#Classic Pedicure

[herespaaa]

Premium Nail Art & Pedicures at HereSpa: Classic, Restorative, Gel & Acrylic.

Experience the epitome of nail beauty with HereSpa's expert nail art and pedicure services. From classic and restorative pedicures to exquisite nail art for hands and toes, pamper yourself with luxurious treatments for stunning, healthy nails.

[northmiamibeachnails]

Phone: (786) 406-2278

Address: North Miami Beach, FL

Email: cs@northmiamibeachnails.com

Enjoy mobile, on-site nail treatments in the comfort and convenience of your own home, patio, backyard, or place of work. Relax. Refresh. We come to where you are.

[petitpiedgalbe]

Red Rose :)

The roses are red and Albert need to rest...

Wood Guys are looking for a chest...

And I am going to do my best.

[honeytonedhottie]

honeys guide to fall⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🧸💕

i am so so excited for fall 2024. this fall we're serving bambi doll, cupcake and espresso scented, french tips and nudes, crispy chocolate croissants and coffees, sweaters and mini skirts…💬🎀

FALL BEAUTY ;

♡ soft bouncy curls

♡ nude lip combos

i recommend the nyx butter gloss (madeleine) and the nyx chocolate lip liner for a pretty chocolaty look. if ur looking for another nude lip combo use the nyx butter gloss (angel food cake) and the nyx club hopper lip liner…💬🎀

♡ french tips

♡ nude colored manicures and pedicures

♡ marshmallow scented hand creams

as the weather gets colder it becomes more and more important to keep ur skin moisturized and hydrated. carrying around a sweet smelling hand cream can help your hands to stay soft and not dry…💬🎀

♡ fall scented lip balms, body nectars and fragrances

pumpkin, coffee, vanilla, cupcake, chocolate, cinnamon, caramel and buttercream scents are giving fall…💬🎀

lets talk fall beauty products and scents because my favorite part about literally everything is the pampering aspect and the smelling super yummy so lets get into it. the body products i recommend to capture that fall, bambi eyed, doll scent and vibes are.

the sugar cookie body wash from native

ooey gooey cookie body wash from philosophy

chocolate chip body wash from philosophy

all the cozy fireside s’more scents from bodycology

coco coffee body scrub from victorias secret pink

cupcake swirl body fragrance from bodycology

♡ for nails, tapered square french tips or oval shaped nails in nude colors

♡ claw clip hairstyles including half up-half downs or just a classic claw clip pony

FALL FASHION ;

fall fashion to me is tights and mini skirts. leg warmers and uggs and form fitting sweaters. let’s talk about some fall fashion. the tights and mini skirt combo is a classic and it’s an amazing way to incorporate wearing mini skirts even as the weather begins to get a little colder. the tights add a nice touch, even if it isn’t the color of ur skin tone, tights IN GENERAL look rly nice.

ankle boots, ugg boots, BOOTS are so so fall. i rly love ankle boots that have a heel to them and bonus points if ur fall shoes include fur. the fall shoes on my shopping list are ->

ugg boots

ankle boots

mary jane style shoes

ballet flats

form fitting sweaters and jackets are so in for the fall. along with tracksuits. the color pallete for having a bambi doll fall are very much browns, cashmeres, and baby pink. honestly think of neapolitan colours. pink, brown and an off-whitish almost pastel yellow. think PASTRY PRINCESS.

baby phat puffers are perfect for the transition from fall to winter and a good pair of jeans is CRUCIAL for fall. another thing i wanna talk about with fall fashion is LAYERING. layering is such an important aspect of fashion period but ESPECIALLY fall fashion. experiment with different lengths, textures etc. one of my favorite layering combination during the fall is ->

long sleeve tops with a camisole underneath

a form fitting long sleeve top (the ones with buttons at the front) look so DOLLY and adorable when u dont button it, and wear a camisole underneath. its just MWAH. some more fall fashion details also include ->

fur details

ribbons and lace details

delicate jewelry choices

tights and leg warmers

layering

boots

neopolitan cinnamon princess color scheme

long sleeves

mini skirts + tights combo

HOW TO BE A HOTTIE DURING FALL ;

to be a hottie during the fall lets talk about our fall essentials to be our hottest, healthiest and happiest selves this fall…💬🎀

♡ warm milk and honey with a pinch of cinnamon (a real treat)

♡ warm, buttery croissants

♡ wired headphones and a good fall playlist

a good fall playlist consists of artists like lana del rey, pink pantheress, sabrina carpenter and sade…💬🎀

♡ candles that smell like cinnamon cupcakes

♡ a few juicy novels to read

my favorite genres of books to read during this season include mystery, romance and historical fiction…💬🎀

♡ keep up with ur health

during the colder seasons its important to take good care of ur health so make sure that ur taking ur supplements/vitamins, drinking herbal teas and eating a balanced diet to avoid getting sick…💬🎀

[astrogirlythings]

Things to do when you are bored :

Go for a walk in the park all by yourself or with your pet.

Journal or blog about whatever.

Create a new playlist for walk or gym.

Rewatch a favourite classic horror movie or any favourite movie.

Cuddle your pet or your plush toy.

Start a new hobby or perfect the hobby you are already comfortable with.

Get in touch with an old friend.

Take cute self portraits or any nature pictures.

Dance like no one's watching you.

Go out to shop for stationery. (Personal favourite)

Take yourself on a date to a café.

Crossword. Word search. Sudoku.

Create a vision board.

Learn a new skill through online courses or YouTube.

Clean your room and donate your old stuff.

SELF LOVE. SELF LOVE. SELF LOVE. SELF LOVE. (Bubble baths, Home spa, Fruit Facial, Pedicure, Manicure, Doll Up etc .,.)

Update your socials.

Create or update your bucket list.

Start a new series.

Attend any hands-on workshop.

Discover your art style.

Organise your garden or planters.

Doodle your boredom away.

Take a nap.

Make a list..... 😐😑(I am bored too.)

[coqxettee]

The perfect Sunday in Autumn 🍂📖

Waking up at your leisure and reading in the warmth of your bed whilst listening to classical music 🕯️

An “everything shower” using Vanilla and cinnamon scented body wash 🧴, pumpkin lotion, giving yourself a fall mani/pedicure 🍁

Tidy bedroom with fresh bedding, candles, fluffy blankets, and books 🕯️

Wrapping up in your loveliest sweater or coat, a fresh blowout in your hair, with soft makeup to buy chocolate pastries and a hot coffee to fight off the chilly wind outside 🍁

Sitting in a quaint café to escape the Autumn cold and drinking your coffee whilst reading a book 🕯️

Going home and planning out the following week, writing your to-do lists, scheduling your days and meal planning for the week ahead 🍁

Baking cinnamon swirl cookies or something with Pumpkin so your kitchen smells amazing and you have some sweet treats for the evening ahead 🕯️

Going on an afternoon walk to admire the fall foliage and to collect some for scrapbooking 🍁

Spending the rest of the afternoon painting, watching comforting Autumn films, cooking a cozy, beautiful dinner 🕯️

In the evening putting on your favorite cozy pyjamas, doing a face mask and eating your cookies you baked in the afternoon, all whilst watching a few episodes of a cozy Autumnal TV show (preferably Gilmore Girls) 🍁

Stretching, meditating, writing in your diary and reading before going to bed early in fresh sheets wrapped in the warmth of your blankets and the glow of fairylights 🕯️

[literaticat]

Publishing aunty please help. Need advice, not publishing related.

What do you do when you're just tired, feeling unfulfilled and want to run away from everything? :( 

That sounds like a classic case of Burnout to me, though it could be combined with something else -- like Depression, or even a medical problem.

(For example, at one point a couple years ago, I was absolutely exhausted for no discernable reason and burst into tears at the drop of a hat -- I chalked it up to "winter blues" and ignored it -- come to find out, eventually, I had severe anemia and my body was not absorbing iron at all and actually it was an autoimmune disorder and became a Whole Thing! Uh... oops!)

This article from the Cleveland Clinic gives a lot of advice about what to do about Burnout -- but the most salient points, I think:

Be gentle with yourself. Everyone goes through it sometimes. You aren't a failure, you're going to be OK, you just have to take care of yourself before you can properly take care of anyone or anything else. So with that resolved:

TELL YOUR SUPPORT SYSTEM HOW YOU ARE FEELING. Keeping this stuff undercover is not going to help. Being honest with your friends/family/partner or whoever your "people" are will lighten your mental load AND they will want to help and support you.

Figure out what your stressors are and tactics to deal with them. Part of this will be linked to the previous part, probably -- For example, if you are burdened by too much work -- DELEGATE or ASK FOR HELP! You've told your support system what's up with you -- now tell them what you need to move forward.

Set Boundaries. If you're the type of person that says yes to everything and then you feel overwhelmed -- remember that it's OK to say NO. It's a good thing, actually. You'll be more "on" for the things that are actually important if you are able to protect your own boundaries and aren't wasting energy on bullshit things. I can't stress enough how important this is (and it's something I am always working on, because it can be tough!) -- but my life CHANGED when I made certain rules for myself and stuck with them. For example, mine: No checking email after 7pm or on weekends. At all. I gotta tell you, my life suddenly got a lot better. (I have forgotten this one recently, and my life has gotten markedly worse -- so I gotta get back to that!)

Go to the doctor. Yes, going to the doctor sucks! But they can make sure your bloodwork is OK, you aren't Vitamin D or Iron deficient, rule out any problems (like, I dunno, severe anemia)... etc etc. Like, step one of Self Care is knowing what your Self is working with. (And if you think you might actually be capital-D Depressed or have anxiety, etc -- ask for a referral to a psychiatrist to see about getting some medicine. IT WORKS!)

Practice Self-Care. Yes, that means the boring stuff like "hydrate" and "make you are getting enough sleep" and "eat your veggies" and "meditate" and whatnot -- but also, you want to "run away from everything"? DO IT. Take a vacation -- or even a staycation -- or even a DAYcation -- where you are literally not doing ANYTHING for anyone else, no email, no nothing. Get a pedicure with extra massage, sit in sunlight with your favorite drink, read a book or just think about NOTHING -- you have no responsibilities except to yourself during this time. It's rejuvenating!

Get toxic feelings out of your system. Find a therapist, if you can afford to do so. (There may be free or inexpensive options if you are a student, or with some insurance, some therapists have a sliding scale for patients, etc) A therapist can give you at least somebody to talk things out with who doesn't know you and isn't judging you. If that's not for you -- journal? Do something artistic? Go to a rage room? Climb a mountain and scream a lot?

Now you are on the road to being healthy, physically and mentally, you hopefully have less stress and are getting your forty winks and all that good stuff -- and hopefully you'll be MUCH better soon.

Good luck!

[herespaaa]

Transform Your Look with Nail Art & Pedicures | HereSpa

Discover the latest trends in Nail Art for Hands & Toes, Classic, Restorative, Gel, & Acrylic Pedicures at HereSpa. Book your appointment today!

[darkworkcourier]

A day late, but have a little festive follow-up to this fic. ;D

Words: 4476 Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (reader code named Ladybird)

Contains some naughty business in the bath, oral, good ol' missionary, a little tiny bit of cockwarming, and soap being ladybird's bestie again.

---

It’s half past seven in the evening. You’re up to your neck in honeysuckle-scented bubbles, right ankle propped up on the faucet, stomach comfortably filled with döner and champagne. Eyes closed, shoulders still pleasantly aching from your two o’clock massage, you prop your phone between your jaw and shoulder and say, “No, it’s been awful,” with the perfect amount of high drama. “The room’s tiny, no laundry, nearest restaurant is like a half mile away. I’ve never been so miserable in my life.”

“I call bullshit,” Soap says into your ear.

“Nothing to call bullshit on. If you want to trade places—”

He snorts, and you hear the clatter of pans in the background. “And put up with him when he’s like this? Bet me the fuck not.”

You play coy. “Like what?”

“Wound up like an eight-day clock,” Soap replies. You hear the hiss of a faucet, and then the distant chatter of what you guess is a hoard of family members. “Sexually frustrated.”

Someone in the background asks, “Who’s sexually frustrated?” in a mirror of Soap’s accent.

“You, ya reprobate,” Soap retorts in good humor.

You grin and tilt your right foot a little, idly wondering if you should schedule a pedicure. “Tell your brother I said hi.”

“My friend says ye sound like a bampot,” Soap dutifully reports.

“Soap!”

“It’s a nice thing in Scotland, Ladybird.”

“You know it’s not.”

He laughs, as does his brother. At the same time, you hear the hotel room door open, causing you to smile immediately. It should alarm you how easily you've fallen into this, all smitten and ridiculous. When the bathroom door opens, it takes a hell of a lot of self control not to just hoist yourself out of the tub—soaked, slippery, and naked—and launch yourself right into Simon's arms (or potentially trip and slide into them). Instead, like a normal person, you glance over your shoulder while staying very much in place.

Simon pokes his head in, hair mussed from his beanie, N95 pulled down below his chin. He furrows his brow and mouths, 'Who?' while making a phone gesture with his pinky and thumb.

You point to the bar of (French-milled, lavender-scented, luxury) soap next to your elbow, and he nods in understanding, disappearing back around the door frame. For one foolish second, you think you're safe.

"Alright, so aside from being in a hovel, how is it?" Soap asks.

You turn your attention back to the phone call, stretching your legs out and propping your left ankle on the edge of the tub. It slides a little on the wet marble. "I mean, I get into the bath and come out dirtier, if that gives you any idea."

"Mhmm." He sounds unconvinced. "And the mission?"

Shit. Right. "Y'know," you start, voice pitching higher than you intended. "It's... going."

The bathroom door opens again. You let your guard down, which is one of the classic blunders. Biting down on your bottom lip, you resolutely do not look at Simon slinking into the room like a devious cat.

"Yeah, sounds like you're workin' real hard there," Soap says, completely unaware that Simon's kneeling down beside the bathtub, his jacket discarded in favor of a black t-shirt (his favorite Six Feet Back or Six Feet Down shirt, complete with plague doctor).

Do not look at him. Do not make eye contact. The second you make eye contact, it's over. He's like a sleeper agent.

"I mean, we've gotten more intel in the past few days than we have since this all started," you say, keeping your voice steady even as you see an arm slide into your periphery, following the line of the tub. "Ask Price."

Fingers dangerously close to the water line. You watch them, glaring.

"Don't need to," Soap replies. At the same time, you hear the high-pitched shriek of a kid tackling another. He groans. "Also, I take it back. Trade places wi' me."

He might not want that at the moment, right when Simon's hand slides into the water, disappearing wrist-deep in bubbles, fingers finding your left thigh right away. Finally, you do look at him, since looking away doesn't seem to work. The bastard has the au-fucking-dacity to look bored, like this is just another part of his mission, a box to tick on his to-do list. Scope out Berlin, follow a money trail, chit-chat with some KSK insertion specialist, get dinner, feel up the girlfriend.

In a clumsy motion, you manage to mute yourself long enough to hiss at him, "Don't you dare, Riley."

"Don't I dare what?"

"Ladybird?"

To quote the man feeling you up, fuckin' hell.

"Sorry. Yeah. I'm here," you say, leaving a smeared fingerprint on your phone screen. "I'm, uh, trying to multitask."

"Multitask? On what, exactly?"

"On—" Simon's hand lazily glides over your inner thigh like he has nothing better to do. You swallow hard. "On my report for Laswell," comes your very pathetic answer. (Simon snorts in disbelief.) You have maybe six words total on that report, and none of them are informative. "Trying to do that and figure out my laundry situation at the same time."

"Uh-huuuh," Soap drawls out. Another kid screeches in the background, and you hear his brother (who sounds alarmingly like him) bark something that sounds a lot like 'don't make me go in there'.

"Yeah," you say, as Simon's index finger finds your slit, tracing up and down the length of it while he props his opposite elbow on the edge of the tub, resting his chin on his palm. "It's, uh, tedious."

And you hear the realization. You know Simon and Soap are friends by the shared rate in which the reach epiphanies. "Gotcha," he says. "Should I leave you to it?"

Oooh, he sounds way too smug.

"I mean, talking to you really is the highli-i-ight of my day!" you reply, the long vowel of 'highlight' catching on an upward stroke of Simon's fingers that nearly sends you right out of the tub. And Simon, son of a bitch-in-chief, snickers.

So does Soap. Because these men operate on a wavelength that transcends time and distance. "Right. Is this a bad time to ask if you're still plannin' on comin' up for Hogmanay?"

"What'd he say?" Simon mutters close to your other ear, low enough that Soap can't hear him.

You mouth 'Hogmanay' before biting your lip when the tip of his index finger brushes over your clit, sending a jolt through you that disturbs the bath water. He shakes his head, giving you the worst attempt at a wide-eyed innocent look, seeing as how he can't accomplish it even if he tried.

"Didn't catch that, sweetheart. Wanna put him on speaker?"

"Fucker," you hiss. Against your better judgment, you do as he asks, tapping the speaker icon and setting the phone down on the opposite side of the bathtub. It's out of the danger zone of you dropping it as Simon's fingers do terrible, horrible things to you in your time of vulnerability. "Soap, can you repeat that? You cut out for a sec."

He either laughs or coughs, and it's hard to tell which. "S'askin' if you two were still planning on comin' t' Hogmanay, or if this Berlin thing was gonna take up the rest of yer time."

"Of course we're still going," you reply, right as your legs betray your brain and spread to give Simon more room. "W-wouldn't miss it for anything!"

A long pause. A long, long pause. Then, "Ghost?"

"Yeah, Johnny."

Damnit.

"You coming, too? Or is Ladybird finally gonna come to her senses and ditch you to run away wi' me?"

Simon mutters, "Oh, she'll come alright," into your ear as his middle finger joins his index, drawing heinous circles around your clit while you try not to moan.

"What was that?"

"I said yeah, I'll be there."

"Ah, more's the pity," Soap says mournfully. "A'right. Try not tae keep her up too late, ya mongrel."

"Copy that, Sergeant."

You hear the tinny, percussive sound of something hitting a solid object with alarming volume, and then the squeal of, "Uncle Johnnyyyy! Throw it back!"

Your turn to snicker, even as Simon is being a monster. "G'night, Soap."

Soap gives an exhausted and resigned, "Gooood night and happy holidays, Ladybird. Don't let the bed bugs bite, or give you too many hickeys."

Bastards. All of them. Every single one.

You gratefully end the call, your head falling back to the rim of the tub and that hidden moan finally coming to the surface. "You are the worst," you tell Simon, although each word comes out unfairly sexually-charged.

He looks thoughtful, even as his fingers start teasing your opening. "That's not what you usually say."

"Usually you're not trying to f-finger me in the middle of a-a..." He picks up the pace in the middle of your sentence. You shudder, head rolling toward him, your glare losing its heat. "A fuckin' phone call," is the end result, and the last word is lost in a sigh.

"You don't sound that angry about it," he points out.

No, because you love him and he knows it. He knows that you look at him like the sun rises on one shoulder and sets on the other, and that he looks at you the same way (when he thinks you're not watching). And he knows that maybe, deep down, you kind of get off on the shit he likes to pull.

"I will be angry if you try fingering me underwater," you say. "Water's not lube."

"I wasn't gonna try," he replies. "Figured I'd get you riled up first."

You squint at him, bottom lip pouting out. "The worst," you reiterate.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. "You like it."

"Wash my hair and I'll like you more."

His hand retreats, to both your frustration and relief. He draws it out of the mountain of bubbles, wiping it off on the bathmat. He's out of your peripheral for one second, a low hum reaching your ears and reverberating down your spine. "The sea salt one or the— whatever the pink one is?"

"Argan oil, and yes to that."

"Spoiled," he says, and while your knee-jerk reaction is to refute that claim, you immediately agree with it the second his fingers touch your scalp.

---

You had plans in Berlin. Nightlife plans, even. There were all manner of shows, concerts, clubs, scenic walks, and nighttime river cruises you could have enjoyed. Those plans, like the ones you had for tonight, got ditched mid-flight the moment Simon had any kind of say.

You can't find it in you to complain. Not while he's between your legs, eating you out like dinner earlier didn't sate him. He fucks you on his fingers, his thrusts matching pace with the quick flicks of his tongue, his dark eyes finding yours in the amber-warm light of the bedside lamp.

You're propped up on a small mountain of stupidly soft pillows, back arching, toes curled into the high thread count sheets. One hand's in his hair, pulling him closer, closer— Anything, any possible means of getting off and finally breaking the tension he's carefully and mercilessly built up inside of you. You're practically fucking yourself on his face, and he looks perfectly at peace with this.

When you do finally come, it's beautiful. It's every neon and LED light you're missing in Berlin, every firework launched over a park, every star in the December night sky. You shudder, twitch, spasm against and on him— Hell, around him as he fucks you through it, coaxing out every last vestige of pleasure on the tips of his talented fingers.

You only realize you're practically suffocating the man with your cunt when you finally let his hair go and he jerks back and gasps. In turn, you gasp, fingers flying up to your mouth as he wipes his face on his arm.

"Holy shit, Simon, I am so sorry," you pant, trying to get your own breathing under control.

"No, no. Don't be," he says, swallowing hard, mouth hidden behind his wrist. "That's exactly how I wanna die when the time comes."

He would say that, but you're still mortified that you accidentally tried to kill him in the name of an orgasm.

At least it's an easy synaptic jump to make in order to think of a way to make it up to him. He lays down beside you—a pretty close mimic of that first time in your room back at base, that first round of tentative touches and vague understandings of each others' bodies. One arm goes around your shoulders, pulling you close to him, letting your head rest against his sweat-damp chest. To your credit, you give him more than a half second of warning before your hand is on his dick.

More like two seconds. That's being generous.

Still propped up on him, you start moving your hand in long, languid strokes. He stills, but you can hear his normally steady heartbeat quicken. Simon ditched the half-protests of 'no, you don't have to' and 'I don't expect it every time' a long time ago, but you still feel that hesitance, the slight shift in his body like he wants to tell you that he's fine; you're not contractually required to pleasure him. You know he wants it, though. That's enough of a reason.

What he doesn't anticipate is you sliding down the length of his body, rolling over a little until your arm and torso bracket one (unfairly muscular) thigh, your hand curled around the girth of his cock, lips brushing the underside. This time, you look up at him, finding his half-lidded, lust-glazed eyes under furrowed brows.

(Once, you like to remember, you did something like this after a mission. He didn't bother to take the mask off, and so you looked up at a grinning skull, greasepaint, and bloodshot eyes from thirty-four sleepless hours. It took so long to get enough gear out of the way in order to pull him out of his pants, but it was worth it to watch him go boneless under your touch. Worth it still when he absolutely passed out afterward.)

Simon's body language doesn't always give everything away. You're trained in the art of watching his tells and cues, the subtle dance between muscle spasms and eye movements, reading out a whole play of emotions that he's trained to hide. He doesn't flinch or tremble when you touch him like this, or when your mouth finally engulfs the head of his cock, tasting the salt tang of precum on the tip. But you do see his abdomen tighten, the way he braces for a punch to the torso.

He braces for you, and what a fucking ego trip that is.

Spurred on by this, you swallow him down as far as you can, until your jaw aches and your throat protests. By mutual agreement, you never take him down to the hilt. He doesn't want you mimicking outlandish porn scenarios with the idea that it would make him happy. Instead, you do what you know for a fact he likes.

Your tongue moves slowly, pressing up under his cockhead, swirling around it, tasting the slit at the tip. You bob your head slowly, savoring the taste and texture of him, the warmth radiating off his body as his breath hitches and he grunts. When you watch him, you see tightness at the corners of his eyes, the way he keeps catching his bottom lip under his teeth and letting it go over and over.

He's awful at making noise, even though you've told him how much you love hearing his sounds. He's got a lifetime worth of experience in keeping quiet at all costs—turning it into an instinct—and so you learned that what sounds he gives you, you've earned.

So he does moan. It's soft, subdued, but the vibration goes through you and makes you wet all anew. It's followed by a soft rasp of breath, and the sight of him fisting the sheets by his hips in a white-knuckled grip. When you swallow him down again, right hand twisting the base of his cock, left hand under his thigh, you feel him shudder and tense.

"Wai— Wait," he manages. Holy shit, you knocked the breath out of him.

You pause, cock still halfway in your mouth. Now it's your turn to tease him, looking up at him with wide eyes and the exact ploy of innocence. He can't play innocent worth a damn, but you've got it down to an art.

"Mm?" you hum around him, and earn another shudder for your trouble.

His expression makes it look like he's working through a particularly difficult puzzle—a jigsaw with no corner pieces. "I wanna... Fuckin' hell, I don't wanna finish like this."

Reluctantly, and with deliberate slowness, you draw your head back enough that his cock slides out of your mouth and smears a small streak of precum along your left cheek. "Oh?" you say, feigning like you simply have no idea what he's insinuating. No, sir.

And like he has a tendency to do, you tilt your head so your right cheek rests against his thigh. You can see the moment he catches what you're doing, a pinch forming between his brows as his brain fights to stay online.

"You... Ah, fuck," he tries, raking a hand through his hair and causing some of it to stand on end. He'd hate to hear you say it, but it's adorable. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, get up here."

"Can't talk about him like that so close to his birthday," you joke, but you follow directions to the letter, hoisting yourself up and slowly dragging yourself across his thighs and abdomen. Your breasts brush over his chest, making him hiss between his teeth. Then you straddle his lap, enjoying the sight of the flushed, hard line of his cock against your thigh. You resolutely do not touch him, even though the temptation is there. He's teased you enough over time, and even though the blowjob was to make up for almost murdering him, you still need to get a little revenge for him trying to make you drop your phone in the bath.

You look up and see him staring back at you, pupils dilated, bottom lip dark from biting, chest heaving. He's the image of sexual frustration (and Soap's words come back to you at the worst moment)—a little bit debauched, a little bit divine.

He doesn't say anything, simply reaching up and resting a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you in for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on him, and you wonder if he tastes himself on your tongue. He holds you there, kissing you in a way that feels utterly molten, a long-lasting burn that you're sure he's sustained all day. When he finally does release you, you feel like you were the one deprived of air, suffocating in his need.

His hand moves from your neck to your face, thumb brushing along the ridge of your cheekbone. He leans in once more to kiss you firmly, and you lean back into him entirely.

Forget teasing. You love this man way too much to keep up the jest.

"Where do you want me?" you ask against his lips.

His forehead's pressed against yours. You can feel his eyelashes, a slow, ticklish flicker against your skin—his nose nudges against yours. "On your back," he says, more than a little breathless. "Please."

You don't waste time, rolling off him to splay out on the pillows and blankets, sinking into them. Simon briefly goes off the edge of the bed, fishing around his backpack for a condom. Then he's back, wedging himself between your knees, hips slotting close to yours. Heat radiates off him in waves, and you get a contact buzz just from the proximity. His lowers his head once, kissing you, biting your bottom lip, tasting you once more.

"You need extra lube or anything?" he asks.

"Not after what you just did to me," you reply, tilting up enough to kiss his jaw as a reward for consideration. "I'm good."

You hear the condom packet rip, see the brief silver flash of the wrapper as Simon carelessly tosses it... somewhere. As you adjust your hips for comfort, he rolls the condom on. Then you feel his hand against your leg, movements slow and gentle as he aligns himself with you.

"You alright?" he asks, out of habit.

You nod, smiling up at him. "Always."

And he slides in.

It's an easy motion, part practice and part wetness from the combined efforts of his mouth and your arousal. He still takes it slow so as to not fill you up all at once. Yet the slow glide is almost more maddening—toe-curling as you feel him thrust in and hear his low moan. It feels like an epoch before he seats himself all the way inside, hips flush to your pelvis.

You hear your name as a sigh, and it rings in your head like a bell. You'll never get over how he says it, the myriad of ways he turns your name into something special. 'Ladybird' is reserved for work, for situations when you need to keep your cover, or when he's feeling surly. But when he says your real name, it's with a certain degree of reverence regardless of if it's said in happiness or anger. Like it means something to him that it's never meant to you.

Then again, you get it. His name feels like a secret, too.

"Fuck," he whispers, one hand on your hip, the other on the bed beside you. "You feel so damn good."

You can't wrangle the mischief edging its way into your smile. "It'd be better if you moved," you say.

He huffs a laugh, but follows your suggestion. His hips roll slowly, testing the waters, eyes gauging your reaction. Honestly, he doesn't need to watch for anything with you—it always feels good.

Sometimes the two of you work up a little banter, joking with each other between thrusts, teasing relentlessly. This isn't one of those times. You can't pinpoint why that is, why your playful back-and-forth from earlier fades into this, all emotionally-loaded and sweet. But you're far from complaining as he fucks you, fills and empties you on each thrust and draw, an ebb and flow with all the power of the tide.

Your right leg hitches around his waist, drawing him in close. He presses himself against you, your breasts firmly against his chest. At the same time, he kisses your cheek, down to your jaw, lower still to your neck. When he gets to your collarbone, you feel the slight pinch of teeth, then see his dark eyes fixed on you.

For a moment, you're not sure what he's doing, but then—

"Ohhh," you say. He and Soap aren't the only ones hitting epiphanies on the regular. "Right. Bed bugs and hickeys."

His smile is quick, a flicker of muscle movement, before he gives you another quick nip to the clavicle. "Somethin' to show off at Hogmanay," he says.

"Soap's never going to shut up about it."

"Good," Simon replies. And then he's sucking on your skin, biting down enough for you to hiss and wince. He keeps his eyes on your face, watching to see if it's too much. (It never is.) And he keeps thrusting in, enough so the pleasure drowns out any pain. When the ache is noticeable, he finally relents, lips finding yours again.

His thrusts quicken, and he buries his face into your neck as you arch off the bed and moan. Your arms go around his neck, holding him close, your bodies moving as a singular unit. He feels so deep, every driving push powerful, sending sparks through your nerves. You gasp his name, shuddering against him as you feel his heart hammering in his chest, reverberating into yours.

Your name is a scrape of his voice in your ear, and then you hear the distinctive hitch that tells you how close he is. He doesn't have to say it—rarely does—and you know him well enough now to catch all the signs. His pace stutters, muscles twitch, and his breath is hot against your skin. All you can do is hold him close, fingers on his back, stroking up and down his spine as he fucks you harder.

He has a tendency to freeze up when he comes. It's a quirk, and one that makes you smile and tilt your head enough to kiss his bare shoulder. He grunts and gasps, hips jerking once, twice, then burying himself so deep that it aches. You stroke his back through it all, feeling the divots of his spine, the hard muscles, networks of scar tissue forming constellations between freckles and moles. You're a little bit wistful at the idea of someday feeling him spill into you, experiencing that extra heat. But for right now, you're content to let him lay there and catch his breath as you lightly run your fingers over his skin. Idly, you raise one hand to card through his sweat-damp hair, fighting back giggles as you make it stand on end.

"What are you doing to me?" he asks, slightly muffled against your neck.

"Nothing."

"Doesn't feel like nothing."

Your thumb brushes down over his forehead, running along the curve of his eyebrow. He sighs against your skin, eyes fluttering closed.

"You gonna pull out any time soon?" you ask, grinning.

"Once I remember how my legs work, yeah."

"Take your time."

"Mm." Slowly, he hoists himself up on his elbows and pulls his cock out of you. You enjoy the pleasurable soreness that follows, rubbing your thighs together like you're pressing the memory between pages of a book. As you do that, he unfolds himself to get off the bed, discarding the condom before standing up to his full height.

When you see him wince, right hand going to rub a spot on his lower back, you can't help but laugh. "Is round two off the table, old man?" you tease.

He gives you a mock glare over his shoulder, but you see the suggestion of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "Once the paracetamol kicks in, it's over for you, Ladybird," he says.

You can't wait.

---

'and how many hickeys?'

You sigh, thumbs moving quickly over the keyboard. 'None, you filthy animal. I'm all business.'

The emojis come quicker than usual. A cute little cow, and then grinning shit.

[myfemboyfantasy]

Freshly pedicured 🤗🥰 Classic Red ❤️

(Polish: DND Wildfire)

[petitpiedgalbe]

Burgundowy czy Bordowy? ;)

Nails are ready! I was looking for a specific hue of pink but I didn't find it so finally I decided on burgundy/maroon. Maybe I will do my own color mix another time, who knows. But if mani and pedi are ready, now is the time to do some more beaded jewelry... and I will be almost prepared to realize some idea... Have a nice Tuesday everyone!

[theloveinc]

Asking you to talk more on sukuna nd feet 😛😛

of COURSE !!!

I'm just still stuck on thinking about Sukuna being HELLA ancient and that really only coming through in his ... sexual preferences, and by extension... his preferences for the body, right? Which ik we're thinking is his liking for the body as it comes naturally, naked and untouched and etc...

SO, it makes perfect sense that he loves a nicely done-up foot because ... even if you're wearing clothes, a healthy looking, decorated foot is one way to show off the quality of your body without sacrificing much of your integrity, or the appearance of that specific body part... for EXAMPLE:

You can be wearing whatever kind of clothing you want, but with a beautiful mani-pedi and nice shoes, people look at you and KNOW you take care of your skin !!!

And for Sukuna, that's literally... nut-worthy automatically. That his woman is so cared for she, not only has hands, but FEET too, that instead of showing the affects of hard work on them... are pampered beyond belief and always look delicious.

Even if you do use your hands for work, or have hands that show that kind of hard work on them, the second Sukuna attaches himself to you, that's one of the first things he demands you fix (by paying for your spa appointments, of course)... and ain't no way in hell he's taking no for an answer.

(I don't even think it's something he cares about until he realizes he can care about it. He's just chilling, living his best, king-of-curses life... and then one day he notices you putting lotion on your heels before bed and the next time your legs are in the air, he's pressing your feet to his face. Or you put on an anklet just for the day and he doesn't let you take it off ever again, ONLY ever change it so he can hear the sound of it jingle when he's fucking you better. Or you come home with white toenails after a pedicure with your friends and suddenly he's kissing your toes before he eats you out every. single. time. No brain ONLY boner from there on out.)

When he finally gets into the groove, tho (or in an automatic, non-curse AU), Sukuna is definitely picky about what kinds of designs and colors you get during mani-pedis. It's so weird of him because he's a full on evil CURSE, but I know he's walking into that salon right along with you and not just watching your toes get scrubbed and painting, but helping you pick out the colors and diamonds too....

He scrutinizes your poor nail tech sooo hard, one of those guys who takes off from the tip immediately if they accidentally nick you with the clippers, or file something a little too roughly. His inspection face is so funny, because even though he's supposed to be there spending time with YOU, his eyes are on your tootsies the whole time (like a freak).

You can convince him to let you get fun colors (and tbh, you ARE the one who put him onto including crystals or doing frenchies in the first place), but I know he's a such a particular man when it comes to making sure your nail colors are ALWAYS elegant. Loves a classic nude or pink, sometimes lets you experiments with white or a couple crystals... but the whole point is that he never has to see your feet covered again, only ever decorated and in strappy-heels for the rest of TIME.

(And don't even get me started on how much he gets off on watching you do your skincare, too. Anything to do with taking care of your body he loves, adores, is obsessed with; you doing your hair. Putting on your lotion or oils. Washing yourself, your leg up on the side of the bathtub.

Plus, he never wants to see you in makeup or shaving or anything of the sort. He only wants you bare and raw the way you were made... and yes that means he will buy you ¥50000 korean skincare essence but refuse to buy you foundation from the convenience store.)

THANK U FOR ASKING, ANON, LOVE U!

[rafent]

[ Makeup Parlor - Maddening Classic Mode ]

"Who would have thought that I would be so fortunate as to find you here?"

All evil reveals itself to she who seeks it out. She had gone to no small lengths to find Rafal tonight, on the back of the rumors she had heard whispered about the floors of the ballroom. Most notably, that she had heard from one young Ewan, who while young, she trusted told the truth. All the easier to believe in not understanding what he had heard, and all the greater the crime that he had been allowed to hear it.

"I was starting to think I might not encounter you at all—it seems like you've been making yourself quite busy tonight, haven't you?" Swiftly, Poe circles around to the front of the chair he is seated in. Lingers, even, to loom over it. It was his mistake to let his guard down—to think that he was safe from her. A trivial task, to convince the professionals here today that she was a friend here to help him. And nor was it a lie. True to the belief that always lingered in the back of her mind, by the time she was done with him,

he would be on the path to improvement. No matter what it took.

"How flattered I was to hear that you've been talking about me of all people, by the way!" A blithe giggle punctuates seeming bashfulness that in actuality is anything but. Quieter, she continues before it can mistakenly be taken at face value. "It's a shame that what I heard did not reflect very well upon you."

". . .Hm. They are taking quite some time."

Cheek rested in cup of hand, another cup long since drained, the hospitable beverage provided at the start of his visitation sat discarded on the floor, and when combined with other grievances, left little more than piqued mutterings to be had. Forty minutes come and gone since Rafal had first taken his seat of the chair. Forty uneventful minutes dragged on by as other patrons entered and left their own, their every need attended to behind the obscuring curtains, their dreamy sighs and brightly chirped gratitude feeding only the imagination, then a sleepy yawn unhinging this viper's jaws.

In that unguarded moment, the curtain flared open and ushered in another. Rafal roused to a being of demoralizing, raging pink that did not deliver him from his circumstances. Talking about me? He spoke of Poe tonight, yes, but he could not place a specific instance and did not endeavor to distinctly remember any. Confusion levied itself as the initial reaction, annoyance the second.

"What in the worlds are you gibbering about?" Form straightened unconsciously, if at all due to the imminence of confrontation or to the unsightly approach of a woman deemed witchlike in all but flaming hair and bulbous nose, then he did not realize it. The black dress on Poe to that end was certainly an evocative look. "Do not be an eye sore. I have come for a treatment and so have been awaiting an attendant. Not you. But if you should aspire to take that place. . ."

A fan of knees spread wide, posture once again loose and unstrung, sinking into cheap cushions. The king and he knew it - or made so of himself. Poe, always and ever his antipode; the honorable castle wench come to empty his chamber pot.

"Then by all means. A trim of split ends would be of fine use! Or exfoliation! Even a pedicure. . .yes, a pedicure. Seeing you knelt in your rightful place at my feet would be fitting—" Smirk. The languid roost of face in hand turned all at once contemptuous.

"Wouldn't you say, Toe?"

[justice-for-mr-ohare]

Some O'Hare headcanons I've come up with:

This man is really, and I mean really keen on his appearance. Every day he spends a couple of hours styling his hair and does his manicure/pedicure as often as he can. His closet is full of suits for each and every occasion.

He doesn't mention a delicious cookie for nothing, Al does have a sweet tooth and dessert is his favourite meal.

He's a fan of funky music and everyone knows about it. In fact, that's why every morning in Thneedville begins with a cool song. Also, he would totally vibe to 80s pop classics at the party and encourage everyone around him to do the same.

He actually lacks experience in government and is a mayor mainly because he comes from a wealthy family and owns every single company there is in Thneedville. He compensates for it by being extremely charismatic and persuasive.

Aloysius has never been married but he thinks about it often, as well as about the possibility of having children. The only problem is that he has very high standards which most women can't fit (read: he's way too egotistical and controlling and only wants a woman who'll worship the ground he walks on).

He's a cat person, and even though there are no living animals in Thneedville, he has a robot cat at home.

He has a strange and wicked sense of humour and often makes dark jokes in Morty and McGurk's presence. They rather don't get it or are straight up terrified.

Al has major anger issues and tends to lash out when he's not in the mood. However, he can't allow himself to do it to people because it would be bad for his image, so he often ends up kicking furniture and breaking random objects. He kicks his robot cat when he's mad, too.

[tinylittlelee]

I am getting a pedicure next week for my sessions and I need some help deciding on what to get!

option 1: classic white!

(my picture)

option 2:

this which I think is so cute

and lastly option 3 : neon 😊

what are your thoughts?? pls pick one 🥺