#i love the smell of isopropyl

[triptychofvoids]

i hate the smell of that uhh 91% isopropyl alcohol or whatever it was called,,

really? what a pity... that happens to be one of my favorite smells

[gayabeilles]

my house is STINKY send post

[strang3lov3]

The Real Deal

Frankie uses his tongue to demonstrate why he’s less than impressed with your rose toy. (3.7k)

Tags - 18+ smut, oral sex (f receiving) , sex toys, kissing, nipple stimulation, me popping my Frankie cherry so forgive me for being a little shaky on this. I wrote him to be a little smug and cocky pussy eating expert, but i think he's quite nice also. Fic help - @noxturnalpascal and @endlessthxxghts thank you for your editing, your Frankie guidance, and your endless encouragement, and also @beefrobeefcal I wasn’t supposed to ask you for help on the fic I wrote for you but I did anyway and you were gracious as always. I love you. A/N - as mentioned above, this is my first time writing Frankie so please give me some grace. And it's also rather indulgent despite it being a late birthday gift for @beefrobeefcal, I love you forever and I hope I do Frankie justice for you my beautiful, sweet, generous, thoughtful, caring, intelligent, and wonderful friend. I'm lucky to have you 🩷

The smell of your bedroom comforts you as you take your bra off and hang it on the doorknob. There’s nothing more satisfying than that at the end of a long day. You also remove your pants and panties, swapping them out for a comfortable pair of pajama shorts. You’ve just gotten off of work, it’s Friday night, and you have a date with your phone. 

You lay in your unmade bed in a spot that’s already warmed for you, probably by your cat, Dr. Waffles. You must have spooked him when you entered your apartment. The first app you open is UberEats, and you know exactly what you want: a tuna poke bowl from Cactus Club. You’re about to pay when the app alerts you that your wait time will be about an hour and a half. Fuck. You buy it anyway and open Tumblr, because you know exactly how you’ll kill time. 

You got an alert earlier that one of your favorite writers updated her series Devotion, a story about Joel from The Last of Us where Joel acts as a cult leader. It’s such a hot and thrilling story. You also saw that the writer of the series put in her author’s note that this chapter gets smutty, that Joel will go down on the main character. It’s addled your brain all day, the thought of getting it on with Cult Leader Joel.

You read through the story and as things between the characters begin to get heated, so do you. The writer describes the way Joel eats pussy with such detail that you can almost feel it, can almost hear the noises he makes and the way he dirty talks. You’ve been absentmindedly playing with your clit, feeling your arousal grow as you read on, but you decide to switch masturbation methods as you have just the tool for the occasion - your trusty rose toy. One of your best friends, Kiki, gifted it to you last year after she caught you reading smut on your phone. She said the sex toy shop was having a buy one, get one free deal and she knew just the friend to share the sweet deal with. 

The toy seemed gimmicky when you went home and opened it, what with that almost cartoonish-looking tongue right in the center of the petals. And it smelled strongly of isopropyl alcohol. But for shits and giggles, you washed it and charged it anyway and that night with the silicone rose between your thighs, your life was changed. That little tongue worked magic on your clit and had you coming more times than you could count, endless orgasms that had you seeing stars. 

With your phone in your left hand, you can’t peel your eyes away from the screen as you reach for the drawer of your nightstand. With your hand on the knob, you pull the drawer  but it doesn’t open. Odd. You tug the drawer again, and then again, and then you’re turning on your side to really yank that goddamn drawer. Each time you pull, you rock the nightstand against the wall, no doubt denting it but you don’t give a shit. Waffles made sure you’re not getting your security deposit back anyway, that much is evident in the shredded carpets and scratched up door frames.

A pounding at your door has you stopping what you’re doing. “I know, I’m coming,” you say, more to yourself than whoever’s slamming on your door at the ungodly hour of 7pm. You open the door to one annoyed Frankie Morales glaring at you with his arms crossed. 

Frankie’s your criminally handsome next door neighbor who lives in the apartment to the left of you. All it took from him was one look at his sparkly, chocolatey brown eyes, his aquiline nose, and those curls peeking out from under his baseball cap and you knew you were in trouble. 

 You moved into the complex shortly after he did a couple of years ago, and Frankie took pity on you when he saw your brother leave halfway through the job. Frankie, already sore from moving all of his furniture just two days prior, decided to help you move in the rest of your stuff. The next day after grocery shopping, you made him a lasagna and a pan of brownies to thank him for his generosity, and thus began a system of sorts. Frankie enjoyed your food thoroughly, and you enjoyed having someone to share meals with, especially since you never could get the hang of cooking for just one. So you’d make dinner and share it with him a couple of nights every week, and in turn Frankie would take care of the maintenance in your apartment so your landlord wouldn’t find out about Waffles, the cat you’re not supposed to have. Frankie quickly became one of your best friends.

“Hi, Frankie,” you said. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, sweetheart. Yes, you can help by telling me what your reason is for beating the shit out of that wall we share,” he says. “What are you even doing?”

“Sorry, the drawer to my nightstand was stuck and I was trying to open it,” you stated. 

“Did you get it?”

“Did I get what?”

“Did you get the door open,” he clarifies. 

“No,” you answer. 

“So if I leave, are you gonna keep banging on the wall?” Frankie asks. You shrug. “That’s a yes,” he says. “Would you like me to help you open it?”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I insist. Need to sleep, I got an early morning.” 

You open the door wider to let Frankie inside. Waffles makes his appearance at that moment and meows at Frankie. “Yeah, yeah,” he says to the cat. “Hello to you too, pancake.”

“Waffles,” you correct. “That’s such a dumb joke.”

Frankie snickers, “Funny to me,” he smirks. 

You lead him to your bedroom and point at the nightstand. “That one,” you tell him. It’s an old nightstand, and it might’ve been nice at one point, but it was handed down to you by your brother who no doubt absolutely wrecked the poor piece of furniture. It’s a little crooked now, and the drawer’s tracks are bent so it never opens and closes nicely. 

Frankie tries opening the drawer but struggles just as you did. You don’t mind though, because from where you’re standing, you’ve got a perfect view of his ass that’s definitely filled out some since you began feeding the man. “You weren’t lying. Damn thing really is fucking stuck, huh?” Frankie grunts as he tries wriggling it open again, “What’s even in here that you need so urgently anyway?”

Oh, fuck. You didn’t even think about that, that he’d be seeing your rose toy and only your rose toy in that drawer. “Umm,” you think, “My phone charger.” Which is a dumb lie, because right next to Frankie is the outlet your charger is plugged into. Quietly, you pull it out and toss it under your bed so he doesn’t see. 

“It’s really jammed,” Frankie says. “Fuck.”

“I know, just be careful, please,” you tell him. “You don’t need to open it all the way. Actually, you don’t even have to open it at all, if it’s too much.”

That was the wrong thing to say to deter Frankie from opening your drawer. He’s got quite the competitive streak in him, so your comment only fuels him to pull the drawer harder. He pulls the nightstand away from the wall and gives it one good and strong tug and the drawer flies open, and with it your rose toy, right into Frankie. He catches it with ease, and you could die right then and there. 

“I know what this is,” Frankie murmurs quietly, turning around to face you. “So that’s your treasure chest, huh?”

With your face and your neck on fire, you try to swipe the toy out of Frankie’s hand but he pulls it out of reach. “Frankie, give it,” you snap. 

“No, no,” he smiles. “I gotta see this thing.”

Frankie swats you away as you try to take the toy back from him. He uses one hand and fumbles with it until it whizzes to life, the tongue flicking up and down in his hand. “Oh, wow,” he says. “Quite the motor in this baby.” Frankie holds the toy away from you as you try and try to grab it from him, but his grip is too strong. Finally, you give up and let him entertain himself with the thing. It’ll be an uncomfortable five minutes, but it’ll be over eventually. He’ll lose interest, just like a toddler.

You sit on the bed and Frankie sits next to you as he messes with the toy. He hums as he holds the flicking tongue against the palm of his hand. “This can’t be fun,” he comments. “But if it works for you, who am I to judge?”

“It is fun,” you defend. “It…yeah. It’s fun.” 

“But it’s so cold. And stiff,” Frankie argues. “No finesse, either.”

His comment has you intrigued, “Frankie, what do you mean, ‘no finesse’?”

“Well, look here,” Frankie shows you the toy, “Look at the tongue. It just goes up and down. It’s mechanical, you know? There’s no fluidity,” he explains. “And it sounds like those tools they use on you at the dentist’s office.” 

“Oh.”

“But, you know. If you’re happy with it, then more power to ya, I guess.” You nod as you take in the words Frankie speaks, staring at that whirring toy in his big hands your mind starts to wander. “Are you happy with it?” he asks.

“Yeah, I guess,” you reply. “It’s fine.”

“Fine, huh? How’s it compare?” 

“Compare to what?”

“You know,” Frankie says. “The real deal.” 

“Well, I don’t really receive ‘the real deal’,” you admit quietly. “So…”

“Ohhh. I get it. No frame of reference, then,” Frankie replies. A beat passes as he shuts off the toy. “Would you like the real deal?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean, who wouldn’t. But–”

Frankie interrupts, “No, I’m askin’ you. Right now, would you like the real deal? Feel what it’s supposed to feel like from a real man?” 

You understand what Frankie’s asking now. Your mouth drops open and you feel that exciting sort of lurch in your stomach.

“Feel a real man, with real lips, a real tongue. Real hands. We’ll broaden your horizons. What do you say?”

It almost doesn’t feel real. You laugh, uncomfortably, but Frankie looks at you with all seriousness. You can’t believe you’re gonna say yes. Of course you’re gonna say yes. Looking at Frankie, you nod quickly.  

“Words, baby,” he says. “How about a yes?”

It’s the way he calls you baby, with no hesitation. “Yes. Yes, definitely. I need that.”

“Need, huh? Poor thing,” Frankie places the toy on your nightstand and moves up your bed, inviting you to join him. He notices your shaky legs as you crawl to meet him, your movements unsure. “Relax,” he whispers, smiling at you. “Relax.” You nod and your nerves ignite as Frankie touches you, his big hand holding your face. “I’m just gonna kiss you. That’s all for now.”

“Okay.”

And then he does. He kisses you gently at first, taking mental notes of how you react. You’re rigid at first, but he just kisses you. Nothing more, nothing less. When he feels your muscles relax and you let go a little bit, let yourself fall back and relax into your bed, Frankie takes initiative and kisses you deeper. He smiles when you moan quietly into his mouth, then kisses down your jaw and your neck. “Your toy can’t kiss you like I can, huh?”

“No, Frankie,” you sigh. 

“So that’s another point Frankie, then,” he mumbles against your skin. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t enjoying yourself so much. “May I lift your shirt?”

“Mhm,” you nod, loving the way he asks permission. Frankie pushes the fabric up your chest and he wears a smirk on his face, and he’s got a certain sparkle to his dark eyes as he takes in your body, all of your soft, creamy flesh, your pebbled nipples. “And actually,” he says, reaching for your rose toy and turning it back on. “Since we’re comparing - experimenting, really, we should test both variables. Scientific method and all that.” 

“This doesn’t feel very scientific,” you tell him, giggling as you speak. 

“Sure it is, I’m a professional at this. Been studying for years. Watch - Do you prefer…” Frankie begins, he brings the toy to one of your nipples and lets the tongue flick back and forth over it. “One…” he whispers, though you can hardly hear him over your own gasps and moans. “Or two?” he licks the nipple not being teased by your toy, first swirling his tongue in circles around your areola and then gently sucks the sensitive skin. Your noises are music to his ears as your moans become louder. 

“Two,” you answer, “Two.” 

“You know why that is?” he asks, moving to lick and tease your other nipple. “Because your toy can’t go in circles, can’t suck. Can’t really tease you , either. Can’t do most of the things you’re supposed to do to a pair of tits as pretty as yours, sweetheart.” Frankie watches your reaction to his words, smirking as your cheeks heat up and you turn your face from him. “It’s true. You’re beautiful.” 

After a few more moments of Frankie kissing and licking your nipples, he presses sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down your torso, over your tummy. “Would you lift those hips for me, sweetheart?”

You lift your hips like he asks and Frankie hooks his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and pulls them down your legs. His hand brushes over a damp spot of the fabric, and he rubs his thumb over it, admiring. “Good god, you made a mess. This all for me? Just from a little kissing?”

You nod bashfully, unsure of what to say to him. Frankie doesn’t mind, he knows that this is the part where a woman is likely to feel a little shy, vulnerable. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s working with here with you, whether you’ve received head before or not. Maybe you have, but it’s been a long time. Or maybe it was bad. He thinks about your answer to one of his questions, how you told him you’re not really receiving ‘the real deal’ and he doesn’t need to know why, he just needs to change that and eat you like his life depends on it.

Eating pussy is Frankie’s passion. Nothing compares to it, being buried in that soft, warm, wet space between a woman’s thighs. Simultaneously, it makes him feel both submissive and powerful. He loves the way some become shy when he eats them, he loves the way others shove his face between their legs. He loves the feeling of having his hair pulled as he licks, when thighs squeeze his head and he has to ease them back open. He loves the way her whole body quivers when she comes, he loves the taste, the smell, the feel and the intimacy of it all. 

Frankie places both hands on your knees and spreads your legs wide so he has space for himself between them. He begins by kissing your inner thighs, the wiry hairs of his patchy, graying beard and his mustache tickle you. “We’re gonna compare again. Are you ready, beautiful?”

“Yes,” you answer. “I’m ready.” 

Frankie brings the rose to your core and allows it to do its thing. He chuckles as you reach for his hand and adjust the way he holds the toy against your pussy to your needs. “Gotta hold it like that, huh?”

“Yeah, like that.” 

“Duly noted.” 

Frankie rests the side of his head against one of your thighs and watches you as the toy works its magic. You’re moaning nicely, but he’ll make you moan louder. He loves the way your brows knit together, he loves the steady rise and fall of your chest with your panting breaths. 

It feels so foreign, having Frankie hold the toy instead of your own hands. It still feels good, though. You rock your hips into it, chasing your quickly building orgasm. 

And then Frankie shuts it off. “Frankie,” you whine. “You–”

“I know, I know. You were having so much fun. But I’ve got a fucking bone to pick.” 

“What?” 

“Your toy’s blocking the view. I don’t wanna see that, I wanna see you.” 

Frankie tosses the toy to the side of the bed and once more spreads your legs wide. He admires your pussy, the glistening wetness dripping from your hole, the ribbons of creamy arousal on your folds. And your bush, he loves the dampened curls framing your beautiful cunt. “Such a pretty pussy,” he praises. “You gonna let me show you what you’ve been missing?”      

“Please, Frankie,” you beg. “I want that.”  

“You’re so sweet t’me,” he whispers. Frankie situates himself, adjusts your hips into position. He licks one long stripe up your seam, slowly and with a flat tongue, from the bottom all the way to the top. 

“Frankie,” you moan. “Oh, fuck.”           

“Oh, I know,” Frankie coos. “That felt good, didn’t it? That piece of plastic can’t lick you like that, can it?” 

“No,” you agree. “Again, Frankie, please.”

“It’d be my pleasure, sweetheart.” 

He licks another long stripe up you, then down. He focuses on just tasting you, getting you used to the feeling of his tongue in your folds. “Your toy doesn’t go in circles down here either, that's what the tongue is supposed to do.” Frankie demonstrates this by drawing circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue, first clockwise, then counter clockwise. Interestingly, your loudening moans indicate you prefer counter clockwise. Frankie takes note of this, files it away in his head. 

“And it doesn’t suck your clit,” he adds, “Like this –” he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks it between them, causing your legs to clamp around his head, just like he loves. And though he loves it, that uncontrollable, mindless reflex, he whispers to you, “Nuh-uh, sweetheart. You spread those legs nice and wide. That’s it, good girl.” 

It’s such an intense feeling, your clit between his lips and the pressure of his mouth sucking. He switches back to gentle but consistent licks on the sensitive part of you. “And you can correct me if I’m wrong, but you can’t really finger yourself while usin’ your toy, can you?” 

“Haven’t - haven’t tried, I don’t think - fuck, Frankie - I don’t –”

“Mm. I understand.”

Frankie pulls away from you and dips two fingers into your cunt, pumping them in and out for a moment before he curls them rhythmically inside you. He finds that special, sensitive spot that intensifies all of it and moves his mouth to your clit yet again. 

He eats you ravenously, losing himself in your pussy yet manages to maintain focus on you. He feels you coming close, that slow build of your orgasm quickening in time, and he wants to drag it out. “The other thing –” he begins, “About your little toy. It takes all the hard work away, makes it less satisfying for us both, don’t you think?” he says in between pleasuring you with his tongue and his fingers. “Takes all the fun away.”

Frankie reaches for your clit with his free hand and pulls your hood back. He flicks his tongue over you and you respond to the intensified feeling by reaching for his head, tugging his soft curls between your fingers. “Frankie, oh my god. Frankie,” you cry. 

“Listen to yourself,” he says. “You moan so pretty when I’m tasting you, don’t you think?”

It’s unclear whether Frankie expects you to answer his question or not, but you do in your own way, with his name falling from your lips in broken syllables. Your orgasm builds slowly, more intensely, in a more gratifying way than you’ve ever felt. You don’t just feel it in your core, between your thighs, but you feel it in your tummy and the bottom of your spine, the backs of your thighs and all down your legs. You come with a melody of curses and praises as pleasure washes over you in seemingly never ending waves, Frankie using his tongue to fuck you through it until the very end, when you’re shuddering and your body is twitching.

You’ve never seen such a cocky, satisfied smile before. When you open your eyes, Frankie’s smirking between your thighs, absolutely pleased with himself as he sucks his fingers clean. “So what’s the verdict?”

You smile and roll your eyes. “You know what the verdict is.”

“Mhm. I do, but I gotta hear you say it anyway.”

“It’s you,” you mumble, a grin on your lips. “You win.”

Frankie beams proudly, and the moment passes quickly. It ends with a knock on your door as your UberEats is delivered. “Who’s that?” Frankie asks. 

“Dinner,” you answer. You sit up in bed and find your pajama shorts, put them on and leave your bedroom to get your food. Frankie follows you as you open your front door and bend over to get your order. You put the bag in your fridge. 

“You’re not gonna eat?”

“I need to return the favor,” you tell him. “It’s your turn.”

“I’m flattered, but what you need to do is eat, my darling. Enjoy your meal. I enjoyed mine.” You roll your eyes at the way Frankie winks at you. “We can worry about returning the favor later,” he presses a chaste kiss to your lips, your taste and smell lingers on his skin and in his mustache. You hum in surprise. “You taste that? Tastes good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you murmur.

“Tastes good to me too. Nice reminder of what we were just doing, hm? You looked so pretty underneath me.” Frankie kisses you again, “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he says, and with that, he leaves. 

If you enjoyed, please tell me so 🩷 reblogs, comments, and asks are so appreciated and keep me motivated to write

THIS IS WAFFLES! @beefrobeefcal’s cat!! One of them at least. I love this guy. Mr President. He’s the mayor

[pinkmirth]

nfl reiner braun tears his alc and requests the best surgeon to work on it. he gets, youuuu, sweet smelling pink doctor coat wearing you and he can’t even take you serious when you’re going over his chart or requesting to feel the muscle with those pink gloves on. you even look younger than him and he’s telling you: “darlin’, listen… im a big deal around here and i need someone to help fix me not give me a boner.” or something like that and you almost don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re the best that there’s ever been at this hospital.

RECOVERY, reiner braun !

୨୧ — pairing: footballer!reiner braun x fem!reader

୨୧ — synopsis: this doctor’s got a hardheaded patient! it’ll take some effort to convince him of your effectiveness . . .

୨୧ — contains: ( 1.4k words of . . . ) modern au, slight nsfw (more like suggestive!), footballer!reiner, surgeon!reader, fem!reader (black coded), reiner has an ACL tear, reiner’s touch-deprived/sexually frustrated, rei’s kindaaa conceited (just a little bit!), palming, minors shoo!

୨୧ — mira’s note: ramona, my love! i adore all your reiner concepts, they’re always sooo perfect 🎀 thank youuu for sharing your rei-rei thoughts with me :) now here’s a lil drabble for my gorgeous man! (not really proofread thoroughly, i apologize for any typos or mistakes!)

isopropyl.

it’s all that reiner can smell. he’s a healthy man, he hardly belongs here— in this chilled surgeon office with the most pale, unflattering lighting. the parchment-like exam table paper rustles beneath him with every stretch and maneuver he makes, and his weight is enough to pry a creak out of the treatment table every now and again.

a recurring clack of footsteps and the whine of the door lets reiner know that you, the ‘sexy doctor lady from earlier’ has returned from reading his screenings. he wasn’t able to catch your name amidst the splitting pain from his acl tear, so that’ll make do in the meantime.

you set down your clipboard and turn to face him. your dear patient appears a bit mussed from the big game that took place earlier— his golden hair’s all fluffy and wild, that red football uniform of his is streaked with the green of the field, and his left cheekbone got a little scratch somehow. you’ll make sure to dab that with rubbing alcohol later.

“your vitals are well above average.” you commend. his reply’s a mere grunt. he can’t bring himself to take you seriously. just fucking look at you; pink latex gloves pulled over manicured hands, welcoming eyes all doe and shiny, with a sweet glossed smile that he won’t forget for days to come. he hates having to meet such a beauty under these grim circumstances– after all, you’re the kind of woman he’d take out on a date.

“lucky for you, mister braun, your injury isn’t a complete tear . . . so your recovery time shouldn’t be too long. it’ll last about six months, give or take.”

he isn’t listening.

reiner isn’t even sure of when he began to space out; your lips are just so plush, so alluring. his surname sounds sweeter than it should when falling from your mouth. before long, you clear your throat. it’s enough to snap him out of it. “i’d appreciate your undivided attention, sir. we’re currently going over your healing plan— ”

“lemme ask you, sugar,” he interjects with a low rasp. reiner braun’s well known around these parts, and you can only assume that being such a big deal has gotten to his head. what he says next throws you off, “when’s the real doctor comin’ in, hm?” it’s hard to remain professional, but you do. no furrowed brows, no scrunched up face— nothing but a tight, forced smile.

you suck in a breath through your nose, maintaining composure. “what makes you think it isn’t me, mister braun?” he can hear the tinge of vexation in your voice. clearly, this footballer has struck a chord or two.

“you’ve got pink gloves on, barbie.” he snarks out a laugh, just a bit mean. he’s much too handsome for such a condescending tone.

you bring a gloved hand flat to his chest, pushing reiner back into the examination table. his breath catches in his throat when you knead your fingers into his thigh, right where the tear resides beneath firm muscle. you’re assertive, and goddamn, does he love it.

“i’m your doctor.” you assure, voice firm. he groans out at the calculated pressure; it feels good. makes the throb of pain fade, just a bit.

“you’ll have to put some faith in me, hm?” your tone is warm, words soft and patient in a way he doesn’t deserve. reiner can’t lie, it was crass of him to have undermined you that way.

“my apologies, doc.” he addresses you in the rightest way he can. it’s his tiny little way of making amends.

“so, how long— fuck, how long did ‘ya study for?” reiner tries for small talk, voice low and shaken. you’d like to believe that whatever left his lips just now wasn’t a moan. no, it was more like . . . a groan of pain, perhaps?

“about six years. graduated early,” no wonder you look just about his age, if not younger. all his previous doctors were just as old as his parents.

“smart and pretty, huh?” he graces you with a feeble grin, a white gleam of teeth surrounded by neatly trimmed stubble. it’s safe to say that he’s your hottest patient up to date.

you continue on with prodding into the thick meat of his left thigh, and those throaty whines of his make you feel a way you simply shouldn’t.

it’s been a while since reiner’s been touched this way. he knows it’s just a regular inspection for his stupid injury, but he can’t recall the last time a woman’s splayed their hands on his body. he’s always busy with football this, training that. there’s never any time remaining for hook-ups, talkless of a relationship. that being said, it isn’t long before he begins to grow excited.

“m— mister braun,” you call out, voice airy, “you seem a little, um . . . worked up.”

“huh?” his eyes flit up to meet yours. you lock onto his honey-brown pools of desperation.

nothing else is uttered. you wordlessly direct your gaze towards his crotch, and give him a knowing look. reiner finally catches on— he fucking knew he felt his bottoms getting tight. hesitantly, the blonde lifts his head to peer down at his pants. surely enough, a boner’s prodding at the centering cloth of his football shorts.

“goddamn,” he drops his head back onto the examination table, bashfully throwing his forearm over his eyes. humiliation eats at the proud man, reducing him to a jumble of hormones.

you can hardly bring yourself to contain your chuckle, which makes his reddened cheeks burn further. it seems that his bodily reaction to your skilled hands has given him a sense of humility at best, and embarrassment at worst.

“i’ve never been appointed to a lady before . . .” is his hushed excuse. he’s still got his eyes shielded with his arm— he can’t even fucking bear to look at you. it’ll only spur him on further.

‘i turn you on?’ is what you’re just longing to question him. you know that you do— he’s been looking at your lips with bated breath since he got here. not to mention the peeks he’d taken at your ass whenever you turned around to read his chart or grab a cotton ball.

it’s quite bold of you— more like dangerous— to bring your ministrations upwards, closer to the ache under his pants. you’d tell yourself to stay on task, but professionalism has long been thrown out the window.

your gloved hands trail mischievously, placed directly atop reiner’s hard-on. warmth radiates from your palm, and you squeeze. his eyes blink shut, hips gently bucking upwards. his tear burns from beneath his skin, but he doesn’t fucking care. he bets he could cum from your hands alone.

reiner eventually manages to pull his arm away from blocking his viewpoint, chest heaving with every passing second. if you were to use your stethoscope on him, his heartbeat would be nothing short of erratic.

“trust me, mister braun,” is your reassuring whisper, “you’re in good hands.”

[hawkinsquarry]

❝  please don’t go—  i need.  i need someone—  i need you.  ❞ and ❝  it doesn’t have to mean anything,  i just don’t wanna feel lonely tonight. and i want to feel good for once.  ❞ is making me feel things. honestly needy steve begging to not be lonely sounds lovely but either way ❤️

how could i say goodbye? - steve x gn!reader

no pronouns for reader used; fluff, angst; hurt/comfort; sharing a bed; friends to lovers; love confessions; steve cry :(; brief mention of p*rn section at fam video but nothing in depth!

You’ve seen Steve like this before. Beaten up, bruised, a bit bloody. You’ve seen him wear the scars after. Borrowing Robin’s concealer for a cut lip and making up lies about being a klutz. You’ve bandaged him up, grabbed an ice pack and a handful of ibuprofen and sat them down on his bedside table, taking in his sleeping face before shutting off the light and going home.

This time, he’s scared. Everyone is. The world’s up in smoke and fire and tens of people are missing or dead. You’d wrung your hands the entire walk to Steve’s at 2 am, just as big military vehicles are pulling in. You couldn’t sleep, not knowing what’s become of him, and you’re relieved when his big, dumb house is in view, intact. A warm light on in his bedroom window. His car in the driveway, his dad’s car not.

Steve’s terrified when he opens the door, but his features soften immediately. His shirt’s off. You notice the lacerations on his torso immediately, but Steve’s pulling you in and locking the door before you can ask.

“Did you walk here?” is the first thing he says. You shrug, and he sighs loudly before wrapping you up in his arms. He smells like earth. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“Lines are down anyway,” you mumble into his shoulder, trying not to kiss the skin as much as you want to. “What happened?”

He sighs again. “Not an earthquake.”

“I know.”

“Guess you could tell I needed a nurse, huh?”

You don’t think it’s very funny, but you lead him to the bathroom, picking out the first aid kit you’d last restocked in July. “Think you’ll need to lay down,” you say, gently kicking the cabinet under the sink shut. “Bedroom.”

You work gently and diligently on his stomach. He’d sworn to you it was already disinfected by the same people who partially cleaned him up after Starcourt. You still apply alcohol, much to his dismay. But even when he’s wincing, he’s quiet. Steve’s not known to be quiet. Your anxiety nearly gets the best of you, almost screaming at him when you ask again, “What happened?”

He stares at you for a long time, brown eyes starting to wet. “Not tonight,” he says.

“Robin?”

“She’s alive, too. Almost -“ and he takes a deep breath, pauses when you dab some more isopropyl on his spent skin. “Eddie.” It’s all he says. You bite at your cheek. You didn’t know Eddie well, and you’ve still got a lot of questions - but it’s a confirmation that those you know who usually get into these kinds of messes are okay.

You’re not unaware of the pointed use of the word alive and not okay. He was okay after 1984, and okay again after 1985, but 1986 only brings the word alive.

You use gauze to wrap the cuts on his stomach before taking another once over of him. He’s still so beautiful, even caked with mud and dirt and some weird thick gross slime that he’d only moaned a little don’t ask about. “Your neck,” you whisper, brows furrowing.

He nods a bit. “Hurts.”

You disinfect it, too, gently dabbing him with a cotton pad. “Hurts to swallow? To talk?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s okay,” you soothe, “I’ll stop askin’ questions now.”

“Don’t,” he whispers, suddenly grabbing your wrist. “Keep talking. Please.”

You swallow and nod before continuing your work. “My house is fine. It looks most bad in downtown - I guess you already know that? The phone lines - I said that already. Guess what I did today?”

A hint of a smile. He shrugs a shoulder.

“I finally checked out the porn section at Family Video.”

His smile grows.

“Which I guess was really good timing. But Keith was there - something about how his employees didn’t show up? Do you know anything about that?”

“Nothing,” he mouths.

“I didn’t rent anything,” you continue, “I just wanted to look. And I guess - I guess I just wanted to see you, too.”

His big eyes get all soft again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” You dab away the last remnants of blood from his neck and pull back to throw the cotton pad in the trash. “Shouldn’t apologize for saving the world.”

You’re prepping a band aid for a cut on his head when he whispers, “We didn’t this time.”

You look back at him in a little bit of shock. Yes, the things always come back. But he’s never come back and said “yeah, we really dropped the ball this time.” He’s always been relatively confident, giving it “an eighty to eighty-five percent chance” that this was the last time.

“Zero percent,” he says, like he’s reading your mind. “We didn’t.”

“Let’s worry about that tomorrow, okay? I saw those big government vehicles - they’ll help.”

He makes a face that tells you everything. They won’t. They don’t know how.

“I’m sorry,” you say, leaning back towards him and resting your hands on his chest.

You see his adam’s apple bob. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it safe for you.”

Steve has never cried before in front of you. He’s gotten close, but just walked away, pinching his nose and coming back a few minutes later like nothing ever happened. But now, he’s crying. It’s soft, a few tears riding down his cheeks.

“Steve.” Your voice cracks. “None of this is your fault. None of it. You can’t save the world. I’m - I’m so happy you’re safe.” You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, trying to fight off a sob. “I’m just glad you came home.”

He closes his eyes and bites his lip. You move away with your kit, placing it on his desk before moving back to him. You push his hair out of his face softly. “Get some sleep. Okay?”

Steve’s eyes shoot open and he looks scared again. Panicked. He shakes his head and grabs your hands, pulling you into him so far that you almost trip and fall on top of him. “Please don’t go. I need - I need someone. I need you.”

Your heart jumps up to your throat and you swallow thickly. He’s never asked you for this before. And he’s genuine - his eyes are wild and still wet and he looks so, so scared. Scared of losing you.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll get some blankets and -“

“Here,” he says, tugging you in again. “I - look, I know. But it doesn’t have to mean anything. I just don’t wanna feel lonely tonight. I want to feel good for once. I - goddammit. I want you. Please.”

I want you. It rings in your head. I want you.

You move to the other side of the bed and slide under the covers, cuddling up close to him. Steve turns onto his side as best as he can - you’d chosen his good side to lay beside. You wrap him in your arms as he rests his head on your chest. His grip on you is tight and it has to hurt. His muscles have to be screaming at him to stop and rest. But he holds you like you might get taken, too, along with all the others.

And he cries. You feel the tears soaking through your shirt. He tries his best not to make any noise, but he still sniffles and clears his throat. You rake your hand through his hair and hold him as tight as you can, too.

“Steve,” you whisper. “I love you. I just - I had to say it.”

There’s a pause, a shaky breath, before he pushes himself up to kiss you. It’s small and otherwise insignificant, but warm and sweet and what you’ve wanted for years. You’re surprised when he pulls back, but you melt as he whispers, “I love you, too.”

He settles into your chest again, and you resume combing his hair, heart pounding. “I’m here. Okay? I’ll take care of you. Just rest. I love you.”

He sighs and relaxes. “I love you, too.”

[thesakuragarnet]

My Dabi Headcanons

Finished my finals today and got bored so... I am throwing out my favorite Dabi headcanons

SOME 18+ ONLY THEMES!!!!

HUUUUGE believer in consent (partially because of what his mother endured)

Bisexual and a switch (I will d!e on this hill)

Loves stars

Is the big brother of the League and views Toga as a little sister (viewed Twice as a brother)

Was extremely hurt by Hawks' betrayal on an emotional/personal level which is why the fight was so over-the-top (lover's quarrel/divorce if you will)

Acts like he doesn't care but secretly cares so much (masks his emotions even though they are too big for his body)

ADHD

Lets Toga paint his nails black

Knew Hawks from when he was freshly homeless after the flashback from Ch350

S3ggsual activity and drinking as a coping mechanism (can drink Everclear like water; his Quirk processes the alcohol quickly so he gets drunk really fast but also sobers up really fast)

loves soft things (sensory coping with blankets/fluff/etc)

Extremely smart but hides it

Has fucked up vision from his accident (probably needs glasses but doesn't have them)

Smells like a hospital in the sense that he has to keep his burns/wounds clean or he'll go septic, so he probably smells like isopropyl alcohol, maybe with some cheap cologne covering it up

Touch-starved to the point where he becomes obsessive with PDA (probably a virgin before hooking up with Hawks)

Emo/punk/alt music

Generalized Anxiety Disorder

Was actually the one sending the blue flowers to his mother in the mental hospital

Struggles with perfectionism that he developed during his childhood

Monster Energy can wall in his room

[mirith]

Bet.

Apologies for the messy background, but here's my lovely knitting machine! It's a Silver Reed SK10.

While writing another post, I noticed I was writing a lot about my knitting machine. So I put the words here. And added a lot more.

This is going to be a long post. I talk a lot about things I like, and I will not apologize for it. I will add a cut here so you can scroll by this more easily if you want. But! It'll be more fun if you read on! And I put photos of stuff I made at the end!

I learned to knit by hand from a book in elementary school, and I learned wrong. I have been happily hand-knitting things ever since, and consider myself a fairly knowledgeable and experience hand-knitter. I haven't steeked anything, to be fair, but my interests tend to be geared toward lace.

Which is good, because that's my default handspinning weight. Here's an example of the stuff I like to spin and knit (4 months from start to end, oof oof):

After I graduated college, I found out about flatbed knitting machines! I found one that looked cool, and drove myself a few hours to buy it. The end. Just kidding. You're not even halfway through this post. Not sorry.

I did not know how to operate a knitting machine. I just liked how this one looked (still do) and it also had a ribber! And it was $50? Something like that? Probably paid more for gas.

Anyway. Flatbed knitting machines range from "I can only do stockinette hehe" to "I am fully electronic, I'll knit lace or colorwork for you all by myself, EZ".

Mine is firmly in the former camp. No punchcard capability at all, and the ribber carriage is not even sophisticated enough to link up with the main bed carriage. Each row of ribbing requires the main bed carriage to be moved first (laying yarn across the ribber needles), then the ribber carriage (hooking the previously laid yarn down to complete the row). So knitting in the round is, yes, one pass of the main, then the ribber, then the main again, then the ribber carriage... (I actually made a lil' youtube video about this).

I cannot tell you why I wanted it, other than "new yarn thing!". At this point in my life, I was a very comfortable hand-knitter. There was no reason to acquire a large metal object that would do what I did, but "less good" (considering this machine would only ever do stockinette and hand-manipulated stitches -- but I didn't know tuck stitches existed!).

Tuck stitches look like the honeycomb pattern in the middle here, and are kind of knitting machine exclusive:

I think I actually may have wanted a circular sock machine, but those are very, very expensive, and not really in my price range. Still aren't. Very much considering adding one to my wedding registry to see if someone bites. (Would have to plan a wedding, but it would be worth it).

I figured that a flatbed machine with a ribber could knit in circles, ie, what CSMs do; but would also knit large flat things (CSMs can do small flat things, I think). And since the price meant a CSM was unrealistic without some serious saving, it was clear I would have to find a flatbed with ribber.

But working knitting machines with working ribbers are difficult to find. And expensive! I think prices were $350-500 for the full package plus shipping (expensive shipping because these are bulky and heavy and delicate instruments), and I'm sure they've only gotten worse.

I kind of live in a domestic craft desert, so there was very little hope for finding something local anyway. So when I saw a working machine with a ribber "near" me for less than $100, I was stoked. I was aware of its non-ability to pattern, but I just wanted to knit in circles.

When I got this machine, it was functional, but dirty. Oh, so dirty.

First thing I did was remove all the needles (took forever) and soak them in isopropyl alcohol (smelled terrible), and take everything apart as much as possible to scrub every reachable surface.

It was then that I re-affirmed my love for all-metal, vintage hardware. My sewing machine is a 1950s Singer and oh boy is that thing an absolute unit. This knitting machine is also an absolute unit in the best way. It was dirty, but in excellent knitting condition.

It was then that I also found this machine does not have a sponge bar. Which is really weird for a knitting machine. But also why I'll never get rid of it, I think.

It's got a metal U-shaped thing instead, to tension the needles. Sponge bars serve the same purpose, but the foam decays terribly over time. I don't think this metal thing ever needs to be replaced. I've knit quite a lot (will get to that!) on this machine and it knits beautifully still.

I think this machine predates sponge bars (??? pure speculation), because everything I've seen online about buying used machines says that you must consider the sponge bar and how to measure the sponge to buy the correct size and must immediately buy a new one and maybe even have a spare for when yours starts to get old etc etc. Never seen anything that says there's a metal tension rod like mine.

Ravelry did not believe this was the sponge bar equivalent, and asked me to please look elsewhere on the machine for the real sponge bar. They also told me this machine was not worth $50, which I kind of disagree with. Yes, it's super limited, but I love it. It will also, like my sewing machine, probably outlive me.

It's a standard gauge machine, and not a very common one (?). I think it's an earlier machine (4th oldest on this list), in terms of domestic machines, and likely was passed up in later years for models that had punchcards. There is another internet presence who has an SK10! KinoKnits did a video on hers.

There is a manual for the machine and a manual for the ribber online, and the scans aren't great, but they are very readable. Not much else though.

Okay. Infodump mostly completed.

Once I got the machine home I immediately set it up and realized I didn't quite know what I was doing.

After much trial and tribulation, I created some... things...

I optimistically cast on with my newly-learned e-wrap cast on and the included cast on wire (I have still not figured out the cast on wires, I don't think they actually work, and are simply a cruel prank)

I switched yarn (to something thinner and less elastic), in case that was the issue, and also switched to trying just i-cord to see if I could get that to work. It worked!

Switched back to the original yarn. I-cord also worked!

And back to trying fabric. Progress! But a lot of dropped stitches. I think this was very similar to attempt 1, but I just persisted and more aggressively picked up droppped stitches. This took me a very long time.

No dropped stitches! I used a weird cast on, or maybe just a really loose e-wrap?

Fabrice! I was confident enough to mark that I was using tension 7 with those (intentional!) yarn-over holes near the top.

I believe that those six attempts took me a few hours, and a lot of it was me trying to gauge whether or not yanking the carriage across was the right thing to do. I wasn't sure how much force to apply, and was deathly afraid of breaking needles, because I don't think these are standard ones and I can't get replacements.

There wasn't much to learn after this.

Oh.

Except for, you know, using the ribber.

It looks pretty similar to the main needle bed. Long metal guy with lotta needles. It's flatter, and hangs off the main bed with some sturdy arms on either side (which you can't see, sorry).

Close up:

You kind of have to wiggle it so that the needles don't smash into each other.

It does function identically to the main bed otherwise. But it's so much trickier to fix dropped stitches (or even see them!) because, as you can see, the ribber kind of covers everything. And it doesn't come off till the ribbing is done.

I've found that I need lots of weight to get the ribbing to knit off properly, which sucks if I run either carriage across without yarn accidentally. The knitting will simply yeet itself onto the floor and I will have to start over.

The cast on is kind of weird, but not terrible if you understand what it's trying to do, which I do, but will not endeavour to explain on this already horrendously long post. The Singer SR10 manual explains the cast-on process if you're interested. Or just tell me and I'll make another infodump post! Love talking about my knitting machine.

Here are some first attempts at ribbing and tubular knitting:

Allllllrighty it's project time!

I made a hat! (I made it a free Ravelry pattern btw, because the decreases are optionally worked by hand).

I made some sock tubes and hand-knit the heels and toes!

I made a bunch of ribbed cowls with my handspun!

I made scarves with more handspun!

And most recently I made a bralette:

Which turned out smaller than I planned because I do not gauge swatch properly at all, but I can wear it semi-modestly anyway.

[sufrimientilia]

Tag Game: Last Line Tag

eeee thanks for the tag, @blackrosesandwhump!

Rules: In a new post, share the last line you wrote and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like).

from a wip i am neglecting. although my actual last line needed context so I may have CHEATED

He could smell the sharp tang of isopropyl alcohol before it landed cold against the back of his neck. Swirl, swirl, swirl.

i didn't count + no pressure tags!! just some lovely writers off the top of my head :)) @whumping-in-the-dark @jaeyleo @oliversrarebooks @ashintheairlikesnow @sowhumpshaped @whumpetywhumpwhump @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[homemakinghippie]

DIY Cleaning Products 101

Personally I don't love the ingredients in most conventional cleaning products. They generally have artificial fragrance and other endocrine disrupters and things you don't really want to be breathing in. For the last year I have been making most of my own cleaning products and in addition to being healthier, I've noticed I save money doing this as well. I want to share some of my favorite recipes for cleaning products, but there are definitely things you need to know about the different ingredients first so I'm sharing this first.

Vinegar- Vinegar is an amazing all purpose cleaner for tables, counters, any surfaces that aren't natural stone like marble or granite. I also love using it for washing produce and replacing fabric softener (no your fruit won't taste like vinegar and your clothes won't smell like it). It can effectively remove some pesticide residue, as well as help the produce last longer. Some recipes you find online recommend mixing vinegar with baking soda or castile soap-neither of these should be mixed with vinegar. Both baking soda and castile soap have a basic pH, while vinegar is acidic. Mixing baking soda and vinegar makes a cool chemical reaction, but you're left with fancy salt water. Mixing it with castile soap basically unsaponifies the soap, making it completely useless as well. If you want to add some scent to your vinegar you can add citrus peels or pine needles to it and let them sit for a few weeks before straining. NEVER mix vinegar with bleach or hydrogen peroxide. Vinegar and bleach makes chlorine gas, vinegar and hydrogen peroxide makes peracetic acid. Both of these are extremely dangerous.

Baking Soda- Baking soda is a great abrasive for scrubbing, and a great deodorizer. I use baking soda on my glass top stove, scrubbing my toilets, scrubbing the shower, anywhere I need extra scrubbing help. As I mentioned before it shouldn't be mixed with vinegar because they cancel each other out. I do like using it with castile soap for bathroom cleaning though.

Castile soap- Castile soap has soooo many uses. If you've ever looked at a bottle of Dr Bronner's you've seen the huge list of things they recommend it for. It shouldn't be mixed with vinegar, but castile soap can leave behind some soap scum if you have hard water so rinsing with a vinegar/water mix after use is often recommended. I like using it in the bathroom as well as dish and hand soap (I wouldn't put this in your dishwasher though, hand washing only with this).

70% Isopropyl Alcohol- Also known as rubbing alcohol, 70% isopropyl alcohol is a great disinfectant. When using it you need to make sure you're using 70%. This is a standard dilution you can get at the store, but many people don't realize how important the dilution percentage is. If you mix it with water there won't be enough alcohol to disinfect, and if you use higher than 70% there's too much alcohol and it will evaporate before it can do it's job. I use this all over my house from the kitchen, to the bathroom, to disinfecting my nail supplies after doing an at home manicure. It also works amazingly as a glass cleaner.

Hydrogen Peroxide- Hydrogen peroxide is another great disinfectant, but it's not one I personally use as much. I keep it in my cleaning closet in case I want it for something, but unlike alcohol it needs to be wiped away after sitting for a bit.

[sga-owns-my-soul]

Whenever I get really bored I start thinking about what characters would smell like (sounds weird but hear me out).

For example, I strongly feel like Daniel Jackson would smell like old, dusty books. Like when you crack open an antique book and smell the pages.

Carson would smell clean and fresh. Like aftershave mixed with a little bit of isopropyl alcohol. While Jennifer would smell sweet and youthful but a little bit on the cheap inexpensive side. Bath & Body Works Vanilla Bean probably.

Ronon would smell surprisingly fresh despite looking so rugged. After being a runner for years, he wouldn't take soap and running water for granted and would shower very frequently. Teyla would smell like incense and maybe a bit florally.

Aiden would unironically use axe body spray.

NOT AIDEN USING AXE OH NO the military hallway on atlantis turns into my 8th grade middle school hallway 😭😭😭😂😂😂😂

these are all so accurate and 100% correct this is canon to me omg i love it thank you so much for sharing PLEASE feel free to send more

[tefmiles]

i love smelling isopropyl alcohol ❤️❤️❤️❤️

[triptychofvoids]

Autistic medic gives me life ❤❤. Any random hcs for him? /nf /pos

of course! autistic medic is canon to me

ive already talked a bit about him being autistic before so a few of these maybe be things ive already mentioned but ill say them anyway

this is already obvious to everyone already but his special interests are surgery and medicine! anything medical really. hes also very interested in anatomy and pigeons (specifically pigeons. he probably couldnt tell you a lot about parrots for example, but if you want 100 facts about doves then hes your guy). and of course hed have a bunch of other hobbies and interests but those are the big ones

hes more prone to shutdown than he is to meltdown. not that meltdowns would never happen, theyre just more rare. usually a shutdown would come first and on the occasion hes pushed past that then a meltdown would follow, and after a meltdown then hed have a second even worse shutdown. thankfully situations like these are rare

like ive said (and drawn) before his main stims are rocking, hand flapping, echolalia, tensing up and hand wringing, and biting. a few other less obvious/not as common that he has are sparkly/flashy visual stims, he also loves both feeling and seeing anything gorey, he likes petting his birds, certain noises would be very pleasant to him like his doves cooing or coins clinking together and the sounds of the mediguns. hed love the smell of coffee and isopropyl. hed have a few others stims too but theyd be more rare and very situational like hitting himself or toe walking.

hes weird about his gloves and his coat. as in he would put them on for a specific reason but once he gets used to having them on he would absolutely hate taking them off. he has to keep them on for the rest of the day no matter what. and vice versa, if hes not wearing his gloves or coat then he cant just?? randomly put them on?? no no its all or nothing theyre either going on for combat and then staying on for the rest of the day or not at all

hes very excitable and loves to talk and if hes engaged in a conversation or excited about something then his voice will gradually get louder and louder and he'll keep interrupting or talking over people. he wont even notice it until someone points it out to him

you cant take him to the store because hes going to touch everything and then very quickly regret it when hes suddenly overcome with the overwhelming soul crushing need to wash his hands and theres no sink around. its so over :[

bad at left vs right and identifying north, south, east, and west. nothing else to say here, its not that he gets lost easily, he can find his way around just fine its just that hes awful at directions

very strict about his routines and lists. he cannot stand it if he makes plans and they get postponed or canceled. he hates it if he makes a list of things to get and then cant get everything on the list exactly correct. hes actually more than willing to do things on impulse in the moment but only if hes already mentally planned to do that or if it doesnt interfere with something else he has going on

hes very blunt and direct. he says exactly what hes thinking and answers questions very honestly and directly. people often find him to be rude for this but he doesnt get why. speaking of him being seen as rude, he used to get in trouble for always rolling his eyes or talking back to people because for the longest time he didnt realize that trying to stretch your eyes or avoid eye contact or staring could all somehow be considered 'rolling' your eyes. or rude. and talking back... isnt that how a conversation works? hes never been very good at knowing when he is or isnt supposed to reply to statements.

ive said it before but i will say it again. he has little to no empathy. every autistic person is different of course and not all autistics have low empathy, but im tired of low enpathy being seen as a bad trait. im tired of people with low empathy (autistic or otherwise) being seen as evil and uncaring. having low empathy doesnt make you a bad person. he has very low empathy and often struggles to connect with and understand others. he frequently will have the wrong emotion for the situation and may sometimes come off as uncaring when he is not as sad about something as they are, etc etc etc but he is not some horrible evil monster for it and i do not want to see anyone saying that because its just completely incorrect. hope this helps

anyway!!!! theres some autistic medic!!!! i hope you like him as much as i do!!!!

[porciaenjoyer]

unfortunately i love the taste of alcohol and i would drink isopropyl alcohol if i could because it smells so so good to me. there is famously alcohol that can be consumed but i want isopropyl alcohol

[lynnedwardswrites]

Happy STS! Hope you've had a great week ❤️ If your WIP had a candle or fragrance what would it smell like?

Hi Opal! Thanks for such an interesting ask!

I've been trying really hard to answer this question with a quintessentially Mormon smell, from the endless number of meeting houses and temples and other church-owned space I've been through, but doing so has made me realize what a deeply sterile environment Mormon churches are. No candles, no incense; even our anointed oils (on the rare occasion they are used) are just olive or another, even more neutral, oil. Our sacraments are white bread and water. The church grounds are parking lot and boxbush and perfectly manicured grass. Baptisms, I guess, are done in chlorinated pools, but besides the literal cut of bleach, worship is scentless.

Which honestly makes sense, I guess. Mormonism prides itself on being practical and "unworldly." And why waste money on creating a fully sensory, immersive, pleasurable experience when your entire worship cycle relies on isolating and emotion-starving your congregation until they start branching out into "bad" stuff like drinking coffee or watching rated-R movies or noticing the people they find sexually attractive, shaming them for doing those things, and then convincing them that the way to stop feeling ashamed is to pay the church a bunch of money and isolate and emotion-starve themselves some more. 🤦🏽 Maybe it's no surprise that the strongest scent-associations I have with Mormonism are the chain of MLM companies and their product that worshippers engage with outside of services. First Scentsy then DoTerra and YoungLiving, (dont worry, capitalism will let you feel something) and the olfactory onslaught of "vanillasugarchristmas" homes that mirror every woman's vanillasugarchristmas smile. Mormons are so scent-starved they go home and douse themselves in essential oils.

But I digress.

It occurs to me that while vanilla-chlorine Mormonism taints every aspect of the setting, maybe I ought to base the candle on the rebellion against Mormonism that pervades every aspect of the story. The smell of black tea with lemon in it, the smell of coffee with hazelnut creamer, the smell of the suntan lotion you're putting on your lower back and thighs because you're daring to wear a crop top and shorts this summer, the smell of incense you burn at a pagan altar while exploring your new lease on spirituality, the smells of beer and bourbon and gin all muddling as you taste your friends' drinks at the bar, the smell of isopropyl as the tech cleans your ear for a taboo second piercing, the smell of water-based marker as the tattoo artists sketches flow lines on your skin, the smell of cherry chapstick when you kiss a girl and you like it, the smell of sweat and sex as you learn how to let yourself love being in your own skin.

Much better, much richer, and much more pleasant.

[sparkly-sediment]

Clay Puppington has a dumpington

If this is brought up at a job interview years later I will have to brace myself and hold accountability for this horrendous shit like a real woman.

For now, literature forgoing the scriptures

ahh omg tw everything wrong with clay

We already know he says slurs

Horribly misogynistic, ignorant, and the root of it all isn’t a genuine incompetence. This is no mere 1950’s self destructive alcohol; he’s self aware

Only breeds more hatred of himself, which festers and seeps into everyone. Clay copes by inflicting what he thinks he deserves on others

Average continuation of generational trauma cycle but this round has a gay boy name clay and hoo boy does he not like that

Obviously married to Bloberta, obviously didn’t marry out of love or anything. He had an idea of what a marriage was, but 50’s knowledge of empathetic humanity + fear of judgement and god+ spiraling alcoholism+ Bloberta doesn’t make for a perfect union!

Within it all he knew he was discontent with his marriage for reasons outside of it being really shitty. The good ol repression had made his feelings towards others unrecognizable

Can’t tell if it’s platonic or romantic? Befriend the men and sexually resent the women!

Tried to compensate his attraction to men with objectification of women. Men are equals to him. But women are these disgusting creatures that bind to him and glue him into a life with kids he doesn’t know how to love or raise and to the role of a husband he doesn’t want to be

If Clay was alone, though, then the world would see him for the weak man he is. The world would know he was unlovable and he wasn’t worth it

Obvi has the thing with Daniel but refuses to really commit because 1( m/m in moralton statesota?? bffr and 2( he committed to his wife and now he fucking hates his life

LETS BE REAL DANIEL GROOMED TF OUTTA CLAY

Like ok, he is obsessed with Clay. There is a difference between obsession and getting a broken man drunk before sliding your hand in his pants

The reason Clay and Daniel are a thing is the lack of options and Daniel being manipulative. And while being a more satisfying option to Clay, Daniel still provides the unhealthy relationship energy Clay is used to. It may be a man, but the toxicity is familiar and seemingly normal. Clay feels safe with the tension even if he hurts from it

Alcoholism runs in his family. He didn’t drink until meeting Bloberta because he saw how his father did with it. But if it was a fun and normal thing that a woman liked him for?

Got married, got addicted 😜 who needs to address their raging unwell when that scotch burns so good

Self harm type things occasionally. He knows he’ll have a horrific hangover, but he deserves it. He doesn’t get to be “happy” (drunk) without consequences

Headcanon he had really bad explosive fiery shits after nature. Spurting diarrhea. He drank isopropyl alcohol and lived, his asshole was melting ok. He wheeled Orel inside the house and left him at the entryway for Bloberta to get bc he had to shit

“Foul smells attract the devil” no wonder Daniel was into him bc goddamn

Shapey and Blockey (doe ass names btw feel so ridiculous typing that) (because I am) crying in the storage room from the smell. Can’t even see the vacuum through the green fog

More that could be written but kittens do need their rest. Will be back for him soon, may write brutalized angst one day

Takes a special type of shitbag to wear a robe like that. Not to mention the crimes and abuse. Poopy baby, peace ✌🏻

[blueeyeswhitegirlcock]

thinking about gross things and symbolism and death

stillborn babies and the dead conjoined twins in textbook illustrations, from a dehumanization & immortality angle. the idea of you was loved so long and then in reality you are, disappointingly, just an organism, and they had to tear you apart and take photos to understand what went wrong. they had to, they needed to know what it was about you that made you too sick to be a child.

now, suspended in formalin and glass, bathed in off-yellow light through the carcinogens, if you're ever 'born' again it'll be through the lid of the jar and onto a steel tray. your sweet isopropyl fumes smother me even through the mask on my face and the vicks under my nose. it's bad but it's not the oily smell of death and it's not life either, it's something that never was but currently is. us real people will never agree on whether were ever alive, or, if you were, to what extent. as an object you've been on a shelf in the basement lab of a community college biology department since before i was born, and i know you'll outlive me.