#stretchiest

[trans-cuchulainn]

Question from a tanner re: parchment: do you know why it's bendy enough to make into books? Because rawhide tends to break rather than bend (see: drums with which break), and parchment should just be rawhide with the top layer of skin scraped / sanded off. Is it that top layer that makes rawhide stiffer? Or do parchment makers somehow work on it to make it more pliant?

i don't know much about rawhide so it's a little hard for me to compare the processes but i would say it's probably a mixture of materials and processing! firstly materials: it depends what type of skin you used in the first place. the reason they use calfskin for parchment/vellum is that it's much more supple than adult cowskin, which becomes leather instead; goats and sheep are also common for parchment. since rawhide is a byproduct of the leather industry i would expect it's made of the much tougher materials to start with. also, since it's a byproduct, it may be that they've split off the layers that would be used for parchment etc anyway? not sure, this is where not knowing a huge amount about rawhide lets me down

secondly there's the processing and specifically there's a lot of stretching: you stretch parchment over a frame to make it thinner (and larger) and this probably also makes it a lot more pliant, and then you scrape it more at that point, having already got rid of a lot of the gunk before that stage. my cursory googling suggests that rawhide doesn't involve a lot of stretching, so this might also be part of the process of making it bendier, along with how much they scrape off and what they soak the skin in to loosen hair etc in the first place!

[i-hear-a-sound]

was anybody going to tell me caim being a singularity was canon and confirmed a decent while ago in a dod3 guidebook. or was I just supposed to accidentally find that out while scrolling on the Internet

[babieken]

I’ve had similar issues with weight loss (gained weight when i was sick then lost ~25% of what was my entire body weight) and now my girls have deflated 😔 One day i really want to get a lift done, maybe implants too, but it all kinda scares me. I can’t really feel my nips either (or a lot of my body — thanks neuropathy!) so I guess that’s one less thing to worry about 😂 I’m just gonna stick to saving for fillers/botox for my face in the meantime 😬

Hope your recovery keeps going well!! 🖤

Oh gosh... that's a DRASTIC weightloss!!! I can imagine😞😞😞

Okay imma be real with u, im super anti implants kdnddmdk (personal opinion ofc) Other than their fake looking results and the fact that you're adding weights to ur chest, the thought of having two giant external objects being shoved into ur body makes me wanna CRAWL OUT OF MY SKIN... But honestly who am i to tell u what to do 😌 if thats what u want u should totally go for it!!!

Oh i love botox <3 my beloved. I love living in a modern world with modern shit like this kdkkdkd

[sleepless-crows]

Another episode of comparing Six of Crows with Taylor Swift songs!!!

Whatever you do, when you listen to:

"Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness.

'Cause it's all over now, all out to sea."

Do not think of Kaz's aversion to skin-to-skin contact that was caused by being surrounded and drowned in corpses and feeling the cold, lifeless skin of his dead brother who he watched float out to sea.

[everythingroyalty]

If Pavlos start calling himself King of Greece, do you think QMII would use the title? She was the only one to refer to Constantine as King of Greece in her farewell (I know it's because of the Greeks' Danish titles but still). I undestand that she may want to treat her sister as Queen, but just imagining MC being given that treatment *laughs*

Absolutely not. That would be a major political faux pas and extremely offensive to Greece. Especially with the sentiment the Greek government has displayed in regard to the funeral. I'm pretty sure Anne-Marie will be "Enkedronning Anne-Marie" (or "Queen Dowager Anne-Marie" in English) going forward though but that's just standard when becoming widowed.

But to be fair, I don't think Pavlos would actually do that. I think he'll remain Crown Prince and that'll be the title Tino assumes when Pavlos dies. If Pavlos was to assume another title, I think it would be one similar to Margareta in Romania which I think is perfectly legitimate and respectful.

[lightgaswaterelectricityrent]

The stories people tell you about how if you find the right size and the right bra they won't be painful anymore are nice. They're not true but they're nice

[vincentbriggs]

Finished another pair of gloves last week, this time in dark brown leather from ItalianSkins and sewn up with some olive green silk thread that was a very lucky thrift store find. (It was in a mixed baggie and I didn't know it was silk until I got home!)

In my glove video I mentioned wanting to re-draw my pattern so the fingers are angled in more tightly, and so the thumb piece is longer, and I did that for these. The thumb fits much better, and the bases of the fingers are no longer too loose.

I also tried the straighter style of fourchettes, but didn't like them as much as the V shaped ones. I think the curved edges put a bit too much material onto the backs of the fingers and made them wrinklier. (Though this particular leather is not the stretchiest, so it may be better with a stretchier one.)

I did 3 rows of feather stitch on the back of the hand, since I'd seen that on an extant pair and thought it looked nice. I used a regular needle for that part because I was worried a leather needle would damage the thread.

[ccrites]

chokehold

listen, I've had this idea in my wips for a while (since the begnining of the year actually) and the fat reader worms have been wiggling in third gear with all the awesome stuff early ( @391780 ) has been putting out lately. So have 6.4k words of Soap being an absolute pussy eating freak but you know you love him

(also on ao3 if you prefer the formatting there, or if you want to drop a kudo)

.

The second the doors swing back closed behind you, you start feeling the scratchy feeling of doubt at the back of your throat.

It was predictable, really.

A small gym in a small town, heads turn when the hinges creak, not because they’re staring at you specifically, but because it’s a reflex.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to keep the scratchy feeling from turning sour in your mouth. Or make you throw up from embarrassment.

Perhaps your New Year’s resolution should’ve been to start on a home gym type of situation. Buy yourself some girly weights, a mat, and some sort of stepping device, and do those easy exercises every slim, pretty, high-ponytailed YouTube instructor seemed to preconize people out of shape do. Like a hamster on a wheel inside their cage. A rat chasing its own tail, maybe.

No, you promised yourself no more fake promises. Perhaps the money spent on the gym membership (stupid fucking New Year’s promotion) would motivate you to use it, lest it’s just money down the drain. 

You wore the stretchiest, thickest pair of black leggings you owned, hoping no one would see the terrible shape of your underwear through it. On the opposite spectrum of things, you knew the largest hoodie you owned would smother you and make you boil with sweat, so you chose the next best thing: the widest black t-shirt you owned. It was definitely not black enough, the dye faded into a dark gray from use over the years, but it was the only thing that camouflaged your body enough from the others’ sight. God forbid they imagine what your body actually looks like underneath.

The heads pretty quickly turned back around as you started walking towards the empty treadmills. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but the combined weight of at least a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes would’ve been enough to make you turn on your heels and back to your car, fuck the membership price.

At the very least, you could convince yourself that walking in place (no better than a hamster on its wheel but oh well) would be enough to get you started. Baby steps, and all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize the treadmill fucking sucks. Why would anyone suggest looking at a parking lot while suffering instead of the pretty scenery of a park or forest (while also suffering, but still).

The timer you’d set for the warm-up (ten minutes, just like the pretty blonde coach suggested!) crawls by way too slowly for your taste. You’d be all but whooping with joy when it beeps if you weren’t so out of breath and conscious of a gaze on you.

You’d seen him as soon as you walked in.

Between figures of balding men trying to get rid of their beer gut with abs, two thin women whispering to themselves in a corner while trying to look inconspicuous, and a few other, completely average-looking men and women, there he stands, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as he deadlifts an impressive amount of black plates.

He immediately looks straight ahead, correcting his stance, as if there were anything to be corrected, in your unathletic opinion. The muscles in his arms bulge even through the thin, grey hoodie, and the ones in his legs coil tight as the weight is lifted off the ground in a slow, controlled motion. Not even a grunt escapes his lips, at least no one you could hear from where you stood, completely mesmerized.

There was always something almost unappealing about overly muscled men. Their wife’s not feedin’ ‘em enough, your granny would grumble when passing by the rows of magazines at the checkout of the supermarket. 

Yet this man.

Yeah, he was muscled. But in a way, he looked… almost normal. Like he was built for strength, not necessarily vanity. Each bend of his legs, each twist of his arms…

You’d swoon if you hadn’t lowered your standards so low he’d trip on them. Accepted it a long time ago. Fats belong with fats, thins with thins, and if there’s a thin with a fat, either one’s getting fattened up, or the other’s getting dumped. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, and one you’d rather not be a part of.

You walk with shaky legs to the water dispenser, then get ready to grab the second to lightest weights to try some bicep curls.

You try to remember the positioning from the videos. Rotate in… or out? Should the wrists be like this? You go through ten repetitions on each side, before you think that you should’ve gone for the abs straight away. God knows there’s fat to burn there, and that the flab under your arms can wait.

You turn back from the rack and walk straight into a wall.

No, a chest.

Fuck.

“Sorry there, miss,” says a deep voice. You detect some sort of accent, unable to quite place it right away.

Your eyes run up, instinctively stopping for a second at chest level (holy heavens that’s a Chest with a capital C if you’ve ever seen one) before finally meeting that same pair of eyes you met a few minutes ago, through the mirror.

Double fuck.

“S-sorry, it’s me, wasn’t watching,” you stammer out, gesturing to the weights in a panicked way. “Just, y’know, switching exercises,” you sputter with a nervous laugh, like it was a completely normal thing to switch exercises after one rep.

He chuckles, and you really need to start planning your escape, because holy shit the way his pectorals rise and fall as his chest puffs up is getting a bit too much for your poor little humiliated self to handle, but he doesn’t let you as he speaks in a soft tone.

“I’m getting arms aren’t really your thing, eh?” he asks, not unkindly. Gosh, did it have to be a Scottish accent?

You can’t meet his eyes, they’re too blue, too piercing for your liking. “To be fair I don’t know what’s my thing yet, I’m just starting out, y’know?” you shift your weight on your legs, conscious of the size difference, and not in the way you wanted to be. Your neck is very warm all of a sudden.

He laughs again, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and you almost want the floor to open up and swallow you whole, but the words that come out of his mouth are completely unexpected.

“Figured! A girl with thighs like yours, I’m sure you can deadlift more than me with just a lil’ training. I’m Johnny, by the way,” he adds in passing, as if offering his name is the least of his concerns. “You ever got someone to train you?”

You’re entirely unsure if you’re dreaming or not. Did this Scottish hunk of muscle really just offer to be your personal trainer?

“Never - uh… lifted anything, I guess. Just when moving, my couch and bed and all, but I had a friend help me.” You definitely feel like you’re oversharing and you’re struggling to ignore the weight of the gaze of the two thin women, burning through you as they whisper among themselves, when you realize you hadn't answered the second part. “Oh and, uh– no. I’ve never… trained. Been trained. It’s my first time in a gym since- a while. I don’t want to bother you.”

You finally look up at him, and you’re unable to read his expression. There’s a sort of curiosity, a fascination, that blends fast into a wide-eyed joy that’s so open, so sincere that it makes your head spin as he gently but firmly grabs your wrist and pulls you where his bar stands on the thick mat, ignoring your sputtering protests. “Not a bother at all, lass!” He lets go of you as he bends down and effortlessly racks the barbell, starting to remove plates as he continues. “We can start by measuring your max lift, then the one where you can easily do three reps, then we’ll hike it up till failure, so I can calculate your starting training weight!” he rambles on excitedly. You nervously shift on your feet, conscious of more curious gazes on you, but then he’s back in your bubble, pulling your attention towards him like a magnet.

His smile is like a blazing sun, and you don’t have the heart to tell him to prepare for disappointment.

He’s infinitely patient as he shows you how to place your feet, and the angle of your hips (oh, how you feel your knee weaken at the feel of his light tough through the leggings, nothing short of electrifying, despite being perfectly friendly), the hold on the bar. It’s all a blur till you find yourself bent over in front of him, looking in the mirror at your position and trying not to feel conscious of the way he’s placed behind you. Or let your mind wander in inappropriate places.

“Whenever yer ready, hen.”

You brace yourself, close your eyes for a brief second, wondering how the hell you’d landed on this planet, then breathe in, open your eyes-

The weight is in your hands. Not on the floor. You’re holding it.

You almost drop it when he cheers behind you, warm palms rubbing down from your shoulders to your elbows and back up. “Easy! I told you you’d be a natural! ‘S all in the legs and you’ve got awesome legs, bonnie! Let’s add twenty more.”

It’s a blur of racking and de-racking and lifting once and setting back, and redoing it again and again. You’re out of breath, sweating like a sinner in church, but you’re smiling along with him, finding yourself giving him double high fives, and doing small, excited jumps.

“Next one’s exactly my weight, if y’can lift that, I’ll be losing my bloody mind! D’you realize how well yer doin’ for a first-timer?” He says as he bends next to you, adjusting the bar for the next set of weights. With a wipe of his forearm over his forehead, he crouches slightly down, placing his head right above your shoulder and looking your reflection in the mirror straight in the eyes with a conspiratory grin. “Swear to God, if ye can lift it off the ground, I’m buying you the most expensive drink at the bar next door!” he says, grin blending into a blinding smile, too genuine for your own good.

He’s just friendly, just friendly, just friendly, you say to yourself like a mantra as you position yourself. He stands again to his full height behind you, hands ready under the bar, a safenet.

Deep breath in– hold it…

Slowly but surely, you lift the weight off the floor, your ears ringing from the effort. You see his lips move as he cheers you on, but the blood pumping in your eardrums makes it impossible to hear him. Suddenly, the weight is back on the ground and your feet are off the floor as you’re lifted in a tight embrace and spun around like you weigh nothing.

You yelp and flail but he’s holding you tight, face pressed smack-dab in the middle of your chest, between your tits, rumbling praises about your prowess while you’re trying to figure out whether this can be something that your brain is capable of summoning as a dream.

“Put me down, Johnny, oh my God, put me down!”

He thankfully complies but not before squeezing your ass tighter, and suddenly nothing feels real anymore.

“Jesus, I knew ye were perfect,” he says, pulling back reluctantly to rerack the bar and put back the weights. “I cannot wait to properly start training ye’ tomorrow, but for now, I have a promise ta’ keep, and, uh, let’s just say I wouldn’t mind using those strong thighs as earmuffs with this freezin’ weather. On the way back from the bar, what d’ya say?” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows with a crooked smile that lets you know he’s joking around. (Is he?)

You laugh with him and for a second, you forget what you were here for.

+++

The way to the bar is short. It was just a block away (Good for business, he jokes), but the conversation with Johnny made time really fly by. 

He seems genuinely glad when you tell him you’d decided to head to the gym not just as a New Year’s resolution, but trying to simply become a better you. There’s no condescendence, no talking down, no (God forbid) pity, just an overall nice interaction the whole time. He tells you about being on leave as a soldier (Medical leave, he specifies, a fucked up knee can work in a gym, but it’s a different story out in the field), you tell him about your studies and how that led into a “big girl” job that left you no time for yourself.

“But I’ve always been a big girl,” you feel the need to justify. “Just… gotten bigger as I stopped finding time to move. The desk and the laptop are pretty stationary,” you joke, still trying to make sense of why a man like him (broad, and tall, and strong, and… gosh, just perfect-looking) would even deign to accept being seen with you.

(It’s not a date, you dumbass)

“I happen to like big girls,” is what you don’t expect him to say.

Wait, what?

His blue eyes glue you to your seat, and you respond dumbly. “What?”

“I mean, why do you think I’d offer to train you?” he continues, placing his hand, big and warm over your thigh. It’s squished as you sit, wide and flattened in your seat, yet his hand covers a good amount, almost covering the whole width.

Your brain is short-circuiting but you have to answer something.

“Out of– uh… out of niceness?” you stammer out, feeling your insecurities climb back out of the hole they’d been sleeping in all this time, making you shrink even more, trying to cover yourself as if he didn’t see right through you with that piercing gaze. “To feel good seeing you be the reason I lose weight?”

He chuckles, squeezing your thigh as his head hangs down, almost as if to hide the smile that spreads on his lips.

“Strength training doesn’t work like that, bonnie.” He looks back up, and his eyes are blue, and wide, and so pretty, that you can’t find anything to argue back. “Ye’ think building glutes underneath that fat arse does anything but make it bigger?” He shifts, inching closer as he licks his lips and drops his voice lower. “Ye’ think growing your quads will make this,” he gives an even firmer squeeze, wiggling the fat back and forth, and you tense under his grip, but he’s got you pinned down, “any less wide and soft?”

He presses closer, and the booth has no escape room, you’re practically squeezed into the corner as he pushes his body against yours, bending to whisper lowly in the crook of your neck.

“I did not joke when I said I want yer pretty thighs wrapped tight around my head.”

You can’t be blamed when you don’t remember how you ended up in the back of a cab, Johnny barely taking the time to bark an address to the poor driver and throw fifty quid on the front seat before kissing you absolutely senseless, shamelessly groping your tits with a hand and wrapping the other around your thigh, squeezing you close.

You should probably think more about going home with basically a stranger, no matter how hot, but when he presses his entire palm against your cunt, cupping it over the quickly dampening pair of leggings that didn’t seem so thick anymore, you can’t think at all. He swallows your quiet moans, and hums contently against your lips, taking each gasp for air as an invitation to slither his tongue into your mouth. God, you’d forgotten what a good makeout session was like, and you can’t even find it in you to be embarrassed when you see the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, instantly looking away when you see him staring. 

Johnny doesn’t seem to mind either, and when he notices you looking in the front again and again, he crowds you against the door behind the driver with a huff, half-climbing over you until his knee is pressed against your core, and the only thing in your field of vision is him.

“Johnny,” you try to say, but it’s getting hard to think, with the way you’re being squeezed in a corner, this hunk of a man of pure muscle pressing against you like a weighted blanket, kissing you like you were a drop of water in the desert and he was a parched man drinking you for his salvation. You feel his excitement pressed against your thigh, and it gives you enough lucidity to try again. “Johnny,” you gasp out again, “aren’t we going a little fast?”

He laughs instead, choosing to focus on the side of your mouth, pressing fervent little kisses down your neck before starting to suckle the delicate skin over where your clavicle is. “I can go as slow as you’d like, bun.” He takes the spot an inch next to the previous one into his mouth and sucks again, this time more forcefully, marking you, and oh God you’re going to have to conceal it before work tomorrow, unless you can find a turtleneck to wear–

The cab driver clears his throat, and you notice that the car is stopped in front of a small apartment complex. Johnny says a cordial thanks as he pulls you out of the car and throws another twenty on the backseat, before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and taking all of the thinking out of the equation as he walks you to the entry.

His flat is pretty well furnished, all things considered, but he doesn’t give you enough time to observe the deco as he presses you against the door and slides his hand under your leggings.

“Got me starin’ at that ass the second you walked in, best fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in months, d’ye realize that, bonnie?” he breathes out against your ear as his entire palm cups your sex, and you can only whine as you press your forehead into the crook of his neck. “And by how wet this pussy is, I think you liked starin’ at me, too.”

“You are–” you say, but he curls his middle finger in, spreading your lips and spreading the wetness to your clit, making you choke on your words, “-very nice to stare at.”

“Yeah?” you hear the grin in his voice.

“Mmhm,” you nod, as he keeps the back and forth of his finger, never dipping in too far, just keeping you hungry for more.

“Then how’d ye like to stare down at me as I taste this wet cunt of yours?” he purrs in your ear as he stops moving completely, letting the words process.

Brain.exe has stopped functioning. 

Had you ever had a boyfriend willing to speak filth like that to you when you were down to do the deed, maybe you would’ve gotten enough practice to know what to answer something sensible and intelligible to that, but as it stands, all you can muster is a very dumb-sounding “Huh?” as you stare back at him.

And that, apparently, is the funniest thing in the world to him, because he dips his head down and laughs, almost like a boyish giggle. Not only does that not stop him from kneeling in front of you, but it also somehow gives him more confidence to keep talking like that.

“How about you look down into my eyes as I eat out your pretty little pussy and make you come around my tongue, how’s that sound?” His baby blues bear no trace of maliciousness, no trace of a joke, as his fingers hook around the waistband and trace it around your stomach. You have to make a very conscious effort not to suck it in immediately in preparation for the letdown, but he doesn’t pull them down yet, only moving his hand alongside the edge. Your silence as you try to process what is happening only seems to spur him on instead. “In fact, how about you close your eyes, I close mine, and you hold my head close as I devour you, would you let me do that, pretty girl?”

“I’m not-” you can’t think of any way to properly let him down, not when he looks up with such pleading eyes, so the words stumble out gracelessly. “I’m sweaty, you don’t wanna–”

But he interrupts as he pulls your leg closer by gripping your thigh and squishing it against his cheek “But I do.” He inhales deeply, and your own breath shakes at the sight of how blissed out he already looks. “God, I want it. Let me have this.”

A voice somewhere inside yells at you that this has to be some sort of weird fetish, and that he most certainly won’t be having the same aura of desperation around him tomorrow, when post-coital rationale shows up and he sees your body past the veil of lust, but for now, you think that getting some with Johnny cannot be that bad compared to any one of your past encounters. Might as well enjoy it when you still can.

You wrap your hand around the one he still has around your waistband, and see his face positively light up as you softly caress his cheek.

In the end, you’re the one that pleads.

“Johnny, please.”

Your pants are off you and your leg is over his shoulder before you realize what is happening.

The feel of his warm tongue against your slit makes any thought, any doubt, any fear positively vanish, and the content sigh that he lets out as he licks at you is the same sigh as finally removing a bra at the end of a long day, it’s the sigh of laying down carelessly onto a soft bed after standing up for hours, it’s the sigh of the first bite of the best meal a man has after starving for weeks.

It should be awkward the way his arm wraps around your thigh and sinks into the softness of your stomach, using it to pin you up as he uses his other hand to spread you out enough for him to work his jaw the same way he did when he was making out with you in the car… Yet it’s not. It’s natural, the way his hand squeezes you as he licks, and sucks, and kisses around your pussy, unhurried yet passionate, languidly but firmly, pressing his tongue in, licking around your lips, and maddeningly avoiding the place you wanted him to touch most.

“Johnny,” you moan as he grazes his teeth around your sensitive nub in response. You almost buck out of his hold, but he’s firmly keeping you in place. “Please, don’t tease.”

He hums in response and dives back in, eyes fluttering closed as he ignores your whines. Every time his tongue or lips graze your clit, he works his mouth the opposite way, holding your thigh harder and pressing his palm up as he counters your hip movements with a clever swipe of the tongue. It’s absolutely maddening. “Johnny, please!”

He chuckles as he pulls back, an obscene string of spit lengthening as he pulls back, only breaking when he runs his tongue against his reddened, swollen lips. “Thought ye’ wanted me ta’ go slow, bun.” His eyes sparkle with challenge, but you can also discern a veil of unhidden desperation, of waiting for you to give the go-ahead for him to let loose.

“I’m fine with faster–” you start, but the words dissolve into a barely restrained moan as he hikes your leg up more, getting you closer to him, and immediately singling onto your neglected clit.

His forehead rests onto your belly now, and if you had more than two functioning neurons you’d wonder how he is that he’s breathing, but his hums and moans let you know that he’s perfectly content burrowing his nose in your pussy, nudging at your clit with the tip of it as he licks you with all the dedication you’ve never been shown from a man of his caliber.

He builds it up, and soothes it down, knowing exactly when to put more pressure, or when to teasingly swirl his tongue around your entrance, or to lave broad strokes of his tongue, so much so that the knee that’s not hooked over his shoulder almost gives out on a particularly forceful suck of your clit.

“Easy there,” he groans almost petulantly, as if you’re interrupting him. “Can’t have you fallin’ over when I’m not done wit’ ye.”

“My legs are gonna give out,” you say honestly, trying to catch your breath and avoid having the perfect man at your feet steal it again. “You’re a bit too good at this.” He grins up at you, “Am I?” and you want to give you a playful swat, but instead decide on carding your fingers through his now disheveled mohawk. “Guess the mess on my face speaks for itself… Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

You throw a glance around the apartment, assessing your options. “Couch is closer.” His smile is blinding. “I like how ye’ think.”

It’s now the second time he surprises you by scooping your legs from under you and picking you up like he couldn’t wait any longer and that carrying you bridal-style was the only way he could think of moving you. You yelp out a protest but he swallows it with another hungry kiss, shamelessly smearing your own wetness over your cheek as he walks you both to the couch.

You sink into the cushions where he places you gently without so much as a grunt of effort, and oh God, there they are, the standards are rising.

You reach over to pull him closer as he straightens up, but he only gives you a peck on the lips in return, like he hadn’t been kissing you sloppily the entire time.

“Come back,” you whine, hoping you can get it done before he comes back to his senses, like they all do, but he just smiles and kneels between your feet, hands pressing your thighs apart. The squelch of your lips parting should be embarrassing were he not looking up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes full of adoration, like a child staring up at the full moon on full display on a clear night’s skies. Maybe you are his moon, his goddess, judging by the lust-clouded look directed at you.

“I did say I was gonna make you come on my face,” he says lowly, the gravel in his voice making you squirm as he places a trail of kisses up your thigh. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

With that, he dives in again, using his forearms to pin your legs open on the couch and his fingers to tease around where his tongue can’t reach. You mewl when you feel his tongue at your entrance, circling it around it briefly before delving in as deep as he could, his right hand stroking your clit rhythmically. The fact that he’s so good at somehow playing all your buttons like a maestro directing an orchestra has you thinking that he must be some sort of womanizer, some freak who does this kind of thing every night, but then his lips wrap around your nub and he gives a firm, long suck, and any restriction that you could’ve conjured up simply vanishes. Your thighs want to close around his head, but you can’t move under the iron grip he has on you.

You fist his hair more forcefully than necessary, and he looks up, wet eyelashes framing his beautiful eyes as he hums in response.

“Please,” you moan, and he hums affirmatively again, closing his eyes to focus on licking and suckling harder. He heard you, he simply doesn’t seem to care. “Johnny.”

“What,” he asks, voice muffled and why is this so hot? 

“I need… I need,” you whine, unable to string the words together, and desperately trying to buck your hips under him, for lack of strength to actually close your thighs how you want to.

That seems to get his attention, and he chuckles, before pulling back with a gentle kiss on your mound. “Guess you’ll have to keep tryin’, pet,” he sussurs, a condescending pat on your thighs before he dives in slower than before.

Oh, the absolute asshole. Now he wants you to work for it?

You think that doing the opposite, relaxing your thighs open and letting him go to town however he wanted would help, but he seems hell-bent on riling you up every once in a while, getting you closer and closer with each lave of his tongue over your poor, overstimulated clit, but never enough to actually push you over the edge.

After what seems like an eternity, and almost, almost starting to think that this was a mistake, halfway ready to let him do this thing before your hip starts to cramp up, you feel a finger nudge at your entrance.

“Fucking finally–” you start, ready to curse him out, but he’s faster than you can think in your blissed-out state, and he slides a second finger alongside the first one, immediately zeroing in on that spot that makes you go cross-eyed and buck under his hold.

“Thassit– there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your clit, and oh, okay, maybe you were closer than you thought, because the rhythmic curl of his fingers doesn’t need to last long before you’re off like an arrow, back arching and thighs squeezing, coming harder than you ever thought was possible. If he were any less skilled at making you completely lose the ability to think, you’d maybe notice that you’d managed to close your thighs almost completely around his head, but he wasn’t, so you don’t, twitching helplessly in the aftershocks of the most wonderful orgasm a man had ever given you.

Limbs that somehow still belong to your body hang uselessly off the side of the couch, and you struggle to catch your breath. You blink lazily, noticing him smugly wipe his face with the back of his hand, his half lidded eyes not any less blissed-out than yours. 

You didn’t believe a man like this ever existed, until now. It aches that this might not be something that would last, so you make grabby hands at him, unable to find the will to speak just yet. 

He laughs softly and gently grabs your arms, kissing from your knuckles slowly up your arm, to the crook of your neck. The patience he has is almost inhuman, as he takes the time to let you regather your senses, matching the marks he made earlier on the other side of your neck. You cup your hand around his head in response, and he smiles at you.

“Ye’ with me, bun?”

“Mmhm.”

“That slow enough fer’ ye’?” He holds himself up, an inch fron your face, and you reach up to kiss him.

“I’m gonna kill you dead,” you mutter against his lips, and he chuckles.

“Let me at least fuck you properly, first,” he whispers, and you notice that he’s long since unbuttoned his pants. You barely get a view of the massive size of him over your belly as he holds himself in his hand, large palm not enough to cover the whole length of him as he strokes himself, angled in such way that his tip rubs against your clit on each downstroke. The word “Please,” is not even halfway out of your mouth when he sinks into you in one swift motion, the rest dissolving into a long, drawn-out moan.

“Fuck-” he grunts, “so tight, cannot believe it.”

He guides one of your legs to wrap around him, keeping it flush against his body with his elbow as his palm grips your ass tightly, the other holding him against the backrest, forearm near your head as he pulls you closer for a sloppy kiss as he starts rolling his hips. You moan into his mouth and he swallows them greedily, leveraging each trust of his hips with a pull with his hand, helping you move in tandem with him, readjusting when your thigh threatens to slip out of his hold. The slaps of his pelvis to yours should sound obscene, his hard muscles hitting against your soft, jiggly skin, but his groans into your mouth are like music to your ears, the fact that he’s vocal about it has you almost reaching your peak again in no time, but he seems to sense it, and slows down immediately.

You try to kiss him harder, but he makes a small noise of protest, muttering something that sounds vaguely like “no, let me, let me just–” and you want to ask what he wants to do, to help him, but he instead reaches down both hands to grab your hips and pull you off the backrest. You yelp as your ass suddenly hangs in the air, his cock speared inside you the only secure point as he pulls you halfway off the couch, but he directs you firmly, “Here, around me,” helping you wrap your legs tightly as he starts thrusting again, harder than before.

“Oh, God, oh God,” you flail around, but each thrust in pushes your back into the cushions, and he reaches behind his back to hold your feet in his hand as he presses his palm near your head for support, spewing more filth as he does.

“That’s it, hold me tight, squeeze my cock like ye’ almost squeezed mah heid off earlier, huh, bonnie? Show me what those thighs can do, fuck-”

Your whole body is jiggling with each thrust, and you don’t have it in you to even feel self-conscious with the way each time he fills you, the tip of his cock nudges against the spongey spot inside, making you mewl in tempo with his relentless rhythm.

“Johnny, Johnny,” you moan, and he bends over to kiss you again, swallowing his name like communion while you chant it like a prayer.

“Don’t give up now, bonnie, keep squeezin’, fuck, I can feel ye’, yer so close.”

You try to get some leverage with your upper body, trying to push yourself up the cushions, but his cock suddenly slips out of you as your thighs almost give out, and an apology is already halfway out your mouth when he kneels back down and burrows between your legs, tongue first with a rushed “Need ta’ taste us, fuck, both of us, together-”

One hand wraps around your hip and over your pelvis, reaching up to knead desperately at your stomach, to pull you closer or push you away, you can’t tell, the other pulling your lips apart to settle his entire lower face against your pussy firmly– before letting go as he starts humming.

Your thighs are free to squeeze around his ears, and he nods encouragingly as he keeps licking, and then you hear it: the sounds of wet stroking. You don’t see him fisting his cock, but you hear it, fast and desperate. As your hand tangles in his hair to pull him closer, and another hum– no, another moan vibrates through your core, it’s the last thing you hear before you’re absolutely gone, gasping out a curse as you tense up in his hold, trembling as you come.

It’s even more intense than the first one, and as you buck out of his hold, he stands up shakily, his hand moving faster and faster around his cock, the angry red of his tip at the same level as your face. You gesture for him to sit down, trying to signal to him that you want to reciprocate despite the post-orgasmic haze and exhaustion, but he shakes his head, and, seconds later, you feel warm wetness land on your belly and slowly trickle down as he moans your name when he comes.

You feel like you still have to give something back, and, when he slumps down next to you with a content sigh, you climb over to place a delicate kiss on the tip of his cock, letting out a huff of laughter when it twitches under your touch.

“Ye’ absolute menace,” he whispers fondly as he pulls you up and tips his body to the side to lie down, using his legs to push you up halfway over him, trapping you between his body and the cushions, yet protectively shielding you from falling over. You place another kiss on his stomach, and you see his abs tense under your touch as your warm breath moves his hairs as you hover for a second, before deciding to shift up and use his pectorals as a cushion. He hums softly as his arm wraps around under yours, reaching to pull the plaid off the back of the couch and settle it around you both. Ticklish, eh? That’s a piece of information best stored for later.

You’re still breathless, absolutely done for. God, best decision of your life, going to the gym. “Now what?” you can’t help but ask. It’s the same fear that always creeps up, the fear that he got to try out a fantasy, and now that he was done with it, he had no need to want to continue anything possibly serious. Not that eating a girl out on a first date, if you could even call it a date, was a sign of a one-night stand, you can’t help but feel awkward and insecure now that it’s all done, despite the comforting cuddle.

He chuckles in response, that same chuckle from earlier in the day, a What a silly question chuckle. Like he’d read into your thoughts and insecurities and found them absolutely laughable.

“Same time at the gym, tomorrow? I want you to squeeze my head off next time.”

“Next time, huh?”

He pulls your leg over his pelvis, trapping his still half-mast cock between his belly and the crook of your knee, hand firmly wrapped to shift you up, almost completely on top of him. When both of you are comfortable and you start feeling the tendrils of sleep pull you deeper, he gives a last, playful squeeze to your ass.

“Next time.”

[greathoughtsphilosopy]

one day my labia will be the stretchiest in all of sim city

[thickness-protection-program]

Spare a chest pic Mr. Sir? 🥺

Featuring my softest stretchiest shorts

[quiet-admirer]

Your clothes still fit. Your oversized clothes just aren't exactly oversized anymore.

Your clothes still fit, you just haven't needed to tie the drawstrings on your sweatpants lately.

They still fit, but you've started wearing that flannel open over a t-shirt instead of buttoned up.

They still fit, it's just that you've been reaching for your stretchiest jeans more and more often.

They still fit, you only need to tug down your shirts again after you stretch... or maybe when you lift your arms at all these days...

Your clothes still fit. For now.

[literaila]

okay but like do you think gojo and oc would ever have a baby of their own, giving tsumiki and megumi a sibling, or are their adopted children enough?

sometimes i like to think oc would agree to become a teacher just to feel like all her students are also her babies.

i am personally of the belief that satoru wants a million children. and he says this, verbatim, when you get together.

“oh, just by the way we’re having ten kids, kay, love ya!”

but then there’s the fact that he doesn’t care where they come from. biological children, adopted children, curse wombs, mahito’s silly little transfigured humans… you got ‘em, he’ll take them.

you, on the other hand, have always been… wary about kids. i mean there’s no doubt that you adore them, think they’re precious little angels to be bestowed on only the best of beings—i mean, really, the reason satoru sought you out to help with megumi and tsumiki is because he knew you liked kids.

still… there’s that doubt, that worry that you could never be enough for a child. that you could never give them a childhood that you wanted and deserved.

teenage you is the gloomiest of them all, and if you asked her, she’d probably say no.

but then a stupid man brought home two children unannounced and swore he was going to help with them (he does… occasionally).

so, without warning, you gets the kids you’ve always (secretly) dreamed of. and who could ask for more than megumi and tsumiki, really? who even could?

(so obviously that fear is quickly washed away. i mean, there’s days, weeks, months of doubts where you’re sure that you’re doing everything wrong. sure that megumi is never going to be able to live in society as a normal human being, and that tsumiki is going to suffer from her soft, easygoing heart.

luckily satoru is also there to prove that if you think you’re doing anything wrong, he’s doing it ten times worse.

and sometimes he sweet talks you. but only for the rewards, of course.

you both learn that parenting is less about being perfect than adapting to the needs of the tiny beings, bending at their every will…)

still, even though you love megumi and tsumiki like they’ve crawled into your veins and strained all livelihood from you, having your own biological kids is a bit different.

satoru is all for it, no doubt, but he doesn’t push. he understands your hesitation—especially with how difficult everything’s become as the kids get older. the increase in curses, the rising fear that the world isn’t a safe place as is, and could never be a safe place for another baby.

(but don’t expect him not to stare at you when you’re helping a lost little girl across the street. or holding the baby of a friend. really, he’s just reminiscing… he’s not planning anything… probably…)

though, it doesn’t help either of you that satoru teaches the first years. in hindsight, you shouldn’t have let him make that decision, but it’s too late now.

satoru tries to bring every student home. even if they’ve got two healthy, loving parents—he’s calling a lawyer to draw up legal paperwork the moment yaga tells him there’s a new student about to come to jujutsu high.

what? the house is big enough for a guest, isn’t it? why do you think satoru was so pushy for all of those extra bedrooms?

(and you’ll scold him when there’s a another place set at the table. you’ll ask megumi to show the new student around the house, pointedly, and then you’ll make him recite the lengthy list of things he’s not supposed to do with every kid he meets (again)

but really, you don’t mind.

you’ve always thought that hearts were rather expandable things, and your son and daughter have only proven that fact.

and there’s a little part of you that can’t deny the admiration you have for satoru. his need to coddle every student of his, to comfort them endlessly, even if they don’t want it.

if you had to guess, you’d say that satoru’s heart is the stretchiest.

so you only tug on his hair a little. and then you’ll sit right next to him at dinner, letting him hold your hand under the table).

and there’s been a couple of times where you bring someone of your own home. just as a little payback, of course. no other reason….

[bustybounty]

A woman finds that as the gets off to her crush, she becomes more and more his type, in body of course. What she finds is that he seems to really love thick thighs! Maybe she'll make a move while she can still bend her legs...

She can't stop thinking about *him* when she's in bed all alone at night. Just her lamp turned on next to her, as she gets off on her own, imagining being with him.

She's sad that he doesn't seem to be very attracted to her physically, she wishes she was somehow more his type. Though as she keeps getting off, she feels her hands...down there...more...cramped up than usual? Soft, thick walls pressing on her hand from both sides. What could it be?...

As she looks down, she notices that she looks almost the same, except for her thighs, which are twice as thick as they used to be! "Holy fuck, what happened to my legs???" Standing up was difficult, as she had to balance herself, looking in the mirror, at her legs and fat, overswollen booty. She was now imagining gripping his body with her fat thighs and that caused them to visibly grow wider and fatter with each passing moment...

"I hope he loves REALLY thick thighs...fuck..." The next morning, she put her stretchiest, baggiest sweatpants that still fit - and they were almost transparent, and didn't even cover her knees, due to how wide this woman got. She could barely get through doors anymore.

Now was the time to approach him. "Hiii~!" She waved at him, swaying her enormous thighs from side to side, wobbling with each step, her immense lower body contrasting with the rest of her, as he looked on, eyes wide, mouth watering. What happened to her to grow so fast...did it matter? She was the hottest woman he had ever seen! Bigger than all those models he himself got off too!

Now, the plot twist. After this meet up, he gets home and he's the one getting off to her. Which makes him more her type...and she likes very hung, productive guys~ <3

Thanks for the ask and for your own content, @gabidy-gook <3 go follow him!

[saturnniidae]

More dragon rider disability headcanons for disability pride month!

(Ones specifically abt Hiccup are here)

Ruffnut has hypermobile EDS (when the twins were doing some bit that was basically Guinness book of world records she said smth abt 'worlds stretchiest skin' and my mom made a joke and said 'ruff has eds!' And it stuck)

A joke Ruffnut loves to make is saying Tuff is so insufferable she should just run away to join a circus and become a contortionist. She thinks it's the funniest thing ever

Hiccup also has some weird hypermobility stuff going on, when Ruff learns this she calls him a fellow circus freak (affectionate) and offers to let him come with her when she runs away. The response she got was "I'd rather stick my hand in Fenrir's mouth."

Tuff is visually impaired in his right eye from a childhood injury (another joke taken seriously)

All the riders are neurodivergent!

Snotlout has a frequently irregular heartbeat as well as memory issues due to how many times he's been struck by lightning. His whole book he wrote in that one episode isn't the only writing he does, he keeps a notebook to help keep track of minor things he might forget.

Astrid tries to make Hiccup breakfast in bed when he's having bad pain days and is too tired to do it himself. She almost burns the house down every time, so Toothless will go and get the other riders to help out while Astrid is kicked out of the kitchen and sent back to bed

Hiccup can be really fucking mean sometimes! Usually it's intentional bc he's in a bad mood and wants to be left alone. If it's seemingly unprovoked though, the others know it as a sign he's likely in pain and needs to be left alone (he still insists on getting work done but usually Toothless annoys him into resting)

Astrid has aches in her leg from when she got shot with that arrow, it being poisoned with dragon root did something to mess up the healing process so its worse than other old injuries (Dragon root isn't poisonous to humans but still having it in your blood stream isn't a good idea). She's also very mean when she's in pain, especially because it ruins her schedule since she can't train. Eventually her and Hiccup come to an agreement when they're having bad pain days they'll meet up in one of their huts and just. Sit together enjoying the others comforting presence but rarely talking

This is because Hiccup and Astrid both hate being in pain in front of people, they both share that almost extreme fear of vulnerability and the best they can do is take comfort in each other

Hiccup and Fishlegs are hyperfixation buddies! Fishlegs is the only one who doesn't get mad (it's just fond exasperation) when Hiccup wakes him up in the middle of the night to infodump, they just bounce off each other talking about dragons until woah suddenly the sun is rising and that is when Fishlegs gets upset because he values his sleep

All the riders have burn scars of varying severity. They literally work with dragons there's no way they wouldn't. And they all deal with their pain in different ways, but are unwavering supportive of each other when they can be

I've said it before and I'll say it again, a lot of characters should be disabled.

I know, cartoon logic and all, but the things that happen to these guys are things that should affect them for the rest of their lives. And watching characters struggle with permanent change like that, the realization you can never go back to how things were, and eventually healing and learning that's okay! You can still find happiness and be happy and it doesn't make your pain any less valid! It's so important to me and that's obviously reflected in my interpretations of my favorite characters lmao

[froot-batty]

Stretchiest guys in Gotham. Where'd their bones go....

[esamastation]

Shizuroth, part seven

-

First things first: a proper, decent and hopefully fully chest-covering shirt.

Sephiroth has them, and none of them fit. He has, literally, outgrown all his shirts, turtlenecks and jackets, and judging by the looks of it, he'd never bothered to get new ones. Even the stretchiest of them pops stitches when trying to accommodate his shoulders and chest! It's ridiculous! What, was he a little string bean of a man and then burst into a beefcake overnight?

Ignoring the influx of new messages from the mailing lists Genesis subscribed Sephiroth's phone to, he investigates the shops' menu with more detail. It soon proves he definitely has access to clothing stores and he definitely has the money to use them. He also has the means to just requisition a free new uniform from SOLDIER any time he wants, but apparently pressing a few buttons was too much work for the man! Better have your chest out and about than bother with the barest minimum of effort for the sake of personal comfort or public decency, apparently!

So, add laziness to the reasons why Sephiroth's outfit is like that. 

…Or maybe, possibly, some form of executive dysfunction? It might explain the room he's supposed to be living in, which is barely fitting for existing in. On a more thorough look, it really looks like everything was just placed just wherever with no care to how it looked or what the vibes were. It has a very that's good enough feel to it.

Except it isn't! It's awful! The place is barely better than a first year college dorm room! Not that he'd know what those look like, he had his own apartment by then - but still! You can do better, surely!

No, wait, actually - how old is Sephiroth right now?

The bathroom mirror isn't very helpful. Sephiroth has that same androgynous ageless look that Shen Qingqiu has - just much beefier and sorta monochrome. In xianxia terms he could be anywhere from twenty to two thousand, hah! Though from what he recalls of the game, weren't everyone kinda young? Old for JRPG, what with only one teenager in the main character group! But still way under thirties. And this is way before that….

Ahhh he misses fan wikis! He needs thoroughly documented timelines! He needs a birthday! He needs a character ID - he needs -!

Actually, Sephiroth should have some kind of ID, being an evil megacorp employee, right? An employee card, or what a SOLDIER might have. Dog tags?

Quickly he begins rummaging about his person again.

There are no dog tags, but Sephiroth does have a wallet and a bunch of cards. Including a Shinra Employee, Personnel Medical Information, Shinra Medical Research and Shinra Military cards. And Sephiroth is twenty-one, apparently. 

That's… hmm.

Yeah, he has no idea what to do with that - but it explains the awful dorm room vibe! Clearly the guy didn't have experience with how to live. And who knows how long Sephiroth has been living on his own anyway, and where and how he lived before. Plus, with his schedule, he can't be spending much time at all in this room. None, apparently, if he could manage it. And no wonder! The place is soul-suckingly awful.

Well, that's not how he's going to live, that's for sure. The shirtless life is not for him!

Hmm… ordering clothes and stuff without even seeing what they look like first, though…

Snapping the flip phone shut he goes to investigate the laptop, hoping that maybe they did figure out web sites after all. It turns on with gratifying swiftness and reveals itself to be a Windows knock-off from the nineties or something like that - with just about the same level of security. It doesn't even ask for a password! Convenient.

In a glowing example of video game redundancy created by developers being lazy, it has the exact same apps as his phone, just with a bigger keyboard. No internet, no websites, no games, nothing. And judging by the single folder on the computer, the only thing Sephiroth ever does with the thing is write mission reports. How sad.

It almost makes him miss Zhongdian.

The shops' menu comes with pictures, thankfully, so that's something - and it's conveniently hooked straight to his wallet, so all he has to do is  press buy and the thing is done, just like that! Videogame shop mechanics for you. He has no idea how the purchases would be delivered, maybe he will have to go pick them up at the building lobby or something, but whatever! He needs shirts, curtains, carpets, a couch, and a proper damn tea set to start with! And maybe, if he really goes crazy with it, some house plants!

Guessing at his size by using the tags on the shirts that don't fit, he puts in some dozen clothing orders for several different sizes to start with - and it barely makes a dent in his wallet. Then he scrolls through the available furniture in another store until he finds a couch big enough for Sephiroth's huge ass body to actually lie down on. Tea set is harder, there isn't one that matches his criteria, but he finds a home decor shop that sells teapots and sets of cups that will do for a start. Carpets are harder - who the hell decided that black ceiling was good for anyone - and ultimately he ends up choosing dark forest green.

And then he finds out that there are no live plants to be had in Midgar. There's a shop that sells life-like plastic replicas… but just looking at it makes him feel so sad. Because, yeah, right, he forgot.

Life-sucking megacorporation. Literally. The whole city is surrounded by dead desert, and you probably just can't keep houseplants alive in Midgar. Because Shinra is literally draining the lifeblood of the planet, and only the tragic heroine with mysterious lineage can make the flowers grow.

And he's her ultimate, poisonous antithesis. Yeah.

Depressing.

Leaning away from the disappointment of a computer, he heaves out a long sigh from Sephiroth's deep chest. The idea that he might never see living bamboo again makes him feel vaguely nauseous, and with a grimace he rests a hand on Sephiroth's washboard abs.

Energy sits like an undigested mass in his guts. He's all but bloated with the lifeblood of the planet. Ugh. He should really do… something with it, huh?

And then the awful Feng Shui hits him in the face.

"Ah," he mutters unhappily, eyeing the room. He can almost see the energy pooling in the middle, stagnating. That can't have been helping with Sephiroth's situation. He can't do much about it yet, not without more furniture - but he can at least move the damn bed and redirect the energy elsewhere!

Which he does.

By nearly flipping the metal frame of a probably really heavy bed over and almost throwing it into the wall.

Ah.

Right.

Super SOLDIER.

Tentatively he crouches down and tests his strength on the bed. By very carefully picking it up. Which is something he can do, apparently! It doesn't even strain him - he just puts his hands under it and lifts. Just like that. Amazing.

… Is this what it's like to be Liu Qingge? Wow.

He kinda feels sad for Liu-shidi now, for never getting to see - and fight - someone like Sephiroth. Poor Liu-shidi, always looking for a strong opponent to test himself against, always asking his useless shixiong for a spar, and here is his useless shixiong, in one of the greatest fighters in video game history - utterly out of reach! What a shame!

He arranges the bed away from the doorways and sits down on it with a heavy sigh.

Oh, but he will really miss Liu-shidi. The knowledge that he will never see him, or anyone else from Cang Qiong Mountain Sect again… it really is a shame. He didn't get to do enough in that life - but at least Liu Qingge survived! Hopefully… hopefully his life will be good. Hopefully Luo Binghe would forgive Cang Qiong Mountain Sect for their involvement with Shen Qingqiu, and they'd all live long, good lives… without him.

Ah, probably best not to dwell on it. He'd got a new transmigration, a new body and a new life to adjust to! New villain to embody - and a new doom to circumvent.

Kicking off his boots, he puts Sephiroth's feet up and into a lotus position, draws a breath and begins to see what he can do for the man's internal energies. Can cultivation practices be applied to Final Fantasy VII Mako and magic?

Time to find out.