#calf fat loss

[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.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Promptober: Day Eleven

Eddie Munson x fem!reader 949 words.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie’s soft tone was enough to make you emerge from the bundle of blankets you’d cocooned yourself in. 

You appeared with a pout, blinking back the tears that were still making your eyes glassy, the threat of a headache twinging at your temples, the kind that only came after crying. 

“Hmm?” you didn’t have it in you to answer him properly, not yet. You knew it was rude but you also knew Eddie didn’t care. He was just happy you weren’t making yourself hiccup with upset. 

“What can I do to help?” Eddie slid a hand under the duvet, blindly finding your bare calf, a warm palm curling around you. His thumb stroked over your skin, slow and soothing. “What’s gonna make you feel better?”

The question almost made you cry all over again. Maybe you were being dramatic, maybe you’d wake up tomorrow morning in Eddie’s bed and laugh at how emotional you’d gotten over what was only a bad day. But it felt like a really bad day. 

You’d been scolded by your boss for things that were out of your control, the stress of your new job bearing down on you like a black cloud. But you needed the money, new textbooks for college that seemed to get more expensive every year and your favourite bag had burst that morning, unrepairable despite Eddie insisting that he’d find some sewing stuff. 

Your period had come by the time you’d sat for lunch, your sandwich uneaten as your stomach rippled with cramps and upon walking home to Eddie’s house that evening, a truck had driven through a puddle the size of a small lake, soaking you to your skin. You’d tried to get the bus, but you hadn’t realised you had lost your purse when your bag split earlier. 

You cried all the way to the trailer park, face pressed to Eddie’s chest the minute he greeted you in the living room and the poor boy had been wildly concerned as he tried to settle you enough for you to explain what was wrong. 

You’d told him everything through hiccups and fat, hot tears as he helped you out of your wet clothes, each garment flung to the floor to worry about another day. He wrangled you into his shirt and too big sweatpants as you continued to tell him about your day, your voice morose and your lips turned down onto the prettiest frown he’d ever seen. 

He tried to kiss it away, huffed a little in disappointment when it stayed where it was. 

You’d taken it upon yourself to bury into his bed, the sheets smelling like Eddie and home. You let your tears soak his pillow, only a little apologetic about it and a hot wave of embarrassment hit you when you heard the boy sigh from outside of the tent you’d created. 

“Baby?” Eddie asked again, pulling gently at the sheets until you looked at him. “Wanna help,” he repeated. He leaned over you, kneeling by the side of the bed until he could push his face into your neck and press a kiss there. 

Your fingers found their way to his hair, a curl twisting around each digit and you blinked sleepily at the soft feeling of the boy all around you. He didn’t seem to realise he was helping by just being close. 

But then, as if he was suddenly inspired, Eddie gasped and pulled back. You tried hard not to whine at the loss of him, especially when he grinned like he’d won a prize and jumped to his feet. 

“Hot chocolate?” 

You melted. 

The boy seemed to be gone for an age, the occasional curse and the smell of cocoa floating from the kitchen, and just as you were about to slink from underneath the blankets, Eddie reappeared. 

He held two mugs, piled high with whipped cream and marshmallows, the sticky sweetness of it oozing over the rim. He looked so pleased with himself, setting the cups down on his nightstand so he could crawl into bed with you. 

Eddie grabbed at you, manhandling you into his side in the sweetest way, arms wrapped around your middle, guitar string calluses scratching rough over your sides in a way that made you shiver. He nosed at your cheek, a silent ask, smiling when you tilted your head for him and allowed him to press kiss after kiss into your skin, over your jaw and neck until you were squealing in protest. 

It didn’t stop him though, he knew you didn’t want him to. 

Later, when the night was sinking into a new day and the town outside was silent, Eddie turned to you, curls mixing with your own hair on the pillow you shared and nudged your nose with his own. It was cosy wrapped up together, the cold that the new season brought forgotten about in Eddie’s arms. October was crawling into November, but Eddie remained warm no matter what. 

The mugs lay empty by the bed, the smell of chocolate and sugar mixing with smoke and something that was entirely Eddie and the boy’s voice was a soft whisper when he asked, “can I do anything else to make you feel better?”

You didn’t say anything, not with words anyway. You just tapped a thumb to his chin and pursed your lips, a cute pout that instantly made the boy smile. Eddie didn’t have to lean in too far to catch your mouth with his own, lips slanting over yours in a way that was well practised, enough to feel like home. 

He tasted like sugar and chocolate, a wisp of smoke, the start of a better day. 

[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.

[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

Jumpstart your weight loss with Java Burn! ☕️🔥 Boost your metabolism, reduce cravings, and power up your day. Slim down with every delicious sip! 🌟💪 Try Java Burn today

[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. 

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Resurrection of Our Lord

by John Chrysostom

Are there any who are devout lovers of God? Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!

Are there any who are grateful servants? Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!

Are there any weary with fasting? Let them now receive their wages!

If any have toiled from the first hour, let them receive their due reward;

If any have come after the third hour, let him with gratitude join in the Feast!

And he that arrived after the sixth hour, let him not doubt; for he too shall sustain no loss.

And if any delayed until the ninth hour, let him not hesitate; but let him come too.

And he who arrived only at the eleventh hour, let him not be afraid by reason of his delay.

For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first. He gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour, as well as to him that toiled from the first.

To this one He gives, and upon another He bestows. He accepts the works as He greets the endeavor.

The deed He honors and the intention He commends. Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord!

First and last alike receive your reward; rich and poor, rejoice together!

Sober and slothful, celebrate the day!

You that have kept the fast, and you that have not, rejoice today for the Table is richly laden!

Feast royally on it, the calf is a fatted one. Let no one go away hungry. Partake, all, of the cup of faith.

Enjoy all the riches of His goodness! Let no one grieve at his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed.

Let no one mourn that he has fallen again and again; for forgiveness has risen from the grave.

Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Savior has set us free.

He has destroyed it by enduring it.

He destroyed Hell when He descended into it.

He put it into an uproar even as it tasted of His flesh.

Isaiah foretold this when he said, “You, O Hell, have been troubled by encountering Him below.”

Hell was in an uproar because it was done away with. It was in an uproar because it is mocked. It was in an uproar, for it is destroyed. It is in an uproar, for it is annihilated. It is in an uproar, for it is now made captive.

Hell took a body, and discovered God. It took earth, and encountered Heaven. It took what it saw, and was overcome by what it did not see.

O death, where is thy sting? O Hell, where is thy victory?

Christ is Risen, and you, o death, are annihilated! Christ is Risen, and the evil ones are cast down! Christ is Risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is Risen, and life is liberated! Christ is Risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead;

for Christ having risen from the dead, is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.

To Him be Glory and Power forever and ever. Amen!

[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.

[susantaylor01]

How to Remove Knee Fat

INTRODUCTION

Knee fat can be a frustrating issue for many people, especially those who are otherwise fit and healthy. While spot reduction is a common myth, certain strategies can help reduce overall body fat, including around the knees. This article will explore various methods for reducing knee fat, focusing on a combination of diet, exercise, and lifestyle changes. By adopting these practices, you can achieve leaner, more toned knees.

Understanding Knee Fat

Knee fat, like fat in other areas of the body, is primarily influenced by genetics, age, and lifestyle factors. It’s common in both men and women but is particularly prevalent among women due to hormonal differences and fat distribution patterns. Fat accumulation around the knees can make the legs appear bulkier and less defined, which may be a source of insecurity for some individuals.

It’s important to note that spot reduction, or the idea that you can target fat loss in a specific area, is not supported by scientific evidence. Instead, reducing knee fat requires a holistic approach that addresses overall body fat.

1. Adopt a Balanced Diet

Diet plays a crucial role in fat loss, including knee fat. To lose fat, you need to be in a calorie deficit, which means consuming fewer calories than you burn. However, it’s important to do this in a healthy and sustainable way.

a. Focus on Whole Foods: Incorporate a variety of whole foods into your diet, including lean proteins, healthy fats, and complex carbohydrates. Foods such as vegetables, fruits, whole grains, and lean meats can help you stay full longer and provide essential nutrients.

b. Reduce Processed Foods: Processed foods are often high in unhealthy fats, sugars, and empty calories. Reducing your intake of these foods can help lower your overall calorie intake and promote fat loss.

c. Stay Hydrated: Drinking plenty of water is essential for overall health and can aid in weight loss by keeping you hydrated and reducing feelings of hunger.

2. Engage in Regular Cardio Exercise

Cardiovascular exercise is one of the most effective ways to burn calories and reduce body fat. Regular cardio can help you lose fat all over your body, including around your knees.

a. High-Intensity Interval Training (HIIT): HIIT workouts alternate between short bursts of intense activity and periods of rest or low-intensity exercise. This type of training is highly effective for fat loss because it burns a significant number of calories in a short amount of time.

b. Steady-State Cardio: Activities such as running, cycling, swimming, or brisk walking can also help burn calories and promote fat loss. Aim for at least 150 minutes of moderate-intensity cardio per week, as recommended by health organizations.

c. Stair Climbing: Incorporating stair climbing into your routine can specifically target the muscles around your knees and help tone the area while also burning calories.

3. Incorporate Strength Training

Strength training is crucial for building muscle and increasing metabolism, which helps with fat loss. Focusing on exercises that target the lower body can help tone the muscles around your knees and create a more defined appearance.

a. Lunges: Lunges target the quadriceps, hamstrings, and glutes, helping to tone the muscles around your knees. There are various lunge variations you can try, such as walking lunges, reverse lunges, and side lunges.

b. Squats: Squats are another excellent exercise for the lower body, engaging the quadriceps, hamstrings, glutes, and calves. Adding weights to your squats can increase the intensity and promote muscle growth.

c. Leg Press: The leg press machine at the gym is a great way to target the lower body muscles, including those around the knees. Start with a weight you can manage comfortably and gradually increase as you get stronger.

d. Calf Raises: While often overlooked, calf raises can help tone the muscles below the knee, contributing to a more balanced and defined appearance.

4. Practice Flexibility and Mobility Exercises

Flexibility and mobility exercises can help improve the appearance of your knees by lengthening and strengthening the muscles around them. Incorporating yoga or Pilates into your routine can enhance flexibility, reduce the risk of injury, and improve muscle tone.

a. Yoga: Yoga poses that target the lower body, such as Warrior Pose, Downward Dog, and Chair Pose, can help stretch and strengthen the muscles around the knees.

b. Pilates: Pilates exercises often focus on controlled movements that engage the core and lower body muscles. Moves like leg circles and bridge exercises can be particularly beneficial for knee toning.

5. Consistency is Key

Achieving fat loss, including around the knees, requires consistency. It’s important to stick to your diet and exercise routine over time to see results. Patience is crucial, as fat loss doesn’t happen overnight.

a. Track Your Progress: Keeping a journal or using a fitness app to track your workouts, diet, and progress can help you stay motivated and make adjustments as needed.

b. Stay Positive: Fat loss can be challenging, and setbacks are normal. Focus on the progress you’re making, no matter how small, and stay committed to your goals.

Tasty Tea "eats through" 57lbs of thick flab

Conclusion

Reducing knee fat requires a combination of a healthy diet, regular cardio, strength training, and flexibility exercises. While it’s not possible to target fat loss in specific areas, these strategies can help you reduce overall body fat and achieve leaner, more toned knees. Remember, consistency and patience are key to seeing long-term results. By incorporating these practices into your lifestyle, you can work towards the appearance you desire and improve your overall health and fitness.

[trainingspaces]

Secure and Powerful Exercises – Injury Counteraction with the Assistance of Fitness coaches Redwood City

A 12-week body transformation plan at the gym can be a powerful way to improve your fitness, strength, and physique. Here's a general guide to help you achieve your goals:

1. Define Your Goals

Fat Loss: Focus on higher reps, moderate weights, and more cardio.

Muscle Gain: Emphasize strength training with heavier weights and fewer reps.

General Fitness: Combine both cardio and strength training.

2. Nutrition

Caloric Intake:

Fat Loss: Create a caloric deficit (eat fewer calories than you burn).

Muscle Gain: Create a caloric surplus (eat more calories than you burn).

Balanced Diet: Focus on whole foods, lean proteins, complex carbs, and healthy fats.

Protein: Aim for 1.2 to 2.2 grams of protein per kilogram of body weight daily.

Hydration: Drink plenty of water throughout the day.

3. Workout Plan

Weeks 1-4: Foundation Building

Day 1: Upper Body Strength

Bench Press: 4 sets of 8-10 reps

Pull-Ups or Lat Pulldowns: 4 sets of 8-10 reps

Shoulder Press: 4 sets of 8-10 reps

Dumbbell Rows: 4 sets of 10 reps

Tricep Dips: 3 sets of 12 reps

Bicep Curls: 3 sets of 12 reps

Day 2: Lower Body Strength

Squats: 4 sets of 8-10 reps

Deadlifts: 4 sets of 6-8 reps

Lunges: 3 sets of 10 reps per leg

Leg Press: 3 sets of 10-12 reps

Calf Raises: 4 sets of 15 reps

Day 3: Active Rest or Cardio

30-45 minutes of moderate cardio (e.g., jogging, cycling, swimming)

Day 4: Full Body Circuit

Deadlift: 3 sets of 10 reps

Bench Press: 3 sets of 10 reps

Squats: 3 sets of 10 reps

Pull-Ups: 3 sets of 8-10 reps

Plank: 3 sets of 60 seconds

Day 5: Core & Cardio

Plank: 3 sets of 60 seconds

Russian Twists: 3 sets of 20 reps

Leg Raises: 3 sets of 15 reps

30 minutes of HIIT (High-Intensity Interval Training)

Day 6: Rest or Light Activity

Engage in light activities like walking or stretching.

Day 7: Rest

Weeks 5-8: Strength & Hypertrophy

Increase weights and intensity in your workouts.

Follow a similar split but focus on lifting heavier and lowering reps slightly (6-8 reps).

Add variety by incorporating machines and different exercises (e.g., cable machines, leg curls).

Weeks 9-12: Final Push

Day 1: Push Day (Chest, Shoulders, Triceps)

Bench Press: 5 sets of 5 reps

Overhead Press: 4 sets of 6 reps

Tricep Dips: 4 sets of 10 reps

Lateral Raises: 3 sets of 12 reps

Push-Ups: 3 sets to failure

Day 2: Pull Day (Back, Biceps)

Deadlift: 5 sets of 5 reps

Pull-Ups: 4 sets of 6-8 reps

Barbell Rows: 4 sets of 6-8 reps

Bicep Curls: 3 sets of 10 reps

Face Pulls: 3 sets of 12 reps

Day 3: Leg Day

Squats: 5 sets of 5 reps

Leg Press: 4 sets of 8-10 reps

Lunges: 3 sets of 12 reps

Romanian Deadlifts: 4 sets of 8-10 reps

Calf Raises: 5 sets of 12 reps

Day 4: Rest

Day 5: Full Body Circuit

Same as in weeks 1-4 but with increased weight and intensity.

Day 6: Core & Cardio

Focus on HIIT and core exercises.

Day 7: Rest

4. Recovery

Sleep: Aim for 7-9 hours of quality sleep per night.

Stretching: Incorporate stretching or yoga sessions to improve flexibility and reduce injury risk.

Rest Days: Take them seriously to allow your muscles to recover.

5. Progress Tracking

Measurements: Track your body measurements, weight, and body fat percentage every 2-4 weeks.

Photos: Take progress photos every 4 weeks to visually track changes.

Strength Levels: Record your lifts and aim to increase them over time.

6. Stay Consistent

Consistency is key. Stick to your plan, stay disciplined with your diet, and make adjustments as needed based on your progress.

Would you like to customize this plan further based on specific goals or preferences?

[lablindbutterfly]

I’m down to 202 lbs as of yesterday, hopefully todays weigh in is even better.🙏

WL plan for the month of September-

600 cal limit

Chloe ting workout program- weight loss one

10k steps a day

64floz water

OMAD

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-,-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Starting Measurements

August 26 2024

- Neck- 16 inches

- Bust- 41 inches

- Sleeves- 16 1/2 inches

- Forearm- 13 inches

- Wrist- 7 1/2 inches

- Waist- 40 inches

- Belly/ hips-46 inches

- Butt- 48 inches

- Upper thigh- 30 inches

- Lower thigh-24 inches

- Calf- 19 inches

- Ankle- 11 inches

- Height- 4’9

- Weight- 203

- BMI- 43.7

- TDEE- 2,159- maintenance. Lose- 1600

- BMR- 2.100

- Est fat %- 52.2% 🤮

Sept GW- 190