighter, deeper, until it felt like you might shatter from it as you trembled against him, every breath a soft gasp, every tilt of your hips meeting the rhythm he set, craving it, chasing it. And still, he didn’t let up, wet mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing, tongue soft, dragging slow over your skin until you were arching for him again, helpless against the burn of it. You drive me fucking crazy, he whispered, voice thick, heavy. Can't get enough of you.

His hand never faltered, fingers pressed deeper, curling harder, while his thumb circled slower, heavier—relentless in the way it drove you closer, dragged you under, until you were gasping for him, hips pushing back into his chest, head falling to the side, offering more. Letting him taste, letting him take. You wanted to fall apart for him, and he wanted to watch you do it—wanted to feel it, hear it, have it. And you could sense it in him, sharp and hot, simmering beneath the surface, stretching you thin as he felt it too, in the way your body tensed, how your breath hitched, stuttered, broke. But his touch stayed steady. No mercy, just deeper, harder. Every movement a demand, dragging you closer, holding you there, teetering on the edge until there was nowhere left to go but down.

Come for me, yeah?, he whispered, voice low and rough, a command that cracked like heat against your skin. A plea too, but sharp-edged, raw. Let me feel you, need to feel you.

And you did, you shattered for him. Your body broke against his, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat, hips grinding down against his hand like you couldn’t get enough, like you wanted him deeper, harder, even when it was already too much. You felt it everywhere—in the way your body arched, in the way your hands grabbed at him, desperate, clutching, felt it in the way your breath broke, your mind blank and burning, lost in the way he touched you, the way he took you apart.

And he held you through it, solid and sure, arm locked firm around your waist, anchoring you to him while his mouth found your skin, soft and reverent, murmuring praises that felt like they sank straight into bone. Good girl… shh, just like that. That's it. His fingers coaxed you through every wave, slow and steady, pulling every last shudder from you until you were trembling, spent, melted back against his chest.

But he didn’t pull away, not yet, hand stayed warm between your thighs, fingers slow, gentle, tracing over you like he wasn’t ready to let go, wanted to feel every last flicker of you. His lips pressed to your temple, soft, lingering, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, thick with something that felt like more, something heavier. You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?

The words left a mark, sharp and searing, branding the space between you. And the tension didn’t fade—it thickened, coiling low, deep, an ache that lingered beneath skin as you shifted in his lap again, turning slow, controlled, until you were straddling him, facing him, knees pressing into the chair on either side of his hips. His hands caught your waist, fingers firm, holding you there like he wasn’t ready to let you go. The raw edge of release still clung to every breath, every slow press of skin to skin, thick and heavy and wanting.

Your hand moved slow, lazy, fingers trailing over the hard lines of his stomach, tracing the edges of muscle beneath heated skin, lingering at the waistband of his pants, teasing, touch light, coaxing, not taking but savoring, stretching the moment until it ached. His eyes were half-lidded, dark and gone, like watching you unraveled him too, like he drew as much pleasure from your release as you did. There was something raw in the way he looked at you, something lustful, almost erotic, as if the sight of you, still shaking, still flushed, fed something deeper inside him. Your hand rested over him, pressing just enough to feel the heat of him pulse beneath your palm, feeling how hard he was, how ready, the tension humming through his body, barely held back. And he let you linger there, caught in the same sharp edge of want that neither of you dared to break.

And still, you didn’t take him further, you waited, teased. Watching him, feeling the way his breath grew heavier, rougher, his body tense beneath yours. Your eyes found his, knowing, lips curved just enough to let him know you felt it too. That you were holding back, that you were making him wait. And maybe that was what grounded him—the tension, the tiptoeing, the uncertain certainty that he belonged there, beneath your hands, in the heat of your hold. But he didn’t wait, he couldn’t. He didn't have to.

A low, rough sound rumbled from his chest, heat simmering beneath it, his hand sliding around your wrist, firm but slow, guiding you down. He pressed your palm over the thick, heavy shape beneath his jeans, holding it there, letting you feel the way he throbbed for you. His breath dragged hot against your jaw, lips brushing soft, teasing, almost sweet. You know what you're doing to me, don’t you? he murmured, voice low and hungry. And you did, and you loved every fucking second of it.

You moved with him, hips grinding slow, filthy, every press dragging a needy, broken sound from your throat. His cock throbbed beneath you, thick and heavy, the friction sharp and slick as you pushed harder, chasing the burn as you reached down, slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with a slow drag that left only the thin stretch of your frilly panties, ruined and soaked. The fabric clung, damp and wanting, and when you settled back over him, the press of his cock against that damp heat pulled another groan from you—sharp, raw, desperate.

You ground down again, slower this time, savoring the friction, the tease, the way the head of him pressed perfectly against your clit through the thin fabric, making your breath stutter. Your fingers found him, sliding beneath the waistband of his pants, teasing until you freed him, fingers tentative at first, tracing the heavy length of him. Hot and hard, velvet-smooth skin stretched over steel, twitching beneath your touch. His breath hitched, sharp and rough, as you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slow, feeling the weight, the heat, the way he pulsed for you.

But it wasn’t enough, not for him as his hands found your hips, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until your soaked panties pressed flush against him once again. And then, without words, without warning, he hooked his fingers under the edge of the fabric and pushed it aside, baring you to him. The air was cold, the contrast sharp, but his touch was fire, searing as he guided you down. The head of him pressed against you, thick and insistent, sliding through the slick heat until he caught at your entrance. A pause, breath held, tension sharp yhen he pushed in, slow and brutal, stretching you open until you gasped, until your body gave way, slick, eager, taking him deeper, fuller. The sound that tore from him was low, broken, almost pained. Jesus, fuck.

You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, only feel the way he stretched you—thick and heavy, his cock dragging deep, every inch of it veined and pulsing, splitting you open in slow, deep strokes. The slow rut of his hips burned pleasure sharp through every nerve, every push and pull carving into you, leaving you raw, trembling, undone as your pulse pounded, every part of you aching, desperate, ready. You pressed harder, taking him deeper, until it hurt, until it burned, until it tore a sob from your throat, thick and breathy and his words wrapped around you, coiling tight, sinking.

That's it, he groaned, lips brushing your ear, voice wrecked, dangerous. Just like that. The words lit a fire in you, burning low and deep, dragging a sharp cry from your throat. Your body pulsed, tight and desperate, every nerve a live wire, every breath caught and jagged and still, he didn't stop. He rocked into you, deep and slow, holding you down, keeping you close, keeping you his, keeping you there, right where he wanted you until all you could do was beg. Until all you could do was fall apart for him, helpless and ruined, your body breaking open beneath his, nothing left but the way he made you feel.

The studio echoed with every filthy, wet slap of skin, the grind of the chair beneath you, the ragged, broken gasps that filled the thick, heavy air. His hand was a brand on your back, pressing you down, keeping you steady, holding you right where he wanted you, his cock shoved deep, thick and brutal, stretching you open with every ruthless thrust. Each drive tore through you, sharp and raw, filling you so full it hurt, and you arched into it, desperate for more, for harder, for deeper. His name tore from your throat, a broken plea, a curse, and he caught it, felt it, fucking owned it.

You're a goddamn dream, he rasped, voice thick and wasted, every word dragging fire down your spine. His fingers bruised into your thigh, rough and claiming, holding you open, forcing you to take him, to feel every inch as his hips snapped harder, deeper, burying himself to the hilt, each thrust brutal, merciless. The stretch, the burn, it split you open, raw and aching and you wanted it, craved it, the mess of it, the filth, the slick sound of him inside you, the wet, obscene drag that filled the room.

His mouth traced fire down your throat, teeth scraping, lips catching, tongue licking sweat from your skin. Feel that, yeah? How deep I am? The words were a low, growling sin, hot and dark in your ear, and they shattered something inside you. You love it, don't you? How I stretch you, make you full. So fucking greedy for it. Such a sweet mess for me. His hand slid down, fingers pressing into the wet heat where you took him, feeling the way you pulsed around him, slick and wanting and you clawed at him, nails raking, hips jerking, forcing him deeper, rougher, chasing the burn, chasing the ruin. Every movement was vicious, sharp, dangerous. And when you cried out, when you begged, when you broke, he swallowed it down, caught it with his mouth, drank it in like it was his right, like he owned it, owned you.

His groan echoed in your mouth, low and wrecked. I'd fucking record this, he rasped, breath hot and filthy. Every sound you make when I'm deep inside you. Play it back, ruin myself on it. Over and over. His lips dragged over your jaw, biting, rough. But I won't, 'cause you're mine. No one else gets to know how you sound when you're falling apart on my cock, no one but me.

You pressed in, grinding down, chasing the friction, breath ragged and sharp sd his hand slid between you, fingers slipping beneath the mess of heat, finding your clit. He circled slow, rough, just enough to rip a cry from your throat and you bit into his skin, trying to swallow it, body trembling beneath his weight. He growled, deep and dark, the sound bleeding into your skin, his touch merciless as if he wanted you broken, ruined, trembling on the edge. As if he wanted to take you there and hold you there, wrecked and his, with no way back.

That's it, his voice rougher by the minute. Come for me. Give it to me, let me have it, darling.

And you gave it to him, you shattered, clenching tight, body locking down, hips jerking in sharp, uncontrolled spasms. His name tore from you, raw and broken, muffled against his skin, your voice a ragged plea, a surrender as his arms crushed you impossibly closer, mouth rough and claiming, teeth scraping over your throat, biting just enough to make you tremble. You gave him everything—every cry, every tremor, every breathless, desperate sound—and he took it, drank it down like it was his right, like it was his fucking need. He let you ride it out, dragged it deeper, grinding into the ache, until you were limp, undone, wrecked, but he wasn't done, not even close.

His grip turned even more brutal, fingers biting deep into your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted as his pace turned savage, hips snapping hard, rough, relentless. This pussy was made for me, he groaned, voice rough, strained, almost breaking. So fucking tight, so fucking perfect.

You turned your head, lips dragging over his jaw, tasting sweat, salt, him. Wanna feel you cum in me, you breathed, voice wrecked and needy, raw with it. Please… need it.

His answer was a sound, low and guttural, a growl that tore through him, primal and dangerous, he slammed into you harder, sharper, hips brutal, grinding deep like he wanted to leave a mark, like he wanted to brand you from the inside out. The chair beneath you groaned, creaking beneath the force, every sound filthy, obscene, loud, air was thick with heat, with sweat, with the raw, relentless drag of skin and breath and hunger. His mouth found your neck again, biting hard, tongue chasing the sting, lips claiming every inch of skin like it belonged to him, you belonged to him. You felt every inch, every vein, the slick slide of him splitting you open, filling you until it hurt, until it burned, until you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

Shit, you're taking me so fucking good, he groaned, voice rough and ragged, words dragging over your skin like fire. So easy for me, so fucking wet, letting me in so deep, letting me take whatever I want. You love it, don’t you? Love how I fill you, stretch your pussy open.

You gasped, the words ripping through you, sharp and dangerous, your body clenching around him in a desperate, helpless response. Chris, you moaned, breathless and broken, the sound spilling out before you could catch it. His name hit the air like a spark, and he growled, his grip tightening, his pace brutal, fucking you deeper, harder, as if the sound of his name on your lips wrecked him, ruined him, as if he needed it as much as he needed to breathe. Fuck, the way you squeeze me, he rasped, the strain thick in his voice. So greedy for it, can't get enough, can you?

And you let him. Let him take, let him ruin, let him have, hands clawed at his back, nails biting deep into sweat-slick skin, hips pushed up, greedy and desperate, chasing the drag, the grind, the brutal edge of him. You needed more—needed him deeper, harder, all-consuming—and he gave it, relentless and hungry. His breath was hot and broken against your skin, ragged, desperate, a filthy promise in every exhale. You're gonna take it, yeah?, he groaned, voice low and rough, every word dragging heat down your spine. You're already dripping for me… messy fucking girl. Want more?

And you wanted it. God, you wanted it, wanted to be wrecked, wanted to be ruined, to feel him spill inside and stay there, thick and warm, marking you as your hands clawed harder, nails scratching over muscle as your body bowed, urging him deeper, faster. The sounds were messy, slick and wet, skin on skin, gasps and moans tangled between you, filthy and raw, hips snapped harder, sharper, driving into you like he could break you open and fill every part of you.

Fuck... baby, so close, he groaned, voice rough and wrecked, each word dragging heat down your spine. His grip tightened, holding you still as his thrusts turned frantic, desperate. Gonna cum inside you... gonna fill you up, fuck, need it—need you. And when it hit, it tore through him, q raw, broken cry ripped from his throat as he slammed deep, grinding hard, burying himself to the hilt. Shit—baby, he gasped, voice shaking, almost a whimper as he spilled inside, thick and hot, filling you until it leaked, dripping messy and warm down your thighs. He stayed there, grinding slow, hips pressing deeper like he couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop, like he needed to feel you take it all.

Your body was soft, spent, molding to his, every breath ragged and heavy, the air between you stayed thick with heat and sweat and something darker, something neither of you dared name. The weight of it pressed down, heavy and sharp, filling every quiet second. Chris's hands didn’t stray far, one lingered at the curve of your waist, thumb tracing over slick skin, slow and claiming, while the other slid lower, wanting, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving, of pulling away, as if he wanted to keep you right there, holding him, holding everything he gave you, a secret just between your bodies.

He looked down first, gaze dropping to where you still dripped for him, the mess of it slick and raw between your thighs and his eyes darkened, hunger sharp and cutting, watching the way it leaked out slow, glistening in the low light. His breath hitched, jaw flexing like it physically hurt him to see it, to see you like this—ruined and wrecked and open for him. Look at this he muttered, voice low, tight. His fingers dragged through it, slow and intentional, gathering what was slipping out. He watched, transfixed, as it clung to his skin, as if he couldn’t stand to lose a single drop, pressing two fingers back inside you, firm and deep, pushing everything in, making you take it for good. Still so fucking wet for me. The stretch was sharp, the burn immediate, and a gasp tore from your throat, your body clenching around him as he filled you again, the sound of it—wet and obscene—echoed through the air, filthy and raw.

His thumb pressed low, tracing slow, burning circles that made your legs tremble. His gaze locked with yours—dark, intense, like he wanted to brand this moment into his skin, fngers dragging out of your hole, slick and glistening, lifting to your lips. He traced them over the soft curve first, smearing wetness onto your skin, painting you in what you'd given him as his breath hitched, shallow, watching as your lips parted under his touch, as though your body already knew what it wanted as they slid in, slow, pressing against your tongue. The taste flooded over you—rich, heavy, dark, filthy and perfect. You sucked slow, savoring every trace, eyes locked to his, daring him to look away, daring him to keep watching as you ruined him in the softest way, as pretty as ever.

He watched you, jaw tight, something raw flickering beneath the surface as his other hand slid to your cheek, thumb tracing over the line of your jaw, soft and slow. Made such a pretty mess of you, he muttered, voice low and dark. You're a good distraction. You let his fingers slip from your lips, a soft breath catching between you. Yeah? The word was quiet, uncertain, but his nod came steady, sure. Yeah. Thank you.

The words held weight, thick and slow, settling deep in the quiet. Not careless, not light., something real that lingered between your bodies, pressed close and warm. His hands stayed on you, gentle but firm, like he wasn’t ready to let go, like maybe he never would. For a moment, the world outside the heat of his skin didn't exist. There was just the slow stroke of his thumb over your cheek, the soft sigh that passed your lips, the heavy way your bodies stayed close, reluctant to separate. His eyes searched yours, as if looking for something he couldn’t quite name, maybe it was the same thing you felt, lingering low and dangerous beneath your ribs, tight and sharp.

But neither of you said it. The words stayed caught between your breaths, pressed down by the weight of what had passed and what might come after. Instead, his thumb traced over your lips again, slow and warm, smearing the faint remnants of what you'd shared. Still messy, he whispered, and the corner of his mouth twitched, as if the words tasted sweeter than they should. Might need to clean you up.

The heat that sparked low in your stomach said you wouldn't mind that at all.

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revelboo · 5 months ago

Note

Thank you so much for the many stories you consistently update!! Out of curiosity, do you think you'll be updating the Scavengers, Pharma's, or Tarn's story soon? I didn't see them on the poll so I figured I'd ask. Not a request, I'm happy with whatever updates you post 💕

I will be updating them, too. That’s just for the 2k followers reward

L.G. Fuad Pt 8

Tarn x Reader

• Too shocked that he can just shrink to bother sulking about him force feeding you none too gently, you struggle to choke the dry, gritty bar down as quickly as possible. Then seize his big hand before he can try to dump you out of his lap and go back to being giant and scary. And he stiffens when you study him, but you doubt you’re ever going to get a better chance. Doesn’t hurt that he’s warm, either. He grumbles at you, the only word you can understand his stilted ‘human.’ He absolutely thinks that’s your name, but you doubt he’ll be any better at pronouncing your real name so you just roll with it. And peeking up to find his optics narrowed behind the mask, you’re so tempted.

• Listens to you chirp and chatter at him, as you examine his servos. And though he’s not sure why, he lets you gently manipulate his joints, your delighted little smiles spreading warm through his spark. Knows he should move you off his lap, definitely shouldn’t enjoy the warmth of you or the way you wiggle against him to lean your head on his chassis. It’s all too strangely intimate when it shouldn’t be. You’re not Cybertronian, you’re alien. But he can’t make himself move you as those soft fingers move to his wrist, then follow his arm up, before you shift to straddle his lap and he goes still. Because you have no idea what you’re doing to him, what those soft hands are doing. Free hand landing on your hip to push you away and just lingering instead. “You need to stop right now.” You glance up at him, chirping and he knows you can’t understand him. But you’re pressed intimately against his plating now, making him painfully aware of your soft warmth.

• It’s right there. Fingers skating over plating and dipping into seams to play with his joints, you pretend to be only interested in how his body fits together. And it is fascinating, but that mask is your real target. “You’re really warm, Phantom,” you say, voice soft and soothing like you’re coaxing an angry dog that’s likely to bite. Listening to him growl at you, you smile. “That’s right. I’m absolutely not up to anything. Just curious.” The mesh of his neck is warm and has surprising give to it when you stroke over it and you shift on him to get more comfortable.

• Horrified as his spike actually stirs behind his plating when you move against him, soft fingers lazily playing with the cables of his neck, he can hear his venting roughening. Why? Why is he responding to you? A little, organic. It’s blasphemous. What would Megatron think? Shouldn’t want to interface at all, it doesn’t further his mission. Doesn’t help him reach his goals. But his processor goes there anyway. Wanting and wondering if you could even take his spike. What you’d feel like under him. Servos flexing on your hip, tightening, it’s your startled sound and little fingers urgently trying to pry his hand loose that snap him out of it.

• Squirming and trying to get his servos off of you, because he’s gripping you hard enough to be uncomfortable. To begin to hurt and he pulls his hands away, shifts as if to dump you and you grab for the mask. Manage to lift up the bottom edge, get a glimpse of a scarred, handsome face before you wind up flat on your back, his hands seizing and pinning your wrists over your head as he reaches up to fix the mask. And his hands are shaking, you realize. Optics narrowed and furious as he snarls and you’re almost positive you just destroyed all of the good will, or at least, the tolerance you’d earned from him. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see your face.” That harsh snarling has you trembling, makes you struggle to pull out of his grip as he slides a thigh between yours and watches you thrash.

• Venting raggedly as you try to squirm free, he tries to get himself under control. That white hot rage that you’d dared try to remove his mask still running through his lines, demanding a response. A punishment. And he’s still painfully hard, spike pulsing and aching where it’s trapped, because the idea of disciplining you is far too appealing. Needs away from you. Space to get himself back under control, because he shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want you. He’s beyond this.

#transformers x reader #tarn x reader #mtmte tarn

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jackthepeeper · 9 months ago

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English is not my first language, I've never written a fanfic before

Ramattra x GN!Reader

CWs: Slight NSFW(?)

Summary: Ramattra enjoys having repairs done to him way too much

You cautiously reach deeper inside, with your hand disappearing up to the elbow in his chest cavity through a small opening in his midriff, each section of his "abs" detachable if need be.

There's enough room to wiggle your soft flesh without touching the surrounding machinery. You're sat in his lap, with his visors burying holes in your forehead from underneath the emotionless plate of his face. The pressure is driving you wild, and you lose yourself briefly trying to decide which is hotter: his insides, where the scorching wind from his fans licks your skin, already sleek with sweat, or your cheeks, flush with embarrassment.

You're not an engineer. Far from possessing any meaningful prowess in mechanics, only having fixed house appliances a couple times in your entire life. But you're the best thing he can count on, and the task is more than simple: you just have to replace an extremely distinct knob just under his shoulder blade, easily accessible from the inside if you are lucky to have hands small enough to fit through the access hole. He sighs, flexing his giant palm idly. If he wanted, he could've closed his fingers around your thigh with ease.

You locate the knob, feel its melted form and unscrew it as carefully as you can while the edge of his armor digs into your skin, drastically reducing the freedom of movement you have. With your fingers tiptoeing around a ruined part of his, your eyes track every movement of the rest of the omnic's body. You don't trust him, just as much as he doesn't trust you. He sighs, his giant frame shuddering, vents creaking open and fans whirring louder as his head comes to rest against the wall he's leaning onto. You continue.

The knob falls into your palm eventually, and you can almost feel his disappointment of being empty as you retrieve it, completely pulling your hand out of the oven of his chest. He puts a heavy hand on your hip - a gesture you interpret as him making sure you don't run off without installing the new part in place of the ruined one. You shift against his thigh, and he grips harder as you plunge your hand back inside, bolder now than before.

Rough movements of your palm, metal being dragged against his insides as you try to insert the new knob where it belongs, failing miserably. He groans, and you feel every single one of his slender fingers dig into your flesh. You are sloppy, way too confident, a stray wire catching onto your finger as you screw in the knob. His heavy breathing replaces all your senses, leaving only the task at hand and the heat enveloping your body. Why would an omnic breathe anyway?

This time you can't even get your hand out without trouble. You're stuck in a rat king of his inner workings, your fingers slithering along the edges of his machinery, tracing thick wires in an attempt to find a way out of the endless loops, and to your horror you feel him tighten around you, heavy breaths turning into gasps and whimpers as you become more frantic, trying to free your hand from the scorching hot trap. Your lower body comes flush against the plate covering his groin as he drags you with both hands now, moving your flesh closer to his metal torso, deliberately grinding against the softness of your belly - you are too scared, too concentrated on the wires ensnaring your wrist to read him. You think he is in pain.

Your ass is the perfect size to fit in his palm, meat squeezing between his fingers as he holds you in place while his hips buck to meet your welcoming curves. He moans, silver caps on the ends of his flat cable "hair" clanking against his shoulders as he throws his head back and relaxes as suddenly as if he'd pressed his own power button.

You remain in his lap, playing with the limp wires until he wakes up.

#ramattra #ramattra x reader #ramattra x you #overwatch #overwatch 2 #overwatch x reader #overwatch x you

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foone · 1 year ago

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I was digging in one of my boxes of electronics yesterday and I found a ripped off flat flex cable, from my hypnovisor.

I'm sure that's fine to use regardless. It's not going to glitch your mind out and turn you into a brainless lump stuck at a mental equivalent of the OPERATING SYSTEM NOT FOUND bios error

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addie-henderson · 1 year ago

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stupid thought popped into my head, imagine Percy and annabeth just taking turns flustering reader, just casually brushing their hands against you on and off or whispering dirty thoughts into your ear. Is this cringy😭

is this cringy? maybe. but I don't care

you choke on your breakfast as the filthy words feel your ears.

"are you ok, doll?" Annabeth asks from across the table. her voice is still sleepy causing a silky Virgina accent a lot like her father's that never seemed to linger very often. you squirm at the sound, flushed as the arm holding you still squeeze tighter.

'do you think she'd notice if touched you under the table? '

Surely she would. Annabeth had a few faults and the lack of perception was not one. Percy smiles softly and shoves a bit of pancake into his mouth. Content with himself. You glance at him and he makes eye contact as if to say 'go on. tell her. '

"well? are you ok, doll." the name is both familiar and foreign from Percy. it's usually used in a joking manner to mock Annabeth more than anything. but the way it rolls of his tongue is frustratingly attractive when it's used to mock you.

" 'm ok. just sleepy." you lie as Percy's hand squeezes your thigh.

Annabeth looks between the two of you suspiciously. but doesn't say anything beyond that. she wasn't a talkative morning person... or a morning person at all. the rest of breakfast is uneventful in your tiny apartment besides the growing flushed feeling in your cheeks everytime a large rough hand runs against your skin.

it had been your turn to do the dishes and you awaited the excuse to flee from the grip of your boyfriend for a moment to catch your breath. however the feeling of rough hands was quickly replaced by cool slender fingers brushing against your stomach as Annabeth pressed her face into your neck from behind. the sound of running water faded into the background as the pounding of your heart reaches your ears. her chest was pressed against your back reminding you that despite her baggie attire (a shirt stolen from Percy) she was not flat. "hi flower..."

"h-hi Annie" you stammer as her hands fold under the fabric of your shirt.

"what is Percy up to with you today?" she poses it as a polite and innocent question, but you know it's anything but.

"I dunno," you huff as her hands brush up closer to your chest. "I swear."

"you swear?"

"swear." you almost whine when her hand pulls out of your shirt leaving your body feeling like you had a fever.

you turn and look pathetically at her with a grumpy expression. Annabeth smiles and kisses your pouting lips.

"well I need to know." she says as she pulls apart. you grumble and grab a fist full of her shirt pulling her back in. you'd be damned if they both left you this way. your lips met hers in a heated frenzy and you push your hips closer to hers in an attempt to seek friction she couldn't provide (at least not standing up right) her hands settle on your hips giving you a warning squeeze to slow yourself, her nails dig slightly into your skin and you feel a tingle up your arm and you pull back. she opens her mouth and you think for sure it's that shes going to tell you you should head back to her room. she leans in again just enough that her lips are almost touching but when you go to greedily close the gap she pulls back.

"if you don't finish the dishes we'll miss our movie."

the movie in question had what's been one of your favorites but now it felt like sitting through hell. it was a showing on cable TV so you couldn't pause or fast forward or reply but you couldn't focus on any of the parts that you knew where your favorites with one hand brushing over your core through your shorts every few minutes and the constant feeling of small kisses pressed into your shoulder where Annabeth rested her head. you can feel your hand flexing in terrible anticipation and frustration growing in your stomach until it pops. "JESUS WILL ONE OF YOU PLEASE JUST FUCK ME."

#cha•°•annabeth #cha•°•percy #•°•percabeth #•°•anon #•°•percabeth x reader #•°•poly #•°•Just some demigod 🌻

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synnthamonsugar · 9 months ago

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DESTINYTOBER: Day 12 - Create

Read it on AO3

. . .

Ylenna hunched over a half-assembled exo-form. She'd acquired the frame from the Braytech laboratories, an early model more akin to a test dummy than a human body. An unsuitable environment for a consciousness used to the fine-grain sensory inputs of a biological form, but a good introduction to bipedal life for someone accustomed to a body on the scale of a small planet.

"What next, Captain?" asked Failsafe, optics keenly tracking Ylenna's movements despite her inability to move otherwise. On all sides of her torso, disarticulated limbs and a rainbow of wires were laid out in a manner that might have been gruesome if not for the doll-like simplicity of her form.

"Pull up schematics for upper limb assembly."

Momentarily, optics flickered in concentration. "Done! First things first. Attach the data and power cables from the arm into the socket within the shoulder joint."

Ylenna shook her hands, attempting to work ou the nervous tremors. She slotted the connectors into their ports, breathing a relieved sigh when she felt them click into place without resistance. "How's that?"

Though the arm was still physically detached, she flexed her hand. "Seems to be working! Now, we can work on attaching the articulator . . . there's no need to sweat so much, you're doing great!"

"I'll be glad when I have a second pair of hands to help me."

"We won't get there if I don't have arms," she groused in flat affect.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh." She cracked her neck, letting go of some of the tension. "I just want to be careful with you. I won't forgive myself if I mess this up."

"I'm remoting in from a crashed exodus ship. The only way you can mess this up is if you hurl my body into the side of a planet at terminal velocity." Her voice brightened. "Do you want a kiss for encouragement~?"

Ylenna nodded, and leaned in, the glow of Failsafe's orange optics filling her vision as she pressed her lips to the warm silicone.

#DESTINYTOBER24 #destiny 2 #failsafe #guardian #failsafe/guardian #synnth fic

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princess--misery · 4 months ago

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[007]

The screen flickered, the steady hum of power surging through the cables.

The Shepherd stepped back as the android’s body stiffened, its joints locking in place as the system rebooted. Its optics flickered to life - a dull, mechanical glow, expression unreadable.

It did not struggle. It did not speak.

It only existed again.

The Shepherd folded his arms, his gaze drifting over the thing in front of him. Even with its limbs suspended, its wires spread behind it, it looked wrong. Unnatural. Its mouth and hands were still stained - red and brown, dried and fresh. The evidence of what it had done.

What it would have done to him.

He exhaled slowly, keeping his voice even. "You awake in there?"

The android’s optics adjusted, scanning the room. Assessing. Its lips parted.

"Yes."

The Shepherd frowned. The voice was strange - neutral, flat. But human enough to be unsettling.

He glanced at the monitor. Lines of code ran steadily across the screen, processing, waiting. He tapped the side of the terminal, pulling up the active command log.

The same phrase repeated in an endless loop.

/CONSUME.

The Shepherd clenched his jaw. "Alright," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Let’s start simple."

His eyes flicked back to the android. "Why are you eating?"

The android’s head twitched, a slow, mechanical tilt. Its fingers flexed slightly, despite the restraints. Its optics dimmed, then brightened again.

"Order received."

The Shepherd narrowed his eyes. "From who?"

The android was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly:

"…Unknown."

The Shepherd exhaled sharply through his nose. Not helpful.

He shifted his weight, glancing again at the dried blood on the android’s hands, at its mouth, the red staining the synthetic skin around its lips.

He hesitated, then asked the real question.

"When you eat… where does it go?"

The android did not blink. Did not process. Did not think.

It only answered.

"Unknown."

The Shepherd’s stomach twisted.

He turned back to the monitor, scrolling through the data, searching for something, anything that explained the function. He pulled up consumption logs. The numbers made his breath hitch.

This wasn’t new. It had been eating for a long time. But nothing was stored. No organic matter, no secondary processing system. No waste.

The Shepherd’s grip tightened on the edge of the desk.

It consumed.

And then - the meat was gone.

[006]

[008]

#🪳crossed wires🪳#🪳doll space🪳#dollkin #dollposting #doll #empty spaces #microfiction #writing #everyday doll #not a person

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mechanical-creature · 1 year ago

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Putting a headphone jack in a Fairphone 4

TLDR with this procedure you sacrifice the lower loudspeaker, but the upper one will still behave as normal. Calls and other audio seem to work just fine. There is some interference from internals that gets picked up by amplified speakers, I'm sure there's a way to filter it, this is mainly a proof of concept. This is not really a guide and I do not guarantee anything at all.

I really liked my Fairphone 4 except that it didn't have a 3.5mm jack like normal phones used to have. And my car has never heard of Bluetooth. So I started joking about drilling a hole in it.

I found this green TRS jack on a USB DAC and found it would fit inside. I took this photo with a DSi camera. Originally I thought I might be able to fit both the jack and the speaker, and I had this elaborate plan to make a cut in the mainboard and move the vibrating motor elsewhere,

but decided against it because I had no idea what losing that one contact would do. I did a test and found no major issues with removing the bottom loudspeaker. If I needed the phone to be loud, I'd hook something else up anyway. I bought a second loudspeaker and horrendously dissected it.

I used a knife. If you do this you should absolutely use a dremel tool and not a knife. Unless you don't have a dremel tool

The plan is, remove the speaker part. You do not have to completely de-laminate the two layers of plastic. Just this section of the bottom layer. The top layer has pretty colors and conductive tape and contacts for mysterious purposes. Maybe antenna.

Next, you must drill the hole. We're not quite sure what the case is made of, but it probably involves aluminum. I had a drill press and clamps, but I went to my friend's house. He doesn't have clamps or many drill bits, but he knows metal. The jack barrel was like 5.1mm in outer diameter, and after lamenting that all our bits were in imperial, we settled on a 7/32". We removed all components from the chassis including mainboard and screen before drilling.

Here, we went for a hole that was centered on the middle hole of the speaker grill. However, if you do this, you will need to also remove some more metal, because the jack will need to be kind of submerged in the floor. We also had to sand down one side of the jack paper thin to make it sit flat against the back of the screen module. In hindsight, I should have marked where the jack wanted to sit before drilling. This would have us drill at the edge of the case, but it would be closed off by the phone's back cover anyway so it wouldn't matter. Just plan out your hole instead of eyeballing it.

Unfortunately, we did not get any pictures of the fit after we were done. Probably for the best, so no one has to see the metal carnage.

Once it was in place, it was time to wire it. The speaker module presses a flat flex cable up against these two contacts on the board.

I originally managed to solder to the flat cable, but then made a mistake and tore the pads, so I ended up soldering directly to those spring pins on the mainboard. I used magnet wire for everything. I just connected both the L and R pins of the jack to this one speaker output because I didn't feel like probing out the top speaker connector and running wire up there just yet. Ideally I would have a switched jack that interrupts the top speaker, but that's for later. I might salvage something from an Apple device, their jacks tend to be compact.

Hot glued the thing in place, and this is the end result. It works just great with passive headphones. I'll upload a demo video when I get the chance, I've already used my 1 video. I wish I had taken better pictures, but it wasn't very convenient.

The caveats in the beginning apply. It's also way too loud because it's meant to drive a speaker, and it's balanced for that too. I might be able to put a resistor divider on there to reduce the output volume and let a louder signal drown out the interference a bit better?

I have no idea if this is a thing people do, putting audio jacks in their phones. But I would think that replacing the speaker like this would work on a lot of different phones. Maybe worth trying?

#creatura posts #fairphone #fairphone 4 #headphone jack #fp4 audio jack project

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kemetic-dreams · 2 years ago

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How can I build big arms lifting weights?

IT'S ARM DAY EVERY DAY BOYE!

Fuck yeah dude, time to make dem GUNZ GROW, I don't care what dem experts say, TRAIN YOUR FREAKING ARMS, regularly, often, it's AWESOME, and it will above all other muscle groups, make you FEEL GOOD.

Abs only make you feel good when you just wake up, during the day, I don't care how lean you are, you don't always feel lean.

Leg and Back definition and size are pretty awesome too, but it's more like a badge of honor.

But ARMS dude?

Pumping your arms and hitting that side triceps is FULFILLING, that little flex after training arms just to check dem biceps, that's GLORY SON, no wonder Arnold was talking that crazy talk about having orgasms in the gym, it's really freaking GOOD to have a pump in your arms.

So let's take a look at how to train them arms for MAXIMUM HYPERTROPHY.

General considerations.

When it comes to building a BIGASS ARMS the key is the pump, which is bringing blood to the region to make everything there grow, and the mind-muscle connection which is your ability to actively feel the muscle contracting.

To optimally do that, you should reserve 1 ENTIRE WORKOUT just to train your biceps and triceps together.

If you're already properly building your BACK & CHEST you're already properly overloading your arms, so this workout is exclusively directed toward learning to feel the muscle and get a pump.

You have gotta be able to contract both of them, anytime you want, and every time you go to the gym, you need to be able to get a pump, I know LOTS of dudes, that don't know what that is, that mistake the pump with DOMS, and are always walking around flat as hell.

Volume considerations

Volume for arms is pretty straight-up when it comes to frequency, ALWAYS get a little pump before doing other upper body exercises, it will ensure the longevity of your elbows, and believe me, you don't want elbow pain in your life, IT SUCKS HARD.

Other than that, you're already getting CRAZY volume training your upper body properly, so just add 1 workout on top of it, but the thing about arms is, it doesn't require much to keep it but to make the MOST POSSIBLE GAINZ it requires A LOT OF EMPHASIS:

To keep your arm gainz requires: 0-6 working sets a week.

Getting decent arm gainz requires: 7-12 working sets a week.

To get OPTIMAL arm gainz requires: 13-25 working sets a week.

To go FULL BEAST MODE and have horseshoe triceps and biceps vein without a pump 25+ working sets a week.

Keep in mind to split these working sets evenly between the biceps and triceps, let's say you're doing 12 working sets, make sure that 6 of them target the biceps, and 6 of them target the triceps.

Arm exercise sequencing.

When it comes to arm training I use the following sequence:

Activation sets

Finisher sets

Arm training is the simplest of all, it's 100% just GRIND, you need to put in a shitton of reps and that's it, no need to pick crazy heavyweights, no need to do 30 different exercises, you only need to find the exercises you like, that you REALLY can feel the target muscle contracting and work on building volume with those.

Activation Sets

Activation sets are designed to pump blood into the muscles that will then get SMASHED in the workout, their main focus is keeping your body primed to work, reducing the risk of injury, and extending your longevity.

When it comes to arm training it's just a matter of getting that pump with great form and minimum strain.

Focus:

Prevent Injury, and pump blood.

Exercise suggestions:

Cable pushdowns, concentration curls, EZ bar curls.

Rep range: 10-15

RPE: 4-5

Primary Progressive Overload Strategies:

Increase reps.

Increase sets.

Increase time-under-tension

Reduce rest.

Reduce overall time.

Finisher sets

Finisher sets often go to failure and/or beyond, THEY ARE ESSENTIAL FOR BIG ARMS, no way around it, you gotta feel it burn, SEE THE PUMP, the idea is by the end of your workout you should EMPTY THE GAS TANK, take every single last drop of glycogen within the muscle OUT, they often include SPECIAL METABOLITE TECHNIQUES like partial reps, supersets, paused reps, rest pauses, and dropsets, they can be used in every single part of your training, but for the arm, I consider them especially valuable in order to create roundness and achieve a great arm pump.

This is the time to unleash the MEATHEAD inside you, pick a machine or exercise and GO NUTS, really make sure you're feeling your arms BURNING.

I strongly recommend using CIRCUITS in this phase of the workout, pick 2-3 exercises and do crazy supersets.

Focus:

Going to failure and BEYOND.

Exercise suggestions:

Barbell Curls, Dumbbell Curls, EZ Bar Curls, Preacher Curls, Triceps pushdowns, triceps kickbacks, machine triceps extensions, rope pushdowns.

Rep range: AMRAP

RPE: 10+

Primary Progressive Overload Strategies:

Increase reps.

Increase sets.

Increase time-under-tension

Reduce rest.

Reduce overall time.

Overloading Sets

Arms don't require direct overloading sets, for instance, heavy-ass skullcrushers and strict barbell curls are COOL AS FUCK, but they're not at all required to build your arms if you're already doing rows, bench, OHP, Pullups.

Stretch under-load sets

There are stretching components to using FULL ROM on arm movements, but I don't think it classifies as a stretch under-load set like a Jefferson Curl would be.

Exercise selection.

A brief Tier list of my favorite exercises for the muscle group.

Tier S - Exercises that beginners, intermediate and advanced lifters SHOULD be doing to maximize hypertrophy.

Barbell Curl

Cable Triceps Pushdown

EZ Bar Curl

Rope Pushdown

Alternating Dumbbell Curl

Tier A - Exercises that beginners, intermediate and advanced lifters COULD be doing to maximize hypertrophy.

Dumbbell Twist Curl

Triceps Kickbacks

Cable EZ Bar Curl

Triceps Overhead Extension

Hammer Curl

Machine Triceps Extension

Machine Triceps Pushdown

Tier B - Exercises that beginners don't need to do, but intermediate and advanced lifters can incorporate in their workouts.

Close-grip Bench Press.

Incline Dumbbell Curl

Machine Preacher Curl

Assisted Dip

Barbell Skullcrusher

Cable Overhead Triceps Extension

Dumbbell Skullcrusher

Overhead Triceps Extension

Tier C - Exercises that are NICHE and designed for a specific goal.

Pin Presses

Close grip pin press.

Cable Single Arm Pushdown

Inverted Skullcrusher

Rope Overhead Triceps Extension

JM Press

Spotto Press

Seated Barbell Overhead Triceps Extension

#kemetic dreams #fitness #fitness motivation #biceps #grow biceps #the potato man #potato man #fitness tops #fitness blogs #bench press

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poonamcmi · 2 years ago

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#Semiconductors #Flat Flex Cable #Flexible Electronics #Electrical Connectors #Electronics Manufacturing #High Density Interconnects #Flat Flex Cable Market

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phonefixxinxin · 11 days ago

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📱💻【Ultimate Guide to LCD Screen Removal for Phones/Tablets】Tired of overpaying for screen repairs? Learn to replace your phone or tablet’s LCD like a pro! This step-by-step tutorial shows you how: preheat edges with a screen opener, use a heat gun to soften adhesive evenly, then gently pry apart with a plastic tool—all while avoiding fragile flex cables and motherboard damage. Includes detailed GIF demos + a curated tool list (with model recommendations) to help beginners finish in 30 mins flat! Master this skill to save hundreds, reduce e-waste, and gain tech DIY confidence. 🔥🛠️

#LCDScreenRemoval #PhoneRepair #TabletRepair #DIYRepair #ScreenRepair #MobileRepairTips #TechRepair #iPHONE #diyfixtool #PHONEFIX #applefixnearme #Mobilephonerepair

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lovingcupcakeartisan · 28 days ago

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Flexible Cables Market Report: Unlocking Growth Potential and Addressing Challenges

United States of America – Date – 29/05/2025 - The Insight Partners is proud to announce its newest market report, "Flexible Cables Market: An In-depth Analysis of the Flexible Cables Market". The report provides a holistic view of the Flexible Cables market and describes the current scenario as well as growth estimates for Flexible Cables during the forecast period.

Overview of Flexible Cables Markets

There has been some development in the Flexible Cables market, such as growth and decline, shifting dynamics, etc. This report provides insight into the driving forces behind this change: technological advancements, regulatory changes, and changes in consumer preference.

Key findings and insights

Market Size and Growth

Historical Data: The Flexible Cables market is estimated to reach CAGR of 9.3% from 2025 to 2031, with a market size expanding from US$ XX million in 2024 to US$ XX Million by 2031.These estimates provide valuable insights into the market's dynamics and can inform future projections.

Key Factors Affecting the Flexible Cables Market:

The Flexible Cables market is driven by several key factors that influence its growth and demand:

Industrial Automation and Robotics: The increasing adoption of automation across manufacturing, logistics, and other industries necessitates highly flexible cables capable of enduring continuous movement, bending, and torsion in robotic arms, automated machinery, and drag chains. This is a primary driver for the market.

Miniaturization and Compact Design in Electronics: The continuous trend towards smaller, lighter, and more compact electronic devices (smartphones, laptops, wearables, medical devices) drives the demand for flat flexible cables (FFCs) and other highly flexible cable solutions that can fit into tight spaces without compromising performance or durability.

Growth of Renewable Energy: The expansion of renewable energy sources such as solar and wind power requires specialized flexible cables for connections within turbines, solar panels, and for grid integration. These cables must withstand harsh environmental conditions and repetitive movements.

Electric Vehicles (EVs) and E-mobility Infrastructure: The rapid growth of the EV market fuels demand for flexible charging cables, as well as highly durable and flexible cables for internal wiring within EVs, accommodating vibrations and compact designs.

Data Center Expansion and Hyperscale Facilities: While fiber optics are dominant for long-haul data, flexible power and patch cables are crucial within data centers for efficient power distribution and connectivity, especially in modular and rapidly reconfigurable environments.

Changing Consumer Preferences and Demand in the Flexible Cables Market:

Consumer preferences and demand in the Flexible Cables market are evolving significantly, driven by shifts in technology adoption, regulatory pressures, and a greater emphasis on performance and sustainability:

Demand for Higher Performance and Reliability:

Increased Flex Life: In industrial automation and robotics, there's a strong preference for cables that can withstand millions of bending cycles without degradation, minimizing downtime and maintenance costs.

Environmental Resistance: Demand for cables that are robust against harsh conditions (oil, chemicals, UV, extreme temperatures) in industrial, outdoor, and automotive applications.

Higher Data Transmission Speeds: With the proliferation of high-bandwidth devices and 5G, there's a growing need for flexible data and communication cables that can support faster speeds with minimal signal loss.

Preference for Miniaturization and Space Efficiency:

Compact Design: In consumer electronics and medical devices, the drive for sleeker and smaller products directly translates to a preference for ultra-thin FFCs and other small-diameter flexible cables that allow for intricate and space-saving designs.

Lightweight Solutions: Especially in automotive, aerospace, and portable electronics, there's a strong demand for lightweight cables to reduce overall product weight and improve energy efficiency.

Conclusion

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redfilledfantasies · 2 months ago

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Crimson Fuel (Chapter 2 of 4)

The lab was a sanctuary of glass and polished steel, bathed in the glow of screens that cast icy light over the taut expanse of monitors and cables. The door slid open with a precise hiss, parting the quiet like a scalpel’s edge. Eleanor Harper entered first, her slender frame moving with a rehearsed grace that echoed the sterile order of the space. Behind her trailed Gwen, a commanding presence cloaked briefly in a tailored jacket that concealed the remarkable form beneath—a vessel of taut muscle, perfect curves sculpted by relentless will and enhanced by Eleanor’s intervention.

Carmella stood near the control console, her crisp white coat taut across slim shoulders, glasses catching the glow of the monitors. The moment Eleanor and Gwen stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted—her professional composure undulating slightly in the presence of Gwen’s formidable silhouette. The subtle catch of her breath, unnoticed by those she studied, was the first fracture in her usual armor of control.

Without hesitation, Gwen shed her jacket, the sapphire fabric sliding past the swell of her hips, tracing the broad lines of her back before pooling at her feet. Each movement was deliberate and unhurried, as though the display was both challenge and invitation. Carmella’s gaze locked on the unveiled figure, astonishment flashing beneath the veneer of medical detachment.

Gwen stood stark naked, bathed in the clinical whiteness of the room, her bronzed skin shimmering faintly with a sheen that hinted at recent effort. The lines of her body were an open book of athletic triumph: a six-pack carved with razor precision flexed beneath the gentle rise of her massive breasts, which crowned her torso with audacious prominence. The curvature of her posterior was a wide, round promise, taut and firm, betraying the hours spent molding strength and resilience. Her thighs spoke in strong, clean lines, muscles defined like chords taut beneath silk. Every inch of her exuded power wrapped in feminine form.

In stark contrast, Eleanor remained the slender counterpoint—delicate hands folded calmly, dark eyes sharp with calculated assessment. Her stature was understated, a quiet conductor of the extraordinary symphony embodied by her niece. Carmella found herself drawn into the interplay, the radiant physicality of Gwen acting as both provocation and scientific marvel.

Eleanor’s voice broke the charged silence, even and measured. “The protocol is rigorous,” she explained, her fingers briefly grazing the edge of the polished countertop. “Gwen will run at maximum velocity on the treadmill for a continuous period of fifteen minutes. Simultaneously, I will administer an intravenous infusion of adenosine designed to further elevate cardiac output beyond baseline exertion.”

Her gaze swept over the array of monitors flickering to life—large flat screens pulsing with charts and graphs, color-coded lines tracking heart rate, ECG waveforms, blood pressure, and blood oxygen saturation with exacting clarity. The crisp hum of machines became the backdrop to their clinical ballet, wires extending toward Gwen like lifelines tethering the sublime athlete to technology.

Carmella nodded, the professional rhythm overtaking her momentary breathlessness. “We will be watching stroke volume, ejection fraction, and ventricular compliance, along with real-time heart rate variability,” she added, the scientific terminology weaving into the charged air. “The combination of physical exertion and pharmacologic stimulation should push the myocardium to reveal new functional thresholds.”

Without hesitation, Gwen approached the treadmill. The machine gleamed beneath the harsh light, its polished steel and black rubber belt waiting in silent readiness. She settled onto the platform with the confidence of one born to command her own limits, slipping on pristine running shoes with the smooth precision of a seasoned competitor.

A few calculated presses activated the console. The belt shuddered into motion, first slow then accelerating sharply until Gwen was sprinting—a burst of controlled power, sinews coiled and released in perfect harmony. Her breathing deepened, steady and unbroken despite the sharp increase in pace. The six-pack flexed rhythmically beneath her skin, muscles rippling in a symphony of exertion and discipline.

Eleanor stepped beside Carmella, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she observed the monitors. “The drug has amplified myocardial contractility,” she narrated softly, voice dipped in reverence for the living machine before them. “Notice how ventricular compliance has improved—the walls expand effortlessly, permitting a stroke volume increase that defies physiological expectations. The heart compensates for rising oxygen demand by optimizing output rather than relying solely on rate.”

The heart rate monitor climbed steadily—sixty to a hundred, one hundred twenty—then settled firmly at one hundred sixty beats per minute. The ECG trace shimmered with textbook precision, waves crisp and perfect. The blood pressure monitor recorded consistent elevations, each reading a testament to the heart’s relentless drive.

Carmella’s eyes never left Gwen’s body in motion. The polished surface of her skin gleamed with sweat, highlighting the contours of rippling muscle that flexed and relaxed with fluid grace. Her posture remained erect, unyielding—a physical poem of endurance sculpted in flesh and intention. The sight stirred something within Carmella that defied dissection, a heat rising beneath the measured beat of her own heart.

Her breath deepened imperceptibly; her pupils dilated slightly behind the lenses of her glasses, capturing Gwen’s relentless cadence with growing fascination. The steady pound of the athlete’s heart echoed faintly through the room—an intimate percussion underscoring the silent tension coiling within Carmella’s chest.

Eleanor’s voice, clinical yet laced with pride, rose again. “The enhanced cardiac output is a direct result of the drug’s ability to increase intracellular calcium availability in myocytes, amplifying contractile force without compromising metabolic efficiency. The myocardium maintains its integrity despite the elevated demand.”

Carmella swallowed hard, lips parting slightly as the physicality of the moment drew her beyond detached analysis. The primal power encapsulated in Gwen’s form—a perfect fusion of science and flesh—enfolded her senses. Her fingers twitched momentarily as if to reach out, but discipline held them fast.

The room held its breath along with the rhythm of Gwen’s pounding heart, the monitors a glowing testament to the miracle pulsing just beyond reach. Carmella’s mind teetered between awe and desire, a delicate imbalance she fought to master even as her pulse synchronized with the fierce tempo unfolding before her.

The experiment was no longer just data and measurement. It had become a living, breathing testament to strength and possibility, and Carmella found herself powerless to resist the magnetic pull of the body running its relentless race in perfect, pounding rhythm.

Gwen leapt off the treadmill with a sharp, abrupt motion, the suddenness fracturing the charged stillness that had settled around them. Sweat glistened across her bronzed skin like liquid fire, but her breath remained steady, her gaze steady and unyielding. Carmella’s pulse faltered, the arousal that had simmered beneath her skin exploding into sharp, hot awareness as the raw power of Gwen’s unyielding presence filled the clinical room.

She planted both feet firmly on the floor, her naked form catching every stray gleam of the harsh white light. Beads of sweat clung like gems to the smooth planes of muscle, tracing delicate rivulets that mirrored the rugged paths of her sinews. Her chest rose and fell in even, deliberate cadence, defying the narrative of exhaustion that a body pushed to extremes should tell. The soft sheen amplified the sculpted strength etched in every contour—the broad sweep of shoulders, the powerful swell of hips, and the taut, rounded muscles of her legs, perfectly balanced and poised as a coiled spring.

Carmella’s gaze slid involuntarily over the landscape of muscle, skin taut and luminous, the aftermath of the relentless sprint written in the gentle flush that warmed Gwen’s cheeks and the damp tendrils of ebony hair clinging to her forehead. Despite the flood of exertion, there was an unbroken dignity to Gwen’s posture—no faltering step, no faltering breath; a queen reigning effortlessly over the domain of her own physicality.

Eleanor, standing cool and composed by the bank of monitors, folded her slender hands calmly before her. Her voice broke the charged silence with an air of quiet command, authoritative yet imbued with measured warmth. "Carmella," she said softly, "listening directly with your ear pressed against Gwen’s chest will give you a far clearer experience of her cardiac function. The stethoscope filters sound, but this allows you to feel and hear every subtle nuance and see the rhythm dance beneath the skin."

The doctor’s brow arched slightly, a hint of intrigue surfacing through the scientific reserve. Eleanor stepped forward, her small, delicate hand reaching out to rest against Gwen’s bronzed chest. The flesh responded immediately—a visible, violent jerk beneath the palm, the living engine thrumming a wild tattoo that seemed to ripple outward in shockwaves. The sternum shifted beneath Eleanor’s fingers with a steady, insistent push and pull that was mesmerizing to witness—a subtle but undeniable symphony of power beneath the surface.

Gwen’s green eyes flickered toward Carmella, a slow, feral grin peeling back the corners of her mouth like a dawning predator. Her gaze was sharp, merciless in its assessment, capturing every detail—down to the slight constriction in Carmella’s breath, the quickening pulse beneath her own ribs, and the faint, involuntary tightening of muscles beneath the lab coat. Carmella’s breath hitched visibly; the crisp fabric strained faintly against her hardened nipples, those small, unmistakable markers of her arousal that refused to hide.

Saliva gleamed at the corner of Gwen’s lips as her grin deepened, a tangible hunger coiled beneath the fierce mask of control. The silent room seemed to condense, charged with a raw, electric tension that crackled in the charged space. Gwen’s voice broke through—a low, dark command that echoed with chilling authority. “Do it.”

The single word vibrated like a clarion call, the raw menace in her tone slicing through Carmella’s fluttering courage. Swallowing audibly, lips pressed tight, Carmella’s fingers trembled as she lowered her head. The warmth of Gwen’s skin radiated like a beacon as she pressed her ear gently to the rising swell of muscle, the collision of flesh and sensation melding into a fierce intimacy.

The first pulse exploded beneath her ear with thunderous insistence—a formidable THUD-THUMP that seemed to rattle bones and nerves alike. The heavy, resonant beats marched slowly, each LUB-DUB a proclamation of untamed vitality and colossal power. The rhythm was primal and unwavering, yet there was an inherent grace to the hammering cascade—a deep, almost sacred resonance that thrummed in perfect sync with Carmella’s pounding heart.

The air tightened as Carmella listened, each beat a forceful wave washing over her senses. The slow, measured pounding seemed to echo off the sterile walls, a raw and thunderous melody that grounded her in a tense, hypnotic vigil. Sweat trickled down her temples, mingling with the racing pulse beneath her ear, and the faintest shudder coursed through her spine as the living rhythm engulfed every fiber of her being.

Eleanor’s voice drew out a steady narration, low and hypnotic. “Observe how rapidly Gwen’s heart recovers. From a peak rate of 160 beats per minute, she drops back to a calm 60 within just thirty seconds. The adenosine infusion accelerates myocardial recovery, allowing her to maintain peak performance without deleterious fatigue.”

The scientific explanation played alongside the relentless drumming beneath Carmella’s ear, merging empirical observation with visceral experience. A swell of fascination overtook her, fingers clutching at the sleek tubing of her stethoscope now useless at her side. Her eyes dilated, shimmering behind polished lenses, pupils wide and lost in the magnetic cadence. The dual pulse of data and desire coiled deep in her chest—a tempest barely restrained beneath the veneer of professionalism.

Suddenly, without warning, a firm, heated grip clasped the back of her head. Gwen’s fingers curled possessively, jerking Carmella’s ear away from the living instrument with brisk, deliberate force. The pulse vanished from her senses like a retreating storm, leaving a void charged with residual power.

Eleanor’s voice, calm and measured, broke through the charged hush. “That concludes the test.” Her gaze locked with Carmella’s—an unspoken statement of success, challenge, and promise all at once.

Carmella blinked, breath catching as the room expanded around her anew. The quiet intensity dissipated, leaving the faint electric afterglow of proximity and the lingering imprint of a heart beating fiercely at the edges of control and surrender.

The sterile glow of monitors cast sharp edges across the room as Eleanor’s gaze fixed quietly on Carmella, a small, expectant smile playing at her lips. “Carmella, it’s time. Audrey must undergo the same test.” The words settled between them, gentle yet insistent—a summons that tugged at the fraying strands of Carmella’s carefully woven composure.

Carmella’s breath hitched just once, the air thick with tension and the residual pulse of Gwen’s fierce vitality still echoing in her veins. Her fingers, almost against her will, reached out to fidget with the sleek black tubing of her stethoscope hanging loose around her neck. The cool plastic offered a fragile anchor, its surface smooth beneath her trembling touch as her gaze flickered between Eleanor’s unwavering confidence and Gwen’s formidable presence.

Eleanor’s expression remained steady, her voice a measured cadence that wove warmth through clinical precision. “The results with Gwen were nothing short of remarkable. We’ve observed increased myocardial contractility and exceptional ventricular compliance. There is a wealth of data yet to uncover, and Audrey presents an opportunity to deepen our understanding—under controlled, safe conditions.”

Despite the reassurances, Carmella’s heart tugged in two directions—the scientist craving discovery and the physician wary of crossing invisible thresholds. Her eyelids fluttered involuntarily as she studied Gwen again. The woman’s lithe, muscular form still glistened with the fine sheen of exertion and perspiration, bronzed skin catching the pale lights in curves and ridges honed by years of relentless training. The powerful expanse of shoulders, the taut muscles rippling with each measured breath, held an unspoken claim over the room’s atmosphere.

Gwen’s green eyes fixed intently on Carmella, unblinking and intense, their feral fire tempered by the quiet satisfaction of a hunt concluded. The faintest corner of her mouth curled upward in a knowing smile, sharp and patient—a silent insistence as potent as any spoken word.

A soft flicker of heat rose along Carmella’s spine, igniting the skin beneath her white coat even as her fingers tightened on the stethoscope, the tension pressed so tight it felt nearly brittle. She swallowed hard, her throat catching in a rough intake that belied the steel edges of her carefully cultivated professionalism. The calculated rhythms of medicine clashed harshly against the raw, surging tides of curiosity and uncertainty.

Images played in rapid sequence behind her eyes—the lingering warmth of Gwen’s heartbeat beneath her ear, the thunderous LUB-DUB echoing in perfect cadence; the electric charge of flesh and muscle in motion; the perilous balance of science and surrender they had just witnessed. Her mind traced the intricate pathways of risk and reward, ethics and desire, her pulse spiking in defiant staccato beats.

“I—” Carmella began, voice thick and slightly unsteady, the faintest tremor betraying her hesitation. “Audrey is exceptionally fit—her cardiovascular baseline is already impressive. But the pharmacologic agent… it pushes boundaries. There are unknowns that make me hesitate.”

Eleanor’s smile softened into an expression rich with understanding yet edged with determination. She stepped closer, the faint scent of jasmine mingling with antiseptic, drawing an invisible circle of authority around them. “That hesitation is why your expertise is crucial. We’ve minimized risk with Gwen; she tolerated it beyond expectations. Audrey is primed for this—she trusts us. This is the next step.”

The weight of Eleanor’s certainty pressed upon Carmella like a tide, ebbing and flowing with fierce insistence. She felt the coils of restraint loosen, the hard lines of doubt softening just enough to acknowledge the potential of discovery folded within peril. Her eyes flicked down once more to Gwen, the woman’s powerful, sweat-slicked frame an indelible testament to strength forged through control and fire.

The silent strength in Gwen’s gaze burned a path through Carmella’s resolve, speaking without sound—urging, commanding, testing the boundaries of consent and challenge. The subtle parting of lips, the tilt of a chin, the slow, feral grin—it all framed a wordless promise that sent a shiver rippling through the delicate veil of certainty Carmella had cloaked herself in.

Fingers tightened once more on the stethoscope, a sudden quiver shaking through the slight tremble in her hands. The once steady anchor now felt fragile, brittle as spun glass reflecting shards of indecision and need. Carmella closed her eyes briefly, drawing long, shaky breaths to marshal the storm within, heart clashing fiercely with mind.

After a moment suspended in the unyielding silence, Carmella lifted her gaze, eyes meeting Eleanor’s with a tremulous clarity. “Alright,” she said slowly, nodding once, the breath coming uneven as if still reclaiming its rhythm from the waves of sensation just past. “We’ll proceed with Audrey. But only with strict protocols—and caution. The boundaries will be mine to enforce.”

Eleanor’s smile deepened—a soft, triumphant curve that radiated satisfaction and quiet gratitude. “That is all I ask.” She turned to Gwen with a glance weighted in shared victory, and Gwen’s eyes gleamed in response, sharp and approving—a predator’s nod sealed in shadowed heat.

The tension in the room dissipated in delicate wisps as the three women prepared to depart the lab. Carmella’s breath found its cadence once again, each exhale a fragile echo of the intimate auscultation that still resonated in her chest. The stethoscope slipped gently from her fingers, the sound of its fall soft and measured, a punctuation marking the close of one chapter and the hesitant opening of the next.

With quiet steps and unspoken understanding, Eleanor led the way. Gwen followed—an embodiment of relentless power and grace—while Carmella brought up the rear, a blend of scientist and sentinel caught in the fragile space where discipline met desire. Together, they vanished into the sterile corridor, the door sliding shut behind them with a final, muted sigh.

Within the stark white walls, the echoes of heartbeats lingered—a symphony of possibility pulsing in the stillness.

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