#calf fat loss

[meditating-dog-lover]

COVID depression (going to be honest)

A lot of my depression had to do with the fact that not only was I lonely, but I lost track of my health goals and put on weight, which made me spiral even further downwards towards poor self esteem and low confidence.

This year I did a lot for my weight and health and did IF and brisk walking and followed an anti-inflammatory and low glycemic diet. This made me feel more empowered and confident over my health, just like how I felt 2017-2019. I want to reestablish that, however without the dieting and calorie restricting and avoiding sugar completely (I don't eat a lot of sugar now but it isn't off limits for me, I don't avoid it out of fear, but rather because I just don't crave super sweet stuff anymore).

I am getting closer and closer towards metabolic wellness and based on my recent bloodwork, my insulin level went down.

I do want to continue fasting, I just don't feel comfortable doing 18-6, 20-4, or OMAD. For me 16-8 is the way to go, along with brisk walking. And I don't brisk walk everyday (I didn't today for example). In 2017-2019 I did a lot of walking and I did eat anti-inflammatory, but again it was just stressful and too restrictive. I did feel malnourished in a way. Even though I wasn't physically emaciated.

I love being healthy and health and wellness in general. To the point where I want to get a certificate in the field or at least take a few classes. I have a degree in cell biology but more from a scientific point of view as opposed from a health and wellness point of view.

I feel so healthy compared to the start of 2023 and all of 2022 and even 2021. I'm even healthier in some ways than I was in 2016-2020 (though my skin did get more inflamed this year), though I just want to keep it up with the fasting and brisk walking and anti-inflammatory low glycemic index diet so I'm able to achieve my 2018 body without the restricting and dieting (I became thin in late May this year, I just want to go back to fasting and brisk walking and see how I feel during my luteal phase in terms of fasting).

I still want to slim my calves, perhaps massaging and stretching can help. I'll figure something out and I'm just happy my skin is clearing and I'm metabolically healthy (always room for improvement but I'm doing way better than the average person).

I also did not drink coffee everyday back then. I did switch to green tea now and feel a lot better too.

I'll deal with the loneliness and intimacy issue during COVID later.

[moondirti]

genesis

But the white light highlights the captain’s silhouette; grown-in mutton chops, broad shoulders that double your own. He’s wearing a beanie, pulled to his brow, melting into the shadow that conceals his eyes from you. It’s the first time you truly see him – this much of him, anyway. And he’s startlingly younger than you would’ve thought, hair still packed a uniform brown, the occasional wisp of grey speckled in the midst.

pairing: Captain John Price x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 8k summary: the progression of a spite-fuelled relationship warnings: enemies to lovers, literally 4k words of unfettered smut, virginity loss, reader is given a backstory, light corruption kink, tummy bulge, choking, mentions of death, mentions of torture, kidnapping, alcohol, alluded misogyny notes: this became something else entirely and i apologise. credit for the 'choking with an arm' thing goes to @sprout-fics and, by extension, @yeyinde 's anons lol

The first time you meet the captain, his edges blend in with the wet asphalt and gunmetal downpour. Midnight adrenaline, vision bleary with disrupted sleep; you’re only able to make out the flickering end of a fat cigar, tucked between his lips and smouldering orange, somehow still alight despite the weather.

You suppose it’s that ironclad conviction, the one you’ve heard of in passing on base. Smelted to every bullet, carved to fit the crows feet that frame his eyes. You see it now, tainted with a conscience rebellion – non discrete, as they’d called it, enough to bend nature itself to suit his tobacco fix. 

You still, pausing for him to give you the rundown. He doesn’t approach you, not yet, caught in a hissed argument with one of his men. Their voices drift in the howling wind; his, like smoke, curling with a rough aggression. 

Hair plastered to your forehead, water gathering on the tip of your nose; you quietly thank your hasty decision to throw on a lab coat before coming. It proves to be the only barrier between the rain and your dishevelled self – loose pyjama bottoms coming to your calf, knitted socks that start to soak through your army-grade boots. Not a state you commonly adapt for first impressions, though it’s not like you’d had much of a choice. 

Paramedics swarm the helicopter Price had emerged from, pulling out a limp body, blood splattering on the landing pad to be washed away without a trace. It’s nothing you weren’t expecting as the medic on call tonight – the shrill beeps of your pager were enough of an indication that something had gone wrong. Yet your mind reels to pinpoint the face that lulls onto the stretcher. Wrinkled nose, quivering lips – they’re alive, but only just. 

You don’t recognise them. The cooling relief is stupidly selfish. 

A minute later; two soldiers hop off the craft, trooping off with their guns tucked near their chests, entirely dutiful. You note the direction they take, heading towards Laswell’s office – assigned report duty, no doubt. 

Five minutes pass, and the pilot disengages as well. The chopper powers down from a loud roar to a disruptive quiet. The storm still boils overhead, thunder a cracking whip to what had been a peaceful night. You resist the urge to wipe the drops that weigh your eyelashes. You’re soaked to the bone, now. 

Ten. The patient would have reached the hospital bay. An irking sort of impatience begins gnawing on your gut, dangerously fiery for the situation at hand. You cough, despite knowing the captain won’t hear you, and square your shoulders as you take him in again. He hasn’t so much as looked in your direction, locked into a series of gruff nods and whispered commands with the sergeant.

Is his comrade’s life really of that little urgency to him?

The thought leads you down a path you do not want to take. It’s decidedly destructive, a match to the rush of fuming petrol that courses through you. Breathe through it, a clipped voice echoes back to you, reverberating on starched walls and a cold leather couch. Rationalise. Your psychiatrist’s office, post reassignment. I’d wager you didn’t take that time to think before the incident in Bulgaria, hm? 

Pompous bitch. 

You draw in a long inhale, holding it until your chest aches with blurring hypoxia. Black dots your vision, spurring a pounding alarm at your temples. Your fists clench, unclench, then clench again, nails digging crescent moons into the pruned skin of your palms. You wait, and wait, and think you puncture yourself, a new warmth pooling into your cuticles. 

Then, when Price’s conversation dwindles, the flame tempers, mental barricade forming in its stead. A necessary precaution; you steel yourself and prepare for the likely gruesome incident debrief as he breaks off and starts to approach. 

Only, he marches right past you. 

You’re stuck staring ahead, frozen in paralytic shock. Heart lurching, your body thumps with it, disorienting when you turn to his shrinking form.

“Captain!” Your yell whips with the gale. He tosses you a brief look over his shoulder, pulls an especially large drag from his cigar, and keeps walking. 

You snap to your senses and jog to catch up.

“Bulle’ to the chest, punctured a lung. Concussion from tumblin’ rubble but not much else.” He keeps a quick pace ahead of you. It takes all you’ve got not to slip as you disentangle his words from an ashen irritation. 

“Was he given any medication that might interfere with the anaesthesia?” 

“Negative.” 

“Was the wound sealed to keep air from being sucked in?” 

“Affirmative.”

“Did he lose consciousness at any point in time?” You strain, legs screaming as you finally come side-to-side with him. 

“Doctor–” 

“I need to know these things for the procedure to run as smoothly as pos–” 

“Doctor.” He snaps, stomping to a sudden halt before facing you fully. You’ve come to the right wing’s entry, secured with a strict-access passcode your rank is not privy to. The most you know of it is what you can see through the doorway window; a fluorescent hall, illuminated despite the late hour. An office at the end of it. Shepherd, perhaps, engraved on a nameplate. 

But the white light highlights the captain’s silhouette; grown-in mutton chops, broad shoulders that double your own. He’s wearing a beanie, pulled to his brow, melting into the shadow that conceals his eyes from you. It’s the first time you truly see him – this much of him, anyway. And he’s startlingly younger than you would’ve thought, hair still packed a uniform brown, the occasional wisp of grey speckled in the midst. 

You shuffle in place. Your pyjamas cling to your skin, dewy disposition a reminder of how ridiculous you must look. Lip quivering, you tuck it underneath a sucking tooth and glare up at him. 

“Sir.” 

“You’re wastin’ your bloody time with this. One of my men is choking on his own blood,” His finger prods to the general direction the patient was taken in. “And you’re here, mm. Why is that?” 

“It’s procedure.” The statement escapes as more of a hiss than anything else, his hypocrisy clawing at the gummy lining of your lungs.

“Procedure can fuck off this once, that shit’s for the textbooks. Things differ on the field, Doc.”

It hits you, then, who he sounds like. The revelation bleeds into your tone. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused. Now go and make sure my sniper doesn’t die on me.”

The rain’s eased to a drizzle now. He leaves you molten, steaming with a sulphurous rage.

“Stop moving.” 

“Can’t exactly do that now, eh?” 

By the fifth time you cross paths with the captain, you’ve already decided you don’t like him. 

To the outside eye, your position does nothing to suggest it. Lewd at best – you sit, crouched between his legs, your elbows propped up on muscled thighs to stabilise the tremor in your hands. The floor beneath you rumbles, the humvee rolling over rocky terrain in its attempt to exfil. Price, stabbed; once in the left lumbar, twice in the umbilical region. 

Ichor soaks through your compress. Your fingers are tacky with dried gore. 

The car is stiflingly hot, a vessel for the trapped Uzbekistanian sun and high tensions. Large gulps of air prove insufficient; oxygen runs scarce, recycled through the systems of the several soldiers present. You’d given your seat to Garrick – who, currently, has no use for it, stuck halfway out a window to shoot at your pursuers.

It’s loud. It’s chaotic. The sergeant driving has no goddamn idea how to do so without messing up your work and your clothes chafe over sweat in the most excruciating way possible. It took you fifteen tries to thread the suture through the needle. It’ll take ten times that to actually get his wound closed. 

And it’s not his fault. None of this can be pinned on him.

Yet–

“Can’t understand why you don’t take the time to reload your ballistic plates. This whole thing–” 

“Jus’ do your damn job, doctor.” 

You swallow the snarl that tears up your throat, burying it alongside a grave of acrid emotion you reserve for men just like him. This situation is profoundly familiar. Bulgaria; the crunch of your general’s nose under your fist. Betrayal sour on your tongue, a sting like you’d never before felt it. It took a whole team to hold you back as he spit upon your bruising temple. 

A cunt. That’s what you are, girl. 

Pray tell, then, what does that make you?

Your next seam is done with fervent hostility. 

It’s only when your penultimate knot is tied that you force yourself to reel in your wandering mind and focus on the task at hand. You’ve one more laceration to mend after this, the length of it throbbing underneath a wad of temporary gauze. It’s that, maybe – festering evidence of the raid you’d just survived – that flushes you in further warmth, a boiling panic still itching beneath the surface. Rip release grenades, the dust of unsettled gunpowder. Your calf twinges from where it was caught under a pile of debris. 

C’mon, doc. Up. Yeah… yeah, there we go. You broken? 

Fine.

Or. Perhaps–

Giving flesh. Not rock-hard with chiselled definition – his body doesn’t carve into pronounced sinew – but solid, all the same. Packed brawn underneath a stretch of ivory skin. His shirt, rucked up to his chest. A trail from beyond his waistband, curly hairs, stark against a crimson backdrop.

Your conviction warbles, so you say nothing when you move to pierce him again. 

It’s unfortunate timing, really. 

His hips jolt at the cold bite of the needle head. The car rocks over a pothole. Some greater destiny, a cackling trio of asshole fates, weave their inexplicable thread. You’re only able to pull your hand back in time – the threat of stabbing him yourself a looming prospect. 

Your face isn’t so lucky. 

It comes into full contact with the swell between his legs. 

His grip shoots to your hair, winding at the roots to hold you firm. It’s enough to steady you as you pull back almost immediately, but the phantom feel of his crotch shoved to your nose is slower to leave. 

For a painstaking moment, the two of you lock onto each other’s stares. Price’s brows buoy, hooding over florentine eyes that spark with an untapped choler. You pretend not to notice the way his lips twitch, how his hand – still on your head – clenches the slightest bit tighter. 

Ticking bomb, wedged in the divet between two floorboards. 

Click, click, click.

One. Two. Three. 

Three beats until you clamp your jaw shut, gathering your surely obscene expression to one of mortified irritability. It’s all you allow yourself. 

“I told you to sit still.” 

Despite the way your words slip between clenched teeth, they sound with whopping pliability. Like he could grind them down, pestle on mortar, and watch as they unfurl, syllable by syllable, to shape some semblance of truth. 

(Honesty; a notion tucked along with happier memories of staying up longer than you should, facing your bunkmate with a bottle of cheap tequila on your lap.

There’s gotta be something you can drink to. 

You’re just wild, Tess. 

Fair, fair. Hmm, alright. Never have I ever…

She cackles at the grimace you pull. 

–given head. Yeah! That’s easy, right?  

Hm.

Wait. Seriously?

Everyone’s intolerable.)

“You watch your tone.” The growl rips from him then, laden with the scratch of singed newspaper, tobacco clustering at the back of his throat. It’s not so much a command than it is a reminder, a recall to your second meeting where you’d found the captain pouring over your file. Swilling the last amount of amber liquid from a glencairn: you nee’ to learn to control yourself, doc. Not everyone is so forgiving. 

You’d only meant to collect a batch of vaccination records for his new recruits. You’d left as you seem to always do with him, rage burrowing into claggy marrow.

Forgiving. Right.

“Sorry, sir.” It’s the farthest thing from genuine.

You don’t know what you hate more. The husky chuckle that erupts at your hushed admonishment, or the fact that you miss them when his fingers leave your hair.

Something shifts between the sixth and the seventh time. 

It isn't forfeit, not by a long shot. The gods wrote you with a deathly stubbornness; acquiescent Sisyphus, bound to roll your boulder up an impossibly steep incline. Your back will ache, and your tendons could tear, and you’d continue pushing for the sheer fact alone. Palms sliced open on abrasive rock, you’ve long since stained your white flag with blood and the pink salt of lake atanasovsko. 

(You used to compliment Tess on her hair – ice blonde, almost white. Her face had matched that deathly pallor when you pulled her up on the grassy bank.)

No. It’s a lot more subtle.

As subtle as kidnapping can be.

A cramped safehouse, post-evacuation. You’d commandeered the one bathroom for a moment alone, crouched over a pail of tepid water functioning as a sink.

Sand clings to you like second skin, grime piled in impossible crevices you can’t clean no matter how hard you try. It’s Price’s gore that washes off first, tainting the murky pool for any who wishes to use it next. Rippling red; it doesn’t disgust you to cup it up and wash your face. 

Three raps strike on the rotted-wood door. 

“Yeah?” 

“There’s, uh… there’s a slight issue we need you for.” Gaz says.

Drawing a sharp inhale, you shrug on your coat and leave to find him standing by the hall. He quirks his head towards the main space, where various voices overlap one another in an effort to make themselves heard. You’re able to single out his amidst the mix, a clipped bark that’d hold more weight had he not been stabbed.

A kid, as it turns out, is the source of such contention. A local who’d seen the red cross on your armband and recognised the universal symbol. 

“What’s going on?” 

“We’re trying to figure that out. I speak a rough Uzbek. Think she mentioned something about her mother being sick,” A sergeant – the one driving earlier – briefs you. 

“Right.” You lick your lips, locating Price in your peripheral before crouching to meet the girl’s height. “Is she nearby, sweetheart?” Her feet curve towards one another, clad in flower-adorned sandals that have seen brighter days. You smooth down the flyaways at her temple, noting the way she searches for meaning in your gentle expression. Hindsight tells you she looked terrified. 

But before you can ask again, you’re met with a gruff command.

“You’re not goin’ to help, doctor.” 

Incredulity spikes, a ruthless parallel to his own dismissal. You slowly turn to catch his eye, piercing from the end of a table. He’s still in his tactical gear, his shirt darkened and sticky across the front. You hadn’t had time to wrap his wounds. 

“Come again?” 

“It’s not our mission.” 

You can’t miss the meaning camouflaged in his vague rejection. Current company dissipates into ash; tunnel-vision – all you see are pursed lips, bearers of an apathetic verdict. Not goin’ to help – like it isn’t your sole reason for being here. 

Temper flaring into a whistling fusillade, you shoot to your feet. Your tone is the first victim, piquing with violent emotion. “She’s just a girl!” 

“We don’ know that for sure–”

“Jesus fucking christ, captain. If you think the enemy’s got their talons this far out, then what are we even doing here?” 

“All I’m saying–” 

“I don’t want to bloody hear it! She’s come to me for help, so I’m the one who’ll make this decision. Should I be ambushed, or worse, you have my full bloody permission to leave me behind.” 

Usually, the bitter aftertaste of citrus rage scalds you. But when you had walked out into the dust-clogged afternoon, you felt nothing but grim satisfaction. 

It only lasted as long as it took for a bag to be placed over your head, a blunt force accompaniment, the butt of a gun to your cheek that sends you spiralling into a brutal goodnight.

The seventh (technically, eighth, as you come to learn) is at a bar in Belgium, two months later. 

Littered in novel scars, the largest one spanning your cheekbone, you swish a dram of soju and drum your fingers on a tacky bartop. The patrons that had originally crowded the space have long since filtered out – your original distraction funnelled to just the drink in your hands. 

So, you sit and think of nothing. 

(Everything, actually, but memories fizz like static. Your period as a hostage stands out as the sharpest of the bunch.) 

It’s been a week since you’d been dismissed from the hospital – though you can’t say the same for your stay there, days fused together to stretch over an undisclosed amount of time. You’re usually on top of things, but being the one in the clinical cot had thrown you off your element. For good now, you think. You prowl Belgian streets with little aim and direction, pardoned from duty until they figure out what to do with you. 

Which makes you wonder how exactly he finds you. 

It’s a hole-in-the-wall, seedy establishment. Swallowing light, artificial lanterns a mild buffer to vignette shadows, slithering up brick walls. 

Still, the captain gravitates to you in your lowest moment – as he evidently has a habit of doing – and takes the stool next to you like he belongs. 

“Nice to see a friendly face.” You chortle. 

Nice gives him all the updates he needs. A debrief on what changed since Uzbekistan; the new woman whittled by torture and the painful consequence to her own derision. 

“You look older.” He nods. 

“Wishful thinking?” 

“Maybe.” 

He urges the bartender for scotch with a water back, neat, and toasts the foot of a cigar. You hide your simper behind your bottle. Not everyone is different.

“How’s the damage?” You point to his gut. He looks confused for a second before remembering the circumstances of your next-to-last interaction. 

“How’s yours, mm?” 

“Healed.” 

“I can see that. Looks better than it did when you’d been extracted.” 

You skim over the fact that he was there for your rescue and breathe in the smoke that twines. Wood, burnt ochre that’s become synonymous with him. You suppose you’d missed it; that rendezvous point for when you were beaten within an inch of your life. It’d been a far warmer scent than rusted metal and sour mattresses.

The conversation dwindles to silence, then. Part of it is the ache that stones you, the revelation that you don’t hate him as much as you’d convinced yourself on. A nebulous inkling that you’d dreamt about him, more than once, curled in on yourself and sore with rue. 

You have my full bloody permission to leave me behind.

But it’s prickling, too. You don’t have it in you to revisit her; you – Doc – whoever emerged all those years ago with an ingenuous vengeance. You focus on the present for the first time in forever, content to relish in it.

So–

The two of you sit like that for a long while after, soaked in dim light, basking in an old dynamic that hasn’t quite found its footing yet. It isn’t until Price finishes his drink do you pinpoint the courage to interject again. 

“You were right.” 

He ponders your confession, turning it over while he takes you in anew. 

“I was.” It’s gruff, short.

And it could end there. A brusque exchange doubling as your apology, more than you ever thought you’d give. But something gnaws on your chest, cramming up in the space between your pounding heart and a rib; the need to spill, to make yourself known, so – if they decide to decommission you – you leave an honest crest in his impression. This might be the last time.

Pyjamas and waterlogged socks. Naivety that bites. You haven’t exactly been the best version of yourself.

You can’t speak the full truth of it, so you start on a tangent you hope will paint it for you. 

“I was a soldier before I was a medic, y’know. Fought in the Bulgarian spec-ops.” 

“Mm. I read your file.” Still, he takes another drag and settles an elbow on the table. Whether he’s curious or genuinely wants to hear you out, it gives you the go-ahead to continue. 

“We were cornered, once, out near the Black sea. Every single one of us was shot. By the end, two were killed, with four following in close footsteps.”

You knock back another swill of soju before continuing. 

“The general ordered an immediate exfil, but the chopper only had space for four bodies. They made the decision to pull every man out of the water, KIA included, while leaving the only other girl and I for dead.” 

Florentine eyes. They flicker with a concern you might have seen before, but were too busy spitting at to properly appreciate.

“Tess was my oldest friend. Couldn’t save her, so–” 

“You try to save everyone else.” 

Your lips pull in a thin line. 

“But you can’t.” 

“Yeah.” You chuckle. “I know that now.” 

“So where are you headed, doc?” 

“What–” 

“I mean. What are you goin’ to do with yourself, now that this noble mission’s been fried, eh? They’re discussing your discharge. Should that happen, you’d be a civilian.”

“I get that. There’s nothing for me out there, though.” 

“Start with what you haven’t allowed yourself this far, then.” 

And he places something on the table in front of you. A hotel keycard, Navarra Brugge printed in a decadent font across its length. The building two blocks away. You bite your lip, mind reeling with every connotation to what the gesture might mean. 

You settle on the most plausible. 

“How’d you know?” 

Looking up at him, your chest flutters when he grins. Handsome. How’ve you never noticed that? 

“Saw it on that pretty face the first time we met. I figured, a girl so far up her own ass. Probably never had the petulance fucked out of you.” 

You scoff with faux offence.

(Part shame).

So, something shifts between the sixth and seventh time you meet. 

Maybe it’s the way you seriously consider the four digits after he leaves – scrawled in black ink, the number to his room.

Hands like the blistering end of a cigar, searing skin as they keep you in place. Your jaw seized in one, the other curled firmly around your waist. You think he’s trying to savour it, the sight of you keening for him, glossy eyes that hang on to the last bits of defiance. Stupid, drunk – not from the sip of soju you’d taken earlier, but off the scent of suede and ash alone. 

You lean forward, searching for slightly chapped lips. He lets you get close enough that his moustache tickles your nose, imbued with tobacco, before pulling away. It’s hellsent, some tantalising choreography he’s undoubtedly danced before. But your consequential whine is short-lived, tempered under a severe look when his eyes meet yours. Fingers crushing together, squeezing, so your cheeks pucker up for him. A promise. A warning. 

“How do y’want this to go, mm?” He says, low enough for the words to reverberate through you. Punctuated – his voice is hoarser at this hour. 

In the dim lamplight, your brows knit together. He must read the confusion. 

“You want me to take it easy on you, dove?” His palm smooths down your waist, eye contact locked while it does, looking for something you wouldn’t be able to pinpoint in yourself. Price’s touch curves along your hip, catching the hem of your jeans, before circling back to cup your behind. It’s gentle at first, a barely-there graze, feeling you out. You puff into the shared air. 

But you can’t speak, not with the grip on your face. You resort to clenching your teeth, hoping he can feel the tick of it. 

“Mm. I see,” His breath fans over you. It’s hot with malt, smoke cloyed to the tongue. The hand on your ass tightens, cleaving between flesh, forcing you upwards. Your pants press taut over your cunt. “How ‘bout this… tell me if it sounds good, eh?” 

You nod. He pats your thigh in response. 

“I’m goin’ to fuck you how you need to be fucked. Can’ promise it won’t be rough, but if you ever need to tap out, just say the word. Got it?” 

Again, you nod, mouth parting once his clutch eases on you. The concession dangles for a moment, bobbing in the thick pause he takes. Two blinks later, still nothing. You take the opportunity to try and capture his lips, a little too eagerly.

He wrenches you back. 

“I need t’hear you say it.” 

Of course. A verbal affirmation. But for– what, exactly? Consent, all things considered, though he simmers with something else. Satisfaction teetering towards a precipice, a covered pot threatening to over boil. His fingers dig into you like they know your softest points, having stewed over them before. You shiver, fluttering with a familiar venom, and think to the humvee in Uzbekistan. Crouched between his legs, propelled onto his crotch. The swell that twitched under your cheek, throbbing, new blood. 

Say yes to yield. To give in to the command of someone new, who’ll know deeper parts of you than what you’d ever allowed. The clutch of your cunt, the sound of your moans. Vulnerability he could exploit, should he want to. 

Yet– 

He’s asking, leading you along and stopping at every hitch. There’s a lifebelt tied to the end of some rope, a thrown-out line; an act worth more than you could credit to anyone before him. 

I need to hear you say it.

It comes from some cavity within you – a rotten place, blackened with decades long neglect.

“I understand.” 

Obedience. Just this once. 

(Then, if the invite extends–)

“That’s a girl.” 

Lightning shoots through you at the praise, flaying you open to his steady presence. Warmth; he’s alive in the way that trees are, thickset, unwavering, rooted to your core as you bleed and breathe and choke on your own delirium. You don’t want it to be known, how reactive you can be. 

Though, you suppose, that’s printed in red ink, stapled to the front page of your file. 

You nee’ to learn to control yourself, doc.

Not here, not now. 

Flooded with the woes of golden pleasure, you don’t notice his subtle nudge upwards, tilting your chin. It’s only when he finally, finally, gives you what you want – the press of his mouth to yours, full force, rough like he said he’d be – that you touch back to reality. 

Maduro flavoured spit, he overwhelms you with an unrelenting magnetism. Teeth clashing, his hands on your neck, your hair. It hurts, borderline bruising. Should he give you a moment’s breath, your lips would swell blue, burst capillaries a service announcement to anyone who thinks they could measure up. But Price keeps you to him, his beard rubbing you raw when he pushes his tongue into your mouth. 

And it’s scorching, heavy. Folding to find the scars dotting the insides of your cheeks, bitten tissue in fits of rage. Sucking the mewls that stream from you as he meets them with his own, guttural groans. You collapse into pliability as he kisses – no, devours – you, losing that sparking centre, torrid effervescence blurring your senses. There’s no rhyme or reason, no connection to the person you’d hammered out of stone. Just drool, a dominating masculinity to melt into. Sticky like a fruit popsicle on some summer’s day. 

He manoeuvres your head, tilting to the right, so he can push further onto you. An expert in all things dizzying; you can hardly keep up with the targeted onslaught. It takes all that is in you to breathe, clinging desperately to the front of his shirt – for purchase, for plea – and relinquish control. 

Your back arches, front grinding onto him. He breaks away, saliva webbing between you, and tuts when you try to follow and bridge contact once more. “So eager, dove.”

Hovering near lightheaded rapture, you say the first thing that occurs to you. “Any slower and I might take charge.” 

Entirely untrue. You’re porcelain in the molten pool of his desire. Harder, and he’d break you. 

But his vicious snarl is enough to balance the lie. A scale tips in you, heavy stone of anticipation weighing on your gut. 

“Mm. Is that how you want to play then?” 

“Dunno what you mean.” 

“Oh, you maddening li’l minx,” Price rasps, backing you up against the edge of his bed. He keeps you from falling onto it with a hand around the base of your neck. “I’ll show you what I mean.” 

Reprimanding, he doesn’t choke you – not quite – though the grip on your throat is anything but gentle. Chafing calluses pressing into gooseflesh-prickled skin, you’re braced to his whims – locked into suspended animation as he takes you in. Your lashes, clumped with blissed tears. The constant, whistled whine, streaming from a punctured lung. Your sweat-flushed cheeks, honeyed sheen, tangy with iodine and still, sweeter than most that drips from you. 

You, stuttering with frenzied pants, and searching for nirvana in his gaze alone. 

His beard glistens with a concoction of both your saliva, and he smiles proudly under the varnish. You scramble on your tiptoes to meet him when he dips in again.

Price, captain. Spearhead of any team, bending rain to mould over a hefty cigar as he barks out rough commands. You’d seen it then, back on base, shivering under a debilitating monsoon. This fire, an unquestioned charge that threatened to batter you into place. One that does exactly that, right now. But you take it gladly when you're manhandled back onto a nest of cool cushions, crawling to your elbows to watch as he pulls his shirt off broad shoulders. Lift your hips for me. Putty, he peels your jeans off with one fell swoop.

“Fuck, look at you.” 

Sinking deeper into oblivion, you grasp onto conventional straws – acts calculated in well-lit showrooms. A babydoll smile, a virginal blush. Your knees tap together as you attempt to shut your soaked panties from his view. 

One well-placed, smarting slap thwarts the attempt. The delicate skin of your inner thigh blazes with a white-hot sting, carved to fit the shape of his palm. 

“Keep ‘em open for me, now. I feast with my eyes first, dove.” 

Fuck, indeed. 

“C-Captain…” 

The breathy murmur comes out broken, composed to the quick cadence of your heart. It slams for space, almost nauseating, squeezing your internal organs as it tries it’s best to just hang on. He’s sin, a transgression to whatever divine laws are sung in stain-glass lit halls. And maybe your body knows – maybe it’s adrenaline, the fight or flight that’s kept you safe all these years, coming back to blare it’s bad news. Red flashes, astigmatism. A cavern of fire ready to swallow you whole.

But if hell is anywhere near as glorious as the feel of his hands on you, then you’d plunge to the devil yourself. 

“Bloody christ. You beautiful thing,” His words, for contrast, are whispered with a reverence so quiet you wonder if he meant for you to hear. “It’s a fucking wonder no one’s tried their way with you.” Secret tenderness spilling to the lilt of it. 

(Not so secret is the lust with which he kneads your hips.)

“They have,” 

Shifting, he brings your legs to either side of him. “Is that right?” 

“None were worth my time.”

“Mm. And I am?” 

“We’ll see.” 

“Suppose we will. Update me when you’re tending to a sore cunt.” 

He doesn’t give you the time to respond, hands anchoring beneath your knees to press your thighs up to your chest. You’re snapped in half, miniscule beneath his body – an anvil with weight alone. Beyond fanned lashes and a feverish glow, you see his arm crook at the elbow, slotting between your thighs. 

But he only grazes over your panties, stretched thin over your drenched centre.

Your hips buck, seeking friction to sate the fattening pressure. Price only entertains your high-pitched whines with gentle hushes. And when they ebb to a varicoloured fog, found in teary eyes, he taps your bitten lips with two fingers. 

You take them in, suckling vacuum around the thick digits. Lapping at his knuckles, smoothing over the tang of saltpetre and binder leaves. He takes a moment to enjoy the balmy envelope of your mouth before reaching deeper, knocking molars and pinning down your tongue until your chest twinges with throbbing hypoxia. Spittle pools behind your teeth, dribbling from the seal of your lips to coat your chin. 

You have half a mind to doubt it, to curl in with the knowledge that all it took was a stern stare and some words of comfort for you to debase yourself. But Price meets your insecurity with a reinforced thrust of his pelvis, hard-on grinding into your ass. It’s enough to send you unquestioned lechery. 

A loud rip and the sudden rush of cold air on your pussy is what it takes for you to realise he’s stripped you bare, pocketing your torn underwear with a sly shift. Your jaw remains unhinged when he pulls away, tasting the stench of sex that clots sticky at the back of your throat. As such, there’s nothing to dampen your needy cry when he slips the slicked digits between velveteen folds. 

He touches you like his name is imprinted in bold letters across your navel, implanting blunt fingertips onto your electric centre – circling, harsh and rough and fast enough to spike fully-body tremors. It’s debilitating, overstimulating and somehow, simultaneously not enough; a defibrillator to your core, a deep dive into molasses waters. His thumb takes place on your clit when he finds you clenching around nothing, index and middle inching towards your sopping hole to plug you full. 

And the stretch burns, squeezing into a space that’s only ever taken your smaller hand. It doesn’t hurt so much as it aches, your cunt rushing to accommodate the intrusion. You know, you know, it’s a fraction of what’s to come – he’s preparing you to take him, that hefty appendage that’s so big it can’t even slot in your ass, confined and all. Yet, you feel as though you should’ve been readied for this too. This scissoring – chock-full of competency, an expert hook that isolates the perfect spot off the get-go. A part of you you’d never been able to reach. 

His free hand cradles your neck, steadying it as he crouches over you to shove his tongue down your maw. It’s not a kiss, far from the lip smacking of before – no. Price bleeds his groaned compliments into your lungs, battling for what orifice of yours can make the lewdest sounds. Your moans, choked on scotch-spiked spit, or the battered, airtight clinch, gushing new slick with every quirk of his fingers. 

“Mm, you’re– fuck, love. So goddamn tight, you’re practically cutting off my blood flow.” He curses, voice damned with restraint. It settles in the back of your head, forced through the bromine-doused cotton that lines your skull. Nothing makes sense. Vowels form shapes that dance to an off-tune song, edges slicing you, severing synapses. Something about blood, something about love. You’d always prided yourself on deciphering the most complicated of inflections, but never were you given the handbook on empyrean pleasure. 

You can only guess based on what you see. Ivory skin, smudged at the edges, no hard lines to his form. Washed with contoured muscles, a peach blush, ripe enough to sink your teeth into if you can muster the energy. A bristly beard, carving you cell-by-cell, scraping the sensitive skin between your chin and lower lip until all that’s left is a bottomless chasm to drool your words into. You don’t dare roll your eyes back, can’t bear to shut them, even as your peripheral vision fuzzes out. 

“C-Ca–” 

“None of that. C’mon, love. John.”

“John! Sir–” 

“Say it again.” 

“J-John,” 

His thumb presses down with a vengeance, bearing down on a trillion little nerve endings that flare up, liquifying your guts into a viscous substance, heavy as it sloshes around in you. Your muscles tense, screwing into tight knots, your hips lifting off the mattress. Price’s nose taps yours while he peppers you with small pecks – your top lip, the corner of your mouth, your chin.

And it’s cataclysmic; both everything and nothing all at once. The bout of deathly quiet before a nuclear blast, where birds flock out of trees and you think you can hear the pitter patter of a pulse, erratic at your wrist. And when the ground rocks, trembling with an explosive magnitude, fire erupting in the distance. When you seize up in a ball of fear–

Your cunt clenches impossibly tighter, all but forcing his fingers from you. It’s terrifyingly strong; your orgasm wrecks you not in waves, but as one upturning tsunami, floodgates open to the duvet underneath you. 

–and do your best to embrace a quick death. 

He gives you a moment to find yourself. Boneless, you sink into the bed, teetering towards oblivion. 

“Tired already?” He teases, massaging your calves with subdued vigour. The fingers once knuckle-deep in you slide into his mouth, waitressing your spoils to his eager palate.

“Mmnn…” 

“Best snap out of it, precious. I’m not nearly done with you yet.” He draws away to tug down his pants, taking his briefs along with it. 

You don’t really… process it, right away. Expression dazed, you stare dumbly down at his leaking cock, reddened head angry at his prolonged control. Reality finds you in increments, foam lapping at a sun-soaked shore, carrying with it seagrass and brine. 

The first thought that occurs to you; he’s hairy. Not untamed – it’s clear he trims the curls at his groin – but, just like his face, Price exudes masculinity in even the smallest of aspects. You imagine swallowing the length of him, doing your best to take it all, and breathing in unadulterated musk as you’re crushed against coarse hair.

The second; he’s huge. It’s a fact that shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does, but the longer you drink it in, the more inconceivable it seems. You’d known – had face-groped it in the car, felt it poke your ass – and still. It slaps the softer flesh of his stomach, swells under his touch when he wraps his fist around the base. 

Last (a final position you credit to your own humility); he’s practically throbbing. Life pulsing in the thick veins that branch up the frenulum, oozing copious amounts of prespend. You’re shaking your head before you have time to come up with an adequate response. 

“That’s not gonna fit.” 

Stupid. He’s got you cock dumb and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. 

For a moment, he backs away, kneeling at your ankles. Dread swarms you, buzzing doubt. Of course he’d lay off at your admission, he made it clear he prioritised your consent above his own gain. You can’t help but think it fitting; a slip up is what ended up costing you ecstasy.  

But then – ridiculously, blissfully – he bends over, so his face is level with your cunt. 

And spits. 

Squealing, you throw a leg over his neck, winding your hands in his ruffled hair. His jaw remains hidden behind your pubis, but the scrunch of his eyes tells you enough. He’s smiling. 

“Hey–” 

But Price doesn’t listen. He reaches up to rub his saliva over your folds, careful to especially do so over your tender entrance. As he does, his tongue – that expert, warm, wet tongue – smooths over your clit, sucking it back to a swollen floret. 

You keen, bucking into his ministrations. Watered boscage, you come alive with new life, a fresh vigour under a pink spring. 

(He threatens the delicacy; raging sun, eclipsed, now, by his role as captain – caregiver – but verging on a supernova. Ever the firestarter, you’ll abandon reinvigoration in a heartbeat for ruin instead.)

“We’ll make it fit.” 

Something you’d never admit so long as you’re bound to this underworld, cursed by Zeus and shackled to your boulder – you already feel another climax impending, with just the effort of his mouth alone. 

So you pull his hair until he’s made to detach from you, entertaining your command, crawling up your body for his lips to smash yours once more. 

“Just fuck me.” You whisper against him.

“Watch your tone.” He replies.

And it’s enough of a symphonious statement to truly emphasise it when he catches the divet of your cunt, sculpting you into a paradigm figure of devotion as you catch his eye. Florentine, glinting with an ardour you mirror in your own. Hooded under a heavy brow bone, blending into a perfect nose. Wrinkles and age lines and still so in tune with your much younger self. 

You bite your lip when he finally drives inside you. He cradles your head to the curve of his neck. 

“Fucking hell, dove.”

“Haah–”

Exclamations groaned simultaneously, unravelling ribbons curled with the sharp blade of a knife. It’s the same, flickering sting, a pressure less than pleasurable cramping in your lower gut. But they exist as subsidiary, fleeting points to acknowledge and move on. Nothing can trump the deluge that is his cock slotting into you, bursting through a dam that shifts to fit hard ridges – sucking him deeper, deeper. 

“Jesus– fuck. Nngh– you perfect… perfect little–” 

When he’s more than halfway through, you figure it’s safe enough to contract what you’d been trying to relax. You nuzzle your face further into his shoulder, nosing Maduro and suede, drinking the heady fragrance of his sweat-infused cologne. You wind your arms up around him, driving nails into rigid muscle, and search for purchase as he bottoms out with the aid of your squelching uptake. 

“So– Yersobig.” You slur into him, muffled. 

“I know. I know, precious. Breathe through it,” 

And his hand trails downwards to find your clit again, lubed under his efforts. He emphasises his reassurance with a precise rub, right over where you thrum fierce and hot, feeding the gluttonous depravity that begins crawling up your legs. It festers like a day-old wound, sticky and raw, delicate at the seams. 

In between croaked moans, you voice your voracity. “Jus’ move, old man.” 

Price’s chest rumbles. You flush with the thought of making him laugh. 

And promptly quiet down when he draws out of you in his first stroke. 

Because oh.

You don’t get used to the sensation, after all. 

Every thrust, you’re able to discern a new part of him. One, and it’s the veins that slide perfectly across your walls. Two, and it’s the way he thickens the further he pushes in, stretching your sensitive skin to its limits. Three, four, five; his mushroomed head wedges against the gummy wall of your cervix, pumping you full of leaden warmth.

You’re fucked. Literally and figuratively.

Propelled into a cosmic cavity that engulfs you with familiarity. Not some galaxy, beyond the exploration of man (though, you feel you can reach out and touch the stars). More so a fort, made of the quilt your mother had gifted you once. Nostalgic timelessness, hot chocolate glazing your gullet, resting rich in your tummy. You go out of your way to lick the dampness from his skin and place a purpling bite in its stead.

He ducks to graze his lip on the shell of your ear. You shudder under the gesture’s exposing simplicity. 

“You’re takin’ me so well, dove. Doin’ so good for me.” He groans, sap onto a crackling bonfire.

“Y-You– s’feels so–” 

“You can do it, c’mon,” As if to challenge you, he gains speed, pistoning at a brutaller pace. 

“John! Oh my god, oh my god. You can’t do that. I’m gonna…” 

“Cum for me, then. Make a mess of yourself.” 

And it’s the filth he utters over anything else. The string of obscene promises, sung for only you to hear, his balls slapping your ass and his prespend smearing milky white on sweltering walls. Captain – sir – who orders death in dire seconds, who depends on cigars and the quick-thinking action of his subordinates. Taking on that same pitch as he urges you to find release, a slow-creeping apocalypse waiting to happen at your core. 

So perhaps he still asks for calamity; perhaps he knows you’ll lose face the moment you’re milked for all you’re worth. 

You give it to him anyway, collapsing over a pressed-pedalboard longing. 

Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring. You wrap your limbs around him and black out before you feel the full effects of it.

You resurface half a minute later and find yourself in a completely different position. Axis turtled, he’d flipped you over on your hands and knees to spear you from behind. 

“What was it I asked of you, eh?” 

His chest fits along your back, tree-trunk arms wrapped around your waist. You barely hear him under the pool you’d been thrust into, his words splintered like the tune on an old record player. You hang there for a perennial moment – not quite floating, not drowning – blinking as the world rocks by in a blur of creme and gold.

Your elbows buckle. He has you before you fall face first into a cushion, a forearm buttressing your collar. The action hauls you upright, until you can rest your head on his shoulder. Blood rushes to your head.

Ragdoll is the first thing that occurs to you. Wool lined with cotton, pilled stitching. 

“T’tell you…” You croak, parched.

“Mm?” 

“F’it was too much.” 

“Is it, dove?” He speaks against your cheek, placing a sloppy kiss on the upraised plane. You lean into it, nose bumping his. 

“No… no. Keep goin’, please.” 

Price needs nothing else.

You flop onto his full-bodied support, temple slick with moisture, itchy when it scuffs his beard. His cock plunges into new depths like this, pummeling your abdomen with a noticeable bulge, his fingers brushing affectionately over the extrusion. You’re somewhat cognizant to it – awake to what’s happening, aware of the loving nature – but say nothing. 

The arm spread across your chest rises to your throat, wrapping around the lean length. It constricts enough air to bring stars to your eyes, pulsing flashes of nirvana, speckling the freckled skin that fills your vision. 

“Gonna –  fucking… cum inside, precious.” He screws them shut, his face scrunching, a lined portrait in sybaritism. You weakly nod along. “You’ll be bursting with it. Will feel me for days, won’t you?” 

“Yhh– Hahh…” You struggle against his choking hold.

“Shhh. It’s okay, I know. I got you.” 

You grab onto his wrists, winding around the hair that dusts them, bouncing with the unrelenting roll of his hips. You’re so full, it’s too much–

And when he stutters – the smallest, most imperceptible amount – you tighten your core and brace against the torrent that stuffs you. 

“Fuck.”

Molten. Viscid. He wasn’t lying when he said you’d be brimming with milky-white, splattered across your insides. Your stomach overturns with the sheer volume of it; already, it oozes from you, slipping from the thick plug of him to paint your quivering thighs. 

And you think of the desert sun and heat-drunk resentment. Sand, scorching, scratching absurd crevices. You think of yourself, two months ago, holding out from everyone. Part of you is angry (her, maybe, still buried underneath this murky rapture) that it took this long, that you’d forgone fulfilment for fear that your poison would seep through. 

Another, newer part of you forgives the orchestration of your life thus far – Bulgaria, Tess, the general and the sick process that enabled him. If this is what it was all building up to, then you can find contentment, tucked somewhere in the scant space between you and your captain. 

(Stupidly selfish, you recognise, even now. Like looking at dead soldiers and exhaling when you realise they’re not someone you know.

Perhaps it’s the tip that catches your the divet of your cunt when he pulls out, designed to fuck those experiences out of you. 

Barely friends, hardly more.

But you could be.)

taglist: @guyfieriii @nqberries @kkinky @ravenhood2792 @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @melancholyy-hill @sexlapis @s-u-t @sweetybuzz25 @hypernovaxx @glassgulls @superbafango

[cosmicintro]

Astro observations: Health aspects from the 6th house 💫

6th house in Aries: Be mindful of strong reactions, impulses and emotions as these could trigger high blood pressure, stress or unwanted headaches. Possible problems associated with the adrenal glands if health is not good. The person could be nearsighted/farsighted. Teeth issues and sensitive gums are common with this placement. 

6th house in Taurus: Be careful with ‘burnout’ and try to keep a healthy work-life balance. The individual is prone to respiratory conditions, jaw and neck pain/problems, weight gain (associated with thyroid issues). Thyroid disease. Problems with your voice or throat. Take it easy and follow a rhythm that honors your needs. 

6th house in Gemini: Allergies, infections, asthma, cough, breathing issues. Arms, hands and fingers might be sensitive. Anxiety and nervousness caused by too many unorganized/unwanted thoughts. Be careful with hand, arm and/or shoulder injuries. 

6th house in Cancer: Sensitive breasts/chest area. Inflammation associated with water/fluid retention. Pay close attention to your salt and fat consumption. Intolerance to different ingredients. It is vital for individuals with this placement to express their emotions as this can feel like a detox process for a 6th house cancer.

6th house in Leo: Hear what your heart is telling you. Don’t let stress or anger take you 'over the edge'. Similar to Aries in this house, it is common for the native to suffer from high blood pressure if a balanced lifestyle is not followed; a healthy diet will help this native tremendously. Be careful with hernias and your spine. Back pain/injuries. Spend more time outside. 

6th house in Virgo: Food sensitivities. Problems with digestion. Pay attention to sugar, fats, starches and the way your body reacts to them. Pancreatitis. Bloating associated with food intolerances. Meditation is recommended to calm an active mind and a healthy relationship with food will help with digestive issues. 

6th house in Libra: Lumbar pain. Problems with the lower back. Sensitivity to salt. Kidney stones. Insulin resistance. Diabetes. Partnerships have a big influence in your life; stress or strong (negative) emotions resulting from these relationships can have a big impact in your health. 

6th house in Scorpio: Constipation. Bladder/Urinary tract infections. Issues with libido/sex hormones. Cystitis (inflammation of the bladder; can cause pain or/and a burning sensation when peeing). Problems with the colon and elimination systems. Let go of any guilt/shame around your sexuality and keep a healthy relationship with your needs. 

6th house in Sagittarius: Issues associated with the pituitary gland. Hip mobility problems, pain or injuries. Obesity. For optimal liver health, alcohol and stress levels need to be monitored and, if possible, reduced to a minimum. Yoga can help ease stiffness around the hips and thighs. 

6th house in Capricorn: Knee pain. Injuries/procedures can cause significant scarring. Hair loss or scalp issues. Arthritis and joint pain. If your body is telling you to slow down, honor it and rest. Movement in every way is beneficial for the native. Be careful with your bones. 

6th house in Aquarius: Varicose veins. Frequent cramps. Arteries and veins might need to be monitored closely, as the native is prone to circulation problems. Calf pain. Stress, nervousness, anxiety, insomnia. Be careful with addictions. Stay hydrated. 

6th house in Pisces: Problems with the lymphatic system. Feet pain, inflammation, discomfort, injuries. Plantar fasciitis. Be careful with falls. Sleep problems, nightmares. Sadness that can lead into deep depression. Time alone is necessary. Make sure you’re getting the hours of sleep that your body requires to work harmoniously. 

Stay tuned for more! :)

[vitamin-cunt]

A/N: ahhh sorry anon, I didn't know if these characters were together or separate so I wrote them separate 😭- V

CW: degradation, foot humping, low key footworship when I think abt it, loss of virginity, vibrators up their asses yall already know what's up

---

Painslut! Tanjiro would be too shy to admit he's feeling good.

"I-it- mmmh, it feels weird- nnngh~ this is weird, this is weirddd!"

It was fucking cute to see Tanjiro take a virbator in his ass the first time. What had been a joke between friends had turned into a serious proposition when he'd asked you to take his virginity one drunken night.

You could feel his cock twitching beneath your foot, even with your house slippers in the way. He was spread out against his couch, legs tied and kept apart and arms tied to his back.

You couldn't help but laugh out loud at the display. "Poor, poor thing. You were never gonna be able to have normal sex anyway, hm?" You lean forward, lightly but surely adding pressure to the foot on his cock. "Aren't you glad I took your virginity before other people found out you like to have weird sex?"

His face scrunched up and the tears pressed out in a hot stream against his burning face, running past his quivering lips. He slipped out a breathy moan, as if he had previously been trying to hold his breath and finally been forced to let it out.

He was squirming beneath you, though you took note of how his hips bucked upward and into your foot, as if inviting the pain.

He was clearly ashamed, he could barely look at you. He'd opted to bury his face in his shoulder instead, where he could cry freely.

"I-I'm not- nnngh- weird, this is weird, it's weird!" He moaned into his shoulder.

"Oh?" You ask, stepping harder on his cock. "So normal people like getting their virgin dicks stepped on?"

He, notably, didn't answer.

His thighs shook from the pressure. Every part of his body had become flushed.

It was too much for him, because soon, he was throwing his head back and gasping for air, ready to cum.

He'd thrown shame to the wind, gladly grinding against the pain of your foot, humping until he was spurting pathetically onto your slippers and his stomach, thick and hot, moaning through it.

You didn't hesitate to shove your slipper in his face and tell him to lick it clean.

---

Painslut! Zenitsu would beg you to keep going.

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, haaah! Nooo, don't stop, not now, no, not yet!"

Zenitsu was nothing but shameless. He loved the pain, the constant buzz of the virbator snug in his ass verses the sharp pain of the pressure of your foot against his cock.

"You're gonna get my foot dirty-" you groaned, referring to the slick mess of a cock you had beneath your foot. "Fuck, you're so gross! How am I gonna clean this shit up?"

He'd grabbed your ankle now, desperate to keep you close. He was humping your leg through the pain, leaning forward so he could press his teary face against your calf.

"I know, 'm gross! Haa-aaah! Just a gross fucking pig! I don't deserve your hands, so give me your foot! P-punish me with your virbator!"

You almost felt sorry for him. But with his eyes rolled back into his skull and his blissed, tongue-out grin, you knew he was in heaven.

Fine. You would spare him.

Your hands wove their way into his hair, pulling his head back as you dug your heel onto his cock, your foot almost slipping from the sheer slick beneath it.

He came almost immediately, as you'd expected. The tears were rolling fat and heavy down his cheeks and landing in his lap, and, unfortunately for you, on your foot.

You would make sure to punish him for that later.

[pervcoded]

cunt. starring baji, chifuyu

content warning: Aye this shit is evil. FTM misgendering- reader ‘passes’ but Baji is very diminutive of/disrespectful of his identity in this. Chifuyu is his accomplice. They are not good in this lol. Rape rationalizations, Dacryphilia (Chifuyu). Sadism (Baji). Hard non/con, reader uses he/him pronouns but Baji will refer to him as a female. degradation/humilation. Implied bajitora. Lots of cursing (fucks and shit, mostly). Wishing for death (brief ment).

Reader is referred to as: Man, Slut, Whore, Girl. Bitch. Boy.

Readers genitals referred to as: cunt/pussy, boypussy (1), clit/clitty. (small adjective) penis. Dick. Cock.

“What a fucking cunt.” Yeah. You could say the same thing. 

He pinches your clit cause you got too much attitude on your face. Brows too furrowed, lip too thick. Makes you look like a man. “I am a grown fucking man!” Yeah, you say that, but this pussy ‘tween your legs got Baji thinking a little different. 

It’s juicy and fat. Clit a mimicry of the soft thing dangling between his legs. It looks cute in the light when your legs are open long enough.

Flicks your little clitty and you squirm and writhe and he has to hold you down by your neck cause you won’t stop fighting him. That’s okay, though. He hasn’t gotten any in a while, can’t promise he won’t cum quick. 

“You wanna run around with gangs with this shit between your legs? Look! Pussy so fat it fucking dangles, y’all.” He announces to the crowd of one, your scowl deepening even as the heat seeks to melt your facade. He grips your calf and lifts your leg too wide, your thigh tensing and jerking painfully.

“Pussy like that… just begging to get fucked.” You mourn the loss of your dignity, your hands leaving the iron cable at your throat and darting to your shirt, fingers plucking at the dangling end to drag it over your delicates.  Baji doesn’t have enough hands to stop you, but he doesn’t seem to care, looking towards his blonde friend.

“Ever seen boypussy, ‘Fuyu?” Chifuyu still hasn’t entirely grasped what’s happening.

You’re from somewhere else. Different gang, probably. But you’re dressed down right now, sweatpants and hanes shirt and jacket, windbreaker. Baji mentioned a favor he had to cash in on. There was an apartment, polite old lady in the lobby, slow elevator. Hallways with The Shining carpet, this potent bad feeling,

Now you, bent in half on your own bed. Granted Baji’s doing most of the work, but it makes Chifuyu uncomfortable watching you contort that way. You’re all lines and edge and box and square. You got a little plush though; nice thighs, cute ass, tummy …

He’s gotten ahead of himself.

“Ah—No, Baji-san.” He comes closer at the curl of Baji’s finger. “Well get the fuck over here, then. Hold hi— ” Baji’s lip raises like he’s all boxer and bully, like he’s got another fucking stupid idea,

“Come hold her still, dumbass.” You buck at the accusation, suddenly so lively you actually clip his hip. Dumb bitch. His hand leaves from ‘round your neck and you take a deep breath, palms darting to cradle a crushed larynx. 

He jams a finger up your pussy and you scream. 

Maybe this shit is The Shining and you’re Missus Duval, because Johnny is here.

Fuyu is trying to kick off his shoes. How polite of him, you don’t think, as he clambers on the bed -  grabbing your hands and forcing them back into fluff and blankets. Looks nervous; but not as much as you are. You’re trembling, trying so fucking hard not to cry, and it makes Baji hard like fuck all else. He doesn’t afford himself a moment to contemplate the nuances of who you are—or to him, what.  Finger’s going in and out, but it’s not like you make it easy. It’s like fingering a crack in concrete.

Any hole’s a goal, and hole-y fortune smiles upon him now, he thinks. He’s hit the fucking jackpot.

And you’re not ugly or anything. Just too boy. If you were in Toman he thinks he’d put in a special uniform request with Mitsuya. Any whore shouldn’t wear a skirt past ‘er thigh - easy access is important. 

But you’d probably look like you’re playing dress-up. He’s got a slimmer wasteline than you, and he’s a man.

You’d make a really ugly girl. Need a bag over to head to fuck you— maybe shave off the happy trail, get your skin all nice, smooth. “Um, Baji?” Baji starts going for his belt. “Yeah? Fuck you want? Wanna use ‘er mouth? Go on, I don’t give a fuck,”  Chifuyu blushes piggy-pink, then says, “Nah, It’s not that boss… Ah, you sure ‘Tora won’t get mad at you?” Baji sucks his teeth at the mention of that cock hungry twink. “Who givesa fuck? If rabbit wants the carrot, he shouldn’t be surprised he gotta share it.” Kinda likes when that slut gets a little loose anyway, Baji can throw his weight around, bust his lip and Tora’ll love it. Probably ask him to do it again. Lick the blood off his knuckles and then give him head, get him used to the smell of your cunt on his balls.

Baji’s tugging on his belt like some dickless virgin, can’t slide the leather out of place fast enough— 

You’re still kicking, even if he’s got your leg tucked under his arm. Still think you got a chance, but you’re wasting all your damn breath on struggling, you don’t notice he’s got his cock out until he’s raising your hips to his height.

“F-fuck off!” The dog makes a face, showing you his top teeth all like “F-Fuck off!”, mocking you and shit. You’re not sorry you got caught selling on his block, but he’s making you a lot sorry he didn’t bash your brains in when he found you. You’d prefer the bloody nose, broken ribs, black eyes, punctured lung.

Anything but this, man, fuck— 

“Dude.” “Dude.” “Listen to me! Fuck—stop! I’m, I’m sorry alright? Just d..don’t— ” Whine whine whine whine whine. Yap yap yap. Blubber lips; so scared shitless you can’t even keep your drool in your maw. He spits into your babbling mouth, and you choke on it. Baji gets a good grip on your cheek and shoves your face down into the bed, lines himself up. “Shut up bitch. Just take it.”

Pushes the tip in just a little. Just get a feel for it. “Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuck. Oh fuck yes. Damn bitch, you’re ti-ight, ah,” he moans, nails in your hips to keep you still.  You buck like a filly with no home training, and he’s fixing to break you in, bareback.

It doesn’t feel good dry. He’s too big, the fucking bulldog, and you’re not high enough or drunk enough or fucked up enough to get your pussy wet. Or maybe your pipes are broken. That shit you take to make your jaw cut like that, flatten out your hips— that’d do the trick. Might not be an all bad thing though, he could probably cum in you as much as he wants.

“Sure you don’t want her mouth—fuck—‘Fuyu?” He pushes in a few more inches with a little wiggle of his hips. It burns. “Tight, whore’s tight.” Swallows, “I’m gonna break you in half if you don’t loosen up, bitch, c’mon,” Your back arches and your hands thrash in Chifuyu’s grip and you’re barking and fighting, and Chifuyu’s got this look on his face. Like he doesn’t know if he wants Yakisoba or Top Ramen. Baji doesn’t know what the fuck there is to think about. He’s muttering shit to himself, spine firepole straight and cheeks blushed beetroot red. “I don’t know Baji, I don’t think I can just… y’know?” You interrupt with a groan. He looks down at your heated face, tears skimming your cheeks. He doesn’t like how it turns him on.

Chifuyu shrinks away from that feeling physically, grip loosening a little on your wrists, and you take the opportunity to pull. Fuyu near hops out of his skin to keep you in place as your struggle revives itself.

“Nooo no no, fuuuck that! I’ll bite your dick off, I’ll fucking—ugh!”  The dark hared demon maintains the pressure on your hips. “What you’re gonna do, is back up on my dick. Quick and easy, slut. C’mon.” 

Baji wants you down to his balls. He’s only half-in and you hate it. Loathe it. Despise it. He’s humping with puppy precision and has wandering hands, grabs up on your ass, tits—lack thereof, only settling at the back of your knees to tug you forward. He brings his head up to meet his friend’s ambivalence, talking as if you’re not even there. “Fine. Fuck the slut or don’t ‘Fuyu, don’t matter to me. Better I get some than you, anyway.”

God you hate this guy's fucking guts. He better paralyze you after this shit, cause as long as you’re breathing, he’s destined to become dust, you will crush him and kill him and fuck him,

Fuck him,

ah. Your chest feels tight. All the scared that was chased off by your fight and flight surges back into you all at once, potent and suffocating. “S..stop! Please, just stop..” You sob, and Baji levels an unimpressed expression at you. “What happened to all that fight you cunt?” He taunts, jostling you. “You giving up on me now?” You respond with tears. Baji seems unmoved. Chifuyu’s heart aches bittersweetly, and his hard cock throbs in anticipation, watching the water delicately arc down the sides of your face, over your cheeks.

Chifuyu doesn’t hold you any more cause you just wanna hold yourself now. Hold yourself and cry, cry, cry. It’s freaking him out a little, watching a man be pushed to such distress, though of course he’s having more… conflicted feelings about it. If you get any louder, someone might catch you. With your pants down. Bent over. Cock five inches dick in your pussy. Imagine if your whole building knew you had one. You don’t know what they’d think - couldn’t fathom it, probably, and who knows; they might want a piece too!

Look at how much you hate this right now. You couldn’t handle the embarrassment. He won’t do that to you - won’t let that happen. You’ve already done enough, now it’s his turn. His hands move to the front of his jeans. “Ah, Baji… slow down.” The sound of pants unbuckling follows, denim sliding down thighs. A slow, incredulous laugh. “That’s what I’m talking about! Hold on Chifuyu… C’mon bitch. Move.”

Baji’s gets you into a better position, buddy ‘Fuyu lifting your chin and looking at the lost life from your face. Expression dazed? Stony even? Irrelevant, ‘cuz it scrunches up funny when he puts his tip in your mouth. 

You groan in what sounds like pain as he slides into your throat, but it’s gotten much harder to hear you now. You’ve gone gentle, twitching and hiccuping and crying, but no kicking, no punching. Baji’s a little sad to see the grit go.

You’re still so tight - and it’s starting to hurt instead of feel good. He grits his teeth, reaches his thumb swipes daftly at your little soldier. God, he’s never seen anything like it. Your hood is huge! Your little clit really does look like pinky-sized penis. Kinda glorious, in a way- it wobbles and twitches when he pokes it and it makes you writhe- if you weren’t an in incompetent slut you might’ve been able to get some place with that kind of ambition. He strokes you slow, and Chifuyu starts pumping in and out of your mouth.

Drags his dick along your tongue and it feels like sandpaper. Your jaw opens up a little more for him, and inch by inch you take it, til his balls are resting against your nose bridge all nice like.

“Oh look at that, girlie’s getting wet…” Baji rubs your slick over his finger, pinkish pomade stretching a slim film over the tip of it. “Maybe that dick is doing something for her, Chifuyu. C’mon, don’t be afraid to fuck the slut now,” Baji slurs, getting comfortable with Chifuyu’s rhythm.

In and out. In, and out.

It’s agony. They seesaw with the coordination of blind mice, Chifuyu resting his cock in the snugness of your throat, not as eager to move as Baji - who’s doubled his ministrations on your dick, trying to get you to open up more for him. Antagonism and hatred bubbles to the surface mostly, but your cock has started feeling a little more sensitive since Dickhead’s learned to stroke it properly. Stuck his fingers in his mouth for lube and is using his whole wrist to work you, two fingers diligently stroking either side of your dick. You groan and Chifuyu feels it, full body tremble as he grabs for your chin, determined to stay in your throat. “Keep- keep doing that, feels nice… ah,” The last thing you give a shit is making sure he’s having a good time, but it’s not like you can help it.

“Yeah… That’s it. Open up for me, bitch. Gonna fuck your cervix - make you suck my dick clean after you make me cum. You’d love that, wouldn’t you, bitch?”

You hope you choke on it.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀TOKREV/BANNER ART by @/KenWakui

all content written by me @ciematis, is owned by me, and you are not allowed to repost or translate my works. don't put my shit into ai generators, don't steal my shit and put it on wattpad. thank you.

[bulkbrit]

Hi fellow fatties,

Some of you know I’ve been battling various physical problems and waiting, interminably, for appointments with specialists and surgeons. Well, today I finally met with my spinal surgeon.

Following a complete spine MRI he has been able to give me some solid information and prognosis.

My walking issues, thought to be neurogenic claudication by the surgeons team, is non-operable. The pain is caused by wear and tear and degeneration. That means that after only a couple of minutes standing or walking I’m in enough pain to make me want to cry or vomit.

The only things that he suggested to help alleviate this pain is weight loss (although he said he honestly didn’t think it would make much difference) and me returning the gym and rebuilding/strengthening my paraspinal muscles, glutes and core muscles.

I haven’t been able to weight lift since I was assaulted at work in December 2005, nearly 19 years. Every time I have tried I have torn muscles or tendons or simply been in so much pain that it has demoralised me.

However, now my ability to walk depends on it so I HAVE to make the effort and push past the pain.

The really scary thing from today is the damage they found in my cervical spine. There are three points where there is a lot of direct pressure on to my spinal cord. In one location there is no space around the cord at all. Normally the spinal cord runs through a tunnel down the spine and is surround by cerebrospinal fluid which acts as a buffer to stop any sudden jolts or knock hurt the cord. I don’t have that in at least one location of my neck.

So I’m being referred to a cervical spine specialist in Sheffield to have parts of the spine fused and metal cage implanted to protect the spinal cord from further damage.

This on top of needing two donor tendons inserting in my right shoulder so I can move my arm properly again and a vein removing from my left calf to help reduce the vein insufficiency I’ve just been diagnosed with.

Sorry to unburden this lot on you, my fat family, but I wanted to you to know that my dreams of becoming enormously obese are over. I will never be able to become the mega chub that I see in my wank fantasies.

However, I do not plan to get skinny. Fuck that!

I’m 333, about, at the moment and I want to get to 350 for the Grom cruise in February. That may well be my highest weight for a while. But I plan to rebuild some muscle mass and try to head back down the muscle chub route again.

So, if I get more muscular, don’t mock or think I’ve turned my back on obesity. I will still be looking to eat big with you boys and help you fulfil your dreams of hugeness. I’ll just have to have a bigger proportion of muscle meat on my bones from now on.

[fantasticelephants]

Woolly Mammoths: The Lady's Not for Cloning - by Barry Evans

Beth Zaiken's reconstruction of a woolly mammoth. Courtesy of the artist

When I asked self-styled "museum artist" Beth Zaiken if I could use her evocative painting of a mammoth for a story, she was quick to point out that the image I attached was not just a mammoth, it was a woolly mammoth. Turns out, mammoths came in many shapes and sizes, with woolly mammoths particularly celebrated over other species because they were the last to go extinct. Indeed, we have over 500 early depictions of woolly mammoths in dozens of caves in Spain, France and Russia, the earliest of which were painted 35,000 years ago. (Anatomically modern humans are thought to have reached Europe nearly 50,000 years ago.)

Cave paintings are just one way we know about these magnificent creatures. They are, in fact, the best studied of all extinct animals because so many frozen carcasses have been found, mostly in Siberia and Alaska. For thousands of years, they co-existed with humans, leading to speculation that our ancestors hunted them to extinction. Best bet is that it was a combination of over-hunting and climate change, the latter greatly reducing its habitat. They nearly made it to the present, though! Although most groups went extinct soon after the end of the most recent ice age, around 11,500 years ago, some isolated populations survived much longer. A herd living on Wrangel Island, the large Russian island northwest of the Bering Strait, probably survived until 4,000 years ago, meaning they were around for a good thousand years after the Nile pyramids were built. 

Mammoths are typically shown in movies and cartoons as living in a snowy wasteland, but their actual habitat was "tundra steppe," similar to today's Russian steppes. They were herbivores, spending up to an estimated 20 hours a day eating grasses and sedges to support their intake of up to 400 pounds of food a day, putting them in the same dietary class as modern elephants. Their adaptations to the cold included (of course) hairy coats — actually two coats: long "guard hairs" on the outside overlaying a short, softer undercoat, which in turn covered a 4-inch layer of fat just under the skin. Their short ears and tails helped minimize heat loss and frostbite. They lived to about 60 years old.

Most of the news about mammoths these days discusses the click-bait possibility of resurrecting the species — that is, bringing woolly mammoths back to life using DNA from soft tissue material and hair follicles in their frozen corpses. That became a talking point after the genome was completely mapped about a decade ago, when researchers showed that extinct woolly mammoths and extant African elephants share about 99 percent of their genomes. 

One promoter of this idea, aptly named Colossal Biosciences, explains on its website that it plans to: "Use gene editing tools that work like scissors to cut [African] elephant DNA and provide a mammoth sequence to incorporate into elephant cells in the same location." Reinsert the engineered egg into the uterus of the unwitting mom-to-be and 22 months later, the elephant's calf is born with woolly mammoth genes. Whether there's enough usable DNA in long-dead, frozen mammoths is debatable, as is the morality of the venture. Happily (for this writer), several prominent geneticists have come out in opposition to this kind of "if we can do it, we should do it" caprice. If the de-extinction effort is successful, a wildlife reserve in Siberia, given the hopeful name "Pleistocene Park" (shades of Jurassic Park), has been designated as a future home for the de-extincted critters.

One final tidbit: The word "mammoth" probably derives from "mehemot," Arabic for "Behemoth." In the biblical Book of Job, the Behemoth was said to be one of the two monsters created by God early in creation, the other being Leviathan, a monster whale. Which is somehow fitting for one of the most majestic creatures to have ever lived.

[cyberrat]

89th Batch Of Fics: 15th Fill

Tim Drake/OC – Milky Verse – Gotham Timeline – Part 77 – cont B64F4 – noncon/dubcon; dark verse; forced body modification – Tim Drake, a calf, finds himself in an... undesirable situation.

----------

Here it is, fam! The big Milky Verse sequel! You don't really need to read the 76 parts prior to this, though there might (most likely) be cameos from the other timeline!

(Original Milky Verse starts in B44F1. I am thinking of uploading them all in their own separate AO3 fic but that could be a lil while until I get around to it)

Long story short for those that are not in the loop: the scientists in universe have figured out ways to medically alterate consenting people into cow hybrids because the milk they produce is just super tasty and with some healing qualities thrown in.

The offspring of those cow hybrids are called calves and are pretty normal except a lot of them experience very heightened bouts of sexual desire (usually called fuck hunger) so uh.... yeah.

HAVE FUN!

----------

Tim is squirming as hard as he can in the arms of his jailer, but there is not much he can do. Not when he is getting all dumb and floaty in his head, the fuck hunger crawling through his veins despite him trying his best to push against it.

To keep himself sane in the insane situation he’s found himself in. He’s losing despite his best efforts and the frustration has tears prickling in his eyes, his teeth grit and his legs trying to kick out against the huge man’s legs.

The guy is holding him in a bear hug, crushing Tim’s arms to his sides and leaning back for good measure until Tim’s feet are no longer even brushing the ground and he’s just uselessly wriggling in the air.

“Let… let go of me,” he hisses through grit teeth. His voice sounds choked with tears which he hates as well. He does not want to sound so upset.

“Shhhh,” the huge guy is whispering against one of his ears. “Ssshhh, don’t struggle now. The boss doesn’t want you to be so upset. I don’t want you to be so upset. Shhh, cute little cow. Neddie is going to be so sweet to you. I’m gonna make you feel so, so good. You’re hungry, right? Right? Boss said you shouldn’t fight it. It’s only natural. Cute little calf. Shhh.”

Ned is an absolute behemoth of a man; huge with meaty, muscular arms and a curiously triangular, small, bald head on his broad shoulders. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Tim had noticed that early on; but he is smart enough to not step a toe out of line of his insane boss’ instructions.

Tim is biting his tongue, half hoping that if he bites it through, the pain might startle his body out of its cravings. Or he might choke on his own blood. Or die from blood loss. Or something.

But Ned is too intelligent for that, too, wedging thick fingers encased in a sturdy protective glove first into the corner of Tim’s mouth and then wiggling them between his teeth to stop him from self-harming.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Ned says gently, his breath ruffling the hair on top of Tim’s head. It’s warm; just like the rest of him. His big, warm body pressed against Tim’s back. The way he effortlessly holds him in the air as if he weighed nothing. The promise of his big fat cock pressing into the small of Tim’s back and distracting him so… so much.

He blinks profusely against the tears in his eyes, sniffling. He’s trying so hard not to cry, but the frustration about his situation and his own body’s betrayal is leaving him feeling impotent and he hates that.

Ned keeps his fingers between his teeth and is slowly stroking across Tim’s tongue. It’s stupid how comforting that is. The feeling of something thick and blunt in his mouth. How that little bit of stimulation already gets him drooling and his insides to feel molten.

“You’re fine,” Ned tells him softly, petting Tim’s tongue and rotating his whole body slowly left to right, rocking the calf back-and-forth. “You’re so, so fine. Just don’t fight it. Be a good boy. I just want to help you through, right? Right.”

Tim closes his eyes tightly. He doesn’t want to, but his body goes practically belly up for it. Ned pets his tongue a couple more times, pulls his fingers out, watches how much drool is glistening on his glove, and hums in a very satisfied way.

Tim slowly finds himself getting lowered onto the floor of his cell. Because that’s what it is. No matter how much Ned and his fucking boss try to tell him its his special calf room.

His very special room where he can get fucked to his heart’s desire and slowly but surely be made into a cow.

(Not as slowly as it should function. If he actually were wanting to become one. He’s never considered it, but being a calf, he’s been educated throughout his life. He knows how these things are supposed to go. Careful modifications. Slow introduction to the system.

Consent.)

Ned moves his fingers slowly in Tim’s periphery. He can see the unnaturally thick drool stretching into strands between his index and thumb and he hates how the sight alone is getting him hot.

From the cell adjacent to his, he can hear the constant ruckus become louder. There are no ceilings here; the not-so-abandoned factory has been put up in a hurry and is easy to take apart. He’s figured it all out in the two days he’s been here but frustratingly can do nothing about it.

The walls are too slick and high to climb. And they are careful in constantly manipulating his body, keeping him weak and dumb and helpless.

The calf in the other cell has been moaning for a while now but something must have changed because the cadence of their voice shifts into the decidedly desperate and downright frightened.

Ned pauses. Tim can feel him going still behind him and turns his head a little too see the giant of a man is staring with a thoughtful expression at the dividing wall as if he was able to see the other calf through it.

Tim grits his teeth, forcing himself to be quiet and not disrupt whatever thought process was painfully going through the goon’s head. He almost whispers a harsh ‘yes!’ in triumph when he feels himself slowly getting lowered towards the ground, Ned muttering: “I should see what this ruckus is about…”

But instead of just leaving Tim be, he suddenly hefts him again, practically clamping him like a sack of potatoes underneath his arm and dragging him toward the fucking machine in one corner of the room.

Tim, being a calf, has seen and experienced a myriad of machines throughout his life. This one… he hated this one. It felt like it came from the middle ages. Some ancient contraption, rusty in places and rattling worryingly beneath him when it got really going on its highest setting.

He starts to immediately fight it, but there’s not much he can do. Not with the artificially induced fuck hunger coursing through his veins, and Ned patiently trying to soothe him through it until he seems to get fed up and just mutters his trigger phrase.

It’s not a hard shift in his psyche, the phrase only just having been established during an impromptu hypnosis session, but it is enough to have an additional haze to the fuck hunger settle across him.

Tim is relegated to a quiet, horrified, angry onlooker in his own mind, watching himself get haphazardly strapped into the machine, his hole already slick and relaxed for the silicone cock pumping into him.

Ned promises to be back for him in just a second.

He’s left to his own devices, held in place, fucked by the rattling, groaning machine as Ned hurries to the other room to see what the calf there was getting up to.

The worst thing is that he leaves the door to Tim’s cell wide open, knowing that the calf won’t be able to do jack shit in his current condition.

Tim hates it here.

[static-limb]

CALLSIGN: BELTWAY

LEGAL NAME: HECTOR SAMSON HIVERS NICKNAME(S): Beltway, Rocketman (Childhood Nickname) BIRTH DATE: November 17, 1968 ( 11/17/68 ) AGE: fifty-six ( 56 ) GENDER/PRONOUNS: cis male, he/him/his, -o ending in spanish ORIENTATION: Bisexual Eternal Bachelor ETHNICITY: mexican-american & puerto rican ZODIAC SIGN: scorpio (both systems)

CURRENT RESIDENCE: The Lodge + Own Small Home in the California Desert EDUCATION: Public School Drop-Out, Dishonorable Discharge, School of Hard Knocks OCCUPATION: Detonations Specialist, Device Designer, Explosions Expert, Demolitions, Powderman for movies on occasion.

EYE COLOR: Deep Honey Brown, with black starbursts around the pupil. HAIR COLOR: Black, thin, and coarse. Kept buzzed. HEIGHT: 6'10 and growing due to C-Virus mutation. BUILD: Padded with fat, tall and robust. Can lift and carry for long distances and has surprising endurance for such a weighted build. SKIN: Pocked with acne scars, and a lifetime of burn wounds and shrapnel, worn with pride. SKIN MARKINGS: A lot of skin, a lot of scars. He's missing his left leg from the knee and lower, as well as half of his right hand (ring finger and pinky finger, half of the palm). He is normally seen wearing a calf & foot prosthetic and a partial hand prosthetic. The skin of his right cheek is heavily burned and scarred, and most of the shell of his right ear is fused to the side of his head with burns. ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: Beltway has hearing loss in both of his ears, his right more than the left. He has a psychotic, bordering on erotic, fixation on explosives and explosions that he has cultivated into a career. Taking advantage of his serious looking resting expression, it can take some time for people to catch on to his trickster's demeanor. He relishes getting the upper hand, pulling the rug, and causing humiliation.

BIOGRAPHY: Beltway was born to a mixed family on the US Army Base in Puerto Rico. After developing an attachment to smaller fireworks and sparklers, young Hector began selling fireworks to other children as a way to make money, mostly as an excuse to get more time and exposure to these unusual delights. He began deconstructing and hoarding materials to combine into his own devices, until his extracurricular activities caught up with him and resulted in him being expelled from high school before graduating.

A hormonal condition led him to grow early, and a lot, ending up north of 6' tall by age 16. After being expelled, Army recruiters wasted no time in scooping him up, and Hector began working his way up the ranks from an enlisted position. His impulsive and anti-authoritarian tendencies warred against his desire to gain greater access to the wealth of explosives and demolitions the army could offer him; a war he lost extraordinarily in the form of a prank gone wrong that severed his left leg from below the knee irreparably.

Following his dishonorable discharge from the armed forces, Beltway struggled to find mundane ways to make ends meet, taking a roundabout path to recruitment to the USS. After betrayal by Umbrella, Beltway wholeheartedly endorses satisfying their bloody vendetta.

[sinnyhealthblog]

Easy Diet Plan To Reduce Belly Fat

If you are looking for an effective belly fat diet plan, we have one for you. Belly fat may lead to many health problems like diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease (1), (2), (3). Therefore, it is important to maintain a healthy diet plan and exercise (4). Unfortunately, diet plans and meal prep tend to be restrictive and difficult to follow (5), (6). Changing this notion requires finding the best diet for you.

You need to give yourself a break from starving and depriving yourself. Choose an easy-to-follow, nutritional, and low-calorie diet plan instead. You will be more likely to stick with the diet and prevent slow metabolism.

In a study conducted with 8,704 US adults, 17.1% of them were on a special diet plan. The study showed that more women were on a special diet than men. The most common special diet plan was a weight loss or low-calorie diet (9.3%).

Scroll down to check the 7-day diet plan to lose belly fat that includes cheat meals and treats from time to time. You should see definite results after following this plan for 10 weeks.

7-Day Diet To Reduce Belly Fat

The 7-day diet to lose belly fat is low in calories, nutritious, and balanced. You will enjoy a cheat meal on one of the days and work out 5 days a week.  This way, you can burn a total of 3500 calories in a week. Consult a registered dietitian and follow this plan for 10 weeks to reduce the flab around your belly. Check out the Monday-to-Sunday plan below:

Day 1 (Monday)

Early Morning (7:00 a.m.) – Warm water + juice of half a lime + 1 teaspoon organic honey

Breakfast (8:00 a.m.) – 1 cup green tea/ black coffee + 2 boiled egg whites (or baked beans) + 4 almonds

Snack (10:30 a.m.) – 1 cup watermelon

Lunch (1:00 p.m.) – 1 cup lettuce and tuna (or tofu) salad with a light dressing (olive oil, lime juice, mustard, and seasoning) + ½ cup yogurt

Snack (4:00 p.m.) – 1 cup green tea/black coffee + 1 multigrain biscuit

Dinner (7:00 p.m.) – 1 cup lentil soup with vegetables

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Workout Routine – Day 1 (30 minutes)

Warm-up – 10 minutes

Crunches – 3 sets of 8 reps

Leg straight up crunches – 3 sets of 8 reps

Bicycle crunches – 3 sets of 12 reps

Leg raises – 3 sets of 8 reps

Flutter kicks – 3 sets of 8 reps

Elbow plank – 2 sets of 30 seconds 

Rest – 10 seconds rest after every set of each exercise.

Day 2 (Tuesday)

Early Morning (7:00 a.m.) – Warm water + juice of half a lime + 1 teaspoon organic honey

Breakfast (8:00 a.m.) – Oatmeal with fruits and nuts

Snack (10:30 a.m.) – 1 cup green tea/black coffee + 1 digestive biscuit

Lunch (1:00 p.m.) – ½ cup mushroom quinoa + ½ cup yogurt

Snack (4:00 p.m.) – 1 cup green tea/black coffee  +  ½ cup unsalted popcorn

Dinner (7:00 p.m.) – 1 cup chicken clear soup with veggies (you may also substitute chicken with kidney beans or any other legume)

Workout Routine – Day 2 (40 minutes)

Warm-up – 10 minutes

Kapalbhati

Downward dog pose

Cat and cow pose

Seated forward bend

Surya Namaskar

Savasana – 5 minutes

Day 3 (Wednesday)

Early  Morning (7:00 a.m.) – 2 teaspoons fenugreek soaked in 1 cup water

Breakfast (8:00 a.m.) –  Banana and milk (may use almond or soy milk) smoothie with 1 tablespoon peanut butter

Snack (11:00 a.m.) – 1 cup green tea/black coffee

Lunch (1:00 p.m.) – 1 cup mushroom and vegetable millets + ½ cup yogurt or 1 cup buttermilk

Snack (4:00 p.m.) – 1 cup green tea/black coffee + 2 saltine crackers

Dinner (7:00 p.m.) – 3 oz grilled fish/chicken or ½ cup grilled tofu + 5 types veggies

Workout Routine – Day 3 (50 minutes)

Warm-up – 10 minutes

Squats – 3 sets of 8 reps

Squat jumps – 3 sets of 8 reps

Sit-ups – 3 sets of 8 reps

Leg up crunches – 3 sets of 12 reps

Lying side jackknife – 3 sets of 8 reps

Leg raises – 3 sets of 12 reps

Russian twist – 3 sets of 15 reps

Calf raises

Mountain climbers – 3 sets of 15 reps

Spider climbers – 3 sets of 15 reps

Cool down stretches – 8 minutes

Day 4 (Thursday)

Early  Morning (7:00 a.m.) – 2 teaspoons fenugreek soaked in 1 cup of water

Breakfast (8:00 p.m.) –  Oatmeal with ½ an apple, 2 dates, and 4 almonds

Snack (11:00 p.m.) – 1 cup green tea/black coffee + 5 in-shell pistachios

Lunch (1:00 p.m.) – Boiled chicken salad or lettuce, tomato, feta salad + 1 cup buttermilk

Snack (4:00 p.m.) – 1 cup green tea/black coffee + 1 digestive biscuit

Dinner (7:00 p.m.) – Grilled chicken breast/mushrooms with garlic oil and herbs + cauliflower rice tossed with carrot, peas, and zucchini in olive oil

Workout Routine – Day 4 (60 minutes)

Warm-up – 10 minutes

Play a sport/swimming/brisk walking/zumba/weight lifting

Cool down – 10 minutes

Day 5 (Friday)

Early Morning (7:00 a.m.) – 2 teaspoons fenugreek soaked in 1 cup water

Breakfast (8:00 a.m.) – 3 egg white and spinach omelette (or tofu scramble with spinach) + 1 cup green tea/black coffee

Snack (11:00 a.m.) – 1 cup carrot juice with a dash of lime juice and a pinch of Himalayan pink salt

Lunch (1:00 p.m.) – Cucumber, carrot, tomato, pomegranate, and sprout salad

Snack (4:00 p.m.) –  1 cup peri-peri popcorn + 1 cup green tea/black coffee

Dinner (7:00 p.m.) – Grilled veggies and stuffed chicken with herbs (substitute – tofu) + 1 square dark chocolate

Workout Routine – Day 5

Surprise! Today is “no workout” day. As important as it is to workout to shed the fat, it is also important to take rest. If you don’t help your body recover from the wear and tear, you will fall sick, and your body will cease to function properly. Enjoy your day and be ready for Day 6.

Day 6 (Saturday)

Early Morning (7:00 a.m.) – 1 cup water + juice of half a lime

Breakfast (8:00 a.m.) – 2 medium-sized oatmeal pancakes

Snack (11:00 a.m.) – 1 cup green tea

Lunch (1:00 p.m.) – Cheat meal (consume anything you want, just add 500 calories more to your current calorie intake)

Snack (4:00 p.m.) – 1 cup Greek yogurt

Dinner (7:00 p.m.) – Clear chicken or mushroom soup + 1 cup milk before bed

Workout Routine – Day 6 (60 minutes)

Warm-up – 10 minutes

Burpees – 3 sets of 8 reps

Resistance band russian twists – 3 sets of 12 reps

Lying ankle taps – 3 sets of 20 reps

Medicine ball slams – 3 sets of 12 reps

Standing alternate cross kicks – 3 sets of 8 reps

Wall push-up/Knee push-up/Regular push-up – 3 sets of 8 reps

Leg raises – 3 sets of 12 reps

TRX chest pull-ups – 3 sets of 30 reps

Battle rope – 3 sets of 20 reps

Side plank – 2 sets of 20 seconds hold

Elbow plank – 2 sets of 30 seconds hold

Cool down stretches – 10 minutes

Day 7 (Sunday)

Early Morning (7:00 a.m.) – 2 teaspoons fenugreek soaked in 1 cup water

Breakfast (8:00 a.m.) – 1 fried egg and 2 bacon strips (tofu, mushroom, and spinach scramble) + ¼ cup baked beans + 1 cup green tea

Snack (11:00 a.m.) – 1 orange

Lunch (1:00 p.m.) – Asian-style tofu and vegetables stir fry + ½ cup brown rice

Snack (4:00 p.m.) – 1 cup watermelon with a little black salt and lime juice

Dinner (7:00 p.m.) – Baked salmon (or spicy roasted cauliflower) with asparagus and 4 other types of veggies

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[trudemaethien]

oooh hello, if it's not too late; can I ask about dadhawk?

it is not too late! (my asks are always open)

Dadhawk is the temporary title (who am i fooling its going to end up called that permanently because i can’t come up with anything better—feel free to HELP ME obiwankenobi you’re my only hope make suggestions, anyone!) of the codymaul parenting the twins fic

i …..probably haven’t shared this bit before? i cant keep track so if you’ve seen it already, sryyy 🖤

Luke paddles back with a junk beetle as big as his arm. Maul checks the database. “Human consumable,” he declares, so Cody helps Luke break the thing’s head off and scoop out its innards. Leia brings a lilypad mimic clutched in her chubby hands, and a leech, stuck to her leg. Maul says they can’t eat Leia’s critters, because the fat-bodied leech is poisonous but not venomous, fortunately for them (he kills and discards it) and the mimic is in its mating season (he floats it back into the water and it paddles away). Leia starts to wail, half about the loss, and half about the mark the leech left on her calf.

“Shhh, no crying! Big mean animals will hear you,” Cody tries with exaggerated theatrics, to no avail. They talked about this; he’d been afraid something like this might happen, but the children had solemnly promised, as seriously as little ones can. Now she’s upset and there’s no comforting her.

Cody’s prediction comes true a mere moment later. An adolescent dragonsnake rears its head not twenty meters from them. “I thought you cleared the area!” Cody shouts, panic leaching through the anger in his voice as he lunges for the kids.

“I did! This must have been dormant,” Maul snarls back, trying to attract its attention with his movement. “Get the kits and go, Cody!”

[jirnkirks]

pt 2: hades tigers & locked tomb au

knight the eight would show the doddering, lazy cavaliers what it truly meant to carry the title. (they should not have chosen famous owens.)

even MORE locked tomb au this time about famous & knight. action scenes hard.

no spoilers for the locked tomb series

theo king & knight t: 2nd house

Lottie & famous: third house

Ren & ???: fifth house

matteo & meng: ninth house

Crown Princess Lovelot spoke little. When ae deigned to do so, ae meted out aer words carefully. Not just in number, but in its supplicant, ignoring the rest while flitting away with the adepts of the Ninth and Fifth Houses. No, the only words for them are Famous the Third's, bright and sharp as the showy rapier strapped to their side. Knight is not one for the endless show of words from the other houses- their verses are held in prayer and command, blessed in their straightforwardness, blessed in their will.

But Famous the Third is the worse of them all, lazy in both words and action. One of many cavalier primaries who took up the mantle due to tradition and little else.

(Here is something their adept knows already- there are endless uses for words outside prayers and commands, and Knight is a dullard in all of them. Theo resigns themselves to watching his cavalier uphold his mother's teachings.)

So-

Knight is right- Famous is not much of a duelist. But they bring their rapier down without hesitancy and with a sureness Knight did not expect. The knife in their offhand, unlike Knight's, is fat, heavy thing and Famous wields it with an agility that makes Knight sweat. 

Theo is tight-lipped against the bright amusement in Lovelot's eyes, as every heavy cleave dances its way closer and closer to Knight's neck.

Knight's heart is thumping in their ear. Famous circles them, liquid as a predator and eager for blood. Knight doesn't have much time to dwell on it- Famous is grinning, with blood dripping down their shoulder, after a kick to their stomach that left them barely winded. The humor was still there- just with an eager feral edge. Like a butcher pleased with a particularly fat calf. Like Knight's loss was a surety, the blood spilling from Famous' wounds of no concern. 

The gaudy laziness that had irked Knight is gone- every movement is brutally efficient in its aim to pull Knight's guts out and strew them across the floors. Knight knows the cavalier primary of the Third House favors twin hatchets instead of rapiers- but reports had framed it as incompetency in everything but partying through the night. It's vexing then, how cleanly Famous parries Knight's thrusts and disengages with their answering parry. 

It ends like this- their blades meet, and Knight parries fast enough, but at the right angle and force that the blade twist out of their hands. Famous is surging against Knight in the split second they waver. Knight's blade is pointed down just far enough that Famous can barrel into Knight, one clawed hand keeping Knight's sword hand away and the other screaming towards Knight's neck before Knight can-

"Yield! We yield to the Third House." 

And Knight learns how dizzying it is to have the full effect of Famous' grin inches from your mouth. 

[meditating-dog-lover]

Working out

I have been doing HIT workouts since last July. My goal was to do them 3x a week. I do notice signs of fat loss since then for sure. I can even lose a tiny bit more, then focus on posture improvement, reducing bloating, and calf muscle slimming.

Unfortunately, doing it 3x a week has become tiring. I am exhausted and I feel like my posture and flexibility and balance skills are weak. I don't want to have back pain and a compressed spine as I get older.

I can't do HIIT workouts 3x a week anymore. Some weeks, yes. But it can't be the goal of every week.

HIIT workouts are ridiculously effective. Even doing 1-2 sessions per week is great. And even skipping a few weeks is fine too since it keeps your metabolism boosted for a really long time.

The goal is to keep doing HIIT as part of my workout routine but to remind myself that it's okay to reduce the intensity and the frequency.

I almost cut my toe off in a freak accident 3 weeks ago, so I was focusing on healing that way before I focused on exercise. Plus I was unable to walk for a few days, so I was unable to do intense workouts that involve jumping. Pretty much anything that puts pressure on my foot.

I'll rethink a new workout routine for this year. But HIIT 3x a week feels a bit excessive.

[vegasliposuctionblog]

Types of Liposuction

Liposuction is popular among men and women and involved the removal of unwanted fat, usually from the hips, tummy, waist or thighs. It is also used in combination with other procedures such as a tummy tuck (abdominoplasty) to remove fat from the waistline, and also in facelifting, to remove fat from the neck. It is not a substitute for weight loss but offers the opportunity to improve shape or reshape areas – such as define a waist. BodyTite is a type of liposuction that involves the use of radiofrequency can you list which are inserted beneath the skin - Fat Removal Surgery.

Regular post-operative appointments at our clinic are an integral part of your recovery journey. These appointments, scheduled throughout the year following your surgery, are critical for monitoring your healing process and ensuring optimal results.  These might include your hips, tummy, back, sides, arms, legs (thigh, calf, knee or ankle) and buttocks. Men can also have fat removed from underneath nipples, which can give the appearance of breasts - Non-surgical Fat Reduction.

Your journey begins with a comprehensive discussion with one of our cosmetic surgeons, focusing on your aspirations and concerns. This conversation lays the groundwork for a bespoke treatment plan designed around your unique needs. It is important to maintain liposuction results by eating healthily and exercising regularly. Liposuction, also known as ‘lipo’ is a body contouring procedure designed to remove areas of unwanted fat that are resistant to diet and exercise

Liposuction contours and removes fat deposits from areas of the body that don't change with diet and exercise. It is performed as an outpatient procedure and does not require general anesthesia. This innovative device uses ultrasound technology and liposuction methods to remove unwanted fat deposits and to sculpt and contour the body. Unlike traditional liposuction methods, the Vaser has significantly lower downtime and the body shape is also defined. It is minimally-invasive, meaning patients will get great results, without resorting to fully-invasive surgery. It is a three stage technique with infiltration of fluid, ultrasonic vibration to emulsify fat, and liposculpture to reshape fat. For more information, please visit our site https://www.vegasliposuction.com/

[atplblog]

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