#high pressure and elasticity

[urbancreative]

Quite like hair ties, hair scrunchies are also hair accessories that you can use to tie up your hair. The main differentiator between a hair tie and hair scrunchies is that - scrunchies are made from smooth materials which helps minimize any kind of damage or breakage to your hair.

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Twelve

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, smut. Handjob, praise kink, Simon talks you through it. Feelings of fear and anxiety, self doubt, self consciousness. Small panic attack. Comfort. Domestic slice of life. Penny lore. POV switch. A glimmer of morally grey. One step forward, two steps back.

You almost forget where you are.

Almost.

The struggle is brief, trying to acclimatize to the changes, dark green sheets pooling around you, emerald tones rich and ambient, the sage green comforter pulled up over your shoulders.

You almost forget, but Simon’s bulk is nearly suffocating, and you’re pushed up against Johnny, crowded between two immovable objects, two sky high walls.

He’s got you tucked into his chest, hand pressed firm against your belly, leg thrown over yours. Your hand still rests on Johnny, covered by his own, and you blink blearily at the bolts of morning light streaming in through the windows.

“Go back to sleep.” Simon’s mumbling right over your ear, ghost of his breath sending goosebumps down your arms. “It’s early.” He snuggles closer, shoulders curled over yours like a blanket, blazing heat bleeding from him to you… everywhere. His cock throbs against your ass, folded up against his stomach, nestled against your skin. Your mouth goes dry when you allow yourself to focus, to look, to feel, thighs squeezing together, a lust filled whine building in the back of your throat.

This is new. 

You don’t do this… your mind, your body, has always been trapped in a fight or flight, survival mode taking over your core needs and instincts, leaving no room for desire, or affection.

But this... this is different. This is safe. 

Your hand drifts lower on Johnny’s stomach. He’s shirtless, satin skin soft under your touch, and it’s almost on instinct when you settle your palm under his navel, a safe distance away from his sutures and graft, hovering north of the elastic in his sweatpants. He’s hard beneath them, outline mouthwatering in the quiet morning, and you lick your lips.

What are you doing? 

Simon’s fingers idly stroke that spot on your waist, where your hips fold into the space beneath your ribcage, swirling his touch down your belly and around, steady and safe, an anchor in turbulent seas. Your fingers dip beneath the band, mindful of his hip, sliding through curls, just barely grazing the root of Johnny’s cock.

What’re you doing? 

Are you really doing this?

You haven’t touched, or been touched, in ages. It’s foreign, and terrifying, and doubt clouds your head, anxiety rocketing through your veins to your heart, where it triple beats.

“It’s okay.” Simon soothes, sliding a hand over yours, guiding you to where he curls his fingers and yours around the base, tightening his grip into a squeeze.

“I-“

“Want to touch him? Like this?” He murmurs, keeping his voice low, scratchy and gritted against your ear. You’re breathing in time, chests rising and falling together, and you nod hastily, too afraid to lose the scrap of courage that keeps trying to flicker out.

“Y-yeah.” You whisper. You do want to, you want to so badly.

Johnny stirs. He tugs at his pants, not quite awake, trying to pull them down, and Simon helps silently, carefully tucking the elastic lower as to not put pressure on his injuries. He blinks sleepily, confused, before finding your face, impish smile spreading across his cheeks, eyes drifting shut again. He’s not wearing anything beneath them, his thick, uncut cock bobbing free at his partner’s urging, and you gasp at the sight. He’s already flushed, bead of pre-come glistening from the tip, and you hesitantly reach for it, Simon’s hand still covering yours.

“Need to start slow.” Simon coaches, both of your hands moving from root to tip together, squeezing at the base when he encourages you to do so. “Don’t want him tensing up, straining his injuries. Nice and- good bunny, just like that.” His cock is blaring hot in your palm, and you work him gently at Simon’s urging, watching his face twitch and eyebrows creasing, bottom lip tugged underneath his top teeth.

“Fuckin- hell-“ He hisses, hips trying to jerk upward.

“Relax.” Simon instructs, stilling him. You keep up the movement, iridescent spend slicking your strokes, slippery sounds filling the room.

“Ach.” Johnny moans, and you throb, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. Simon coos at him.

“Lucky boy, havin’ our bunny take care of you.”

“A-aye.” His fingers tighten in the sheets, eyes still slammed shut, and Simon squeezes your hip.

“You can go a little harder, like this.” He increases the rhythm, tightening his grip over yours, and your hips tilt back, pressing into the hardness settled against your cheeks, pressure returned with a flex of his own. “That’s it, that’s what he likes. Good girl.”

“Si.” His voice breaks. “P-please… d-d-“ He’s unable to get his words free, gasping for air like he’s just gone out for a run, haggard draw of his lungs stretched to the limit as you hold your own.

“I know sweet boy, you’re so backed up, I know. We’ll fix it.” You think you’re going to explode between them, heat and pressure and atmosphere all bearing down on your bones, grinding them to dust inside your skin. You’re not even sure you’re in your own body in this moment, watching from afar, mystified and impressed at your boldness, your courage, your abandonment of the wall you've so steadily remained perched on. “Breathe, Johnny.” Simon reminds him steadily.

The girl in the mirror is nowhere to be found. It’s just you, and Johnny, and Simon, together.

“You’re doing so well.” Simon hums. “Makin’ our boy feel good, what a good little bunny.” Jesus christ. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head, thighs like a vice, squeezing together so tight, desperate for friction against your clit. Your hips are rocking on their own now, small, micromovements pushing you into Simon again and again, Johnny whimpering and crying as the two of you stroke him harder and faster.

“Will you show our bunny how much of a mess you make, Johnny? Gonna come all over our fingers?” Simon pushes him harder, his legs twitching against yours, and Johnny gasps like he’s in pain, nearly crying, on the edge of a precipice.

“Ah, ah- ‘m gonna-“ He explodes in your hands, coating your fingers with creamy spend, rivers of it running down your fist, strokes slowing to a stop as he pants and shudders.

“Oh there it is- good boy, so good.” He tugs until Johnny is empty, and then raises your hand to his mouth, lips closing around your fingers to lick them clean.

You feel faint. Johnny smiles lazily. “Well, good mornin’ to ye too, bun.”

“I-“ What are you going to say? You don’t know what came over you? Sorry? Good morning? Everything evaporates on your tongue, happiness burning to ash.

“You alright?” Simon asks, rubbing your hip. Still, no words come. All you can do is stare at him. “Bunny? Hey.” He shifts, and Johnny tries to sit up, bliss morphing into concern.

“Pretty girl.” He holds your hand, thumb rubbing against your knuckles, and you try to remind yourself to breathe.

What are you doing? 

“Everything’s okay.” Simon is on his knees now, dipped down in front of you, cradling your jaw. “You’re okay, bun. Just breathe for us.” He rubs your back, and Johnny keeps his fingers curled against your pulse point. They steady you, anchor you, and you surface again, free from the wave of black water trying to drag you down.

“S-sorry.” You hiss, chest less tight. “I’m fine, sorry.”

“Lay back.” Simon urges. “I’m going to go get a towel to clean up, stay here.” You nod, cuddling close, your head resting on Johnny’s chest, his touch slow on the back of your neck.

“Ye’re with us, bunny. Ye’re safe.” You close your eyes with a whisper.

“I know.” 

The unsteady peace of the morning doesn't last very long. It’s not too soon after Simon gets Johnny cleaned up that Penny is awake, baby monitor sparking to life, dragging him from the other side of the bed and down the hall.

“How did ye sleep?” Johnny murmurs, still holding you close.

“Good. Great, actually. How are you uh, feeling?”

“Okay. Hip is throbbin’ but I imagine it’ll always be like that from now on.”

“It will get better. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Come here.” You inch closer, bringing your faces together and he kisses you, soft and delicate in the early glow of the day. “Dinnae like ye being so far away. Need ye close. Helps me feel better.”

“You’re such a brat.” You tease, but can’t help giving him another kiss, basking in his warmth. He pushes back against you, flushed. Tan skin warmed bronze and rubicund on his cheeks, almost pink. His eyes are a brighter shade of blue, clear like Caribbean waters, lips swollen, and bee stung. He looks… so fucking hot. Like Hercules, a hero, tired after battle.

 “You sound like Si.” His hand lingers along the curve of your hip, inciting the riotous butterflies into a flurry, heat simmering in your belly. “I like these.”

“My sweatpants?”

“Aye. They fit ye well.” He peeks over, and you giggle despite yourself. He makes it so easy, to feel weightless, free, smiling as handsome as ever, long strands of mohawk falling into his eyes.

“Think you need a haircut.”

“I do. Si usually does it, but I think he’ll be nominatin’ ye this time around.”

“I can’t cut hair!”

“Ach, ‘ts not that hard. Ye just trim a little off the ends and be done wit’ it.” You roll your eyes, and the door cracks open, revealing Simon and Penny, sippy cup in hand.

“See? He’s right there.” He hums, holding her steady, her arms already reaching for where Johnny waits. “Da’s right here.”

“My wee lamb.” He cuddles her into his good side, kissing and cooing, letting her bounce on the bed. “Hey princess. Ye have a good breakfast?”

“She’s on another banana kick.” Simon sighs, kissing his forehead, and then turning to you. “Okay?” He checks in, focused and concerned, and you nod.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Forgot to ask how you slept…” He eyes the bed.

“Good, yeah. I… slept really well.”

“Guess ye’ll just have to sleep in here for now on.” Johnny quips, fingers preoccupied by being dragged towards Penny’s mouth. Sleep in here for now on? Like, with them?

Pen coos, tipping towards you with a chubby little smile. “Bunny.” She babbles, fingers straining.

Your hand finds hers, holding on to keep her upright. “Good morning to you too, little miss. Sorry I neglected you.” You sign ‘good morning’, one of the few you know from work, and she claps, thrilled. Simon beams.

“Yes, she’s terribly neglected.” He sits at Johnny’s side, mindlessly stroking his leg, massaging and working the muscle in his calf. “How do we feel about getting you downstairs?” He nods, and you roll over, sliding off the bed to lumber towards his crutches.

“Nice and slow.” His fingers brush yours as he takes them, and a shy smile works across his face.

“Ye’ll help me?” Simon tsks, but you sigh playfully.

“Of course.”

Getting Johnny settled is easy. You build him a nice little nest with the pillows from the couch, fluffing them for support, making sure he’s comfortable, until Simon reminds you to take it easy.

“You’re not at work, let me do this.”

“I don’t mind…”

“I do. Sit.” He leans you back into the cushions, settling you both, plopping Penny down between you. “If you keep an eye on her, I’ll get breakfast.” She crawls into your side with her sip cup, and you try not to tense when she curls up against your ribs. Her feet press against Johnny’s thigh, and he cups them both in one hand, staring at her like he’s trying to memorize every little piece. Deep breath. You can do this. 

“Isnae she the bonniest thing ye’ve ever seen?” He breathes, and you nod.

“She really is. The cutest.”

“She looks like ‘im.” He murmurs, and you blink, glancing down at the baby. Like who?

“Like…” the curiosity falls out of your mouth in a hurry, and you grimace. He gives you a weird look.

“He didnae tell ye?”

“Tell me what?”

“She’s his. Simon’s.”

“Wait, I thought…” You don’t what you thought. You assumed she was adopted, or something else. “She’s…”

“We got turned down by every agency, ye know. Two dads, active combat roles.” He leans forward, tickling her arm, and her eyes light up, like she’d forgotten he was there. You help her straighten, and she scoots over closer to him, trying climb him like a jungle gym. “Ah, Penny. No. Da’s hurt.” He makes the sign for what you assume is hurt, his pointer fingers motioning towards one another. “Hurt, Penny. Da is hurt.” He does it again, and she cocks her head. “Here, sit here, there’s a girl.” She settles easily after that, completely captivated by the old Disney movie Johnny flicked on. “Anyway, no one would let us adopt a baby. Felt like it was goin’ be impossible, and we almost gave up. Then we met Pen’s mum.”

“You knew her?”

“Aye. She’s special. Gave us a chance.” Something green and snappish curdles in your stomach. It’s illogical, insane, and you try to beat it back. “We didnae know, obviously, who the dad was goin’ be but, I’m so glad it was him.”

“Did you…”

“Do it naturally?” He wiggles an eyebrow. “Nay. We both donated and she did it at home.”

“And... Simon said she's not in Penny’s life?”

“Not right now. She will be again, one day. She jus’ travels a lot and is really committed to her job. Has no parental rights, nothin’ like that. But she’s not against seeing Penny, the adoption is open.”

“That’s great.” Adoption is delicate, you know. There’s no one size fits all when it comes to nature of it, and you’re relieved to hear it sounds like they have something that’s healthy for Penny, and everyone involved.

“Sorry, thought he would’ve told ye.”

“It didn’t come up, and I didn’t want to… pry. He mentioned she was deaf when I asked about the sign language.”

“Eh, pry all ye want. Ye’re in our life, ye should know these things. And aye, she’s fully deaf. Travels as an interpreter for the U.S. military. Works with some important guy at the top. Dinnae know much about it.”

“That’s really cool.”

“We’re very grateful to her.” He strokes some of Penny’s curls from her forehead, and you look closer, watching for similarities, her chubby cheeks and chestnut dusted dark blonde hair now starting to look reminiscent of Simon, the longer you study her.

“I’m happy for you guys.” He glances from her to you with a beautiful smile, so handsome it makes your chest hurt.

“Me too.”

“I think,” Simon brings two plates with eggs and toast, handing one to Johnny before placing the other on the table by your knee. “We should have a bit of a lie in on the couch, easy day. Bun’s still on leave of absence, and you’re not going anywhere.” He shoots Johnny a pointed look, who holds his hand up as if to say, who me?

“A lie in sounds grand.” He postures, grimacing with a shift. You instinctively try to move towards him, a hand on Pen to keep her in place, but Simon beats you to it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’ jus’ my hip.”

“Let’s eat something and I’ll get your pain meds.” You nod encouragingly.

“Better to take them with something in your stomach.”

“Is it goin’ be like this all the time? Two nursemaids cluckin’ at me?”

“Probably.” You laugh, and Simon shakes his head.

“See, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Johnny murmurs, voice low. Penny is upstairs, asleep for her morning nap already, both guys settled back on the couch, a tangle of limbs. 

“No.” you whisper. Simon’s head turns, drawing his eye, but the exchange is fleeting.

“How’s your shoulder, bun?” Johnny murmurs, and you half shrug.

“Better. The steroid helped a lot.” The room is heady, and you’re cocooned in its warmth, blazing heat radiating from Simon trying to lull you into a nap like Pen’s.

“Ye can sleep, pretty girl.” Johnny smirks. His legs are thrown over the larger man’s thighs, one gingerly cushioned, the other, lackadaisical and bent.

“It’s so warm in here.” You offer as an explanation, and he agrees.

“Aye. Si’s a furnace.”

“You run pretty warm yourself.” Simon chides, but nods encouragingly at you.

“I need a shower.” It is tempting, to curl up on the couch between them, slip away into safe and comfortable dreamland but… not without a shower. You’re overdue.

“Okay. We’ll be here.”

There isn’t much in this world a shower can’t fix.

Or at least, that’s how this one feels. It’s scalding, so hot the room steams up within a minute, and you relax under the spray, letting it wash over the soreness in your shoulder, cascade down your back.

You linger in it, soaking up the quiet moment, raising your face to the water over and over, letting it rinse you clean.

By the time you get out, you almost feel like a brand-new person.

If only… 

“How was yer shower?”

“Good.” He tries to fidget on the couch, rocking back and forth to make room for you. “Don’t Johnny, you’ll hurt-“

“I’m fine.” He grunts. “I’m still me, ye know. I know ye didnae know me, before, but I dinnae need help wit’ everything.” Your heart cracks.

“I know you don’t.” You think back to your vulnerable patient, the one who cried about being separated from his family, and how far he’s come. It fills you with pride, and something so foreign, so strange, you don’t even recognize. A massive swell of affection, of care. “I’m just… programmed, you know?” You try to soothe him, and he grumbles until you’re slipping into his side, turning to press your face in his chest.

“Sorry, bun. Didnae mean to get frustrated.”

“I know, Johnny.”

The baby monitor crackles.

Johnny shifts restlessly.

“What is it?” you murmur, and he huffs.

“I want to get her. Hate feelin’ useless to my own daughter.” You could…

“Do you… do you want me to grab her? Bring her down here for you?” His eyes light up.

“Would ye? Si’s just in the kitchen, dealing with some laundry. If ye could-“

“Yeah, I got her.”

“Ye’re sure? Yer shoulder…”

“It’s fine, promise.” He holds your jaw briefly, tongue dashing out to lick his lips, and then he kisses you, wet and messy, breathlessly.

“Thanks, bun.”

Penny’s room is dark. You’ve seen it in passing, but never really been inside, and when you flick on the light, she’s already standing in her crib, little face wet with tears.

‘Shhh, it’s alright!” You’re not sure she will calm for you since you’re not one of her dads. You’re practically a stranger in her life, but she reaches for you anyway, arms stretched out, hands grabbing in mid air. “Okay, okay, here we go.” You support her weight with your good arm, tucking her up on your waist, setting her easily on your hip.

At least they’re good for something. 

“There we go. Ready to go downstairs, see Da? Yeah?” You babble, surprised to feel her nappy still dry, and she tilts her head back, pretty eyes and gob smacked expression locked onto you.

Fuck. 

“Hi, baby girl.” You whisper, backs of two fingers gentle on her cheek. “You really do look like your dad, don’t you?” Something springs a leak, cracks slivering wide, a failsafe crumbling in your chest. It stops working, stops processing, because tears are suddenly flooding your eyes, making it hard to see.

Penny coos. You try to take a deep breath.

Get it together. You’re holding their baby. 

Deep breath. 

Pain long buried and forgotten clangs on the rusty iron encasing your heart. It bangs against it, pleads to get out.

For a second, it steals your breath. Almost forces a sob from your throat. Raw edged agony beats wildly through your veins, sharp and acidic, poisoning you from the inside out.

You shove it back where it came from.

You need some air. You need some space, some distance... something that will lessen this feeling, this despair. 

“Alright,” you croak. “Let’s get you downstairs.”

“Where’s…”

“She went up to get Penny.” Simon nods, thumb slipping the monitor’s volume crank higher, head cocked.

“Hi baby girl… you really do look like your dad, don’t you?” He glances at Johnny, who shrugs sheepishly.

“I let it slip.”

“Did you explain everything?”

“Mostly. Didnae want her to think we were together or anything like that.” Simon nods, satisfied, and Johnny’s toes curl a little. He loves seeing that expression on his face, the proud one, the nearly smug one, and he’d do anything for it, again and again. Johnny tilts his chin for a kiss and he obliges, deep and slow, gentle hand on his chest. “You were so good for us earlier. How’re you feeling? Anything sore?” The blood rushes back to Johnny’s cock from the praise alone, and he blushes.

“I feel good.”

“Do ya?”

“Aye. Wanna play with our bunny s’more.” He grows hotter under his clothes, but Simon shakes his head.

“Don’t push it. We’ve talked about this. You have to let her set the pace.” He knows, and he tries, but after this morning, all he can think about is your hand on his cock, your mouth on his, the dazed, lust filled expression on your face as your hips rocked in time with your strokes.

He wants to show you everything they can give you; the way real love is supposed to feel. Not painful and terrifying. But beautiful, and limitless.

“She’s ready for more.” He protests.

“She’s not, Johnny.” He’s using that tone, the one Johnny knows not to argue with, so he concedes.

After all, he doesn’t really want to push you. He wants you to trust them. Love them.

He wants you to feel safe and comfortable. He’ll wait as long as it takes.

“Alright,” your voice sounds heavy, broken. Simon’s head snaps up. “Let’s get you downstairs.”

Penny is dancing in your arms, clapping her hands together with some sort of sign you don’t seem to understand, babbling nonstop.

“Someone’s awake!” you declare, and Johnny holds his arm out, beckoning.

“There they are.” Simon ruffles his mohawk. You almost falter, stuttering in your stance, but your lips quirk into a tiny smile.

“She’s still dry.” You explain, placing her in his side. He wants to pull you down for another kiss, but Penny insists on one instead, open mouth seeking his nose like a bird.

“Ach, alright wee lamb, alright.”

“You okay?” Simon is cautious, trying not to encroach too much when you’re having a hard time, something he’s been instilling in Johnny too. Giving you space, giving you time.

“Bunny? Ye wit' us?” You’re in your head again, drifting. Here, but not really, and he tries to pull back towards them, to safety. To love.

“Yeah, I… uh. I have to run some errands.”

“Where?” Simon asks sharply, and Johnny tries to sit up.

“I have to go to the hospital, fill out some paperwork for leave, and I need to swing by apartment… get some clothes and stuff.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, no that’s alright. You guys hang out. I won’t be too long.” You look uncomfortable, twisting and turning, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Let me drive you, at least. I can’t stand you taking the train all over the city.” You laugh.

“I’ve grown up on trains and been fine, besides...” You motion to Johnny and Penny on the couch before your arms cross, sprinkle of defiance that has him casting a quick glance to see Simon’s jaw flexing. What choice do they have? 

“Alright. Well, text us to check in yeah?”

You’re gone for hours. Simon takes to pacing, and Johnny can’t soothe him, can’t hold him in the way he wants, can’t walk over and throw his arms around him the way he should be.

It hurts.

“What’s dad doing, hmm Penny? What’s he doing?” He coos, pointing to where his partner is checking his cellphone for the tenth time. She babbles something unintelligible back to him, chin tipped back, gazing in wonder.

Simon’s stress softens, hardness still lingering in worry lines, mouth taut. “‘M sorry.” He murmurs, settling on the couch opposite where Penny is sitting up against Johnny.

“It’s okay. I’m worried too.” He commiserates. It’s the same kind of agony in his heart, the same taste is his mouth, from when he was in hospital. Helplessly laid up and watching you work your way through whatever is chasing you. He clears the lump in his throat. “She’ll be back soon. Right? She wouldnae…” panic erupts in the bottom of his stomach. “She wouldnae just, leave.”

“We don’t know what she would do, love. She’s scared, and she’s smart, and we don’t know who she’s running from.”

“Maybe ye should’ve followed her.” He groans, and Simon gives him a look.

“Thought you didn’t want me doing that now?”

“I dinnae.” He chews on his lip. His abdomen is throbbing, and he reaches for Simon’s hand.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Simon soothes, rubbing a thumb over the back of his knuckles.

“Everythin’ would be easier if I wasnae like… like this.” He grits, frustration laden voice cracking. He’s a mess. A burden, can’t take care of his own family, help Si with Pen, or you. All he can do is lay here, and- 

“Shhh. Don’t say that.” Simon cradles the back of his head, mouth pressed against his forehead. “You’re alive, that’s all I care about. You came home.”

“Feel like I should be doin’ more.”

“The only thing-“ Penny grunts, and Simon plops a finger in her fist, letting her yank and tug on it. “The only thing you need to do is get better, focus on healing. I’m here for the rest, okay?”

“Okay.” He whispers, eyes heavy. The medications knock him out, but it’s better than before, when he was stuck inside dreams, bound to a bed.

“Get some rest, sweet boy. I’ll wake you when she’s back.” He’s already losing the battle, stupor dragging him back under, and bliss clouds his head as he begins to drift.

“‘Kay.”

[theorphicangel]

18+, mdni, remember when I said I needed to fuck Toji? this is what I meant

Your legs wrap around Toji’s waist as he stretches you open, your sweet cunt swallowing him whole.

Currently, neither one of you move. You feel so full as if you could burst at any moment, a bulge appearing in your lower abdomen. Two bodies pant heavily in the humid room, damp sheets sticking to your skin. You can’t recall how long you and Toji had been at it but it must be reaching the third hour by now.

Fatigue was clearly taking its toll on the two of you; Toji panting heavily in your ear and your lungs struggling to inhale enough oxygen.

“Fuck.” He muttered, his tone low and raspy making you tremble beneath him. He’d completely bottomed out, your warm cunt welcoming him in. A short grunt left his throat as your walls clenched around him, practically milking him.

“Toji–” your voice shook, increasing a few octaves. The burning sensation in your gut threatened to snap if Toji even dared to move.

“I know, doll.” He replies. You feel his lips move against your shoulder, his head buried in the crook of your neck. It was too much for him too. It took him everything not to let the feeling of tension in his lower abdomen. Toji’s thighs shiver slightly as he thrusts gently, it’s only a single movement but immediately a high-pitched whine leaves your throat.

“I know, I know. “ Soft lips kiss your skin, your scent driving him crazy. No matter how long you spend in his arms, Toji will never be satisfied. His tongue licks at your skin, decorating your skin with hickeys. He groans, his lips attacking your skin making you let out a needy moan in response.

It would never be enough, there would never be a day where his hunger and thirst for you would ever be quenched. Not today, not tomorrow or ever. It seemed impossible.

“Fuck, I love you so much doll, you don’t even understand, so fucking much.” Toji groaned, his tone thick with passion. “I love you so fucking much it could kill me, doll.”

Your jaw falls open, instantly overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed by his words, his kisses, the thick tension in the room and the way that his cock continues to stretch you out further. It takes a few breaths before you can collect your thoughts, replying with clear infatuation in your tone.

“I love you too, I love you Toji, I love you, I love you, I lov–”

Your words are cut off by a harsh gasp as Toji fucks into you, beginning his relentless pace.

“Tell me baby, tell me, don’t stop.” He seethes, sweaty locks sticking to his forehead.

You continue to babble your three words of affection to him as he pounds your cunt. It’s all with love, every grip of your thighs, every smack to the fat of your ass, every time he cups your breast and his tongue swirls around your nipple you know that it’s all out of love — and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Toji continues, allowing the pressure in your gut to build up like an elastic band ready to snap.

“Toji!”

“I know, just one more for me, can you do that for me?”

You struggle to reply, nothing but endless moans leaving your lips. The room fills up with sounds of Toji’s grunts, your whines and the filthy sound of skin smacking. It was too much.

“Can you do it for me, love? Wanna cum for me?”

Your eyes finally peer up at his dark green irises, his eyes never leave your face. Watching as your face contorts, lips parted to an ‘o’, eyebrows raised and your eyes widen as you reach your climax.

“Yes, yes, yes! M’cumming, m’cumming—”

Your thighs shake under Toji’s body, he bottoms out again as your walls clench around his cock. His groans fill the room, reaching his own peak. Your eyes roll back and heels dig into Toji’s back. You’re more than sure that your fingernails have scratches down his back.

Eventually Toji’s lips find yours, brushing lazy kisses.

If it was possible, the two of you would stay here for an eternity. Your bodies seem to fit perfectly, molded perfectly for this exact reason. Toji swears you were made for him, usually you laugh it off as him being a sap but it’s at moments like this when you’re gazing into each other’s eyes and peppering kisses across each other’s skin that you believe him.

You were made for him and vice versa.

The corners of your lips turn up and Toji feels your smile print against your skin. “What you smiling ‘bout?”

“Remember when you’d ramble on about how I was made for you?” Your voice is croaky, throat dry. Toji makes the mental note to get you water asap. “I think–” a giggle erupts, “I think you were right, I was made for you.”

Instantly, Toji’s own lips curve into a wide smile.

“That’s damn right, doll.” He groans, his voice raspy. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Me neither.” you murmur before delving into another kiss.

[scientia-rex]

Wound Care

Ok so, take this with a BIG grain of salt, because I may be a medical doctor BUT you need to know how much wound care training we get in medical school: none. Zip. Zilch. There may be medical schools where you do, but mine wasn't a bozo factory and there was NO wound care training. Everything I know I learned from one of several sources: an intensive 2-day wound care course I did in residency (highly recommend), the local Home Health wound care nurse (highly recommend), a completely batshit insane old white male doctor who started our learning sessions by yelling Vietnam War stories at me (do not recommend), a hospital wound care nurse (highly recommend), and experience (oh god do not recommend).

The first thing you need to know is that wound healing varies dramatically across the course of a lifespan. Kids? Kids will heal. If they don't, get their ass to a pediatrician because there's something genetic going on. Young adults will heal. Middle-aged adults will heal. You know who doesn't heal for shit? The elderly, and people with severe illnesses, and people with uncontrolled type II diabetes.

Your body needs several things in order to heal. It needs macronutrients, so you need to be able to EAT protein, fat, and carbs. If you are on total parenteral nutrition, aka TPN, aka IV nutrition, you are going to be worse at healing. If you are starving yourself, you are going to be worse at healing. If your body is desperately funneling all the calories you take in to surviving your COPD or cancer, you are going to be worse at healing.

It also needs micronutrients. If your diet sucks, you won't heal. Take a multivitamin once in a while.

There are two CRITICAL skin components to healing: collagen and elastin. Guess what we stop making as we age. Promoting collagen isn't just good for "anti-aging," it's good for NOT ripping your skin apart. Taking oral collagen is probably bullshit because your body is going to have to disassemble it to get it across the intestinal membranes to absorb, but it's also harmless, and if your diet REALLY sucks, who knows. Give it a try. Collagen is made of amino acids; think protein.

Another absolutely crucial component is blood flow. As people age, they start to develop cholesterol plaques lining arteries that eventually pick up calcium deposits. This makes blood vessels less elastic, which is a problem, but eventually also blocks them off, which is a much bigger problem. If someone has the major blood flow to their feet decreased by 90% by arterial stenosis, they are not going to heal for shit AND their foot's gonna hurt.

One component of blood flow I hadn't thought about before going into medicine is fluid retention. The way your body works, blood exits the heart at a very high velocity, but slows to a crawl by the time it gets into capillaries, the smallest blood vessels in the body. Water is a very small molecule and can leave the blood vessel, especially if there aren't big, negatively-charged molecules like proteins like albumin in the blood vessels to hold the water there. And we're built for this--some water is supposed to leak out of our blood vessels when it gets to real little vessels. It gets taken back up by the lymphatic system and eventually dumped back into the bloodstream at the inferior vena cava. But if you aren't making albumin--for instance, in liver failure--you may leak a LOT of fluid into the tissue, so much that your legs get swollen, tight, the skin feeling woody and strange. This isn't fixable by drainage because the fluid is everywhere, not in a single pocket we can drain. And because it puts so much pressure on the tissues of the skin, it often results in ulcers. Congestive heart failure, liver failure, kidney failure--these are all common causes of severe edema, aka swelling due to fluid in the tissues. And they're a real bitch when it comes to wound care, because we have such limited resources for getting the fluid back out, which is a necessary first step to healing.

Pressure is another common cause of wounds. Pressure forces blood out of those little capillaries, so you starve the cells normally fed by those capillaries, and they die. It's called pressure necrosis. Very sick people who can't turn themselves over--people in the ICU, people in nursing homes--are especially prone to these wounds, as are people with limited sensation; pressure wounds are common in wheelchair users who have lost some feeling in the parts of their bodies that rub against those surfaces, or diabetics who don't notice a rock in their shoe.

So, if you're trying to treat wounds, the questions to ask are these:

Why did this wound happen?

-Was it pressure? If it's pressure, you have to offload the source of the pressure or else that wound will not heal. End of story. You can put the tears of a unicorn on that thing, if you don't offload the pressure it won't heal.

-Was it fluid? If it's fluid, you have get the fluid out of the issues or else it won't heal. You can sometimes do that with diuretics, medications that cause the body to dump water through the kidneys, but that's always threading a needle because you have to get someone to a state where they still have juuuuust enough fluid inside their blood vessels to keep their organs happy, while maintaining a very slight state of dehydration so the blood vessels suck water back in from the tissues. You can use compression stockings to squeeze fluid back into the vessels, but if they have arterial insufficiency and not just venous insufficiency, you can accidentally then cause pressure injury. The safest option is using gravity: prop the feet up above the level of the heart, wherever the heart is at, at that moment, and gravity will pull fluid back down out of the legs. Super boring though. Patients hate it. Not as much as they hate compression stockings.

-Was it a skin tear because the skin is very fragile? This is extremely common in the elderly, because they're not making collagen and elastin, necessary to repairing skin. If this is the case, make sure they're actually getting enough nutrition--as people get into their 80s and 90s, their appetites often change and diminish, especially if they're struggling with dementia. And think about just wrapping them in bubble wrap. Remove things with sharp edges from their environments. I have seen the WORST skin tears from solid wood or metal furniture with sharp edges. Get rid of throw rugs and other tripping hazards. I had somebody last week who tried to a clear a baby gate and damn near destroyed their artificial hip.

The next critical question: why isn't it healing?

-Are you getting enough nutrients? Both macro and micro?

-Are you elderly?

-Are you ill?

-Do you have a genetic disorder of collagen formation?

Fix why it's not healing and almost anything will heal. If you're diabetic, find a medication regimen that improves your sugars and stick to it. If you're anorexic, get treatment for your eating disorder. If you have congestive heart failure, work with your doctor on your fluid balance. Wear the damn pressure stockings. Prop up your feet.

If, after those two unskippable questions are done, you want to do something to the wound--apply a dressing, do a treatment--that's a whole other kettle of fish. I'll write that later. The dryer just sang me its little song and I need to put away the laundry.

[nanamiscocksleeve]

15. with hiromi? 🥺 I need somethin good after work

You crawl over Hiromi's leanly muscled body, dragging your lips down his chest, his happy trail, pausing just short of his boxers. You rock your hand over the tent in the fabric, watch him close his eyes languidly like a cat.

“Aw, poor baby, do you want me to take care of this for you?” you ask teasingly, drawing a chuckle from him as he caresses your cheek.

"I'm in your care darling." he says in a low voice, tinged with anticipation. You nose at the bump before sliding your hands on the elastic and slipping off his boxers, enjoying the feeling of his veiny cock springing free, softy hitting your cheek.

"So tense Hiromi...we need to remedy this right away." You lick down one side, then the other, cupping his balls and squeezing softly before taking him into your mouth. A strangled groan leaves his throat, his hips rolling as you take him into your mouth, feeling his tip just start to enter the back of your throat.

Your tongue laves the underside of his meat, changing the pressure in your mouth by tightening your lips, enjoying the way he bucks and his hand grips your locks. You name falls from his lips as he chases his high.

You let go for a brief second, seeing his weeping with desire, the milky beads of precum gathering like salted candy. You suck the tip greedily drawing more out of him, finger gently massaging his perineum, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

His eyes lock on yours, doe-eyed and gazing at him like his cock was the best thing you've ever had and with a few more slurps, he moans and shoots bullets into your ready mouth, twitching, groaning with satisfaction.

[miiroki]

𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 𝙭 𝙃𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧/𝙤𝙘

𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘋𝘢𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦, 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦, 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳, 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘥. 𝘠𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

Warning: Vulgur language, sexual moments (no actual sex)

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Maricelle Hightower was born a regal lady, bred to be perfect, obedient, and pliant.

Born from the same womb as her twin sister Alicent Hightower, the two girls were meant for high class living, meant to be royal wombs to any high class lord, or king.

Alicent Hightower had always been deemed the oldest, the most quiet between the two sisters. Due to her submissive behaviour, she had bore the brunt of their fathers actions.

Otto Hightower had tried to bend and fold Maricelle to his whims, but he had been met with consistent hostility and resistance.

In his hold Alicent felt like dough, elastic but agreeable when met with enough pressure and force. Maricelle felt like molten glass, permanent burns and scars would be the punishment for attempting to change her mold.

…

Once Otto had tried to be physical with her, grabbing her wrists so harsh it would leave bruises. Pulling her hair to ensure her conformity.

Maricelle had shown no reaction, and after dismissing her he kept hearing terrible tales from maids and working men alike, they’d whisper how terrible, and cruel the Hightower family would treat their lovable and kind Lady.

It had gotten worse throughout many moons, that other men of higher class had been known to discuss the hot topic.

Otto had asked Maricelle to stop what she was starting.

He was met with a coy face and her bandaged wrists.

“Father, I’m not sure why your listening to the common men so immensely”

…

During Maricelles first engagement with a neighboring Lord, a large event was hosted, which lasted 2 days and 2 nights. On the final night the Lord was said to have excused himself from the celebration and had asked for Maricelles assistance to his bedchambers.

The next day the man was found dead on his plush feathered bed.

No blood, no coughing, no struggle.

Maricelle was seen during that time. Their had been many accounts of her leaving the Lords chambers as soon as she tucked him into bed.

…

Shortly after she was sent home. Her guards and handmaids had been worried for her health, what if this supposed killer had somehow managed itself into the castles kitchen, and would poison their beloved lady.

Otto could recall asking his daughter about the events that occurred that night.

She replied with a familiar coy smile and asked him if he suspected it was her.

To which he replied with a gruff no.

“We all have a time and place father. Lord Alaric has just met his” Maricelle then bowed her head and excused herself from the council room.

Otto swore to himself then and their that he would make sure whomever Maricelle would marry, could handle her tendency’s.

His wishes would come true in the form of a rogue prince.

—

“Has he truly gone mad?” Maricelle uttered to her sister. “What does father want to achieve by marrying me off the Prince Daemon” she scoffed.

The carriage had shook and swayed from side to side.

“Sister” Alicent put her hand over Maricelles gloved ones. “If it is any condolence, Prince Daemon is young and he is always flying to diffrent nations on his dragon. After the marriage consummation, ‘tis certain that you will no longer need to see him”

Maricelle held onto her sisters hand, gripping it tighter. “I suppose. I just hope that I do not see my end like Lady Rhea Royce” she whispered softly.

The people of Kings Landing had known Maricelle as the perfect daughter, kind in every way, mesmerizing in every way. She liked the attention, craved it even. She made it apperant to herself that she would always keep a shark eye and an even sharper ear to hear comments people would whisper about her throughout the cold halls of the Red Keep.

Her father was not opposed to the vision either.

—

“Lady Maricelle” King Viserys had spoken. His voice slightly hoarse, echoing throughout the cold hall of the throne room.

“Your grace” she bowed and held her poise.

“Otto has done his job well with you and your sister. You are both well refined young women, and he aught to be nothing but proud”

She had to stop herself from scoffing.

—

The first time Daemon Targaryen layed eyes on the Hightower women was when he saw her sitting alone on a stone seat near the blossoming flora.

From his spot behind a pillar, his eyes roamed her figure.

Whoever this women was, she was well endowed in all the right areas, the square neckline outlined in intricate embroidery only highlights the swell of her bosom.

Suddenly his mouth seemed dry, and his feet had grown a mind of it’s own. Walking towards the entrancing women, and taking the rest of him with it.

He stood in front of (the still unknown) women.

“The Red Keep gardens are wonderful this time around” Daemon plucked one if the stray petals that had gotten trapped in her hair. “Aren’t they?”

Maricelle slowly fluttered her eyes open, and blinked, being met with the legs of a stranger in front of her. Averting her gaze she was met with the unmistakable likeness that was Daemon Targaryen.

“Prince Daemon”

He hummed, and sat beside her. Making eye contact with while she looked up at him, was to difficult.

Even for a seasonal women wooer like himself.

It was especially difficult when he had a clear view of her plunging neckline, exposing the obvious softness of her tits.

He was a simple man.

“Seems I’m quite well known” He laughed, more so coughed, trying to stop the foreign heat of his ears due to his own thoughts.

She chuckled, and he had started getting dizzy.

“How could one not know of the Rogue Prince”

“I suppose my title precedes me” He mustered to look her in the eyes.

Now close enough, he could confirm that this women had to be a siren. A mermaid maybe. She’d somehow grown legs and had come to taunt him.

Idiot.

He scolded.

Her eyes were umber, with slight glimpses of green when the light hit them just right. If he kept looking maybe he would’ve noticed the similarities between her and her sister, but before he looked strange he had to force his eyes to peel away from her face. Instead he took in her attire.

A verdant green.

If he was in the right state of mind he might’ve put two and two together, but it seems this women was to tempting to think about anything else.

…

The two had chatted the noon away.

Sitting on the stone bench, almost knee to knee, only a whisper parted them, to engrossed in their conversation to separate.

He had enjoyed making her laugh, and while she was in a fit of giggles she had noticed that the sun was no longer high above her, but was now setting atop a hill.

She faced Daemon and had hurriedly said her goodbyes.

Their she left him, high (hard) and dry.

Only the soft billowing of her dress was all he could see as she ran as elegantly as she could away from him.

Daemon sighed. The spell she put him under had started to slowly go away.

It was when he started to walk away from the garden that he realized he has no name to label the maiden that entranced him.

—

The event that night was brimming with Lords and Ladies from around Westeros.

Some had become intoxicated as soon as they entered the great hall.

From her position near her sister and father, Maricelle kept a keen eye upon any figure that entered the room.

Her brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower had been canoodling with the ladies on the dance floor. It was not a sight she wanted to behold.

Finding the party dull, she made her way out of the festivities and found herself back at the stone bench she spent all afternoon at.

She hesitated to sit, but her instincts took over.

Maricelle could feel the cold and sturdy seat even through the many layers of her proper attire. Their was no sound except for the drowing noise of chatter and loot music from the hall just across the way.

Their was no sign of movement, not even servants were seen scattering about.

It seemed like it was just her.

Before she could fully relax, two callused and rough hands gently made contact with her eyes, covering her sight.

“To what do I owe the pleasure” Maricelle laughed softly. Placing her own hands near the ones covering her eyes, clinging onto the man’s wrists

“It’s not every day that I see a dame all by herself, rare in especially beautiful maidens” The man’s voice was tainted in tease.

“Why don’t you reveal yourself”

“As the lady wishes”

Daemon retracted his hands, and quickly held both of her own that were attached to his wrists. He initiated her to rise from her seated position by lifting her hands into the air.

She twirled around and craned her head upwards to face Daemon.

Their hands still holding each others sank between the two, acting like a bridge.

Their faces were to close to be considered polite, and the stone bench parted them by their knees.

“How may I help you Prince Daemon?”

Maybe it was the darkness of the night playing tricks on him, but Daemon swore he could feel her leaning towards him.

“Having you here now is all I need”

She scoffed slightly, “Is this how you charm all women”

“Only lonely pretty ones in gardens”

“So I am lonely?”

“Not anymore”

—

Daemon had unknowingly escaped from the festivities meant for his betrothed to Maricelle Hightower, but he could care less now that a pretty women was running and following him through the castle corridors, all while laughing.

Maricelle held up her dress as Daemon led her by a stretched arm. His other hand was secured on her waist.

The dashed and stumbled through the dimly lit halls, giggling like children.

Maricelle had thought him immature, a barbarian, a beast, and everything under the bright Westeros sun. She still felt that way but even she could admit, he was very fun.

She had also neglected to tell him her full name, wanting to see his reaction at a later date. Which would be inevitable.

…

The two found themselves in the library. Dusty, but most importantly, empty.

Daemon waited no longer, and started to attack her neck. He leaned her on a wooden table, so her ass was pressed against his pelvis, while she faced away from him.

The room was filled with feverish moans and whimpers.

Maricelle’s neckline had been pushed down, along with its many layers. Revealing her plush breasts.

Daemon makes quick work of the clean slate of her skin and littered her with marks of light purple and red bruises.

Daemon on the other was anything but untouched, his hair was being gripped by her right hand, while she had made her own marks on his neck, and jaw. They were much more pronounced.

Daemon had wanted to progress more, kissing her was incredible, but he was sure she was hiding something magical underneath all this fabric. He lifted her skirt and clothing, reaching for her small cloths. His hands caressing her exposed thighs.

Before anything to dishonourable happened, a loud banging was heard from the front door.

“Lady Maricelle? We have urgent orders from your father. A guardsman had seen you entering this room”

It was the nightly watch.

Had her father really been prone to incredibly terrible timing.

I was just about to have the time of my life. Maricelle huffed, disappointed greatly.

“Lady Maricelle, may I enter?” The night watch asked.

Daemon and Maricelle looked at each other with worried looks. If Viserys was to find that he was about to defile a young women who seemed important due to the guard reference of ‘Lady’, he would not be able to avert that kind of crisis.

Otto would be incredibly furious. Maricelle would most definitely be locked up in her room again.

“Uh…please, wait a moment” Maricelle uttered.

“Of course Lady Maricelle”

Daemons head flicked back and forth to his surroundings. Under the table? No. Behind the shelf? No. Behind the door? Stupid.

He then looked at the flustered women before him, all red and blushing with desire. She had pulled those delightful breasts back into their cage, and had tried to hide the marks of desire on her neck with her hair.

His gaze then looked further down, he was still holding onto her skirt.

Under the dress of a beautiful women? Yes.

Maricelle let out a small shriek as Daemon lifted her skirt further up and crawled underneath the large mass of fabric.

Maricelle blushed even harder.

She could feel the way his body was positioned under her dress. His arms had wrapped themselves on her right leg, and he was just hiding on the edge of her skirt.

“Lady Maricelle?”

She twisted her head to the door, and dusted away any remaining evidence on her clothes and made sure to lightly smack Daemons head to let him know that someone was now entering.

“Come in”

The night watch was a fairly old man, suited in the common silver armour, a torch in his left hand, and a spear in his left.

“Lady Maricelle, your father has summoned you to his private chambers, along with your sister”

“Alright, thank you for informing me, you may go”

The man stared and blinked at her. “Um, my Lady, do you not want any company to escort you?”

She tsked quietly, and she could feel Daemons shaking. Most likely laughing at her.

“No need, I will go myself”

“It would be improper of me to leave you to your own defences, especially at nigh-”

“I will go see my father myself” she hurriedly interrupted him, stern in her words.

The man had hesitated to act, but with a sigh he had bowed and wished her good night.

As soon as the doors had closed, Maricelle quickly tried to kick Daemon out of her dress.

“Prince Daemon! I must go!” She spoke quietly through gritted teeth, while holding up her skirt.

He laughed and continued to hold onto her waist now that he was standing straight.

“Alas you must”

He sneakily pecked her lips and whispered a goodnight before watching her scramble away, and out of the room. Leaving him only with the memory of her smooth silk legs, warmth, and another hard on.

Daemon groaned and looked down at his trousers. They were stretched to their limits as his bulge had been trying its best to escape its confinements.

“Hand it is” he sighed.

[fuckmymunson]

💌 a/n: Tiny fic because a lovely person brought to my attention that I haven't write anything about Eddie and a Inexperienced!Reader. I hope you like it! I don't know why I had a little trouble writing this, considering I'm a sex eminence.

CW: 18+, smut! oral sex (f), PiV sex!, minors DNI!

His tongue traced the curve of your hips, delighted by the scent and the faint taste of your body wash. Your hands caressed his untamed curls, brushing some strands away from his face. 

“Can I?” Eddie asked, as he hooked his fingers on the elastic of your underwear. You nodded, generating a pout from his lips. “Words, Stargirl, words”

“Yes, please” You squealed, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Good girl” He purred and slid your panties down. 

His strong, calloused hands spread your thighs slowly, admiring every curve and freckle your legs had. You watched him in awe, his eyes dripped with love and adoration, scanning every inch of skin. The vulnerability hit you in a wave of shame. You tried to close your legs but his hands on them prevented you from it. 

“Angel, don’t hide yourself from me” Eddie begged. 

“It was a reflex…” You lied, to which he arched an eyebrow. “Fine, I’m nervous”

“Don’t be” He said, simply shrugging.

“Wha—” You attempted to protest but his tongue sliding between your folds caught you by surprise as your question broke into a high-pitched moan. “F—Fuck”

Eddie hummed, pleased by your reaction as his tongue circled your clit slowly. He knew it was your first time being eaten out, so he wanted to take his time, to see what made you shiver and moan, he had all night after all. 

His mouth sucked on your clit, making your back arch as a gasp escaped from your throat. Your hand tightened its grip on his hair and you saw how Eddie’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, groaning against your pussy. The view was amazing. He worked without problems and before you noticed it your hips were rolling against his face as you rubbed your wet cunt on him.

“Sorry!” You gasped again, releasing his hand from your vicious grip. 

Eddie drew away from your soaked cunt, licking his lips in a sensual motion. “Don’t apologize, use me, princess” 

One of his fingers teased your entrance, slowly pushing in. Eddie was aware of your lack of experience, and he knew the brief details of how disastrous your first time was, so he decided to show you everything you were missing, starting with the basics: An orgasm.

Without hesitation, he returned his attention to your clit, now feeling like a man with a mission. Eddie groaned when he felt a new wave of your slick coating his fingers, he absolutely adored feeling your cunt drowning for him. 

Your moans increased in volume, slowly, since he was working you up slowly. Eddie’s mission was to overstimulate you, not to overwhelm you. 

The constant clenching of your pussy on his finger and how your back arched, how your hand returned to his hair, how you whined his name lost in bliss, the pleasant feeling of being loved that in fact you had never experienced before on its full state, was mindblowing. 

“Cum, please” He mumbled, licking your clit side to side. His voice was low, possessed with lust and desire.

A desire for you.

And you did, you came for the first time ever by another person’s ministrations, not by your own hand. Your legs closed involuntarily, squeezing his cheeks with your soft thighs. Your ears ringed at the pressure, it was fantastic. 

“Look at you, cumming in less than five minutes” Eddie teased, licking his finger clean without any shame. 

“It’s not my fault!” You groaned, pushing him by the shoulder with your bare foot. “Fuck you”

“Okay, if you say so” Eddie replied with a mischievous smile and quickly crouched on top of you. His still-wet lips met your neck, licking it and biting it. “Are you okay with this?” He asked, concern overlaying his voice. He would never do something to upset you.

“It is” You breathed out, still tired from your first orgasm, which made you suspect it won’t be the last one. 

“Can you feel me?” Eddie’s teasing tone returned as soon as he got your consent. His hips rolled against your naked body, rubbing the outline of his hard cock on his jeans on your sensitive, wet pussy. 

“Ugh, yes” You moaned, the sensitiveness enhancing the pleasure. 

It didn’t take him long to strip down and rub the flushed, leaking tip of his cock against your cunt. He tap the tip on your clit a few times for good measure, panting when you cried in pleasure. He wanted it, he needed it. He wanted to show you only he could bring you closer to heaven.

“I’ll be careful,” He said against your lips, as he guided his cock inside you. 

He watched how your body shivered, allowing him in with ease. Eddie stopped halfway, letting you get accustomed to the unusual sensation. When you moved your hips a little, he hissed in delight, trying so hard not to blow his load right there, because Oh God you looked so pretty it was agonizing. 

“Please, move” You pleaded in the sweetest, most adorable voice. 

“Of course, my princess” Eddie compiled and sink all the way in, groaning loudly at the sensation.

Soon, he moved at a bed-pushing speed. Neither of you cared if the whole trailer was shaking by the speed and force of his thrust. He was abusing your poor, tight, and slutty cunt, and you loved it. Eddie closed his eyes, ready to burst.

As if you appeared to read his thoughts, you cupped his cheeks. His chocolate eyes fixated on you, glassy and clouded with craving. “Inside me, please”

That did it. A few more thrusts and thick, hot cum filled you all the way to the brim, you were amazed and taken back by the sensation— But— It didn’t stop there. His thumb traveled down, rubbing your clit whilst he continued snapping his hips against your body at a slower pace. He was purposefully overstimulating himself to make you cum. So, you did, saturated with love and pleasure. Your dripping cunt clenched around him almost painfully, making him whine. It took you more time to recover from this orgasm, feeling drained to the limit.

“Sorry you had to do all the job” You apologized, covering your face with your arms. It wasn’t the first time you felt insecure by not being good enough (sexually speaking) for him. 

“Stop that, we are having a nice moment” Eddie rolled his eyes and laid down next to you, cuddling you, kissing your head. “I will do all the job if I need to, just as long as you are happy”

“I am happy” You replied, kissing his nose. “But I do wish I could do more for you… you know”

“Well, that can be arranged”

“Can I suck you off?”

Eddie blushed, taken back by your sudden boldness.

“Just gimme five minutes”

[n0ts0surel0ck]

Some autistic Sherlock headcanons!!

Based on my own autism

Sherlock hates getting his hair cut. He can’t wear ear defenders and he despises the small talk and how loud the clippers and blow dryers are. So, he generally wears his hair long and/or cuts it himself. Mariana eventually starts cutting it for him, since it equally bothers him when his hair touches his ears or neck. She’s just… not very good at it.

John finds a salon for Sherlock that does sensory appointments. It’s a silent appointment, so he doesn’t have to talk, and John gets him some earplugs to help with the noise. They’re not as good as his ear defenders but they do for the short time it takes to get his hair done. He mostly gets a dry scissor cut so he doesn’t have to be wet and so the clippers don’t touch him. He doesn’t like the vibration. He finds that he actually enjoys the sensation of a blow dryer when the sound isn’t overwhelming him. The heat and the air pressure are soothing.

Sherlock is very particular about fabrics. He despises polyester and other scratchy, synthetic fabrics. Everything he wears has to be 100% cotton. If he got his way, he’d wear an old pair of holey, decade old pajama pants and a jumper everywhere, but he doesn’t. He understands that he has to be presentable. He likes linen, the material doesn’t touch him as much, doesn’t stick to sweat, and allows for plenty of airflow. During spring and summer, and often stretching into fall and winter, he wears a pair of grey linen trousers. When it finally gets too cold, he switches to a pair of cotton ones that have an elastic waist band. He hates when there’s a lot of pressure below his diaphragm, so he keeps it loose. Shirts are mostly tees in the summer, a bit too big so they don’t touch him much. In the winter, he wears big sweatshirts, a half-peacoat, and a green scarf.

He’s been buying men’s high-top converse since he was in middle school and refuses to wear any other shoe. They’re comfortable, allow him to move without being heard, and don’t add to his height. He hates breaking in new ones, and so holds on to the ones he’s wearing for dear life. John has seen him wrap duct tape all the way around his shoe to keep the sole from falling out before.

His bedroom is kept perfectly organized by absolutely agonizing effort. He is particular about that space, since it’s where he rests. He doesn’t work in there. His chemistry equipment is in the living room and he never goes into the room on cases unless John forces him to change clothes. His room is a sensory heaven that he works tirelessly to keep so. Cleaning is difficult for him, but he resets the space every time he leaves it, even when he’s in a rush.

The rest of the apartment is a bust. His executive dysfunction takes over as soon as he crosses the threshold into the hallway. He leaves toothpaste uncapped, cups and plates everywhere, clothes wherever they fall. It drives John insane and he tries to clean up after himself, but it feels like an insurmountable task.

His hyper fixations overtake conversation constantly. Sometimes he and John will engage in conversation that is just… incomprehensible to those around them. John’s talking about the weather and Sherlock’s talking about Pendolino trains. Neither is acknowledging the other’s topic of conversation, but they’re responding to each other in turn and seemingly having a lovely time.

He likes to stim “with” John when something exciting happens. He grabs both of John’s hands so they’re facing each other and has John pull him back and forth quickly. He likes it when John and Mariana mimic a stim back to him, especially vocal ones. When the three of them are in the office together, it’s just an echo chamber of mouth pops and buzzes.

Sherlock respects the fuck out of routine. His in unconventional, but he follows it almost religiously. This means he respects other’s routines just as aggressively. He never moves John’s items, and if he borrows anything, he puts it back exactly where it was, position and all. He noticed John folding laundry in a certain way and now, if he steals one of John’s shirts and washes it after, he folds it in that certain way.

[comet-forgot-you]

pretty

max fox x reader

warnings: 18+ pls, smut, fingering, oral, thats all i think.

summary: your girlfriend is so pretty :(

a/n: i promise ill get back to requests soon, but i just had this idea pop into my head. needed a change from bottom reader to keep my brain working. do not repost for any reason

dark eyelashes kissing pale skin, she was so pretty. even as she slept, you wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her, kiss her, anything really, you just wanted to feel her skin against your own.

you push a strand of her hair from her face, trailing your fingers down across her collarbone. her eyes flutter open, looking first at you, then to the arm outstretched towards her. “m’ sorry mamas, didnt mean to wake you up, you just looked so pretty,” you mutter, gently rubbing her cheek in hopes to soothe her back to sleep.

“ts’ fine,” she mumbles, bringing the blanket up to recover her body. you drag your hand down to her hip before pulling her closer to you. she grumbles, but does nothing to stop the action, instead, she rolls over in your arms and pushes herself against your front.

max was never much of a morning person, usually sleeping in until the later hours of the morning. she’d usually fall back to sleep after you accidentally wake her. she would do it now, but the way your fingers danced across her skin, her body wouldnt let it happen until the small heat in her stomach was tended too. her hips roll against nothing, a small whine falling from her lips.

you kissed the skin of her neck, further spurring the hear stirring in the pit of max’s stomach. “baby,” she whines out, tugging your hand between her thighs. you kiss her shoulder, peering down at the girl. her cheeks were tinted pink, her eyes still closed, and her teeth bit down lightly against her bottom lip.

“hmm?” you hum into her shoulder. she grinds down against your hand. you think about being mean about it, about making her beg you to touch her, but that thought quickly leaves your head when she whimpers your name out so prettily. you cup her through her thin underwear, running your fingers over her clothed folds, applying just a right amount of pressure to her clit to have her let out a quiet moan.

you rub slow, tight circles against her clit, feeling her wetness begin to soak her panties. her breath is shaky with your agonizingly slow movements. you run a finger through her waistband, letting the elastic snap against her skin. her hips roll against your fingers, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

“need you s’ bad, baby. please?” she whimpers, gently tracing your wrist. her eyes are still closed, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. she just look so pretty, how could you refuse her? you push your hand into her panties, your fingers meeting her wet, warm cunt and circling her clit. max leans back into you ever so slightly, her legs parting the best they could to allow you more access to her cunt.

“your s’ wet max, got so worked up so quickly, hm?” its not much of a question, but she nods anyway, not afraid of admitting something that would normally embarrass her to no end to you. “its okay, i know you cant help it. my pretty girl just wants to be touched,” another roll of her hips only spurs you on more.

you plunge two fingers into her, your thumb rubbing her clit in tight circles. her hips rock consistently against your fingers, chasing her own high the best she can when shes so tired. your lips press against the soft skin of her neck and shoulders, pushing her closer and closer to her climax.

your fingers curl into her sweet spot and quiet whimpers spill from her lips. “need to.. gonna..” the words she looks for fight to fall from her lips, but she just cant bring herself to let them.

“go on, pretty girl. i got you,” you mumble against her skin. her hips stutter against you before you feel her walls pulse around your fingers. “good job, so good,” you press kisses against her neck and back, fingers still pumping in her cunt to let her ride out her high.

you slip your fingers out of her panties and bring them to your lips. you suck the juices of max’s cunt off of them, a low groan sounding from your throat. you wanted to lap it up from the source, wanted to feel her pretty cunt against your tongue.

“wanna taste you, please? can i taste you, mamas?” a small whimper leaves her lips at your eagerness to taste her and she nods quickly. you waste no time repositioning yourself between her thighs and pushing her to lay against her back. you lean down to press your tongue against her clothed cunt. max whines beneath you, hips bucking up into your mouth. you pull the thin cotton to the side and lap up her wetness.

your tongue against her overstimulated cunt has heat rushing to her core, she cant help the needy whimpers that escape her lips. your tongue prodding her swollen clit, the thought of you being between her thighs just to taste her has her head spinning. you don’t want to stop, you dont want to leave from between her thighs until she comes undone against your tongue. so that’s exactly what you do.

you prod her entrance with your tongue, slipping it in and out of the needy hole, nose bumping against her clit every so often, its not long before shes coming undone on your tongue. you lap up the juices eagerly, groaning against her cunt at her taste.

you kiss your way up her body, lips wrapping around her clothed, pebbled nipples for a split second before going back to trailing kisses up her body. your lips meet hers passionately, you feel as though this, being with her, touching her, holding her, just being there for her, was what you were made to do. you pull away from her lips, looking down at her tired, contented expression.

“you’re so pretty, max,” your words clear. her face flushes st your comment, bringing her hands up to cover her face. you press a kiss to her hands before laying down beside her. “dont hide,” you pry her hands away, “cant have that now, can we?”

[moonshynecybin]

i feel like maïna sent me an ask/prompt about. SOMETHING. like this for forced coming out au genuinely so long ago but i can’t find it for the life of me so perhaps i simply made that up. anyways here’s a short fic set in that universe about them dealing with the panopticon. and in fact being pda whores in the panopticon. bon apetit

“There’s a photographer over there,” Marc whispers in his ear, breath warm and close. He loops his arms around Vale’s neck as he says it, sounding nonchalant, but Vale knows him better than that by now, can see the tension tucked in his shoulders, hidden in the carefully collected smile on his face.

“Hmm.” He replies, amiably, nosing at Marc’s cheek. They’re in the paddock and they’re together— of course there’s a photographer on them. There’s probably seven photographers on them. Par for the course in years past, but especially these last couple of months.

And Vale’s always believed that if people are going to look, he might as well give them a show.

He lifts a hand and flips Marc’s cap off of his head, setting it down backwards so the brims of their hats arent competing. Marc’s face catches the sun, and Vale leans in to kiss where it hits the jut of his cheekbone because he can— because it’s what he would do, if they were actually together. If Marc was a girl. If any of this had happened the way it was supposed to, for people like them.

His stomach clenches, involuntary. He thinks he can hear the click of a camera firing. Good.

“Now he can see me.” Marc complains, leaning closer. He tries to hide behind Vale, using their height difference to squeeze himself into his shadow, and Vale laughs, tugging at where his hair is starting to curl behind his ears, where Marc’s skin is smooth and warm.

“It’s been a few weeks— We should probably give them something to see.”

“It has.” Marc agrees, sneaking his hands down now, snaking them inside Vale’s jacket and under his shirt. “We should.”

Vale yelps, curves his body inward reflexively. They’re like ice.

“That’s cold!” He pulls a face. Camera flash.

Marc ignores him, cackles an evil little laugh into the fabric of Vale’s shirt around his collarbone. Vale lets him, wraps an arm around his shoulders and leans back in, making sure Marc is the only one who can hear. It’s their preferred mode of communication these days— close, edging on the line of plausible deniability. His lips catch on the delicate skin of Marc’s temple as he speaks, and they’re in public, so it’s okay to keep them there.

“Karen from PR asked the next time we are available, so we can, ah, do another date.”

Just a few months ago this would all have felt like a minefield, but when he raises an eyebrow —a question— Marc just nods easily. Understanding without words. They’ve been getting good at this part, after everything, all the press and performance and years on track, years in each other’s beds. In MotoGP, you have to be adaptable, able to read another rider’s move, know how they’re going to take a corner almost before they do— and there’s a reason Marc and him are the best at what they do.

“We’re in Phillip Island next week— do you want to try out that place we went last year?” Marc responds, voice lower a little more reserved. His fingers edge under the elastic of Vale’s waistband. His hands must really be cold.

Vale nods, even as his chest clenches, resentment and something less empowering spiking through him. Last year. Right at the end. Phillip Island.

Not a good memory.

He lays a hand to Marc’s neck, thumb hitting the hinge of his jaw. Tilts him where he wants him. Marc goes— like he always does, moving easily with him, body pliable everywhere but the track. His brown eyes focus in on Vale’s face, intent. Unsettling, if you know how he catalogs information, if you know how what sort of instincts he has on the bike— shoving in beside Vale on track without a thought. Risking a bit more than Vale’s ever been able to comfortably stomach.

But Vale’s always thrived in high pressure situations, under attention, and the way Marc’s eyes laser on him only makes him settle. Makes him sharper. Clearer. Hot danger zipping under his collar, shivery and sweet. He wonders what Marc will let him do, out here in the middle of the paddock, with a photographer on them.

Marc’s hands flex, where they’re pressed under Vale’s shirt, like he can understand what Vale’s thinking, that same uncanny ability to predict a move rising to the surface. His nails scrape a little, dragging along the skin of Vale’s lower back.

“Let’s do that.” Vale says. He doesn’t really remember what were they talking about. A date, he thinks. Marc all to himself.

Alone.

The careful attention of Marc’s eyes drop to his mouth, then once, quick, over his shoulder. The photographer. Right.

The show.

“Okay,” Marc says, eyes searching Vale’s face, uncharacteristically serious. Contemplative. Like he’s thinking about something. Vale raises an an eyebrow, but before he can say anything the look on Marc’s face condenses, and he leans up to kiss Vale sweetly, open and a little messy.

And this has always been the thing that’s worked most between them. Easy and magnetic. The push and pull. The perfect picture.

And then Marc’s pushing forward, deeper, licking into Vale’s mouth. Kiss skewing dirty, dirtier than they usually get nowadays, making Vale’s pulse jump— a dare. How far are you willing to go? it asks, that same impudent instinct he has when he’s diving up the inside of Vale’s race line coloring the kiss, and Vale answers.

His teeth bite at Marc’s bottom lip, exercising a little more control, and he crowds forward, using his height to push Marc’s head back, hand splayed on the edge of his jaw. Directing him, coaxing him. And Marc relaxes like that, back arching into Vale as the kiss extends. A surrender.

Vale’s got him where he wants him, and he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to lift a thigh, get Marc pressed up high and tight against him, wants to drag him off to his motorhome, see how far Marc is willing to let him go, wants to—

Another camera shutters, louder, closer, and it breaks the thread between them, bringing them back to reality. To why they’re here. Vale clears his throat, and Marc ducks his head.

Suddenly Vale’s chest hurts, feels cracked open with Marc tucked up against him, nose edging inside his jacket to find some warmth against Vale’s collarbone. So solid and warm and real. The only way Vale gets to hold him anymore is like this, for the cameras.

Love you, he lets himself think, probably for the first time. Love you, he doesn’t say. The camera shutters, and he pulls Marc closer into the well of his body.

[lovelytsunoda]

insatiable // oscar piastri

summary: oscar is a tits man.

warnings: absolute utter filth under the cut. you have been warned.

the first time it happens is almost an accident. things are hot and heavy: hands under clothes, tongues in mouths and she sinks to her knees, lips swollen and face red. that’s when she tells him: “I can’t do blowjobs. it’s a sensory thing, im not comfy with the idea of having a cock in my mouth. I still want to be able to do something for you.”

and that’s when she takes off her shirt, then her lacy bra, fingers gently opening oscars jeans to pull out his cock. she leans forward, taking his length between her breasts before squishing them around his member.

and oscar could have blown his load then and there, seeing his cock cocooned between the most beautiful pair of tits he had ever seen.

and when she starts to move, his dick slipping easily between her skin, hes in heaven. he has never been so vocal in bed, throwing his head back in a breathy moan as she looks at him, innocence in her eyes as if she’s not using her tits to fuck him.

he comes like that, his cock still between her boobs, his load spraying upwards and coating her neck, the bottom of her chin, the tops of her boobs.

becomes a near constant thing after that, because he’s still chasing that high.

lazy mornings in the bathroom where she slips his dick under the elastic for her bralette, lazily moving up and down before allowing him to thrust between her boobs, hand gripping her head and forcing her to watch the path his cock is taking between her tender flesh.

this time, he withdraws before he cums, pulling up the fabric of her bralette so that he can see her tits properly, jerking himself off until she begs for him to come on her tits, his load coating her pale skin.

“fuck, babe. you’re so fucking sexy on your knees for me, with my cock between your perfect titties. my cum on your breasts. lean over the counter, sweetheart, I want you to come as well.”

bent over the bathroom counter, watching in the mirror as her tits bounce, rolling her nipples between her fingers while oscar’s pushed her panties aside, his cock pistoning in and out of her, the cold grantor counter digging into her bare hips.

needier nights where a simple ‘get on the bed, bra off.’ is all it takes, y/n lying there in white lace panties, no bra and a tiny golden necklace with Oscar’s racing number on it, the pendant resting right above where Oscar’s cock ends when he straddles her upper body, slapping his dick against her boobs, running it over her nipples a few times before he finally slips in between them, feeling the pressure at her tender flesh surrounding him as he roughly thrusts between them.

sometimes he makes her beg first: “please oscar, I’ve been such a god girl, please fuck my titties. please, I want to feel your cock on my skin.”

basically oscar is insatiable, to nobody’s surprise.

you know who else would lose his shit if his girlfriend let him fuck her tits? liam lawson.

TAGS:

@thatsdemko @silversainz @sidcrosbyspuck @scuderiamh @lorarri @magnummagnussen @diorleclerc

[forlorn-crows]

metal mouth

a lil pairing for @yesandpeeps's comic here about my beloved mountain getting braces. he's so fuckin cute i can't stand it

1.3k of grumpy mountain under the cut:

"Now, caro, there is no need to be upset," Copia soothes. "They will help you, si? I do not want you to be in pain, my earth ghoul, that is no good for any of us."

Mountain shrugs, gaze downcast. “It just seems so . . . trivial.”

“Your health is not trivial; it is simply unfamiliar, or perhaps, er, too human?” Copia offers. 

The ghoul looks the man in his eyes, apprehensive. But he nods, agreeing. 

Braces. What a mortal thing to be burdened with as an ancient hellbeast. 

Mountain had started to complain about mouth pain a few months ago. His teeth, especially his fangs, had never been perfect. None of theirs were. Crooked teeth were not high on his list as far as complaints about appearance. Fitting oversized, monstrous bones into a mortal mouth certainly isn't a comfortable thing. 

But they all managed. Mountain managed. Until, that is, they started shifting, crowding in on each other and messing with his bite. The perfect space that his fangs fit into was suddenly too snug, the points of them clacking together if he chewed wrong or made a funny face at Swiss over his cymbals. His bottom incisors had begun to tip forward, threatening to give him an underbite. 

Suddenly, his teeth were just . . . wrong. And once they started becoming tender and sensitive to his favorite meals, Aether determined it was time for Copia to get involved, much to Mountain’s chagrin. 

“You know, I had braces as a child,” Copia muses now. “Quite bulky things. I could never pick out the right colors.” He chuckles a little, but stops when he catches the frown starting to form on Mountain’s face. He reaches up to pat him on the shoulder and scritch under his chin. “Not to worry, they will not look as bad as mine did, my ghoul.”

But they’ll still look bad, is what his brain translates Papa’s words to. 

Mountain’s already regretting complaining about it all.

—

The afternoon and evening after getting them placed is spent alone. Mountain is none too kindly reminded of the first time his horns shed, hours spent hiccuping through tears as he stared at his foreign reflection. 

They look . . . weird. They feel weird. Little bits of metal poking at his gums, his tongue, the inside of his mouth. His teeth look too small, too human for his liking. Mountain couldn’t fathom adding some unnatural color on top of it all, so he chose the translucent, slightly frosted elastic chain. It may yellow overtime, the orthodontist had said. Mountain had nodded, accepted this potential side effect, but he really didn’t care. 

He’s thankful to have an entire drum kit to hide behind. But his pack? Well, he can hide from them at least for the next twelve hours. 

Mountain steps away from the bathroom mirror with a sigh and goes back to uselessly pruning the ferns hanging over the windows. 

—

He rises the next day from a fitful sleep just as the sun peeks through the leaded panes. His mouth is screaming at him, gums sensitive and too much pressure everywhere. Lines of pain shoot up his jaw when he rubs across a nerve, and Mountain winces with a curse on his tongue.

Begrudgingly, he gets dressed for the day, despite the urge to crawl back into bed and sulk for as long as he can. But he can't very well do that with tour starting up again in a matter of weeks, so he pulls on some sweats and slumps to the kitchen. 

Tea. He needs tea. And probably a few hours alone with a quintessence ghoul.

No one’s in the common area when he arrives, and he silently thanks the devil below for a moment of solitude. The earth ghoul huffs a sigh through his nose and rifles through the teabags for something smooth and spiced. 

The warm scent of chai and orange zest hits his nose as Mountain waits for his cup to steep, smiling ever so slightly as the fragrant steam wafts over his face. It makes him feel better, even if just for a moment. 

Mountain cringes internally as he hears small feet padding down the corridor. He knows it’s Dew before he sees him, the little ghoul often rising with the sun most mornings. He tucks his face further into his mug, caging his forearms around his face.

The fire ghoul lets out a big yawn as he rounds the corner, stretching to brush the top of the short archway as he enters. Dew chirps when he sees the earth ghoul hunched over at the table. 

“Mornin’ Mount,” he mumbles. He inhales a lungful of air, sighing with a happy hum. “Hm, smells good. Mind if I join?”

Mountain shakes his head, mussed-up waves falling in front of his face. 

“Thanks,” Dew says. He makes his way over to the cabinets with a lilt in his step, humming some indiscriminate tune as he selects his favorite mug. Tired, but still too cheery for how early it is. It’s quiet between them for a few moments, save for the clinking of ceramic and Dew’s song. Mountain lowers his shoulders a little. 

And promptly raises them back up under his ears when Dew asks: “How’re the braces?” Mountain knows the fire ghoul is looking at him expectantly, ears perked. He doesn’t have to look to know his eyes are kind, rather than filled with malice or ill-intent. Dew wouldn’t make fun of him he knows, but he would love nothing more than to escape to the forest and bury his head in the dirt right now. 

“Fine,” he lies. “Kinda hurts,” he mumbles as an afterthought, doing his best to speak with the least amount of mouth movements. 

Dew tuts empathetically. He doesn’t speak again, but Mountain still feels his eyes on him. He chances a glance at him, which was really the wrong thing to do, considering the way Dew’s face perks up when he does. His arms are folded across his chest as he leans nonchalantly against the kitchen counter, hair and eyes glinting gold in the rising sunlight. 

Dew gives him a knowing grin and raises his eyebrows, attempting to prompt the earth ghoul into sharing his new set of braces. Mountain stares back, shy. But, against his will, there's a smile tugging at his lips, like he simply can't help it when Dew looks at him like that.

He smiles wider. "Come on big guy, will you show me?" Dew shuffles over to him at the table. "Please?"

Mountain bites the inside of his cheek, eyes steely. He shakes his head sheepishly, already pushing away from the table, chair legs scraping against the floor as he moves to make his escape. 

He doesn’t get very far. The fire ghoul steps in front of him, one hand grabbing Mountain’s sweater sleeve and the other reaching up towards his face. Dew waggles his fingers under his chin with a stupid giggle, bouncing on his toes as Mountain jerks his head away from his hand.

“Dew,” he warns, unable to escape his little fingers. “Swear t’ Satan, ‘f you don—”

“Ha!” the smaller ghoul exclaims, grabbing Mountain’s cheeks at last and squishing them together until the earth ghoul can’t help but bare his teeth, a grimace more than a grin. Mountain pulls at Dew’s wrist to try and dislodge him.

“Stooop,” he groans. Dew gives him a few squeezes before releasing him, opting to wrap both arms around Mountain’s middle instead and nuzzling against his chest in apology.

“But you look fine, Mount. Cute, even,” he laughs, looking up at him. 

“Do not,” Mountain responds, shaking his head. He rolls his eyes, sighing. He brushes a stray strand of hair out of Dew’s face, holding back a laugh when Dew purposely bats his lashes and nods solemnly back at him.

“You do. It’s different, yeah. But you’re still you,” he offers. 

“Thanks,” Mountain says in a small voice. 

Dew gives him one last squeeze before pulling away and sitting down at the table. He smiles and waves his earth ghoul back over. “Come on, finish your tea. I’m sure Aether’ll be up soon, and I’m sure he’ll need no convincing to help you with the pain.”

[silencedrowns]

hi I’m a very long time cosplayer (20+ years experience) who has chronic headache and migraine problems and this is a post about how to prevent your cosplay wigs from giving you painful headaches! Nobody likes wandering around the con in blinding pain and so hopefully this post will help you reduce the chances of this happening.

1. If your wig is way too tight, don’t use it. Get something with a bigger cap. tbh I often wear slightly too big wigs to reduce the pressure! Find out what brands and sellers sell wigs that are comfy on your head and prioritize buying wigs from them! I made a big master list of cosplay wig sellers a while back so here’s a few you might not have known about. Arda (and its Canadian and European sites) sells by far the biggest wigs, but I personally find Classe the most comfortable for my specific head. It’s all very YMMV and it’s totally possible for a wig to not actually be too small but fit your head in an uncomfortable way (Blue Beard on taobao does this to me every time), so just don’t buy from suppliers that do that. Also consider resizing wigs to be larger! For wig clients with extra large heads I like to nip the edge of the wig right behind the ear where your ear and hair from above will cover it and add in a little godet of elastic.

2. Reduce weight! A heavy wig will make head pain much more likely, so here’s a few tips on wig weight reduction!

A) if your wig doesn’t need a ton of volume and is already very dense, rip out some wefts in the bottom half. Anything on the part of your head from the ridge where your head starts going in towards your neck won’t really show unless your wig is very short and it’ll obviously reduce weight instantly! You can replace any missing volume with light crimping or light heat and tease, or leave the wig as is for a natural and silky look without the unnatural volume of a cosplay wig.

B) if you need more volume in your wig, instead of going straight to adding wefts for more volume, see first if combining crimping with heat and tease at the roots will give you the extra volume you need! Crimping or heat and tease adds volume and if you straight up destroy the fiber in the first two inches from the scalp by doing both repeatedly, it’ll add huge volume without you needing to add extra hair! When I do this I like to heat the fiber near the roots, tease it, let it cool, crimp the teased part, let THAT cool, and then brush it out. You can flat out double the perceived volume in the back of the wig this way!

C) if your character has a high ponytail or high pigtails, consider using clip on ponytails that you can easily remove if you need the weight off your head right the fuck now. here’s two tutorials I swear by for making a short wig + clip on combination look more natural! They’re in Japanese but easily comprehensible if you use machine translation thanks to the clear photography. They also help with spreading out the weight on the wig itself, and if your hair is long enough, using a clip on with a fishnet wig cap and clipping through the wig and into your real hair will also he lp make it more secure and distribute weight more evenly.

if your character has high pigtails

if your character has a high ponytail

D) when you need extra wefts, opt for sewing in wefts rather than gluing whenever possible. Glue doesn’t seem heavy but enough of it can make a wig get real heavy REAL fast.

E) redirecting the weight to your entire head and not just the front hairline will feel lighter and give you less forehead tension, which is one of the biggest causes of wig headache. Toupee clips sewn evenly around the edges and a Wig Fix https://therenatural.com (the name brand one, the knockoffs genuinely don’t work half as well) can help with doing this. A Wig Fix will also let you use fewer pins to keep your wig on, which is another cause of wig headache. Can’t suggest trying those enough. There are also some velvet wig grips out there but I find those don’t work quite as well, but they’re by far better than nothing.

3) make sure your wig is easy to remove. A lot of characters have horns or veils or other head things on top of the wig so make sure those can easily come off if you need a wig break! I’m a big proponent of using wig glue or double stick tape to glue strands (face framing layers etc) to your face for a more natural and more flattering look, but if you get headaches from wigs, keep that glue or tape in your bag so if you have to de-wig for a bit, you can get it back on!

4) take the ibuprofen or whatever BEFORE you put the wig on, and not when your wig is already making your head miserable! It’s like taking the ibuprofen before you wear the horrible shoes for a special event; it’s more effective in advance.

5) what are your normal headache triggers? Make sure you’re doing the work to EXTRA avoid them before wearing a cosplay wig. Stay hydrated. Keep up with your electrolytes. If you have any food triggers, make sure you’re managing them properly.

6) try multiple types of wig cap before deciding which ones to use! I’m a big fan of the fishnet kind because I’m in agony every time I try to use the stocking kind. Some people find relief in doing pin curls under their cap, and @/battleangelgif on twitter suggested doing this with damp hair the night before you wear the wig. There are tons of methods! Stretching out fishnet caps can be done more effectively when they’re slightly damp and that’ll make them pinch less. Experiment with what you like best to keep your irl hair in place and once you find a method you like, go for it! Make that your go-to!

7) always remember: wearing a short wig is less miserable than wearing a wig to your ankles. consider very carefully whether or not you can actually handle that wig that’s as long as you are tall. sometimes you just can’t and that’s okay! reduce the length of any super long haired character to hip length and it’ll be FINE. I swear. It’ll still read as super long and it won’t be as terrible.

8) always remember you can just. take the entire wig and cosplay off if you’re in agony. it’s not worth it. don’t do that to yourself. If the migraine hits anyway, just take it off.

Hope some of this might help you out! Focusing on reducing and redistributing weight is what helps me out the most 😌 feel free to reply or reblog or message with questions and I’ll try and get back to you ASAP!

[creatingblackcharacters]

I am writing a story where an older Black man, late 60s to mid 70s (I haven't fully decided), is one of the main characters. Is there anything I should keep in mind about how aging affects Black people? In particular I was thinking about giving him gray hair, but I've heard that Black people don't typically go gray as much or in the same way as white people do? I could be misinformed though, which is why I'm hoping you'd be willing to help out. Also if this is insensitive please let me know so I can be aware of where I'm wrong going forward.

Thanks for everything you do!

Well, everyone doesn't age the same lol. How you age depends on your genetics, your diet and exercise, and the type of life you live, really. Some people are 80 and look 60, some are 70 and look 90. My partner's Grandfather looks as peppy as ever and he's 70ish. We definitely go gray, though not everyone goes like... Platinum silver or white. My granny had silver hair as brassy as dimes at 50, that turned a bright white... She was also really physically active until she got dementia. My grandma has been a matte gray for twenty years; wheelchair bound, but her mind's sharp as ever. My grandad was salt and pepper that eventually turned gray, also sharp minded.

But the regular signs of aging are ubiquitous- wrinkles due to less elasticity, eventual muscle atrophy, losing teeth. Some of us get more moles and dark spots. So the specifics just depend on the person. I'd suggest looking up references for what you have in mind, as well as considering what his lifestyle is like (E.g. If he spent years lifting truck beds for mechanic work and didn't focus on muscle care, his back probably hurts.)

Some other things to keep in mind is how aging while Black includes dealing with a lot of outward pressures. In other words, racial disparities (e.g. economic, health care, environmental) affect how we age as well. The likelihood of high blood pressure and diabetes is quite high. Doctors also tend not to take our pain and issues as seriously, especially Black women. Very often things can and do go unnoticed due to both a lack of trust, or simply not going because... Money and access.

(What I've linked here is majority Black American experiences, but you can look for these examples in other countries just by inputting that on Google)

5 Health Conditions Black Folks Commonly Face As They Get Older

How Racism “Gets Under the Skin” and Prematurely Ages Black People

Aging While Black: The Crisis Among Black Americans as They Grow Old

[clearexpertarcade]

matt weekends were filled with partying and beer he was in love with the college nightlife but Matt was steadily increasing his waistline without him realizing it I mean all that beer and getting high which would lead to a pig out at the end of the night Lucky for Matt the first 5 Ibs he gained went straight to his ass only making matt hotter.

Matt had managed to gain a respectable 15 pounds, covering his formerly shredded abs with a bit of a belly but no one would have called him fat or probably even noticed

Matt's love of burgers and pastries was steadily increasing his waistline without him realising it the ex-jock’s belly grew steadily each day he was growing inch by inch how could he not when Matt's diet slowly turned into one of beer, pizza, pasta, McDonald’s, Dunkin’ Donuts, and burritos. And all the partying Matt did Left him with little time to work out not that he gave it much thought

Matt said to his roommate ''am getting pizza you want anything''

Roommate “Shouldn’t you be laying off the fast food?”

Mate “Sure beats having to make my own dinner”

The roommate walked over to Matt lifted his shirt reached out and gave Matt soft layer of extra pudge a squeeze

Roommate “Maybe you ought to think about laying off the pizza a bit.”

Matt lowered his shirt “ Yes, fine Whatever Um, yeah, I’ll take 2 large meat lovers with extra cheese and the dessert cookie cake …. You want anything''

Roommate ''“That’s all for you?”

Matt “Yeah bro what do you want?”

Roommate '' am good''

Mate '' oh and a bottle of diet coke''

Roomate “Haha you enjoyed yourself.''

and enjoy himself he did Matt quite happily and stuffed himself with pizza lifting piece by piece, watching the multitude of cheeses stretch away from the rest of the pizza. He used his finger to sever the excess and toss it back into his mouth.

Matt would be meandering about the dorm room with his bare beer belly on for show. Matt would belch and rub his way around the room. Matt's roommate walked up to him and patted his belly which was starting to droop a little over the elastic waistband “Careful buddy, you’re gonna get fat.” Matt shrugged, taking another sip of his beer “I’ll still hit the gym and run, you know? It will all balance out in the end.”

Matt didn't listen to his roommate's warning and continued pigged out in every sense of the word and his belly grew wider and wider, drooping lower and lower, his once flat chest was developing into a heavy pair of moobs.

Matt kept convincing himself that his 36" pants still fit he’d suck in his growing belly and grunt and groan “Damn it,” he grunted, attempting to get the button in his jeans to reach the hole. Matt tried buttoning them but they wouldn’t close ''Just suck in. Just suck it in''. These fit the last time Matt wore them.

Matt tossed himself against his bed pushing himself onto the bed. Sure enough, he managed to get the ends to meet and do up his pants. Sitting up was a little uncomfortable, but at least his pants were fastened.

Later that night Matt and his roommate kicked back watched TV down some beers and got high. Time melted away as they talked and In what seemed like no time at all, Matt had downed two beers The button of his shorts groaned audibly but didn’t give. As Matt leaned forward to reach for his third beer but suddenly he heard the button on his shorts groan. There was a pinch at his waist, then a loud snap, and the pressure dissipated immediately from his waist as his button went flying across the room. His zipper gave under the pressure of his surging belly and jiggled wildly on his lap, jutting forward even farther than it had before, leaving his belly completely exposed, pale, flabby, and jiggly right before his roommate's eyes.

“You’ve gotten fat, man Looks like you could use some new shorts I can't believe you just busted out your pants. You need to lay off the burgers and beer, big guy.''

“Man,” Matt gave his belly a jiggle, “I am getting’ fuckin’ fat dude. I need to hit the gym. I didn’t notice how big this puppy was getting!”

Matt stood shirtless in front of his 3-sided mirror with his shorts busted open and gave his belly a squeeze and grabbed a handful of his flesh. He gasped and he felt his fingers press deeply into his soft stomach. It felt like bread dough being kneaded between his fingers. It was then that Matt realized that the Fat Gut he saw looking in the mirror was his. He screamed aloud in shock when he realized that he was fat.

[marzipanandminutiae]

she's never going to read this, but it's still interesting

so the person with the extremely cold corset takes last night has now decided that dress history folks are straight-up lying about the purpose of corsets. because we just love them so much, I guess?

she found this ad:

and therefore knows corsets were Totally About Waist Reduction First And Foremost, Always And Forever, Amen

I have. some thoughts.

the main one being that nobody claimed corsets were never used to waist-train back then

the secondary one being that many ads for "form-reducing corsets," at least the ones that I found, make a distinction between "normal" corsets and their product:

It's a specialty product, not what the average woman is wearing on a daily basis. Is its existence messed up? Yes! But nobody has been disputing that pressure on women to look a certain way, and fatphobia, are awful. The issue in question is: was the primary function of an average (in this case Victorian/Edwardian) corset waist reduction? It seems to me that the ad supplied- again, for a specialty garment that was not seen as an ordinary corset -does not prove OP's point.

so let's look at some ordinary corset ads, shall we?

(don't freak out too much about the "baby/child corsets"- I've worked with extant examples many times, and they're just lightly stiffened vests. you couldn't lace a kid down in them if you tried- not that you should, obviously)

(Pliability, elasticity, comfort- but no mention of waist reduction as a selling point)

(this one is an unusual design, but I'm including it because it mentions support- and specifically breast support -not once, but twice. It also instructs ladies to measure their waists OUTSIDE their clothing- which will result in a larger measure even than we commonly use for custom corsets nowadays. note that a 2" lacing gap was common, per a corsetiere quoted in Valerie Steele's The Corset: A Cultural History)

(Flexibility and comfort, yet again.)

(Rather a ridiculous one, including the implication that you need an elegant corset to snare a husband and therefore economic security and love, but the bottom left text says "What an improvement the Madam Warren corset. And how comfortable.")

so we've clearly got comfort, support, and ease of movement at the forefront of the average consumer's mind, for so many ads to mention such thing. a number also don't have much text at all:

(The Celebrated EEE is my hypothetical burlesque name, but I digress.)

of the first twenty random ads that come up when I do an image search for "corset advertisement," eleven mention health and/or comfort, and only one directly mentions waist reduction- while advertising, again, a separate specialty "reducing" corset.

am I saying it never happened? absolutely not. I have NEVER been saying that. tightlacing did happen. obviously reducing corsets existed. I would not deny any of this

am I saying that, clearly, support and comfort were thought so high on the average corset-wearer's priority list that manufacturers played to those attributes more than waist reduction when constructing/advertising corsets, implying that they are NOT, in fact, the same thing as a Kim K waist cincher? yes

(file under: things I cannot believe I have to fucking say, and yet here we are)